The Memory Keepers

by Natasha Ngan

  Kissing Oxana lightly on the top of her head as he passed, Alastair White took his seat at the top of the table. Flicking out a napkin, he laid it across his lap. He reached out and brushed Alba’s hand, smiling, and Alba felt a swirl of happiness. Her father was often distant, preoccupied by work. She cherished every little moment of affection he gave her.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late, my dears,’ he said, as butlers returned to take away the lids keeping their food warm. ‘I hope you’re not too hungry.’

  The table was laden with all sorts of dishes. There were ginger and soy steamed fish, sautéed vegetables dripping in butter, minced meats, Spanish tortillas and Indian roti to dip into curry sauce. Though Oxana liked to try new foods from London’s myriad of ethnicities, not once had she ever let a Ukrainian dish anywhere near the table.

  Alba knew her mother hated her home country. Oxana had never spoken in Ukrainian or talked about her life there. Alba wondered what secrets the country held for her mother; why she felt the need to carve away that part of her life from her world, wipe clean her past.

  Alba picked at her food. She felt nervous about her mother’s mood, and her father seemed distracted too. He ate quickly, eyes glazed as he stared down at his plate.

  ‘How was work today, my darling?’ Oxana asked. Fingernails clicked as she picked up her glass of wine, the red liquid so rich and dark it looked like blood.

  ‘As busy as always.’ Alastair White’s voice was low, hard-edged. His cutlery clattered on the side of the plate as he set down his knife and fork. ‘We’ve had a tip-off about an illegal memory-trading ring. Pearson is keen we move fast on the information.’

  Alba leant forward, eager to hear more. Her father didn’t often talk about work in front of her. ‘An illegal memory-trading ring?’ she said. ‘What is that exactly, Father?’

  Lacing his fingers into an arch, Alastair White set his elbows on the table. ‘You understand how memory-trading works in the banks, my dear?’

  ‘I think so. We’re just starting to cover it in Economics and Business Theory.’

  Her father nodded. ‘Simply put, traders in banks facilitate the sale of memories between buyers and sellers, focusing on memories they believe can get them a high sale figure. The banks fight between themselves for access to the most valuable memories –’

  ‘Really, Alastair,’ interrupted Oxana, curling her fingers round his arm. ‘Is this really appropriate dinner conversation?’

  He covered her hand with his. ‘She needs to understand the way things work, my dear.’ He paused. His voice softened. ‘She needs to know why it is I do what I do.’

  Alba watched her parents, feeling uncomfortable. She felt as though she were intruding on a private moment. Something flashed between their gazes, some spark of understanding beyond her reach. Before she could pinpoint the expression on their faces her father broke away.

  ‘Illegal trading upsets this framework because it undermines the value of memories put up for trade,’ he continued, turning back to her. ‘A memory is worth more when it is unique, only one copy existing in the world. When a memory is stolen to sell on the black market, it forces the price of that particular memory down. Illegal memory-trading rings are organised systems that facilitate these kinds of trades.’

  ’Alba fiddled with the napkin in her lap. ‘I understand. But – I mean, is any of that really bad enough to execute people over?’

  Her father’s expression darkened. ‘Memories are the most intimate things a person has, my dear. We might share them, trade them, surf other peoples’, but we alone choose which memories to let go, and which to keep to ourselves. Memory-thieves tear apart that most sacred of choices. They come into our homes, into our banks, and take the most precious moments from our pasts. They take what is most private to a person and treat it as a mere commodity, selling secrets and hidden pasts without caring whose lives they ruin in the process.’ His voice lowered. ‘It is the highest form of betrayal. Does it not therefore deserve the highest form of punishment?’

  Alba bit her lip, looking away from her father’s intense gaze. She could see how much he believed what he was saying, and she wanted to tell him that she agreed. But for some reason, his openness with her now only made her want to be honest with him, too.

  ‘I don’t think so, Father,’ she said quietly.

  A flash of surprise crossed Alastair White’s face. He leant back in his chair.

