The Memory Keepers

by Natasha Ngan

  ‘What happened this time?’ Alba murmured when they were inside the hidden passageway, the marble walls close around them as they started the tight circle upwards. Tiny lights like stars winked out of the walls. She could feel Dolly’s heartbeat against her palm, smell the warm, woody scent of her handmaid’s skin.

  ‘A rumour about your mother has been going round. Something particularly nasty, by the sounds of it. Some of the women at a lunch she attended today snubbed her because of it.’

  Of course, Alba thought. It was always to do with North society. As Alastair White’s wife, her mother was one of the most powerful women in North, and therefore one of the most envied. Other women in North would kill for the privilege of being married to the city’s lead criminal prosecutor (perhaps they had already tried. Alba wouldn’t put it past them).

  ‘Into your room and straight to bed,’ Dolly said when they reached the second floor. She put a light kiss on Alba’s forehead before turning to leave. ‘I’ll sneak you some food as soon as I can.’

  Alba waited until she was alone in the quiet back-passage before drawing a deep breath. She stood tall, gathering her courage before opening the door and stepping out into the hall.

  The walk round the corner to her bedroom felt as though it was miles and miles long, even though it only took a few seconds. Alba slipped inside and shut the door silently behind her. She didn’t let out her puff of held breath until she was safely laid down on her large, wrought-iron bed, painted white with decorative flowers worked into the metal and purple silk sheets draped across the mattress. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pressed her face into the duvet.

  It took a while for her heartbeats to slow.

  Sometime later, Alba woke to a darkened room. She hadn’t meant to doze off. Her mouth felt dry. Grey shadows stretched across the bleached floorboards, the barest hint of silver touching the edges of the furniture that filled the room.

  She noticed straight away there was noise in the house now; metallic clattering and footsteps, orchestral music floating beneath it all, the swell and fall of strings filling the air like spun threads of gold. Cooking smells rose from the kitchens below.

  Alba pushed herself up, swinging her legs off the bed just as the door to her room opened.

  Dolly smiled as she entered, though her face was tight. ‘Oh good. You’re awake. Your mother’s mood has improved. She’s decided she wants a big dinner ready by the time your father gets home.’

  Alba rubbed her eyes. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Just after eight.’ Dolly sat at Alba’s side and begun fussing with her hair, which was mussed from sleep. ‘And we’ve only got fifteen minutes until dinner … so we’re lucky you got a little extra beauty sleep.’

  ‘Hey!’ Laughing, Alba poked Dolly in the ribs.

  Dolly worked fast. In just ten minutes, she’d transformed Alba’s messy, after-school hair into an elegant bun at the nape of her neck – little flowers plucked from the gardens threaded through her curls – and dressed her in a pretty dress made of a shimmering, pearl-coloured silk. She had also washed Alba’s face and dabbed a swirl of cream blusher on her cheeks and a pink tint for her lips.

  Alba watched Dolly in the dressing-table mirror as her handmaid fastened a set of heavy gold necklaces round her neck.

  ‘When will you show me how to dye my hair like yours?’ she asked, eyeing the glossy swirls of Dolly’s purple hair, still in their usual buns.

  ‘You know how much your mother would hate that.’

  ‘That’s exactly why I want to do it.’

  Dolly’s lips tightened, but she didn’t say anything. That was one of the (many) reasons Alba loved her. Dolly didn’t patronise her with empty words about how dearly her mother cared for her, how cherished she was as a daughter even if she didn’t always feel it.

  Because, of course, she wasn’t cherished. Any idiot could see that. Alba just wished that any idiot also knew not to try and convince her she was.

  The worst part of it was, Alba wanted to believe them. When her mother was in one of her good moods, like she had been for the last few weeks, she could almost see it. Her mother’s affection came out slowly, unfurling like a veil of gold smoke that turned her world glittery and beautiful. And then she’d snap, just like that, and the fall was all the worse because Alba had allowed herself to think once again that her mother really did care, that she was cherished above all else.

  Dolly curled a hand round Alba’s shoulder. ‘Two more years and then you’ll be studying English Literature at one of the world’s top universities,’ she said, smiling. ‘Somewhere far away from here. What do you fancy? India? Switzerland? Or how about America? I’ve heard our relations with them are finally improving.’

