The Memory Keepers

by Natasha Ngan

  The tablet in Nihail’s palm began to beep. Nihail didn’t look down at it, his dark eyes still fixed on Seven.

  ‘I didn’t need the detector to tell me you’re lying,’ he said. Standing, he slipped the tablet into his pocket. ‘Come with me. Let me show you why.’

  He removed the ties from Seven’s ankles and forced him to stand, pushing him towards the door with one hand gripping his neck. Seven stumbled. He’d been sitting so long his legs felt like jelly.

  Locking Dolly behind in the cell, Nihail led Seven out into a long corridor. Clinical white walls stretched away into darkness. They passed closed doors, each numbered and marked with the name of the prisoner inside. It was eerily quiet. They stopped near the end of the corridor. Nihail unlocked a door by hitting a code into the panel beside it, and before Seven could even think about who was inside, the door swung heavily open. Still grasping him by the neck, Nihail pushed him forward.

  Seven’s stomach dropped.

  The girl in the cell didn’t look anything like the girl he’d known for years. She was slumped low in the chair she was tied to. Blood matted her hair. One eye was swollen shut, and the looped piercing round her bottom lip had been ripped out. Her long-sleeved top and jeans were dirty and torn.

  She looked up slowly, then froze.

  ‘Loe,’ Seven croaked.

  Nihail stepped up beside him. In the briefest moment, shifting as though he were simply adjusting his grip on Seven’s neck, he leant in and breathed, ‘I’m sorry. They wanted you to know.’ Then, in a louder voice: ‘I’ve brought you a visitor, Loe.’

  She licked her lips. ‘Seven.’ Her voice sounded dry and ragged, as though she’d been screaming. All of a sudden she was frantic. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she cried. ‘Please! It was all for Mika! You’ve got to understand! I’d lost my job – what else could I do? She was hungry! I couldn’t bear to see her like that. They told me they’d help Mika and me. They promised not to hurt you!’

  Seven’s heart thumped hard. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Loe strained against her ties. He saw blood dripping down her feet from where the plastic cords dug into her ankles. There was more blood on the floor beneath her, dried and crusted on the drain-cover.

  ‘I did it for Mika!’ She was crying, something Seven had never known her do before, and it shocked him. ‘Please. I’m so sorry! But you’ve got to understand!’

  And in one sudden, horrible burst of clarity, he did understand.

  ‘You told them about Dolly,’ Seven breathed. ‘About Alba. That’s how they knew I was at her house.’

  Loe was shaking. ‘Mika was starving, and the reward money for giving them information on you was just so much, I couldn’t … Seven, please! Please, understand! Mika’s got a chance now at a life I never could’ve given her –’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Nihail interrupted. Ignoring her protests, he twisted Seven round and shoved him back out into the corridor.

  The door slammed shut behind them. As they walked back to Seven’s cell, Loe’s screams and cries followed them down the corridor, muffled but still ringing in his ears until he thought he’d never be rid of their sound, that for the rest of his life all he’d hear were her desperate, ragged screams.

  80

  ALBA

  The next two days went by so slowly she swore she could feel each minute melting into the next. Each tick of the clock on her bedside table felt like the twist of a knife. One more minute, Alba thought. One more minute when Seven and Dolly could be hurting, and I can’t do a thing to stop it. She wished she could be there with them, share some of their pain. Instead, she was trapped in her room with her useless hordes of books and trinkets and jewels.

  She hadn’t quite believed her mother when she’d said life would continue as normal. It seemed ridiculous to think that life could go on as normal after everything that’d happened. Seven had kissed her. They’d watched a man die. They’d discovered the truth about The Memory Keepers.

  The whole world felt different now.

  Oxana was talking about Alba returning to school next week after her engagement to Thierry was announced at the Winter-turn Ball.

  ‘All your friends will be jealous,’ she’d said.

  What friends? Alba thought. You’ve taken away the only two I have.

