by Natasha Ngan
Seven looked blearily around. He had no idea where he was. He hadn’t even noticed where he’d run, just that it was in the direction the men and their guns weren’t. Staggering into the shadows of a nearby alley, he slumped to the ground, letting himself relax for the first time since leaving the market (well, not relax. This was nothing like relaxing, this heart-still-pounding, mind-still-a-bloody-mess kind of state).
‘The London Guard,’ Seven gasped, choking on the words.
Of course that’s who the attackers were. Who else would know to raid a night-market in South where a secret skid-thieving ring just so happened to be doing business? Who else would come in with guns first, questions later, only for the ones they caught alive? Who else would have shot Carpenter in the neck, shot him dead –
Dead.
It couldn’t be real. Not Carpenter. He was sturdy, strong, built of muscle and grit. He was clever and sharp. It didn’t seem possible that he’d been hit. Seven wouldn’t have been surprised if his crew leader had calmly plucked the bullet from his neck and went on as though nothing had happened.
If anyone should’ve died, it was him. Seven could barely lace his own boots without falling over himself, for gods’ sake. He should have died. His body should be back there in the market, piled with the others.
Except it wasn’t.
He was alive.
Seven tipped his head back against the wall behind him, closing his eyes. They felt strange. Wet. A moment later, he realised why: he was crying. Effing crying. He stuffed his hands into his eyes and ground his knuckles against them until the tears stopped.
All he could keep thinking was, I’m alive. But it didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel like relief.
For some reason, it felt like the worst thing in the world.
28
ALBA
The raid was all anyone could talk about the next morning at school. Alba didn’t think it was because the girls were that interested in London politics; it was more because of the thrill of it. Guns and death; these sorts of things felt a world away from the plush lives of the Knightsbridge Academy students. Something exciting, a different world entirely. Like going to the zoo to stare at caged animals, or how some of the girls from Alba’s class would walk along the bridges crossing the Thames, just to get a close-up glimpse of South and its residents (another type of caged animal, she supposed).
But to Alba, the consequences of the raid felt very real. She couldn’t stop thinking about Seven. How had he felt during it all? Had he even been there when it happened?
She hoped he hadn’t.
Just a few more hours, she kept telling herself as the morning’s lessons dragged on. He’ll come tonight, and then it’ll all be fine. He’ll come, and you’ll know he’s alive.
He will come.
Alba didn’t let herself imagine what it’d be like if he didn’t.
Perhaps she only cared so much because Seven was her link to memory-surfing. That he had helped her escape, at the very time she needed it most.
But perhaps it was more than that.
Perhaps it was also because this strange South boy had given her a gift, opened up a whole new world to her, when he hadn’t even known how much it would mean to her. Apart from Dolly, no one had ever done something like that for her.
Alba felt connected to Seven now. She felt as though she owed him. And how could she ever repay him if he was … if he was dead?
A compulsory broadcast about the raid was being shown on the main news Net channel at midday. Unlike South, there weren’t any public Screens in North displaying news at all hours, so when it was time for the announcement the students filed out of their classrooms to the assembly hall, where a large screen slid down from the ceiling to hang above the stage.
The hall was grand, with dark, carved wooden walls and an elaborate chandelier dominating the ceiling. Its crystal embellishments threw sparkling shards of light across the room. Ornate gilded frames lined the walls, painted portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses staring blankly down. As Alba took one of the seats filling the hall, Rosemary Dalton sat down in front of her.
‘I hope all of the memory-thief scum they captured are executed live on the Net,’ Rosemary said, tossing a blonde curl over her shoulder. ‘Serves them right, thinking they can take memories for free from people who’ve worked hard to get to where they are. And sell them on for a profit.’
Alba bristled. She leant forward and clutched the back of Rosemary’s chair. ‘Did you ever think they might not have to steal if we didn’t make things so hard for Southers in the first place? Maybe we’re the ones who have been stealing.’