  ‘I want to go anywhere Professor Nightingale isn’t,’ replied Alba, and this got an immediate laugh from Dolly, though she fell silent just as quickly.

  From downstairs, the dinner bell had rung.

  5

  SEVEN

  He arrived at the ruins of Battersea Power Station just past eight. In October the sun set fast, and the huge building was pitch-black against the glittering riverside streets and promenades of North across the river. The only lights were the reflections licking the water, the headlights of river-taxis and container ships making their way along the Thames.

  Seven always found it eerie here in the darkness, the sounds of water slapping against the walls of the flooded building and low groans as wind found its way in through the station’s crumbling bricks and partially collapsed roof. Broken concrete slabs and discarded shells of old boats littered the muddy floor. The scurrying noises of rats, invisible in the dark, set him on edge.

  Picking his way carefully over the uneven ground, Seven made his way to a hidden entrance round the north side of the building. Anyone who didn’t know better would walk straight past its shadowy opening (not that they’d even be here in the first place, of course) without noticing what years of attending the skid-market here had taught him to look out for.

  A light in the darkness of the tunnel.

  Its flicker illuminated a sliver of the arched walls of the tunnel, moss glistening on the wet bricks. Seven stepped inside. The light danced back. He heard quick breaths in the shadows.

  ‘I’m one of Carpenter’s,’ Seven announced, voice echoing off the dripping walls.

  The light edged closer. A young boy emerged, outlined in the glow of the lamp he was carrying. Tattered clothes hung off his small frame.

  ‘Let’s see yer ID,’ he growled, raising a gun.

  Quickly, Seven yanked down the collar of his top, revealing the tattoo inked in black in the middle of his chest. It was the outline of a saw, pointing downwards: the sign of Carpenter’s skid-thief crew. Each crew had its own mark designed around its leader’s name. Carpenter was one of the most well-respected crew leaders, despite his relatively young age.

  The boy nodded. ‘Get in, then,’ he said, stepping aside.

  Shadows swallowed Seven as he headed deeper into the tunnel, the light from the boy’s lamp quickly fading. The whole place stank of moss and stagnant water. For a while there was nothing apart from darkness and his own breaths; the soggy sound of his footsteps on the mud-slicked floor. Then a light appeared at the end of the tunnel. As he approached, walking faster in excitement, it expanded and swelled, bright, brighter, brighter, rushing him at once in a fireball burst of colour and sound and activity.

  Squinting and shading his eyes, heart drumming with energy, Seven stepped out into the enormous turbine hall of Battersea’s B Station.

  The place was crawling with people. Their elongated shadows licked across the towering steel frames of the hall as they moved. The size of the hall was overwhelming; walls stretched up to a shadowy roof. In the ceiling, the long, rectangular strip of glass was blacked out with paint and wooden boards. Scaffolding crisscrossed the interior of the hall like a metallic spider’s web, and open balcony ledges ran round all four walls, remnants of the abandoned renova
tion work.

  Seven knew London’s black market had been lucky to get such a perfect venue for its biggest skid-market practically handed to it (before this, they’d used the sewers. He was pretty glad that’d been before his time). The power station had been badly damaged in the 2089 Thames flooding. Renovation works had been forced to a halt, and after years of subsequent floods the project was finally abandoned.

  Voices echoed in the vast space. Lights were strung along the railings lining the balcony edges and hung from scaffolding, bathing everything in a yellow glow. Cooking smells drifted over from one side of the hall, where steam was rising from the portable cookers the hawker stalls had set up on the first floor, taking advantage of the busy trade.

  ‘First things first,’ Seven said, looking towards the unfurling clouds of steam. He patted his stomach, and it responded with a loud, rumbling growl. He grinned. ‘Exactly what I was thinking.’

  Seven’s boots made soft sucking noises as he headed across the water-logged floor before climbing up the scaffolding to the first-level balcony ringing the hall. He was just stepping off, still clinging to the metal frame, when a blur at the corner of his vision made him flinch.

