by Natasha Ngan
Alba was shaking. Uncurling her fists – she hadn’t even noticed she’d been gripping the bedsheets – she placed her hands flat on either side of her. She was trying to steady herself, because this all felt wrong; surely this was wrong, a horrible nightmare she would wake from any second.
‘The Memory Keepers,’ she breathed.
Dolly’s mouth tightened. ‘Yes. That’s what TMK stands for. And that’s plenty more than you need to know.’ She reached out an arm. ‘Come on. You’re going to be late for school.’
But Alba shrank back before she could touch her.
‘I expected it from them,’ she said quietly. ‘My parents. They’ve always told me what I can and can’t do. They’ve never let me make my own choices. But you, Dolly … ’ Her voice broke. ‘I never expected it from you.’
Dolly’s face twisted. ‘Please, Alba. I’m doing this to help you.’
‘That’s what they always say,’ Alba whispered, her voice breaking, and she got up and pushed past Dolly to the bathroom before the first of the tears blurring her eyes could fall.
That night, Alba waited until the house was silent before creeping out of her room and down the servants’ staircase. She didn’t care what Dolly thought. Seven needed her. He’d lost his home, all his memories, what little safety he’d had … She couldn’t abandon him now.
That’s not what friends did.
A cold, night-time wind on the sloping lawns of the estate met her as she stepped out into the grounds. Her hair twisted and curled in long trails behind her. She buttoned up her coat and pulled her fur cowl tighter round her neck.
It never failed to surprise Alba how quickly the weather changed, even though it had always been this way. There used to be four seasons, the climate in the British Isles steady as it shifted gradually between them. Now, there were just two: summer and winter. The changes were quick and sudden, harshly contrasting. London’s high society celebrated their arrivals with the Summer- and Winter-turn Balls. (Any chance for an extravagant party, Alba thought wryly.)
Head lowered against the growling wind, Alba made her way to the part of the fence where she and Seven crossed. As she neared, she spotted a finger of light moving slowly through the darkness. Quickly, she darted behind a cluster of nearby bushes. When she was sure she hadn’t been seen she edged out, peering over the top of the rustling leaves.
It was one of the Hyde Park Estate guards patrolling the perimeter of the fence.
‘Oh, sod it,’ she mumbled.
Alba could try and climb the railings before the guard came back. Without Seven’s help, however, it would take ages to haul herself over, and she’d rather not be found stuck up the top of the fence, her bottom yet again in someone’s face.
But the only other option she had was to go home. Alba didn’t know how much longer Seven would be staying with his friend Loe. He’d said he thought he could trust her, but that she was very grumpy and easily annoyed. That wasn’t a combination that gave Alba much faith; offensive things came out of Seven’s mouth practically every time he opened it. What if he so annoyed Loe that she threw him out? If she didn’t go to him tonight, she might never find him again.
‘Right,’ Alba muttered, nodding to herself. ‘Option number one it is, and god help the poor guard who finds my ginormous bottom waving around in the air.’
But just as she stepped out from behind the bushes, readying herself to run, someone moved out of the darkness.
‘Alba?’ came a familiar voice. ‘What are you doing?’
She turned in horror to see a tall figure stepping towards her.
It was her father.
57
SEVEN
He was waiting under Waterloo Bridge, back pressed to one of the granite stone arches of its underside. The night was dark and cold. The rumble of lorries passing overhead echoed in the low space. Water whispered as it rushed past the shingly bank. On the other side of the Thames, lights from the Embankment – busy even at this time of night – spilled across the river in melted patterns of yellow and gold.
Seven wasn’t alone under the bridge. There were homeless clustered here for shelter, sleeping in cardboard boxes and trawling through washed-up litter. The spot was also popular with the Tube Gangs and the drug dealers they did business with. They knew they were safe to meet here because the London Guard left them alone in exchange for special prices from the dealers.
A few gang members were out tonight, crawled up from their maze-like nest of tunnels beneath the city. They had taken over the disused Tube network years ago after floods rendered most of the tunnels useless, and it was easier for the London Guard to control traffic across North and South via the roads and docks anyway. Seven knew each gang had its own tattoo, just like the skid-thief crews did. One of the gangs, Takeshi’s Bakerloo Boys, branded red skulls into their arms, while the Piccadilly Pythons went for winding snakes round their ankles.
Seven watched the gang members and dealers do their trades, their shifting bodies silver-edged in the shadowy moonlight. Lights flickered at the ends of their cigarettes.
He tugged his cap down lower over his face. The gangs were notoriously ruthless, even by South’s standards. If they recognised him from the Net broadcasts …
‘Seven.’
He jumped at the voice. Spinning round, he attempted a karate kick in the direction of the person who’d spoken. But the shadowy figure just moved his leg away easily with the back of one hand and stepped closer.
‘It’s me,’ Kola said, his face coming into view.
Seven’s cheeks flushed. ‘I knew that. I was just – just easing out some cramp.’
Kola didn’t look as though he was listening. His face was tight. The whites of his eyes shone like cuts of silver in the darkness.