An image of Seven flashed into her mind: him spreading his arms to gesture round at the blue filing cabinets of his little memorium, unable to hide his pride, even though the place was dirty and dingy, and in a block of flats so horrible Alba’s mother would probably rather die than set foot in it. He needed those memories as much as Alba needed them now.
To escape reality. Escape the truth of his life.
Seven stole to survive.
Of course, he hadn’t said so to Alba, but she could tell. It was obvious by the way his eyes lit up every time he talked about memory-surfing. How he had patted Butler like he was a real person. The excitement in his voice as he’d told her about his life as a memory-thief on the way to South that night.
Rosemary looked over her shoulder, her piggish face scrunched in disgust. ‘Who’d have thought it? Alba White, a liberal.’ She let out a whiny laugh, and a couple of the girls nearby joined in.
Alba scowled. ‘At least I don’t get excited about watching people die live on the Net.’
‘What does excite you?’ Rosemary sneered. ‘Dirty South men? Like mother, like daughter, huh?’
The words were a slap in the face.
Alba couldn’t help it; her mouth dropped open in surprise. Her cheeks flushed. Around her, the hall started spinning, everything whirling into a colourless blur.
‘What did you say?’
Rosemary smirked. ‘You heard me.’
Alba realised that the students nearby were watching her. Some of their faces were painted with the same disgust Rosemary was wearing, but some looked scared or shocked.
No one spoke to Alastair White’s daughter the way Rosemary just had.
Before Alba could think of an appropriate response that wasn’t to launch herself at Rosemary and claw out her hair (and her mother said it was only Southers that were dangerous), a gong rang out. The hall fell into an expectant hush. Everyone turned to the stage as the school’s headmistress walked out.
Headmistress Fortescue was a tall, sharp-boned woman, her greying cloud of mousey hair the only soft thing about her. The ridge of her collarbones stuck out through her blouse. As she did for all assemblies, she wore a sweeping black robe with dappled purple-and-white fur trim. It swirled around her heels as she walked to the front of the stage.
‘Girls,’ she began in a high, nasal voice. ‘As you are aware, there is a compulsory broadcast on the Net today dealing with the raid on an illegal memory-trading ring last night. As London’s future leaders and wives of leaders, it is of the utmost importance that you all take an active interest in our city’s politics. A Knightsbridge Academy young woman must understand the rules of our society, and the necessity of abiding by and maintaining those rules for the health of the city at large.’
Headmistress Fortescue looked round the hall, her gaze seeming to sweep a cold wind wherever it moved. When the gong sounded again, she gave a curt nod.
‘The broadcast is about to begin. Girls, may I remind you that this is not a football stadium or public square in South. You are all young ladies of the highest breeding. There will be no cheering or shouts during the broadcast, no matter how pleasing it may be.’
Alba could have slapped her.
Heels clacking on the wooden floorboards, the headmistress took her place with the rest of the teachers on a raised ledge to one side of the h
all, and a few moments later the screen suspended across the stage flared into life.
A roar of colour and sound flooded the hall. Alba squirmed in her seat as the familiar face of her father appeared. He always seemed different somehow on broadcasts to how she thought of him. Colder. Hard-edged. But after overhearing him last night, she saw that perhaps she was the one who had the wrong image of him. The breeze lifted his cape as he walked out of the courthouse, the doors of the Old Bailey behind him pulled shut by two suited workers.
Camera lights flashed. Reporters hidden off-screen shouted out, but Alastair White ignored them.
‘We can confirm that last night a raid was undertaken by the London Guard on an illegal memory-trading ring in Borough Market in South,’ he announced in his flat, detached voice. ‘Eleven Southers were killed, and twenty-nine more injured. Eighteen memory-thieves have been taken into custody for questioning. Official footage of the scene of the raid will now be shown. Please be aware it contains graphic images.’
