The Memory Keepers

by Natasha Ngan

  ‘Seven!’

  ‘What?’ he roared, rounding on Dolly. ‘You’re not my mum! You’re not even Alba’s mum! What do you care what I do? No one ever gave a shit about me, and now all of a sudden I’m wanted?’

  Alba watched from the floor, horrified. Seven looked wild and terrifying. His eyes were a storm. She flinched, edging away, scared of him for the first time since that initial meeting back in her parents’ memorium, what felt like another lifetime ago. But even then he’d grinned and joked and just been so hopelessly awkward she couldn’t feel intimidated by him.

  Seven took a step back, his arms shaking. ‘Well, you know what? I’ve managed this long on my own. I don’t need any of you.’

  Alba scrambled to her feet. ‘Seven,’ she whispered, voice breaking. She reached for his hand, but he cringed away the moment her fingers brushed his skin.

  ‘I said I don’t need any of you!’

  His shout echoed off the curved ceiling. The words cut Alba, physically cut her – how else could she explain the searing pain in her heart, the tears welling in her eyes? – and when Seven spun round and clambered over the ledge of the platform, darting down one of the off-shoot tunnels, she didn’t chase him but let him go, knowing that she’d never feel so horrible, so low, as she did in that moment.

  Dolly was right, Alba realised with a sinking feeling in her gut. We should have left all of this alone. We never should have tried to find out more.

  ‘Let him go,’ Dolly said, curling an arm round her shoulder. ‘That was a lot to find out. He just needs some time. Are you all right?’ she added gently.

  Alba scowled. She swiped away the tears tracing her cheeks. ‘Oh, just fine. I’m only the daughter of a murderer.’

  Hadn’t she always known that, really? Her father executed people all the time. Whether they were guilty or not guilty, what difference did it make? Why should he have the power to take away anyone’s life?

  ‘I’ll talk to Seven,’ Kola said, and Alba was glad to see he at least had the decency to look guilty. ‘Once the shock has worn off, perhaps he’ll be willing to listen to what we are asking of him –’

  ‘Kola!’

  The three of them looked up as a sudden voice rang out from the tunnel Seven had run down. A man was standing there, his hands gripping Seven’s shoulders as he pushed him into the room. Seven tried to throw him off, but the man kneed him in the back, making him double over.

  ‘Takeshi’s ready,’ the man called. He laughed, kicking Seven as he struggled again. ‘And man, is he impatient to open his little gift.’

  67

  SEVEN

  Takeshi’s room was at the end of one of the old Tube tunnels. It looked like some kind of derelict palace. Polished gold vases and worn paintings adorned every surface, set against the grimy backdrop of the tunnel, with its tangles of exposed wires running along the curved walls and dirty floor half hidden by rugs and silk sheets. Gemstone beads dripped from the ceiling. Lantern-light flickered over everything, warped music crackling from a gramophone in the corner. And there, sprawled in a velvet-backed throne on a platform at the back of the room, a crown of what looked like rat-bones set atop his black hair –

  Myomato Takeshi himself.

  ‘Welcome,’ Takeshi drawled as the man holding Seven shoved him forward. ‘Have my Bakerloo Boys been treating you well?’

  There were ten or so gang members in the room, slouched against the walls or squatting on the floor. They laughed coldly at his words.

  Kola stepped up beside Seven. ‘Takeshi. Please remember our deal. Seven has no obligation to do anything for you.’

  Takeshi’s lazy grin widened. His slanted eyes were small and glittering. The tips of his tousled black hair brushed the almond-coloured skin of his shoulders. He wore a sleeveless white shirt, unbuttoned down the front, and tight black trousers. He sat up out of his slouch, propping his head on his fist, exposing a red skull branded into one arm.

  ‘But you will help me,’ he said silkily, ‘won’t you, Candidate Seven?’

  Seven glowered at him. ‘What’s the magic word?’

  It was out before he could stop it.

  For one horrible moment, Takeshi just stared. Then he tipped back his head and roared with laughter. The boys joined in, their raucous yells bouncing off the curved walls.

  ‘I like him!’ Takeshi announced. ‘He’s a fighter – I can tell. Which is good, my boys. After all, we’ve got a fight with North on our hands.’