  ‘I mean,’ Alba said hurriedly, ‘don’t the same things apply to the traders in the banks? They’re just looking to make money from selling and buying memories too. And surely the Southers who steal memories are only doing it out of desperation. Perhaps if they had access to better jobs they wouldn’t feel the need –’

  ‘Don’t presume to know a thing about what those people feel.’

  Oxana spoke suddenly, her voice uncoiling with a snap.

  Alba fell silent at once. She tightened up at the cold look in her mother’s eyes, a prickly sensation crawling across her skin. Something wild and hot spiralled through her.

  ‘But,’ she tried, cheeks flushing, ‘I only meant –’

  ‘Alba! That’s enough.’ Her father pushed back, standing, dropping his napkin onto his empty plate. ‘Your mother is right. Do not pretend to know about a world you don’t understand.’ With one final stern look at Alba, he brushed his lips to Oxana’s forehead – ‘I’ll be working in the study, my dear,’ – and left the room.

  For one quick beat, nothing happened.

  Then –

  ‘Maybe I’d understand if either of you actually let me see something of the world.’

  It was out before Alba could stop it.

  The whole room seemed to suck in. Alba knew without looking that her mother’s eyes were staring fiercely at her, their vivid green colour like a siren, a warning. The swell of the music playing in the background seemed to rise to a roar.

  Alba swallowed, still staring down at the table. Her heart crashed against her ribcage. ‘I – I’m sorry –’

  Oxana swept round the head of the table so quickly Alba didn’t have time to avoid her; the force of her mother’s backhand into her cheek knocked her off her chair. She only just managed to put out a hand to catch herself, to stop her cheekbone from dashing into the polished marble. She felt her wrist crack as it snapped under her weight. Pain flashed up her arm.

  Her mother hadn’t hit her in a long time. Alba was so caught off-guard she just lay there, heaped on the floor in a tangle of limbs. Her chest heaved up and down as she raked in deep breaths. It’d been so long she had almost forgotten how this felt, crumpled on the floor as her mother stood over her, twin feelings of pain and shame flooding her veins.

  ‘You want to see South?’ Oxana hissed, bending over her. ‘After your father and I do everything to protect you, provide for you, give you everything you need – this is how you thank us?’

  She grabbed Alba’s shoulder and yanked her roughly back. Alba’s hair came undone, flowers scattering around her knees, falling from where Dolly had twined them so carefully. Their petals were soft on her skin.

  ‘You’re lucky your father didn’t hear you.’ Oxana’s face was so close to Alba’s she could smell the wine on her mother’s breath. ‘It’d break his heart if he thought you didn’t care. Everything he does at work is to make London safer for us. For you.’

  What’s the point? Alba wanted to scream. I’m barely ever let out of the house to see any of it!

  But she gritted her teeth and stayed silent. No matter how scared she was, how much pain or anger she felt, she refused to make a sound.

  Her mother didn’t deserve so much as a single sob.

  Alba knew it was stupid to drag it out. Oxana always stopped if she cried. Alba didn’t know whether it was because the sound made her mother feel remorse for what she’d done, or because she felt satisfied she’d done enough.

  The sound of a metal lid clattering to the floor made them look up. A butler had come into the room to clear
away the plates. He seemed to realise what was happening and bowed hurriedly, backing out of the doors, muttering apologies under his breath (to Oxana, of course, for interrupting).

  Letting go of Alba, her mother straightened. She smoothed a hand down her dress. Her eyes were cold and final as she stared down.

  ‘I’m done with you,’ she said quietly, then stalked out of the room.

  As soon as she was gone, Alba let herself drop to the floor, cradling her injured hand to her chest. Cold marble pressed into her cheek. Her ragged breaths were loud in the quiet of the hall, and she realised then that someone had finally turned off the music. There were footsteps around her as butlers came to clean the table, working around her in silence.

  None of them said a word to Alba and, somehow, that hurt more than anything else.

  7

  SEVEN

  Carpenter’s makeshift den was on the third floor at the very back of the turbine hall. Corrugated iron sheets and draped cloths enclosed it from the rest of the market, muffled lights flickering from behind the tattered fabrics. The same saw design tattooed on both Seven and Loe’s chests was painted onto one of the metal sheets in red.