  But she kept quiet. She needed her mother to think everything would return to normal. She couldn’t suspect a thing about the Winter-turn Ball, or Alba wouldn’t be allowed to go, and she had to go. For Seven. For Dolly.

  For herself.

  81

  SEVEN

  After two days in the cell, he forgot what it felt like to have fresh air on his skin. How blue the sky could be. The pattern of stars stitched across it. The smell before rain.

  On the nights he wasn’t working, Seven used to lie on the rooftop of his block of flats and memorise every cluster and constellation, imagining they formed a secret message from some god in a language no one on earth could understand.

  Now he’d never decipher the message. He’d never even see the night sky again.

  Seven longed for darkness. The cell was always bright. Sometimes they broadcast noise from hidden speakers just as he fell asleep, so he’d jerk back awake, blinking, straining against his ties, wishing he could cover his ears to block out the violent sound. And yet the times they let him sleep were worse. He’d wake, and it’d be like that first moment all over again, when he’d first opened his eyes and saw the dull grey walls and knew that this time –

  This time it truly was over.

  After two days, one interrogation blurred into another. It was almost always Nihail, but sometimes they sent someone different, and Seven dreaded seeing the door unlock and an unfamiliar face behind it. They never exactly hurt him because he always answered their questions, but when it wasn’t Nihail interrogating him, the fear was worse.

  So far they’d only asked about his life as a skid-thief. Then, finally, on the third day –

  ‘Have you heard of TMK?’

  It was a new person interrogating him: a Chinese man called Lin with sharp, cutting eyes and a strong, slender body. His black hair was pulled into a ponytail running down the back of his immaculate suit. He sat in a chair opposite Seven, one arm bent across his knees.

  At his question, Seven’s heart started to beat so fast it sent the tablet in Lin’s pocket beeping.

  Lin raised an eyebrow, smiling pleasantly. ‘I’ll take that as a yes. Perhaps you also know what it stands for?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Which is … ?’

  ‘The Memory Keepers,’ he answered with a scowl. ‘Though perhaps it should stand for The Memory Korruptors, given what you bastards use it for.’

  Lin’s smile was fixed. ‘Corruption is spelled with a “C”.’

  ‘Just like Candidate, then.’

  ‘Do you know why we call you Candidate?’ Lin asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  Seven glowered at him. ‘You’ve got the skid, haven’t you? Your lot took all of them from my flat. You know what I saw.’

  There was a pause. Something flickered across Lin’s face. ‘What skid?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t gone through all of them already.’ Seven looked for recognition in his eyes but saw nothing. Instead, he saw something else.

  Fear.

  Lin leant back. ‘Whose memory are we talking about, Candidate Seven?’

  ‘Alastair White’s.’

  Lin blinked. Standing, he turned to the door. ‘One moment.’

  As soon as he was gone, Seven’s mind began to race.

  He’s actually worried, he thought. They don’t know. They didn’t find White’s skid in my collection.

  Who hid it – Kola? Nihail?

  He drew in a sharp breath.

  Seven knew the Movement had needed him as proof of TMK’s experiments. He knew they’d been counting on showing him at the Winter-turn Ball. And he also knew that was unlikely now the L
ondon Guard had caught him. But this skid; it was enough. Along with the other information they’d gathered on TMK, it would at least force an enquiry into what Alastair White, the Lord Minister and London Guard had been doing.

  Excitement whirred through him at the realisation.

  Lin took a long time to come back. He looked calm again as he sat down in front of Seven, though he couldn’t hide the flicker of unease in his eyes.

  ‘Who else has seen that memory?’ Lin asked.

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Who have you told about what you saw in that memory?’

  ‘No one.’

  And the lie came easily, the detector not giving Seven away, because for the first time since he’d been brought here he felt the golden, winning force of hope.

  The Movement had Alba’s father’s skid, and soon the whole world would know what was hidden inside it.

  82

  ALBA

  The day before the Winter-turn Ball – the third day since Seven and Dolly had been taken away – her father finally came to see her.