  ‘A fight with North?’

  Seven’s heart sank as Alba spoke. For eff’s sake! Didn’t she realise this was the last place to draw attention to herself? He could practically feel the heat rolling off the boys as their eyes devoured her. Thank gods she was wearing a coat.

  Takeshi turned to her, eyes twinkling. ‘What a beautiful girl!’ He glanced at Kola. ‘You brought me a second gift. You are too kind.’

  Seven made a growling sound and moved forward, curling his hands into fists. ‘You even think about touching her –’

  Two of the boys grabbed him before he could get any closer. Knuckles cracked into his jaw, then a boot came crushing down on the small of his back, forcing him to his knees.

  ‘Boys, boys.’ Takeshi waved his hands apologetically. ‘They’re a little overeager … though I can’t say I blame them.’

  He slid off the throne and strode over to Alba. Seven caught the scent of his breath – cigarettes and alcohol – as he leant in closer to her face. He traced two fingers across her cheeks.

  Alba stiffened, but she didn’t look away. Seven could have kissed her for that (he could have kissed her for a million reasons. He wished he had, now. Was it too late?).

  ‘Such a beauty,’ Takeshi purred. ‘You are wasted on North, my dear.’

  ‘Let go of her.’

  This time it was Dolly who spoke. Seven turned just in time to see one of the gang members slap a hand over her mouth, pushing her to the floor.

  ‘Shut it, bitch,’ the boy snarled.

  Grinning lazily, Takeshi moved over to Dolly. He crouched down. His hand slipped under her chin, a thumb brushing her lips. ‘Another beauty,’ he murmured.

  Seven strained against the boys holding him down. ‘Leave. Them. Alone.’

  Takeshi’s eyes crinkled in amusement. ‘And why should I want to do that?’

  ‘Because I’ll help you,’ Seven said quickly. ‘I’ll do what you want.’

  Laughing, Takeshi pushed Dolly back and straightened. ‘I knew you would.’ He threw an arm out. ‘Boys! Get the machine ready.’

  From the far corner of the room, two of the boys pulled a velvet throw off a large shape hunkered there to reveal a memory-machine. Seven recognised it from its logo as a generation six Apple iMemory. Its sleek frame shone silver-white in the dim light of the chamber.

  ‘You want me to surf a skid?’ he asked, frowning.

  ‘It’s what you do, isn’t it? Alter memories?’ Takeshi’s grin glittered. ‘Well, I have one I’d like you to change.’

  Kola took a step forward. ‘Hang on a minute. Seven hasn’t done that yet. He doesn’t know how –’

  ‘I’m sure he can figure it out,’ Takeshi interjected coolly. He cocked his head. ‘Can’t you, Candidate Seven?’

  Seven thought of how he felt during surfing. As though he could move beyond the instincts that were pushing him in a certain direction. As though he could feel the memory-air, shape it under his palms. He’d thought that was just how everyone felt when they surfed, but he realised now he’d been wrong. It was because he was a Memory Keeper.

  ‘I can do it,’ Seven said.

  Even though he’d never tried it before, he knew he had to give it ago. He didn’t have a choice if he wanted to keep Alba and Dolly safe.

  68

  ALBA

  The boys fixed Seven into the memory-machine, yanking off his servant’s cap and pushing his head into the indent in the curved back of the seat, strapping him in place. When they turned the machine on,
blue lights glowed in its metal curves. It hummed softly under the scratchy music coming from the gramophone.

  Takeshi crouched down in front of Seven. ‘You’ll spot a familiar face in this skid. I want you to replace it with this one instead.’

  Alba edged forward to try to see the picture he had pulled out of his trouser pocket to show Seven, but one of the gang members slung an arm across her shoulders.

  ‘You can sit with me, gorgeous,’ he sneered.

  He pulled her across the room and pushed her down roughly onto the floor. Alba caught Dolly’s eyes from where she was kneeling on the ground at the back of the room. One of the boys still had his hand over her mouth. She gave a small, reassuring nod, though her eyes were tense with fear.

  Alba’s heart broke. This was all her fault.