‘Look,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder, ‘I can’t stay long. The London Guard have got someone tailing me. I think I managed to lose them in the alleys on the way here, but I can’t be sure.’
Heart thumping, Seven looked around wildly. He started to speak but Kola interrupted him.
‘Seven … they took everything.’
He froze.
‘The hidden room at the back of the house,’ Kola went on, an apologetic tone to his voice. ‘They broke into it, found all the memories. There was nothing I could do. They took everything,’ he said again, then paused. ‘Well, not quite everything.’
‘What d’you mean?’
Seven’s voice was strangled. It felt as though he were very small, looking in on himself from far away.
Kola dug into his pocket. He lifted Seven’s hand and pressed something small and metal into his palm: a DSC.
‘They missed one,’ Seven breathed, closing his fingers round it, carefully, delicately, as though it were a tiny bird (which in a way it was. After all, skids were what gave him wings).
Kola looked round warily. ‘I’m sorry, man. I have to go before they find me. Will you be all right?’
‘What sorta question is that?’
Seven forced a smile, filling his gaze with as much bravado and confidence as he could muster, though inside he was breaking.
One skid.
That was all he had left.
One tiny effing skid.
Seven cocked his head, cheeks hurting from forcing a grin. ‘Course I’ll be all right.’
Kola’s stare was piercing. Seven knew he could see through his lie.
‘Remember,’ Kola said quietly after a long pause, ‘in the end, all we can do is polish our own patch of the world to make it shine as brightly as possible.’ Then he turned and walked briskly away.
Seven waited until he disappeared out of sight before walking out under the bridge into a patch of moonlight. His feet slipped on the pebbly shore. Taking a deep breath to try and calm his skittering heart, he opened his palm.
04.10.2144, H.M., The Manor, Grovewood Close
He stared at the letters scrawled across the label for what felt like an eternity.
�
�Oh,’ he breathed eventually.
Biting back a cry, he pulled off his cap and threw it to the ground. Crumpled to his knees. His fingers squeezed round the DSC until its hard edges dug painfully into his palm.
The skid wasn’t even one Seven could remember stealing, let alone surfing. That was what hurt so bad. Now all he had left of his collection, his years of thieving, and a life he’d never be able to get back, was a skid he couldn’t even remember stealing in the first place.
He didn’t move for a long time. The twanging ache in his chest where the dog had bitten him was rising up again, Alba’s handmaid’s painkillers finally wearing off. Beyond the shore, the engines of boats and river-taxis purred as they sped across the water. Spray sprinkled his skin.
‘OK,’ Seven said, raking in a heavy breath. ‘One more go.’
He opened his palm, holding the DSC up to the light. He didn’t really know what he was expecting; he knew he wouldn’t remember anything about the skid. But maybe if he looked again he might find something that jogged his memory. His eyes scanned the label one more time –
And he sat bolt upright, something snapping through him like a tightened band.
Seven’s heartbeat raced, a thread of excitement working up through his chest. Because he saw now that the reason he couldn’t remember stealing the skid was because he didn’t steal it.
He couldn’t have stolen it, because the date on the label was tomorrow.
58
ALBA
‘F-Father,’ she stammered. ‘I … I didn’t expect –’
‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ he asked again, striding over and clutching her shoulder. He pulled her towards him, looking over her head at the darkness. ‘It’s not safe to be out this late on your own, Alba. Even in the Estate. I’m taking you back to the house.’
Not wanting to give him any reason to question her more, Alba let him steer her back across the wind-rushed grounds. His arm was heavy across her shoulder. Once, that weight used to feel safe. It was like a reassurance, a promise that no matter how old she grew, her father would always be there for her, bigger and stronger and ready to protect her from the dangers of the world.
Now, it felt like he was the danger.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Alba lied. ‘I just needed some air. I thought it was safe if I stayed in the Estate. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.’
Their footsteps were lost under the whistling of the wind through the grass. All around them, leaves rustled. Shadows pooled deep under the starlight.
Her father sighed. ‘No, my dear, you shouldn’t have. But I understand. I haven’t been sleeping very well lately either.’
‘Because of work?’
‘Yes.’
From his curt answer, she knew he was warning her not to ask anything more.
They continued on in silence through the dark grounds. Alba felt their secrets walking alongside them, watching from where they hid in the shadows. There were so many questions she wanted to ask her father: what was The Memory Keepers, why was he involved, and why, why did he not seem to care that people were dying because of it?
More than anything, she wanted to ask so he could tell her he did care. So he could give her an explanation that made him her father again, instead of this horrible stranger he seemed to have become.
‘What do you think of Christian’s son, Thierry?’ her father asked abruptly as they reached the house.
They approached from the front, and gravel crunched underfoot as they stepped onto the drive. A light clicked on above the entrance. Alba squinted as they were flooded in white, her father pulling her to a stop just before the doors. She saw he was still wearing his prosecutor’s robes; another late night at work.
‘Oh.’ She bit her lip and looked away. ‘He’s all right, I suppose.’
‘You don’t like him?’
‘No,’ Alba said. ‘I just … I don’t understand why.’