  Alba looked round at the sound of the door opening from where she was lying on top of her bed. She’d drifted in and out of a restless sleep all night. It was now almost midday. The sky was a clear, pearly blue outside: a beautiful winter’s morning. Under the sun, frost glistened on the lawns of the estate.

  Her father was wearing a polished suit in a dark, charcoal colour over a silver-white shirt. A golden bulldog clasp sat at the base of his throat.

  He spread his arms and gave her a smile. ‘What do you think? Is this suit grand enough for the Ball tomorrow? I’ve just had the last-minute adjustments done.’

  Alba stared. ‘Looks just great,’ she said coldly, turning back to the wall.

  Her father sighed. She heard footsteps as he crossed the room, then the mattress dipped under his weight. He laid a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘My dear. Please – talk to me. It pains me to see you like this.’

  Well, it pains me to know you’re a lying murderer, Alba thought, but she bit her lip, staying silent.

  ‘I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.’

  ‘Do you really want to know?’ she murmured.

  ‘Of course, my dear.’ He squeezed her shoulder. ‘You can tell me anything.’

  Alba snorted. Let’s see about that.

  Pushing herself up, she brushed her hair back from her face. Her father’s hand dropped to her back. His gaze met hers as she looked up at him, and even though she despised him, even though she hated what he’d done, she found herself memorising the look in his eyes then, because it was kind, and loving, and for the briefest of seconds she could pretend that he was just her father and she was just his daughter, and that was all there was in the world.

  Then she said, ‘I know about The Memory Keepers.’

  To his credit, he had the decency to look guilty.

  ‘What?’ he breathed.

  ‘I know everything.’ Alba’s voice broke as tears rushed suddenly from nowhere. ‘I know what you make the Candidates do, and what you use the altered memories for. I know about it all!’

  Perhaps she’d been hoping he’d try and tell her none of it was true. Or perhaps she’d just wanted him to apologise. To wrap his arms round her and say sorry, because he should be, he was her father and he should be sorry.

  Instead, he stood stiffly, staring down at her with eyes that closed her out even as she looked into them, a tiny flame of hope still fluttering in her heart.

  ‘I expect you to keep this quiet,’ he said, before turning and striding out the room.

  Alba doubled over as the door clicked shut. She let out a cry that choked away into sobs. Up until that moment, she hadn’t realised she’d still been holding onto the idea of her father as he was before all of this happened – before Seven, before TMK, before anything – and it was only now that she knew she’d lost that part of him forever.

  83

  SEVEN

  One day. That’s what he kept telling himself. One more day until the Winter-turn Ball. If he could just make it until then, maybe the next person to open his cell door would be someone from the Movement coming to free him. Maybe it would be Kola. Maybe Alba would be there too, and she’d smile and throw her arms round his neck and bury him in kisses.

  What a way to die.

  Or maybe their plan would fail and Seven would be buried another way; in the prisoners’ cemetery, his body lost among thousands of anonymous others.

  He shook his head. ‘Don’t think like that,’ he muttered fiercely.

  The Movement’s plan would work. It had to. He went over all the things they had going in their favour; the element of surprise, insider information and evidence, Alastair White’s skid. And, of course, the truth.

  Though, Seven thought, that didn’t seem to be something London valued very much any more.

  84

  ALBA

  Preparations for the ball had been underway since sunrise, clattering and hammering and shouted instructions filling her room with noise. Alba was curled on a chair by the windows, watching the grounds around their house being transformed. There were marquees, fountains, seating areas with velvet sofas and chairs, lights with star-shaped casings draped from the trees, elegant statues, stages for performers. Underneath it all, a soft covering of fake snow turned the ground white and glittering in the low, wintry sun.

  It was beautiful.

  ‘Seven would hate this,’ she said with a small laugh, then fell silent, biting her lip.

