by Natasha Ngan
‘What happened?’
Seven scowled. ‘An asshole of a dog happened, that’s what.’
‘Let me take a look.’
‘It’s OK.’
‘You’re injured,’ Kola said patiently. ‘I’ve tended to wounds on the other workers at the docks when they haven’t been able to afford doctors. I might be able to help.’
Carefully, Seven lowered the hand grasping his wound. It came away slick with blood. Immediately the pain intensified, throbbing nauseatingly; it felt as though each movement was shifting the tears in his flesh. He hadn’t noticed how bad the dog’s bite had been at first. He’d just been concerned with getting as far away as possible. Now the adrenalin had died down, the pain was like a siren, screaming in his chest.
Kola gestured to the sofa. ‘Take off your shirt so I can get to the wound. And keep your hand pressed against it.’
As Kola disappeared into the kitchen, Seven collapsed on the sofa. He tugged off what was left of his shirt and threw the bloodied fabric to the floor. He didn’t even have space in his head to worry about the fact that one of the only shirts in his possession was now beyond repair. His mind was spinning, and not just from the pain.
What was he meant to do now? Some of the people at the market were bound to report him to the London Guard. They might even have done it by now. And then the London Guard would figure out who he was and where he lived, and then –
Panic whirred through Seven. This flat was his home. The memorium was his life’s collection, everything he worked for. He couldn’t lose all of that now because of one pastry and a stupid-ass dog.
‘Right.’ Kola walked back into the room with his hands full of medical supplies. ‘Let’s sort out this wound.’
Seven’s eyes widened. ‘Where the hell did you get all that?’ There were strips of gauze, bandage fabric, antiseptic cream, a bottle of cleaning fluid and even a pair of sterile gloves.
Kola set the items down on the table. ‘I thought it would be good to have some things in case of an emergency,’ he said. ‘I don’t think the North doctors who pass through the docks will miss a few supplies here and there.’
Seven couldn’t help grinning. So he wasn’t the only thief in the flat. His smile soon disappeared when he noticed the needle in Kola’s collection.
Kola followed his train of sight. ‘I’m going to have to stitch the wound closed after I clean it,’ he explained. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t have any anaesthetic for you to take.’
Seven closed his eyes. ‘Of course you don’t.’
Maybe it was the loss of blood or the sight of the needle, or just all the events of the last few crappy hours catching up with him, but he really was feeling very faint again now. He sagged into the sofa, letting out a hiss of breath. His chest felt as though a small star was bursting inside it.
‘Seven?’
Kola was watching him, his handsome face with its straight nose and thin lips set into an expression that somehow managed to be both soft and firm at the same time.
His lips pulled into a small, tight smile. ‘Don’t worry. It won’t hurt as much as you’re thinking.’
Just like that afternoon on the rooftop of their block of flats a few weeks ago, when Kola had asked about fighting the boys who terrorised him, Seven felt a rush of gratitude towards this boy he barely knew. Kola was a lot like Alba, he thought (though, to be fair, she’d started their friendship with blackmail): ready to help out someone they had no need to.
Kindness wasn’t something Seven was used to. After looking away, embarrassed, he turned back to meet Kola’s eyes and nodded.
‘I’m ready,’ he said.
Kola nodded. Then, before Seven could do or say anything to stop him, Kola drew a hand back, closing his fingers into a fist, and the next thing Seven knew was the feel of Kola’s knuckles smashing into the side of his jaw and his world snapped off into black.
48
ALBA
Voices whirled round her at the table, but she felt separated from it all.
Alba stared at Thierry’s tablet and the image of Seven’s face, wanting more than anything not to believe what she was seeing, but at the same time knowing in the pit of her stomach that it was horribly, horribly true. Her mind buzzed with questions. What was happening to Seven right now? Was he home? Was he safe? Or had the London Guard already found him?
Panic fluttered in her chest.
‘It’s despicable what those Southers think they can get away with.’
‘And the worst part is how ungrateful they are.’