  Whoosh.

  Something small and round flew by, grazing the hairs on his cheek. It smacked into the scaffolding with a crunch.

  ‘YOU!’

  Seven spun round at the shout. He dropped to the floor just in time to duck as another apple (OK, so it wasn’t a rock like he’d first thought, but apples are pretty hard things too) whizzed past him. Ahead, a girl was striding towards him between the plastic table and chairs surrounding the food stalls. Every inch of her face was etched with anger. Her mouth – a silver hoop looped through the bottom lip – was a taut line. Sharp, slanted eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.

  Loe.

  ‘Effing hell,’ Seven muttered. ‘What’ve I done now?’

  Loe was dressed in a grey top and skinny black trousers, ripped at the knees, a skid-thief belt slung low on her bony hips. Below the tanned skin of her collarbones was the tattoo of a saw; the same one Seven had inked on his own chest. The tattoos were always covered in public, but here the marks were almost a badge of honour.

  ‘You!’ the girl snarled again. She whipped her arm back and threw another apple.

  Seven only just managed to duck. ‘Loe! What the hell?’

  Luckily, he noticed with a sigh of relief, she finally seemed to be out of apples.

  Loe crossed her arms, her scowl deepening. ‘Oh, don’t act like you don’t know.’ Her cropped hair was messy around her face, dark strands sticking to her skin in the heat. She flicked her head to get her fringe out of her eyes. ‘Carpenter just told me about the big job the two of you have been working on for weeks. Congrats, Seven. You must be honoured. Carpenter finally chose you for an important job over me. What d’you have to do for it?’ She tilted her head, eyes as cutting as knife-blades. ‘Promise to do all his dirty laundry, huh?’ she said, smirking. ‘Lick the mud off his boots?’

  ‘Shut it, Loe,’ Seven snapped.

  His cheeks were burning. He wanted to throw a punch to wipe that smirk off her face, but of course he couldn’t hit a girl (not that he could hit a boy, either – not before they got him first). Seven knew Loe was just jealous about Carpenter choosing him for the White family job. Loe and Seven had joined Carpenter’s skid-stealing crew within a month of each other. They fought hard over every job.

  Just as Seven was about to tell Loe just where she could stick her apples, a bright voice rang out over the noise of the hall.

  ‘Loe! Loe! Loe!’

  A girl in a red dress ran out from the crowd of food stalls. She was young, only five or six, with dark, burnt-almond skin. Her frizzy cloud of black hair was tied into a bun on the top of her head, sticking out like a bushy antenna. Reaching Loe, the girl started looping round her legs, her face glowing with delight.

  ‘Look what I stole from the fat old Chinese lady’s stall!’ Her voice bubbled with glee. She thrust out her hands to show off a big steamed dumpling.

  Loe sighed heavily. ‘Mika,’ she groaned, crouching down. ‘What’ve I said a million times? When you steal something, you don’t go shouting about it, ’cause then what happens is –’

  ‘There she is!’

  They all looked up to see a big Chinese woman in a dirty apron marching towards them, pointing a fat finger in their direction. Luckily, her size was impeding her process; her belly kept getting stuck in the tight clusters of tables and chairs.

  Seven snorted. ‘Who’s the one in trouble now?’ he said, smirking.

  Loe glared at him. ‘Oh, don’t think I’m finished with you. We’ll talk about this later.’ Then, scooping Mika up into her arms, she hurried past him in the opposite direction of the stall-owner, towards the scaffolding.

  Mika’s large brown eyes turned to Seven as they passed. She waved a pudgy hand, the offending dumpling still clasped tightly in her fingers.

  ‘Seven!’ she cried, beaming. She waggled the dumpling, some of the filling spilling out. ‘Look what I stole from the fat Chinese lady!’

  He grinned. ‘Nice one, Mika.’

  As they disappeared down into the shadows below the scaffolding, Seven heard Loe’s exasperated sigh.

  ‘Mika! What did I just tell you?’

  6

  ALBA

  ‘Little Alba,’ her mother purred as Alba entered the dining hall. Her thick Ukrainian accent curled her words. She smiled across the room, green eyes glittering from under dark, make-up-smudged lids.

