The Memory Keepers

by Natasha Ngan

  The house was silent. Shadows moved as Alba and Dolly entered behind him, the pale wash of morning sunlight spilling across the floor. Seven was just about to turn to them when –

  A sound.

  Thudding, like someone thumping on wood. Then, so distant and quiet he thought he might have imagined it: a cry.

  ‘Someone’s here,’ Alba breathed. Her eyes were wide and bright in the musky darkness. ‘Do you think it’s the person on the memory’s label? H.M.?’

  Dolly moved up behind them. ‘Let’s go,’ she said urgently. ‘Now.’

  Thud.

  Quickly, Seven started towards the stairs at the end of the hall. The sound was coming from somewhere upstairs.

  ‘Seven!’

  He ignored Dolly’s shout. The stairs sighed under his weight. Each creak sent his heart racing faster. Upstairs, the house was a maze of tall, narrow corridors and closed doors. He spun round, wondering which way to go.

  ‘Help,’ came a weak voice.

  ‘I’m coming!’ Seven shouted.

  He darted off in the direction of the cry, down the hallway to his right, which ran along the outer wall of the house. The windows here were all covered. Muffled golden light filtered in beneath moth-bitten curtains. At the end of the corridor, a figure was slumped against the wall. Seven could see a dark patch of shadow blooming across the ground around them, staining the floorboards.

  His stomach dropped.

  Blood.

  Seven bolted to the end of the hallway. Crouching, he helped the person sit up. It was a man, old and greying, with a tuft of thin hair and thick-rimmed glasses and blood, blood everywhere on his plaid suit and mottled skin.

  Seven propped up the man’s head, wiping the blood from his lips. The man’s milky eyes met his. They fell in and out of focus. His head lolled, and Seven had to grip his neck and shoulders to keep him upright.

  ‘Is it you?’ the man asked in a horrible, rasping voice. He coughed, blood splattering Seven’s white uniform.

  ‘Who?’ he asked.

  ‘Candidate,’ croaked the man. ‘Candidate Seven.’

  64

  ALBA

  She had never seen that much blood. Even from the end of the hallway, it looked like far too much to be outside of a person’s body. Surely he had none left on the inside? Her mind swayed as she approached, her footsteps light in the hall. She crouched down beside Seven, who was kneeling in front of the injured man, holding him upright.

  The man’s eyes were closed. His face was so pale it was as though he was wearing a white mask. Sweat smeared his forehead and temples.

  ‘Candidate,’ Seven said, eyes fixed on the man’s face. ‘You called me Candidate Seven. How d’you know who I am?’

  The man’s eyes opened. ‘I was there – there when you … ’ He dissolved into racking coughs.

  Alba’s insides were ice. The man was dying. She’d never seen someone die before. It was awful, more horrible than she could have imagined. She didn’t realise how you’d actually be able to see it happening, see the life draining from a person’s eyes.

  ‘Get aside!’

  Dolly had reached them. She pushed Seven away with a sweep of her arm and knelt before the man, feeling at his neck for a pulse.

  ‘Who shot you?’ she asked.

  Alba felt sick. Her heart was spinning up in her throat, dizzyingly fast. The man didn’t say anything, but she knew the answer anyway.

  The London Guard.

  Dolly stood. ‘There must be something here I can use.’ As she started back down the corridor, she called over her shoulder, ‘Use your coat, Seven – for his blood. Alba, keep him talking.’

  ‘Sir?’ Alba edged forward. She touched the man’s cheek as Seven slid off his coat and wrapped it round him. ‘Are you H.M.? Did you send Seven that memory for him to find you?’

  The man’s eyes flicked to her. ‘Dr Harold … Harold Merriweather,’ he croaked.

  The name sounded familiar, but Alba couldn’t place it.

  Merriweather shifted. A flutter of energy seemed to come to him and his voice grew stronger, his gaze focused again on Seven. ‘The memory – Nihail planted it when the London Guard went to your flat. You are the Candidate.’

  ‘A Candidate,’ corrected Seven.

  ‘No.’ The man shook as he coughed heavily. Beads of blood welled at the corners of his lips. ‘The Candidate. The one we freed.’