‘I agree, Oxana,’ said Thierry’s father. ‘We provide them with jobs and homes and safety, and this is how they repay us. Stealing our memories – it’s the lowest form of betrayal. The one thing most private to any person, and they sell it on the black market as though it’s worth nothing more than a pound of common tobacco.’
It was that which finally made Alba snap.
‘People in North trade memories, too,’ she said, looking up from the picture of Seven’s face to glare instead at those round the table. ‘Only we do it for leisure. For greed. For curiosity. Southers do it to experience just a moment of what their lives could be like if they weren’t dirt poor. They do it to live.’
It was as though she’d slapped each and every one of them. Her parents’ faces were blank, stunned. Beside her, Thierry took in a sharp breath. His mother Julia’s jaw dropped open a little, revealing clumps of crème brûlée still stuck to her tongue, and Christian Burton-Lyon’s gaze turned cold.
‘Look at our city,’ Alba went on into the shocked silence, her voice cresting with anger. ‘All the things we have in North. The way we keep it to ourselves, locked in by the river and the London Guard and live executions of South criminals, trying to scare them so they’ll never fight back. We only have ourselves to blame if Southers want to reclaim just one tiny piece of what we’ve taken from them. None of us would survive even one day if we had to live with the little they’ve got.’
Alba thought of Seven and his small memorium, of how much he needed those stolen memories to escape his life. She thought of the fear and anger she’d seen in his eyes after the raid, when what little he’d had in the world had been ripped from him.
‘What did they do to deserve getting that kind of life,’ she continued, ‘other than be born on the wrong side of the river?’
‘Little Alba.’
Her mother’s voice was cool and calm, but icy underneath.
Oxana spread her hands on the table. ‘Darling, I think the fever you had a few days ago has returned. You’re not sounding like yourself.’
‘I’m perfectly well, Mother.’
Ignoring her, Oxana slid off her seat and swept over. She touched the back of her hand to Alba’s forehead. ‘My darling, you’re burning.’
‘You do look a little pale,’ Thierry’s mother offered sweetly.
Alba opened her mouth to protest but Oxana shushed her, pressing the back of her hand so hard against her forehead that the sharp diamonds of her mother’s wedding band dug into her skin.
‘We must get you home at once.’ Oxana turned to her husband. ‘She can take our car home, Alastair. We’ll be fine with a cab back later.’
Thierry shook his head. ‘But, Mrs White – you must ride with us in our car.’
Christian Burton-Lyon smiled. ‘Yes, you must.’ He took a sip of wine, his hand tight around the stem of the glass. ‘We are all soon to be family, after all.’
Alba’s skin crawled at his words.
‘And we can all have a spot of afternoon tea back at our residence,’ his wife added, her voice enthusiastic. ‘We had the place refurbished last summer. Number Ten never looked so good.’
Oxana flashed a wide smile. ‘Wonderful,’ she said, looking genuinely relieved that the Burton-Lyons didn’t appear to have been affected by her daughter’s outburst. She gripped Alba’s arms and pulled her up from her chair. ‘Let’s get you home, then, my darling.’
Alba knew
better than to protest any more. At least this way she was leaving lunch early and didn’t have to spend a second more in Thierry’s company.
Everyone at the table stood, inclining their heads.
‘I look forward to seeing you again at the Ball,’ Thierry murmured, taking Alba’s hand and pressing it to his lips. ‘I hope you are fully recovered by then, because we will have a lot of celebrating to do.’
Celebrating.
The word made her stomach squirm. What did she have to celebrate about her union with this creep? She’d have more fun at a funeral.
In fact, Alba realised, that’s exactly what the Winter-turn Ball would be with her and Thierry’s engagement announced on the night. The burial of her own future. Her own dreams.
She forced a smile. ‘I look forward to it,’ she said, as sweetly as she could muster.
Once Alba was in the car and Hans, the driver, was pulling out of Paternoster Square, she had an idea. A reckless one, of course. But it was her only way of knowing if Seven was safe.