  Alba bowed her head politely. A sick feeling in the pit of her stomach worked up into her throat, but she swallowed, pushing it back.

  She knew that look in her mother’s eyes. Her dark mood wasn’t fully gone yet.

  Fiddling with the hem of her dress, Alba followed one of the butlers to a seat at the end of the long oak table dominating the room. Orchestral music played from concealed speakers, filling the grand space with the rushing of keys and strings. She sat down opposite her mother, folding a napkin across her lap. Her hands trembled.

  Oxana White was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful women in North. She had a face you couldn’t help but stare at: a high forehead sloping down to a perfectly straight nose; smooth cheeks; defined cheekbones; full, rounded lips painted now a dark purple, and those eyes … eyes that were large and cat-like, the green of her irises even brighter than Alba’s.

  When she was younger, Alba had wanted so much to look like her mother. She wanted to dance in those wide, beautiful eyes. Fall asleep on the soft cushions of her lips. But this was before she discovered the darkness that lay beneath the surface of her mother’s perfect features. This was before she learnt that beauty could be used as a mask.

  Tonight, Oxana’s blonde hair was swept up from her face. A midnight-blue dress clung to her curves. ‘I’m so sorry about earlier, my darling,’ she said, leaning forward on the table, her jewellery jangling. ‘I didn’t mean to upset the whole house like that. But the things some of the women were saying about me … ’ She paused. ‘Can you forgive me, my darling?’

  She was watching Alba intently, the same unreadable smile just touching the corners of her mouth. Lights twinkling down from the tall ceiling made her lipstick glitter, a starburst of diamonds on her lips.

  The way she said it, it wasn’t a question.

  Oxana tilted her head when Alba didn’t reply. ‘Little Alba?’

  Alba felt her hands shaking. She hated being called that. Forcing herself to smile, she nodded.

  ‘Of course, Mother.’

  Oxana clicked her tongue. ‘I’ve told you before, darling. Being called Mother makes me feel old.’

  And being called Little Alba makes me feel like a baby, Alba thought, biting back a scowl.

  They stared at each other. Alba dared her mother to read in her eyes all the things she was thinking. It was always this way; her swinging between terrified and defiant, between a scared little girl and a rebel
lious teenager who couldn’t care less what her parents thought. But no matter how much Alba wanted to stand up to her mother – really, truly, saying what she felt – she didn’t have the courage to do it.

  She was only that brave in her dreams.

  ‘Madame White and Mistress Alba.’

  A butler stepped into the dining room, breaking their silence. Like the maids, the male servants also wore uniforms of all-white. His shirt and trousers were crisp.

  ‘Master White has arrived for dinner,’ he announced, bowing.

  ‘Finally,’ sighed Oxana. She tapped her nails on the table and flashed a smile in Alba’s direction. ‘I’m so hungry I even considered eating my own daughter.’

  The butler bowed again before leaving. A moment later, Alba’s father strode in.

  Alastair White was a tall man, as handsome as Oxana was beautiful. His black hair – speckled now with grey – was slicked back from his forehead, and he had small, dark eyes that glittered like cuts of black granite. A hard jaw and cheekbones edged his face. It looked as though he’d come straight from work. He was wearing the dark grey suit and black robes of his position as a criminal prosecutor, his robe fixed at his collarbones with a golden bulldog clasp.

  The bulldog was the symbol of London, its teeth bared, snarling at the world. Alba always thought the clasp looked strange on her father. He was always so calm, so collected. He never snarled at the world or bared his teeth in anger; he just handed out his sentences in a cool, detached manner. She guessed he was so used to it by now that he didn’t give it much thought, didn’t consider it might not be just.

  Because it was just … wasn’t it?

  Alba hated the death penalty, but it was restricted only for the worst offences: murder; crimes against the London Guard; theft and illegal trading of memories. Perhaps it was important to make an example of these criminals to keep London in order.

  To keep South in control.

  To keep North safe.

  A part of Alba hated that she felt that way, but what else could she think? She’d never met anyone from South to know otherwise, had only heard of the violence and squalor and crime that existed in the dark half of their city.