  Alba’s eyes widened. She glanced at Seven, but he was still staring at Merriweather.

  ‘We know,’ he said. ‘I found a memory about it. But why? Why was I taken?’

  A deep breath rattled through Merriweather’s lungs. ‘I was Chief Science Co-ordinator. Some of us disagreed with what they were doing. You were chosen to be freed. We tried once, but – but we failed.’

  Alba gasped. She reached for Seven’s arm. ‘The incident involving you as a baby! My father was talking about it to that doctor in his memory.’ She gasped again, remembering now. ‘Dr Merriweather! That was you!’

  Merriweather’s eyes fluttered. ‘We succeeded the second time. But our member, the one who was looking after you … she was found. Murdered. We lost you. Thought you might have also been … ’

  His eyes shut, then snapped open suddenly. They swivelled round to meet Alba. She thought she saw a darkness in them, a shadow approaching.

  ‘Seven,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t think we have much time.’

  He nodded. ‘Why did you bring me here?’ he asked, leaning closer to Merriweather. ‘What was so important?’

  The man’s weak gaze shifted to Seven. His lungs wheezed with each breath. Alba saw him sinking, saw his eyes dimming, heard the emptiness in his voice as he said, so quietly it was just the faintest whisper, ‘You, Candidate Seven. You.’

  And then he slumped back, falling still.

  Tears blurred Alba’s vision. Her heart hammered in her throat so hard she could barely breathe. Merriweather’s eyes were still open; they stared off to one side, empty and cold.

  ‘No!’ she cried suddenly.

  Seven went to wrap an arm round her but Alba jerked away. Shaking her head furiously she pushed up off the floor, legs shaking. Her breaths came heavy and hard. She took a step back, but before she could move anywhere a hand closed over her mouth.

  So quickly she didn’t even have time to think about escaping, arms were locking round her body. Alba saw Seven’s eyes widen, saw him stagger to his feet, and then two men had grabbed him too, holding him off the ground as he strained against their grip. From the corner of her eyes, she saw a woman come forward with Dolly, a gun pointed to her temple.

  Alba felt hot breath on her ear as the man holding her dipped his head close to hers.

  ‘You’re coming with us,’ he growled.

  There was a sharp bite in the side of her neck, and then everything fell away into blackness.

  65

  SEVEN

  He woke slowly, disorientated, his mind heavy and blurred. For a moment he thought he was back at Loe and Mika’s, numbed from Alba’s handmaid’s medication.

  And then everything came back to him in a flash.

  Letting out a shout, he jerked bolt upright.

  ‘Calm down, man. The effects of the sedative have still got a few hours before they fully wear off.’

  Seven knew that voice. He twisted round and saw Kola sitting against the wall opposite. His long legs were stretched out before him. A newspaper lay open across his knees. He put it aside, lips drawing into a thin, humourless smile.

  Seven was so surprised he couldn’t even speak. He slumped back on the pillows and blankets under him. Looking round, he saw that almost the entire floor of the large room was covered in them. It seemed to be some sort of sleeping quarters. With a flush of relief, he spotted Alba and Dolly lying asleep nearby. Neither looked hurt. They were curled together, Dolly’s arm draped protectively over Alba.

  Seven turned back to Kola. ‘Where are we?’ he asked. He rubbed his forehead; his brai
n felt foggy.

  The room looked as though it were part of a tunnel. Low concrete walls curved in an arch overhead, faded posters tacked across them. To one side was a platform set a foot or so higher than the trenched part they were in. A yellow strip ran along its edge. At both ends of the room sheets of corrugated metal and haphazardly nailed wooden planks blocked it off from the rest of the tunnel. Lanterns were strung from the ceiling and dotted around, lighting the space in a soft, flickering glow.

  Seven realised where they were before Kola answered.

  ‘The Underground,’ they said at the same time.

  Kola nodded. ‘This is the Bakerloo Boys’ turf.’

  ‘Takeshi’s Bakerloo Boys?’

  Seven’s shout echoed off the curved walls. He struggled to his feet, swaying dizzyingly, but forced himself to stay standing, which was hard. The ground felt as though it was tipping beneath his feet.