The screen cut to black. For the split-second before the footage came on, Alba willed her eyes to close. She didn’t want to see this. She didn’t.
But her eyes wouldn’t shut.
Her heart jumped when the screen lit back up and images of the aftermath of the raid flashed across it in a lurid display. Bloodied bodies littered the floor of the market, some half-hidden under tables and chairs; arms and legs flung wide; close-ups of eerie white faces, mouths gaping.
Alba was frozen, terrified she was about to see Seven’s face like that any second, ghostly and pale, his eyes staring blankly out.
When the footage stopped and the broadcast cut back to her father on the steps of the Old Bailey, his voice echoing around the hall, Alba’s eyes finally squeezed shut. But no matter how relieved she was that she hadn’t seen Seven in the footage, she couldn’t escape the sick feeling all the images of the other dead Southers had brought, and the thought of their families being forced to watch.
And, worst of all, the way her father had just carried on talking as though nothing, nothing at all, had happened.
29
SEVEN
‘Fucking joke!’
‘Cold bastards.’
‘Showing off people’s deaths to the world like it’s a bloody party.’
Anger rippled through the crowd gathered at Clapham Arches. Seven, watching from the back of the crowd the Screen that hung inside one of the archways under Clapham Bridge, let himself be pushed and shunted, people jostling to get out. His eyes were still focused on the Screen. He felt hollow. Carved open. Even though he didn’t know any of the dead faces he’d seen on the footage, he couldn’t help imagining himself in their place, or Loe, or Mika.
He felt sick to his stomach.
After Alastair White finished his speech, a sombre-looking reporter came on. She stood outside the market. London Guardmen patrolled the perimeter behind her, red jackets flashing in the midday sun. The tall entranceway was covered with a crime-scene sheet of black fabric.
‘The London Guard are asking those with information on the whereabouts of the escaped memory-thieves to come forward,’ the reporter was saying. ‘A monetary reward is being offered for those whose information successfully leads to a conviction.’
Some of the people who’d been turning to leave the archway hesitated, glancing back. Seven felt a new feeling ripple through those gathered there; eagerness. Everyone was suddenly alert.
The mention of money did that in South.
‘They have released visuals of tattoo markers they believe the different memory-thieving crews use as identifiers,’ the reporter continued. ‘If you see anyone with these markers, the London Guard urge you to report them immediately. We ask you all to familiarise yourselves with the following images, which we suspect to be the crew signifiers.’
The screen changed to show a series of black patterns. With each one, shivers of unease ran up and down Seven’s spine. He knew them all.
The outline of a tennis racket: that was Murray’s crew.
A rose: that was Timothy Rose’s.
A lightning bolt: Abel Potter’s.
A saw –
Seven’s heart flew into his throat.
It was the exact same image as the one inked beneath his collarbones. The tattoo was hidden today under his grey shirt, but he still clutched at the collar, sure somehow the mark shone brightly enough for the whole world to see. How did the London Guard know about their tattoos? Had they found them on the bodies of the skid-thieves their guns had brought down, or the ones they’d captured alive?
What about Carpenter’s sign? Carpenter’s skin was a riddle of tattoos. It was impossible to know what was what.
Or else …
‘No,’ Seven said out loud. He didn’t want to even think about the possibility that someone in his crew had been captured or killed. Mika and Loe; he’d go to their house now, prove to himself that they were OK.
They had to be OK.
As Seven pushed his way through the crowd another thought hit him, so strongly it made him stagger.
The girl.
Alba.
Alba White.
No. She wouldn’t have.
Would she?
Her annoyingly pretty face came to mind. Thick red hair, dark and glossy, soft curls brushing pink cheeks. Bright green eyes. He remembered the way she’d looked after surfing; vulnerable and sad and happy all at once. She’d seemed so grateful. It had made Seven feel as though he’d given her something. A gift, a tiny piece of treasure worth more than the hundreds of expensive things lavished on her back home.