She leant forward and tapped the dark screen that ran along the back of the front seats. A second later it drained away to clear glass. Hans’s stubbled jawline shifted round slightly as his eyes in the rear-view mirror flicked up to meet hers.
‘Mistress Alba?’
‘Hans,’ she said, smiling. ‘You know, I’m so craving honey madeleines. There’s a café in south Pimlico that makes the best ones in the city. On Grosvenor Road. Do you think you can take me there?’
‘Your mother told me to take you straight home, miss,’ he said. ‘She said you weren’t well.’
Alba waved a hand. ‘My parents are going to Downing Street with the Burton-Lyons after lunch for afternoon tea. They’re not going to be home for a few hours. It will only be a short detour … No one would ever know.’
Hans sighed. ‘Very well, then, miss,’ he said, reluctantly. ‘As long as we’re quick, I don’t see what harm a small detour will do.’
49
SEVEN
When he regained consciousness, Seven felt the bandages tied round his chest before opening his eyes and seeing them. He blinked, dazed. His fingers brushed the smooth white fabric covering his wound.
For one horrible second just before Kola had hit him, he’d really thought that Kola was turning him in to the London Guard, and he had felt a sting of betrayal, even though Kola had no real ties to him. Now he realised Kola had just wanted to spare him the pain while he stitched his wound.
Seven had no idea how long he’d been unconscious for. He was lying on the sofa, a blanket draped over his body. The flat was dimly lit, full of shadows, but it wasn’t dark enough to be night yet. The single bulb in the centre of the ceiling hummed noisily, lighting the room in a flickering glow.
Tucking his elbows beneath him, Seven started to push himself up, but a flash of pain ripped through his torso and he fell back with a curse.
‘Hey, man. You’re up.’
Kola walked in from the kitchen. He set down a glass of water and an oily package on the table before sliding an arm under Seven’s shoulders, helping him sit up.
‘Sorry I had to knock you out like that. I thought it would be preferable to experiencing all of that without anaesthetic.’
He handed Seven the glass of water and Seven drank gratefully. There was a bitter taste laced in with the water.
‘Painkillers?’ Seven asked, giving back the empty glass.
Kola nodded. ‘That’s all I have though, I’m afraid. Here.’ He offered the warm newspaper-wrapped package. ‘You need to eat something. This was the first thing I could find.’
Seven unwrapped the package, the grease soaking the paper instantly slicking his fingers in an oily coating. Inside was a battered sausage. The deep-fried smell made his mouth water.
‘I’ll pay you back for this,’ he said gruffly, looking up. ‘Honest. And for all the medical stuff, too.’
Kola gave him a tight smile. ‘Don’t worry about it. You were hurt. It was the least I could do.’
Not true, Seven thought. The least Kola could have done was ignore him, as he was sure his other flatmate Sid would have. Or worse: he could’ve reported him to the London Guard. Kola must have recognised the tattoo on his chest by now, and he would know from all the media coverage about the monetary reward for turning Seven in.
As if reading his mind, Kola said, ‘I’m not going to tell the London Guard you’re here. But you should finish eating and decide what you’re going to do before Sid comes home. I can’t say he’ll do the same.’
Nodding, Seven bit into the battered sausage. Life instantly coursed back into his limbs with each oily mouthful, his energy levels rising from about as energetic as a zombie to somewhere more in the region of could just about curtsey if the Queen walked by. He still felt horrendous, and the agonising ache in his chest was only somewhat dimmed by the painkillers. But at least he didn’t feel completely hopeless any more.
‘Think you’re able to get dressed now?’ Kola asked when he’d finished.
Seven grimaced. ‘Just about.’
Kola waited outside his bedroom while he changed. It was difficult. The ache in his torso filled Seven’s entire body, a heavy, draining pain that turned his muscles to lead and made him want to vomit every time he shifted and it rolled up inside his flesh like a giant black wave.