  ‘Have you gone mad?’ he cried. ‘Takeshi is a bloody maniac! All the Tube Gang boys are.’

  Kola’s expression was calm. ‘We can trust Takeshi, Seven. He’s helping us. Now please sit down before you faint.’

  Seven made a strangled sound. Shaking his head in disbelief, he dropped back to the floor. ‘I don’t have an effing clue what’s going on,’ he muttered.

  ‘You will know soon enough, I promise,’ Kola said calmly. ‘But for now you should rest. Let the sedative wear off. Don’t worry – you’re safe here. When you wake next, I’ll explain everything.’

  Seven scowled. ‘Can’t wait.’

  Closing his eyes, he lay back on the sea of pillows. In just seconds, the sedative washed back over him and he fell into a restless sleep, filled with dreams of flowers dripping blood and Alba dancing away from him into darkness, her laughter chased by the wind as he ran to catch up with her, always a few moments too slow.

  Voices woke him a few hours later.

  ‘Harold’s dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fuck. And so close to the finish.’

  ‘I know. But the London Guard have long suspected him. And after the break-in at the lab, it was only a matter of time before they confirmed his involvement.’

  A pause. A heavy sigh.

  ‘So. This is Candidate Seven.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He doesn’t look like much.’

  ‘What does it matter what he looks like, Nihail?’

  ‘Well, if he’s going to be the face of this whole charade –’

  ‘His face will do just fine.’

  Another pause.

  ‘He really has no idea?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fuck, Kola. You could have at least given him some hint all those years you lived with him.’

  ‘I wasn’t to tell him anything, remember? I was just there to keep an eye on him. Make sure he was safe. We had to let him discover the truth about TMK for himself. It was only fair. We had – we have – to let him decide for himself whether he wants to be a part of this.’

  Rubbing his eyes, Seven propped himself up on one elbow. ‘Part of what exactly, Kola?’ he asked loudly.

  The two men looked round at his voice.

  ‘He speaks,’ said the man Kola had called Nihail, grinning.

  Nihail was heavy set, with thick shoulders and arms, and a square jaw covered in stubble. His skin was a deep mahogany brown. Though he didn’t have the red jacket, he wore the grey jumpsuit of the London Guard, and Seven remembered Dr Merriweather mentioning someone called Nihail who worked for them. He’d been the one who’d planted the skid at his flat.

  Kola stood. ‘Seven, this is Nihail. He works for the London Guard, but he’s on our side.’

  Seven scowled. ‘As if that makes me feel better.’

  Nihail’s smile widened. ‘You know, I like him more when he’s conscious.’ Sighing, he pushed off the floor, brushing down his clothes. ‘Anyway, work calls. Good luck with Takeshi. If he doesn’t rip Candidate Seven’s head off, I’ll know he’s a keeper.’ He pulled himself up onto the platform and disappeared out through a tunnel set into the wall.

  ‘Seven? Kola? What’s going on?’

  Seven turned at the sound of Alba’s voice.

  She and Dolly were sitting up a few metres away in a mess of tangled blankets and pillows. Alba’s hair was mussed from sleep. It fell in a bushy auburn sweep down past her shoulders, loose curls sticking to her flushed cheeks. She caught Seven’s eye and gave him a small smile.

  His stomach tightened. He wondered: would he feel that way every time she smiled at him, no matter where they were and what else was happening? Even in the middle of a hurricane, even as the world was collapsing around them, would her smile make him feel as though he wanted to vault across whatever stood between them and bundle her up in his arms?

  Seven clambered to his feet and hurried over. ‘You OK?’ he asked, crouching beside Alba.

  She nodded.

  ‘It’s nice to see you again, Alba,’ Kola said, who had also come over.

  Frowning, she turned to him, her expression icy. She opened her mouth to speak but Dolly interrupted.

  ‘Do you always drug and kidnap people when you want to speak to them?’

  Kola’s jaw tensed. ‘I am sorry for that. But we needed to get the three of you away from there. It wasn’t safe.’ His eyes settled on Seven. ‘You know, of course, who attacked Harold Merriweather?’

  ‘The London Guard.’