He’d thought that gift was the joy of surfing for the first time. After all, he remembered exactly how he’d felt after his first skid-surf, when he’d known the world wouldn’t ever be the same for him. But what if he was wrong? What if he’d given Alba the gift of something else entirely, and she’d just been delighted about having it to use against him, to pass it on to her father.
Information.
The truth.
Seven had told her things about his life as a skid-thief. Things no Souther would have ever told a Norther. He’d been stupidly open, answered her questions honestly, because … because she made him feel as though he could. As though he could trust her with anything.
You humongous bloody idiot! Seven thought, gritting his teeth hard to stop himself from shouting. He was so angry he could punch himself. He’d been a complete fool to trust that stuck-up North bitch.
Seven curled his hands into fists, shoving his way through the noisy crowd.
So he’d given Alba a gift, had he? Wrapped up all the details about the life of skid-thieves with a neat effing little bow for her? Well, now it was time for him to take something back in return.
An eye for an eye, that was the rule, wasn’t it? Alba had ruined his life. Now Seven would ruin hers.
30
ALBA
Dolly’s voice reached her from the en-suite over the sound of running water. ‘Bath’s ready! Hurry up or the water’ll go cold.’
Alba sighed. The last thing she wanted was a soak but Dolly had insisted, saying that Alba had been restless all day and this would calm her (no doubt she’d laced the water with herbal sedatives, just to be sure).
Twisting her hair into a bun and sweeping away a few loose strands, Alba padded to the bathroom. A haze of steam filled the air, woody smells of sandalwood and sage enveloping her. The bathroom was almost as big as her bedroom, white and gold tiles covering the floor. In the centre was a large, claw-footed tub with a gilded rim. Candles bathed the room in a comforting glow.
The taps squeaked as Dolly twisted them off. The bathroom fell into a secretive hush, the only sound the popping of the bubbles in the tub and the patter of raindrops on the window.
‘Come on then.’ Dolly went over to Alba and took off her bathrobe, folding it on a chair by the sink. ‘You’ll feel better after an hour in here.’
Alba climbed over the side of the tub. She slid
in slowly, the water – a perfect temperature, warm and golden – rising to her neck. Bubbles hid her body from view. Straight away, she felt calmer. She tipped her head back to rest it on the edge of the tub and gave Dolly a small smile.
‘You know, I feel a little better already.’
But as soon as she said it, Alba thought guiltily of Seven. She thought of the skid-thieves lying dead on the floor of the market. The ones who had been captured by the London Guard, and were now enduring whatever horrible processes were involved in their interrogations.
How could she relax after everything that had happened? When she didn’t even know if Seven was alive?
Her face must have fallen, because Dolly stepped over and crouched down. ‘What is it? I know something’s wrong. You’re keeping something from me, and I’m worried, because if you don’t feel like you can tell me about it then it must be bad.’
Alba dropped her gaze. ‘It’s nothing,’ she murmured.
‘Alba … are you hiding something?’
‘No, I –’
‘Is it your mother?’ Dolly’s voice was sharp. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Has she hurt you again?’
Alba bit her lip. Hating herself, really hating herself then, she looked down and nodded. ‘I don’t think I can take it much longer, Dolly.’
‘Alba Philippa Darcy White,’ said Dolly sternly, and Alba jerked her eyes up at the sound of her full name.
Dolly cupped Alba’s face with both hands. ‘Now, you listen to me. Your mother might not always know how to show it, but I know just how special you are. You are strong and brave and honest and good. Work hard at school to get your grades and prove to your parents that there is more for you than this arranged marriage, and in two years’ time you will go to a university far away from London, just as we’ve always dreamed. And I will come with you, and you will succeed and make yourself proud, and you, Alba Philippa Darcy White, will forge your own future. Do you hear me?’
Dolly fell silent, and Alba felt her eyes welling up. She stared into her handmaid’s brilliant blue gaze, too humbled and grateful to say anything.