  Seven drummed his fingers on the railing lining the balcony. Low voices were drifting out from the den. He was waiting for his appointment with Carpenter, and according to the clock that hung from the middle of the hall, he was five minutes late.

  ‘Effing Loe,’ Seven muttered, toeing the underside of the railing with his boot.

  When had saying Loe’s name ever not been preceded by an effing? It felt as though she’d been put on this earth just to annoy him. Perhaps she was trying to tire him into an early heart attack so she could take over his skid-thieving jobs and become Carpenter’s favourite.

  He wouldn’t put it past her.

  Seven scanned the busy hall, but he couldn’t spot Loe and Mika. They were probably hiding, waiting for the Chinese stall-owner’s rampage to be over. One dumpling might seem a silly thing to get so upset over, but Seven (and his stomach) understood. Everyone in South was living like he was; day to day, breadcrumb to breadcrumb.

  ‘Or should I say, dumpling to dumpling,’ he murmured with a smirk.

  Just then came the heavy flap of a burlap sheet being lifted. Seven turned to see another member of Carpenter’s crew leaving the den.

  Without waiting for an invitation, Seven ducked through. It was a big space, thieving gear stacked in haphazard piles across the floor, and in the middle was a large sheet of rusted metal propped up on crates to serve as a table. Candles and buzzing neon strips lit the room in lurid whites and soft yellows. The place smelled like the rest of the skid-market: a mixture of tangy metal, decaying water, the bite of chemicals sharp at the back of the tongue.

  ‘S. You’re late.’

  Carpenter emerged from behind a cabinet in the far corner of the room, lifting a set of tools in his arms. He was tall, with thick, ropey muscles broad across his shoulders and chest. His dark blond hair was cropped close to his scalp. Sweat glistened across his torso, bare apart from the crawling tattoos covering every inch of his skin, all the way down to his low-slung khaki trousers.

  ‘Loe and Mika,’ Seven explained simply. He pulled out a wooden crate and sat down at the table.

  Carpenter raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile on his lips. ‘Of course.’

  He dropped the tools he was carrying onto the table and wiped his hands on his trousers. A scar ran through his left eyebrow, cutting it in half and pulling it up in the middle, making it seem to Seven as though he was constantly amused, always caught on the tail-end of some secret joke no one else had heard.

  ‘Mac’s appointment ran over anyway.’ Carpenter’s voice was hardened by a rough South accent. ‘Stupid bastard almost got caught last night on a job. I’m thinking of dropping him.’

  Seven felt the undercurrent of a threat in those words. He watched warily as Carpenter sat opposite him, slinging his legs onto the table, his boots making heavy thunks on the metal top. Carpenter was in his mid-twenties, the youngest of all South’s skid-thief crew leaders, but he carried himself in a way that demanded authority.

  Seven still remembered how intimidated he’d been when he’d first met Carpenter. He’d only been nine at the time. Carpenter had caught him stealing food from a market stall in Kennington, but instead of telling the stall-owner, he had invited Seven to try out for his skid-thief crew.

  Carpenter crossed his arms. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Tonight.’

  Seven nodded, glancing away. His insides squirmed.

  Tonight. The word felt dangerous, a bullet dropping down at him through the air. For so long the White job had been weeks, days away. Now it was really here.

  ‘Want to look at the plans of the house one more time?’ Carpenter asked.

  Seven shook his head. ‘I know it.’

  He always memorised the plans of the houses he was breaking into, but this one especially he’d gone over and over until he was absolutely certain, and he’d been on more observation trips than for any other job, just to make sure the plans he’d made were right. There was going to be an effing blueprint of the White house engraved in his mind for the rest of his life.

  ‘Good,’ said Carpenter. ‘Now walk me through it.’

  Seven straightened, rolling his shoulders back. ‘I’ll make my way to North the same way as usual,’ he began, reciting the memorised list, ‘crossing under the river using the old sewer tunnel. From the exit at Chelsea Harbour, it’s a forty-minute walk up to Hyde Park Estate. Twenty if I run. There’s a tree on the south side of the estate I can use to climb over the fence. It’s far enough away from the main gate to avoid the guards.’