  He nodded. ‘Then you know what they would have done if they’d found you all there, too. Especially you, Seven. And it is of the utmost importance we keep you from them.’ He sat down in front of them. ‘Let me explain why.’

  Alba shifted closer to Seven. Her hand slid easily into his, and he squeezed it gratefully.

  This is it, he thought. This is the moment.

  I’m finally gonna know the truth.

  He wasn’t sure he was ready. He was only just starting to like who he was becoming, the boy Alba was making him feel like. What if the news he was about to discover broke all of that?

  ‘For over thirty years,’ Kola began into the uneasy silence, ‘the London Guard have been keeping a secret. They created something called The Memory Keepers. The Memory Keepers – or TMK, as it is often referred to – was established with the Lord Minister at the time, Elson Haverstock. Through a rigorous selection process they recruited a team of scientists, headed by Harold Merriweather. The scientists were offered the highest social privileges and salaries – you saw the house Harold lived in. But in return they had to agree to the strictest of contracts. They understood they were to keep quiet about TMK. That this wasn’t a job they could simply quit. Because what TMK was doing broke hundreds of state and national laws.’

  Seven listened breathlessly.

  ‘They were experimenting on babies,’ Kola said. ‘Stolen babies, taken from hospitals and adoption wards. From these experiments, TMK found that by attaching an implanted device they call the Controller to a set of nerves in the cerebral cortex of the babies’ brains, those children would grow to be able to … manipulate memories.’

  There was a gasp from someone. Dolly? Alba? But Seven just felt blank, dizzyingly empty.

  ‘Those babies whose brains accept the Controller implant,’ Kola continued, ‘grow to be able to physically alter memory-space during surfing. Their thoughts shape memories in the nerve-cells influenced by the Controller and imprint them upon the original memory’s recording.’

  ‘No,’ Dolly whispered, eyes widening. ‘I’d only heard enough to know they were experimenting on stolen babies. That was bad enough. I didn’t know it was for this.’

  Kola was still focused on Seven. ‘Have you ever surfed a memory which seemed empty?’ he asked. ‘A vast black space, devoid of anything? Maybe you could hear voices. Sense something more. But you couldn’t ever make any of it out?’

  It hit him like a wall.

  ‘R.L.S.,’ Seven breathed.

  His entire body thrummed as he remembered clearly the skid
he’d surfed all those weeks ago, the one from Fear, Desperation and General Wetting-your-pants Kind of Stuff. He remembered how he’d felt after surfing it: let down by the vast empty blackness, wordless voices buzzing out of the dark.

  ‘That happens when a memory has been completely wiped,’ Kola explained. ‘It is another use of the Controller implant. When the London Guard would rather erase an entire recording, the Candidates just distort the memory-space beyond recognition. But more often than not, Candidates are used to alter specific details in memories, falsifying them.’

  Alba shook her head. ‘But – but why?’

  Kola turned to her, his eyes dark. ‘What does your father do, Alba?’

  ‘He’s the city’s Lead Prosecutor.’

  ‘And what does he use as evidence in court?’

  The air seemed to suck from the room.

  Seven’s eyes widened, realising what Kola was saying.

  ‘No,’ he said. Anger hummed beneath his words. ‘They don’t. No.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s true.’ Kola’s expression was grave. ‘Alastair White, the London Guard, the Lord Minister – they force the Candidates, their Memory Keepers, to manipulate memories so that they can free criminals they don’t want to punish, and find guilty those they do.’

  66

  ALBA

  For one long moment, nobody spoke. Then –

  ‘Jesus effing Christ.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No.’

  Seven scrambled to his feet.

  ‘Seven, please –’

  ‘Shut it, Kola! I don’t give one flying fuck what you have to say. You knew what I could do. What I am!’

  ‘We couldn’t force you into anything! You needed to find out for yourself.’

  ‘This was my right to know!’

  ‘And now you do.’

  ‘You effing –’

  ‘Seven, please calm down.’ Dolly stood quickly, laying a hand on his arm. She turned to Kola. ‘Why are you telling us this now?’ she asked. ‘What do you need from Seven?’

  ‘His help,’ Kola said.

  ‘Oh, fuck that –’