  Alba didn’t know what she’d do if he didn’t turn up with the Movement that evening. Everything she wanted, everything she was hoping for now, was tied inextricably to Seven. His lopsided grin and sharp grey eyes were in each and every one of her thoughts of the future. When she touched her lips she imagined she could still feel him on them, that she was still holding onto the taste of him.

  Was this love? she wondered. The way her heart beat fast every time she pictured him? The way she could hear his laughter when she closed her eyes?

  The way the world became ever more unbearable each moment he wasn’t in it?

  A knock on the door brought Alba back to the present. A small woman with short mousey hair stepped in.

  ‘Malinda, ma’am. I’m your new handmaid, ma’am. Mrs White has sent me to get you ready for the Ball.’

  Alba glanced at the clock. ‘Already? It’s only four in the afternoon.’

  ‘Mrs White thinks three hours is just about enough time, ma’am.’

  It turned out three hours was only just about enough time for Malinda to prepare Alba for the Ball. She was steamed, plucked, pruned and primped, and her hair (some wispy half-up, half-down style threaded with small white flowers) and make-up (dusty, shimmering skin and pale pink lips) alone took over an hour. It was already darkening outside by the time Malinda fitted Alba into her dress. It was a sparkling, jewelled creation, all silver and white, strapless, with a fitted bodice and long hem that swirled round her ankles.

  Alba stared at herself in the mirror when Malinda had finished clipping a heavy necklace of shining white diamonds round her neck.

  ‘You look beautiful, ma’am,’ Malinda gushed. ‘Mrs White will be so proud.’

  No, Alba wanted to say, Dolly and Seven would be proud. Well, Seven’s jaw would fall open and he’d mostly just be a stuttering wreck, but she’d know what he meant when he muttered, ‘Effing hell, Alba.’ She’d know, because she knew him, and yes, yes of course this was love, what else could it be? And if the gods were kind enough to let her see him again, she would tell him, she would tell him she loved him.

  I love him, Alba thought, feeling breathless.

  ‘It’s time, ma’am. The guests will be arriving soon.’

  Malinda led Alba from the room, leaving her alone once they were outside the house to help with the guests’ arrival. Alba spotted London Guardmen stationed around the grounds, their uniforms swapped for black suits and silver waistcoats, the out
line of a bulldog stitched onto their breast pockets.

  A lantern-lined path led round to the back of the house. Alba’s heels clicked as she followed it. Even though it was a clear November night it wasn’t cold, the tall, light-strung heaters blasting warmth, making the air – spun with orchestral music from the live band on the main stage – sugary and soft.

  It all felt so dreamlike. This is what North has gotten used to, she thought. A beautiful, fake world.

  No wonder they thought nothing of fabricating memories, too.

  ‘Alba.’

  She turned at the sound of her name and saw her mother walking towards her on the path. Oxana looked beautiful in a tight-fitting gold gown, slit high on one leg. Her hair was tied in a sleek ponytail, tiny beads and diamonds threaded through it. Deep plum lipstick coloured her lips.

  ‘Am I going to have to worry about you tonight?’ Oxana asked, moving closer until Alba could smell her too-sweet perfume. Her eyes were dark and glossy.

  ‘No, Mother,’ Alba answered dully, not missing the threat in her words.

  ‘Good. Your engagement to Thierry will be announced tonight during your father’s speech. You’ll be expected to join him on stage for photos.’

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  Her mother’s eyes hardened. ‘None of this petulance any more, Alba,’ she said sternly. ‘You are marrying Thierry, whether you like it or not. You should be grateful for this opportunity. You are just sixteen. What can you know of what you want in life? Everything you believe in, your hopes and dreams – they could be torn from you at any moment. Your father and I are offering you safety.’ Her voice softened. ‘Please take it.’

  When Alba didn’t reply, her mother took a long breath. She reached out, her polished fingertips touching Alba’s cheek.

  ‘You look beautiful, my darling,’ she said gently.

  After a long, searching look, the hint of something soft turning behind those iced-over blue eyes, she turned and swept down the path back towards the front of the house, her dress rippling silkily along the ground behind her.