  Carpenter nodded, blue eyes dark in the shadows cast by the light above.

  ‘Then it’s ten minutes across the grounds to the White family’s house.’ Seven ticked each thing off on his fingers as he went. ‘The house itself is unguarded, but to be absolutely sure I’ll approach from the south side, where there aren’t any outfacing lights. I’ll scale to the third floor from the east wing to avoid the servants’ dormitories, in case any of them are still awake. To get inside, I’ll pick the lock on the balcony doors of one of the drawing rooms. The house doesn’t seem to have any security alarms … but I guess we’ll soon find out.’

  ‘Don’t joke, S.’

  Seven’s grin faltered. ‘Right. Sorry.’ He coughed. ‘So, inside. The memorium’s in the east wing behind the eighth drawing room. Should be easy enough to get to. And then it’s the usual drill – get the memory and get out. Though you still haven’t told me which skids to steal,’ he added.

  Carpenter reached into his trouser pocket and retrieved a folded piece of paper, holding it out. Without looking at it – Carpenter never liked to discuss the memories he wanted stolen – Seven slipped it into the thieving belt hung round his hips.

  Carpenter swung his legs off the table. ‘It’s just the one skid. As always, memorise the note, then burn it. Now get your stuff. I’ll buy you a meal before you head off. You need to be on your best tonight for this job, S.’ His voice hardened as he fixed Seven with his cool, unreadable gaze, hands pressed into the metal table-top. ‘It’s not one you – we – can afford to mess up.’

  8

  ALBA

  ‘I don’t think it’s broken, but it’s definitely sprained. Hold on. Let me feel for fractures. This might hurt.’

  ‘What have you done so far that hasn’t?’

  Alba and Dolly were on a bench at the back of the herb-house, a medi-kit open between them. Rows of plants filled the building in a rush of textured green. Moonlight glittered through the glass ceiling and walls, dappling the floor with shifting shadows. The air was heavy with the smell of plants; a clean, fresh scent that helped ease Alba’s nausea at the pain of her injury.

  Gently running her fingers along the skin of Alba’s wrist, Dolly inspected the extent of the damage. Little needles of pain sprung up everywhere her handmaid touched, making Alba g
rit her teeth.

  ‘It’s only a sprain,’ said Dolly, laying her hand on the bench as she spread some cooling gel from the medi-kit across her wrist. ‘That’s lucky.’ She caught the look in Alba’s eyes and said quickly, ‘I didn’t mean –’

  Alba forced a smile. ‘I know.’

  Dolly got up and disappeared between the rows of plants. She returned a few minutes later with a pestle and mortar in one hand and a bunch of plants and herbs in the other. ‘Northers underestimate the power of natural remedies,’ she explained, ‘but I was born in the country. I know how effective they can be.’ She worked the leaves in the mortar, smudging the lumpy, pungent-smelling paste onto Alba’s skin. ‘Arnica, aloe and black seed for pain and inflammation.’

  ‘If it looks as good as it smells,’ said Alba, wrinkling her nose, ‘then I’m definitely going to be cured.’

  Dolly smiled. ‘See? Sarcasm. You’re feeling more like yourself already.’

  When she was finished with the paste, she wiped her hands, her voice softening. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  Alba looked away. She took a shaky breath. ‘What is there to say? My own mother hates me. She thinks I should be grateful to her and Father for keeping me in this cage, protecting me from the world. But they forget that it’s trapping me too.’

  ‘You’ll get out soon,’ Dolly said, lacing an arm round her shoulders. She pressed her cheek to the top of Alba’s head. ‘There’s more for you than this, Alba. A lot more.’

  Is there? Alba thought, but instead she smiled and said, ‘I hope so.’

  Dolly squeezed her. ‘Well, I know so.’

  That night, Alba lay awake for hours. Dolly’s herbal mixture had helped with the pain and nausea, but without them to distract her she couldn’t avoid thinking about what had happened earlier. She replayed the blow from her mother’s back-hand over and over. She did this every time her mother hit her, making herself live through what had happened again and again, hoping perhaps to catch a lost opportunity or moment where she could have defended herself, or avoided it all in the first place.