Her father touched her chin, tugging her face up. His eyes softened from their usual cool, steady gaze. ‘This is the best path for you, my dear. Your mother and I wouldn’t have arranged it if we thought otherwise. We know you will be happy and safe at Thierry’s side. Your future will be taken care of. You won’t ever have to want for anything.’
(For a flash of a second, Seven’s face came to Alba then; his crooked laugh, those grey slanting eyes.
The word want danced through her like a current.)
Her father sighed again. ‘I know I haven’t always been the best father,’ he went on, and his voice was softer than she’d ever heard it, golden and warm, full of regret, hidden emotions that curled from his words and hung in the night around them like tiny, glittering fireflies. ‘It’s been a struggle, often, for me to know how to be with you. How to be a good father for you. But I want you to know that I’ve tried. I’m trying. You are my dear, dear daughter, and I only want the best for you.’
Breathless, Alba stared into her father’s eyes, his hand still cupped round her chin.
It was all she’d ever wanted him to say to her.
Her heart soared.
It was all she wanted.
And then thoughts of TMK came screaming back. Of her father’s mocking laughter over the death of memory-thieves at the raid. Of the coldness, the detachedness in his voice as he talked about Candidates bleeding out and lives being ruined. Of how he never comforted Alba after her mother’s outbursts, never told his wife to stop, even though he must have known it was going on. And if he didn’t, perhaps that was even worse.
She thought of all the secrets over the years that had built their way between them like a wall, dark and towering and reaching impossibly far into the sky, and her heart plummeted because she knew then that his words had come too late, because even though she believed them, it didn’t matter any more.
Alba loved her father, and he loved her. But the things they thought and felt and believed in and wanted were so completely different they might as well have been strangers.
‘I know, Father,’ she said, then rose up on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.
He gave her a small, tight smile. ‘Good. Now back to bed, my dear. Perhaps now you’ll sleep better.’
59
SEVEN
The next morning Loe was in an even worse mood than usual. She, Seven and Mika were eating a breakfast of fresh mitten-crabs, which had been caught in a net attached to the underside of the bus. It was just past dawn. Birds cawed noisily as they circled over the water outside, soft pink light from the rising sun filtering through the windows.
Seven wasn’t big on seafood, but he was grateful to be eating anything at all. He picked the smelly white flesh out with his fingers, trying to avoid eye contact with Loe, who was glowering at him from the seat opposite.
‘So, then, Seven.’
He looked up reluctantly. He’d been waiting for this. Yesterday he’d been completely out of it, a combination of exhaustion and Alba’s handmaid’s medication sedating him to malnourished zombie level. Then he’d rushed out for his meeting with Kola. Now he didn’t have anywhere to hide from Loe’s piercing stare.
She tossed her fringe out of her eyes and forced a smile; a much more frightening expression than her usual scowl. ‘That woman the other night. Brolly, or Welly –’
‘Dolly.’
‘Yes, her. Who was she again?’
Seven hadn’t told Loe about Alba when he’d arrived a couple of days ago. He’d just recounted the story of what had happened since the raid at Borough Market without any mention of Alba, her father’s memory or TMK. Not only did he not trust her with that information, but after what Mika had said on the night of the raid about Loe … about her fancying him, he wasn’t sure she’d take too kindly to knowing there was a beautiful girl from North in the picture too.
Not that it mattered. Seven’s thoughts strayed to Alba’s pretty, soft face. The way she’d looked in the bath – naked – the cluster of freckles spread across her back like fallen stars. How e
very time she smiled at him, something ached a little inside. He felt pathetic. Of all the girls he could have fallen for he went for the one he’d never see again.
The one he’d never had a chance with in the first place.
‘That woman was from North, Seven,’ Loe said into his silence. ‘Why would someone from North want anything to do with you? And who’s Elbow –’
‘Alba.’
‘Whatever. That woman said she was your girlfriend.’
‘Why do you care?’ Seven snapped.
Loe’s cheeks reddened. ‘I don’t. It’s just, I find it hard to believe any girl from North would bother with the likes of you.’
He glared at her, noticing Mika, who was crouched in her seat, staring between the two of them with wide, eager eyes, enjoying this a little too much.
‘Well, this one bothered,’ he said, thrusting his head high.
Seven hadn’t planned on saying that. He wasn’t even going to acknowledge anything about Alba. What was the point? She wasn’t a part of his life any more. But he just couldn’t stand Loe thinking he wasn’t worthy of her (he thought that enough himself).
Loe got to her feet, limbs uncurling like a cat’s. ‘And how long d’you think that’ll last?’ she asked scathingly. ‘You’re probably just an experiment. The dangerous boy from South she can tell all her friends about. How cool they’ll think she is. How brave. Then once she realises you don’t actually have anything real to offer her, you’ll be thrown aside quicker than you can say stuck-up North bitch –’
Whack!
Seven’s arm moved of its own accord. He stared in horror at his raised hand, its palm now emptied of the crab shell he’d been holding; the crab shell that he’d just flung through the air, which had smacked Loe straight in the face.