  ‘Don’t be shy.’ The boy huddled so close she could smell his cigarette breath. He stroked her arm. ‘We’re all friends here.’

  Some of the other boys jeered.

  ‘Quiet.’

  Takeshi’s command silenced the room. He held out the picture again to Seven. ‘This is Aro Black, leader of the Jubilee Junkers.’

  ‘Jubilee Jackasses, more like,’ grunted the boy holding Alba, sniggering.

  ‘He has wronged me one too many times,’ Takeshi continued smoothly. ‘I thought about having him killed or captured to torture. But this way, with a skid as evidence, Aro will be publicly humiliated. His broadcasted execution will destroy his gang’s reputation. Do you understand what I’m asking you?’

  Alba saw Seven swallow.

  ‘I do.’

  Takeshi straightened. ‘Wonderful!’ he said, his smile widening. ‘You’re a fast learner, Candidate Seven. I bet you’ve already realised I’ll be surfing the memory afterwards to check you have followed my instructions.’

  Seven’s glower was answer enough.

  ‘Fantastic!’ Takeshi spun round, throwing his arms wide. ‘Boys – juice him up!’

  As the machine’s hum grew louder, some of the gang members punching in instructions on its touch-screen, Kola crouched down beside Alba. His shoulders were tight with tension.

  ‘Do you think he can do it?’ he asked quietly.

  Without hesitation, Alba nodded. The truth was, she had more faith in Seven than anyone else, apart from Dolly of course. He’d survived this long without anyone’s help. He’d found the memory about TMK, broken into the houses of the most prominent families in North without ever getting caught (apart from the time they’d met, at least).

  Alba had so much faith in Seven, she believed he could move the planets if he wanted it enough.

  ‘Good,’ Kola said. ‘Because if he doesn’t, I don’t think any of us are getting out of here alive.’

  69

  SEVEN

  He opened his eyes into darkness. There were noises all around him. Gruff voices: low, male, urgent. People shuffling. The sound of something being dragged. Wherever he was, it was hot. He could smell sweat and the acrid stench of alcohol. His own body felt softened by drink, and though the instincts of the memory told him to sway he pushed against them, standing straight, forcing himself to stay alert.

  This is what I can do, Seven thought, and felt an illicit thrill of power.

  It was soon replaced with disgust. He didn’t want this so-called gift. He didn’t want something the London Guard and North snobs like Alba’s father and the Lord Minister had given him. No, not given him; made him. They’d forced this on his body when he was too young to object.

  ‘Here’ll do.’

  ‘Turn the light on.’

  ‘Yeah, I wanna see the bitch. You said she’s all that?’

  ‘Oh, she’s all that.’

  More shuffling, then a light clicking on overhead.

  Seven squinted. They were in a bare, dirty tunnel. From the thick cluster of wires striping the ceiling and the curved walls, it looked similar to the abandoned underground tracks he’d just come from. Rats scurried away into the darkness to either side where the neon glow didn’t reach.

  Then Seven noticed the writhing bundle on the floor before him, and his heart clenched.

  It was a beautiful young woman. Beautiful even with the dark blush of a bruise touching her right cheek and the filthy rag gagging her mouth. Plastic cords tied her hands and ankles, blood clotting around them. Her simple dress and jacket were dirtied and torn.

  She twisted against her binds, veins popping in her neck from the strain. Icy blonde hair fell across her face, and her eyes – a cool, clear blue – swivelled round and met Seven’s, and it was as though the ground opened beneath him.

  He knew this woman.

  The other men were still talking.

  ‘Where’d you find her?’

  ‘By the docks. Looked fresh in from one of the immigrant ships.’

  ‘She’s foreign?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Czech or something. Eastern European. You should hear her accent. It purrs.’

  ‘I’ll make her purr all right.’

  Their throaty laughs made Seven’s skin crawl. The men looked like Tube Gang members. They were all grease-stained trousers, bare chests, crude tattoos. He couldn’t make out their faces though; they were fuzzy and blurred. The man whose skid Seven was in obviously hadn’t been paying that much attention to anything other than the woman on the floor.

  The woman who was –

  Oxana White.

  Alba’s mother was younger but there was no mistaking her features, the striking angles of her face. For the first time, he thought he saw Alba in her. This was Oxana before she’d turned cold and hard.