Stripped down to his underwear, he looked over himself for the blood he’d been covered in earlier, but he was clean. He realised Kola must have washed it off while he was unconscious. How embarrassing. Biting back the pain, Seven pulled on a pair of slim black jeans – the only pair of trousers he owned besides the blue ones the dog had pawed all over today – and a thin maroon jumper that fitted snugly over his bandaged chest.
He sat on the edge of the bed when he was finished and called for Kola.
‘So,’ Seven said, grinning. ‘How do I look?’
A small smile touched Kola’s lips. ‘Good. Better than before, anyway.’
Seven looked away. He could feel his ears pinking. ‘Look, Kola,’ he muttered. ‘I’m grateful for your help, I really am. I just – I don’t get why you’re doing it.’ He looked back up and gave a cold laugh. ‘Most Southers would’ve just turned me in and claimed their reward.’
Kola pushed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He was silent for a long while. When he next spoke, his voice was cool and clear.
‘I left Malaysia all those years ago to escape death. In my own country, people had turned on each other. Forgetting the things that unite us, they instead chose to kill their fellow countrymen because of their differences. Race, religion, beliefs … they thought these things divided us. I hoped to come to a country where I could escape all of that. But even here in the British Isles, in London, a city where the streets are supposed to be paved with gold, there are people who walk on those gold streets and people who are on their hands and knees, scrubbing them. And what is important to remember is that it is those who scrub the streets who are the ones making it shine.’
Kola fell quiet, silence wrapping the flat. Seven felt as though he was trying to tell him something important (though to be honest, he didn’t have a clue what the hell he was going on about).
‘We will win in our own way, man,’ Kola said, quiet but firm. ‘No matter how many times people trample dirt into the streets, I will keep scrubbing them. I will continue to make my patch as golden as it can be.’
Seven stared, wondering how to respond. But before he could say anything, there was a knock on the front door.
He froze.
The knocking came again, louder, insistent.
Kola frowned, peering round the bedroom door. ‘Should I answer it?’
Seven shook his head frantically. ‘What if it’s them?’ he croaked. His heart beat fast, spiralling up through his chest into his mouth. His words stumbled in his panic. ‘What if it’s the London Guard and they’re here to take me away? They’re gonna arrest me! They’re gonna throw me in prison and
–’
The knocking stopped.
Seven screwed his eyes shut. He tensed, readying himself for the sound of the door crashing open, the London Guard forcing their way in, and thought, heart breaking –
So this is how it ends.
He wasn’t ready.
Then a muffled shout came from behind the door.
‘Seven! If you’re in there, let me in before I die of the effing stink out here!’
50
ALBA
She rushed inside the moment the door opened. Barely noticing the boy who’d let her in, she headed straight to Seven, her whole body thrumming with relief at the sight of him here, safe, alive. He was leaning against the back of the sofa, holding one arm awkwardly to his chest. His face was tight and paler than usual.
Then he flashed her a wide grin, his eyes crinkling at the edges, and Alba melted, forgetting everything in that instant, just falling into the beauty of his smile.
‘You should watch your language, Princess. That’s no way for a lady to speak.’
Alba rolled her eyes, just able to hold back a smile. ‘I wonder where I learnt it from.’ She moved closer, frowning. ‘I was so worried, Seven. I didn’t know if you’d still be here. The report said –’
‘The report?’
A voice from behind made her jump. Alba spun round, noticing properly for the first time the boy who’d let her into the flat. He was tall and handsome, with a dark, serious face and smooth mahogany skin, his black hair cropped short. A simple shirt and trousers clung to his slim frame.
‘What report?’ he asked again, taking a step towards her.
She shrank back at his agitated tone.
‘Don’t worry,’ Seven said, seeming to sense her unease. ‘This is my flatmate, Kola. We can trust him. Kola, this is Alba. The A stands for annoying.’
Alba let Seven’s joke roll off her, relaxing a little.
Kola smiled. ‘So you’re Seven’s girlfriend.’
Beside her, Seven made a sputtering noise. Alba felt her cheeks flush, though partly out of annoyance. Was the idea really so disgusting to him?