  This was her in the process of turning cold and hard.

  The men around him were jeering and murmuring.

  ‘Who goes first?’

  ‘I found her. You know the rules.’

  Seven felt physically ill. His body was sweating, his mind a feverish mess. He’d felt like this a few times before in skids when his own emotions contrasted too strongly with the person whose memory it was. Right now he was fighting the man’s feelings with every inch of energy he had.

  Oxana’s eyes met his a second time. Seven could tell she was terrified – her body was shaking – but he saw a fierceness in her too, a defiance that told him she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to give them one hell of a fight.

  Just then, footsteps echoed through the tunnel. A cool, shining laugh rang out.

  ‘What’s this, boys? You’ve brought me a gift?’

  Seven turned, and there he was.

  Myomato Takeshi.

  Takeshi was younger but he looked the same: shoulder-length wavy black hair; glittering eyes; lazy smile. Sweat glistened on the bare muscles of his chest. He tucked one hand into the pocket of his trousers and cocked his head, waiting for an explanation.

  One of the men coughed. ‘Didn’t think she was your type.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Takeshi’s grin widened. He moved towards Oxana. Crouching down, he brushed the hair back from her face.

  She snarled.

  He tipped back his head, letting out a laugh. ‘She’s a fighter. She’s most definitely my type.’

  And as Takeshi started to unbuckle his trousers, Seven strained against the skid, pushing back into its honeyed memory-air with everything he had, clawing, fighting, screaming to get out.

  The memory began to darken. Figures elongated, shadows unfurling. Lights popped in front of his eyes. The voices of the men in the tunnel distorted, ringing echoes in his ears. Still he pushed away. He felt as if he were about to explode from the effort, but he didn’t stop until there was a sudden flash, a falling feeling –

  Seven blinked, Takeshi’s room swinging into view.

  ‘Have fun?’

  The gang leader sloped off his throne, opening his arms and smiling.

  Seven spat at him. ‘You bastard.’

  Some of the boys in the room jumped up but Takeshi waved a hand lazily in their direction, shaking his head. ‘Now, now, boys. I’m sure Candidate Seven i
s just disorientated from his surf.’

  Straining against the straps of the memory-machine, Seven scanned the room, seeing with relief that Alba and Dolly were unhurt. They were sitting against one of the walls, hands linked.

  Alba’s eyes caught his. They widened hopefully.

  He broke her gaze. She doesn’t have one effing clue what I just saw, he thought.

  ‘Well?’ Takeshi moved closer, his voice lowering to a cold purr. ‘Is it done?’

  ‘You fucking bastard,’ Seven growled again.

  Takeshi cocked his head. ‘I’m sorry. You seem to have me confused with Aro Black. Wasn’t he the one doing the deed?’ His voice took on a cutting tone, lips pulling into a smirk. ‘The first, I mean. There were many after him. And there will be even more with your friends if you don’t do what I ask. Do you understand what I’m saying, Candidate Seven?’

  Seven forced himself not to look across the room at Alba and Dolly. He couldn’t let them see his fear.

  Takeshi smiled. ‘Good. Now get back in there and do what I said.’

  70

  ALBA

  They were blindfolded and led through the underground tunnels by a group of Takeshi’s boys. At one point they rode one of the abandoned trains; the carriage shook as it squealed round corners far too fast. Then the men forced them out of the train and up a flight of steep stairs, and moments later Alba felt cool air on her face. The wind smelled fresh. Raindrops sprinkled her skin. They were pushed into the back seat of a car, and it was only after they’d been driving ten minutes that Kola undid their blindfolds.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Dolly asked immediately.

  Alba was in the middle seat, Dolly to her right. Their shoulders bumped as the car turned a sharp corner.

  ‘Kensington High Street. Here.’ Kola handed Dolly a tablet. ‘You should be able to call a cab to take you home from there.’

  As she talked into the tablet, Alba turned to her other side and leant in close to Seven. ‘Hey,’ she said gently. ‘Are you all right?’

  He was staring out of the car window at the blur of busy streets going by, his cap pulled low over his face. She touched the back of his hand.