by Natasha Ngan
No one clapped, apart from the speaker on the stage. He was a tall, slim man, an oriental slant to his elegant features. Dark hair fell to his cheeks. Unlike the rest of the ball-goers’ clothes, his were still immaculate: metallic black suit and white shirt loosened at the top, with a red bow-tie open and slung round his neck. A microphone was clipped round one ear. Though his smile was warm there was an edge to it. Alba could sense the tension thrumming underneath. He was flanked by a group of people; she spotted Kola and Nihail among them.
The Movement.
She wondered why no one was shooting at them. Where were the security guards? The London Guard? Surely they couldn’t all have been killed.
Her stomach flipped at the thought. All those men, all those people who’d just been doing their jobs …
Seven shifted closer. He didn’t hold Alba, but there was something protective in the way he stood with his chest pressed to her back, as though ready to shield her at any moment.
‘I love you too,’ she whispered, though she knew he couldn’t hear.
‘I’m sorry for the nature of our entrance,’ the speaker on the stage went on, holding his hands out in an apologetic gesture. His smile vanished. ‘There was no other way to guarantee you would stay to hear us out, to see the things we have to show you. And they must be seen, ladies and gentlemen. It’s finally time for you all to know the truth.’
There were murmurs among the crowd. Alba noticed several people shoving their way through to the stage. She froze, recognising the tall, striding figure of the man who had raised her.
Alastair White’s face was murderous. He was shouting something, but Movement members surged forward, cutting him off as they grabbed him and dragged him on stage along with Christian Burton-Lyon, Rossmund Pearson and a few others Alba didn’t recognise.
Christian Burton-Lyon and Pearson were fighting and shouting, trying to throw off the men holding them, but her father had fallen still. He stood tall and quiet, staring at the speaker at the centre of the stage with such a dark, intense gaze Alba was amazed the man hadn’t keeled over and died.
Something twisted in her heart as she watched him now with the knowledge of what her mother had told her.
Alastair White wasn’t her father.
And at the same time, he was.
Ignoring the struggle going on at the back of the stage, the speaker continued to address the crowd. ‘My name is Kite Sung. I am the leader of the Free Memory Movement, a group dedicated to revealing the despicable practices of these men behind me, among others, and the project they call TMK – The Memory Keepers.’
A ripple ran through the crowd. Alba caught snatches of conversations whirling through the air around her.
‘ … Memory Keepers … ?’
‘ … someone from Intelligence once mentioned something about a TMK … ’
‘ … don’t believe it … ’
‘ … where the bloody hell is security … ’
On stage, Kite Sung’s expression was stormy. The dark red of the screen backlit his figure in a glowing halo, casting shadows across his face. He opened his mouth to speak and the crowds fell quiet once more.
‘I have worked on TMK since the very beginning as part of their Science team, led by Harold Merriweather. Some of you knew him, I am sure. A brilliant scientist, but more than that – a brilliant man. When he understood what the results of TMK’s experiments were being used for, he knew he could not continue to stand idly by. Along with me and a few others who knew of the cruel, dark secret of the Memory Keepers, Harold Merriweather formed the Free Memory Movement.’
Sung took a deep breath. For the first time, there was a crack in his façade. His voice shook slightly when he continued.
‘Harold Merriweather would have been here today, addressing you all instead of me, the true leader of the Movement, if he had not been murdered by the London Guard five days ago in a bid to silence him.’
Gasps of shock threaded through the ball-goers. It felt like the air had suddenly thinned, making the night feel even tenser, even more taut.
‘But what’, continued Sung in a low, dangerous voice, ‘is one more murder to men like Alastair White and Rossmund Pearson? Even our very own Lord Minister? What is one more murder to those who kill innocents in cold blood every day?’
He strode to the side of the stage. The other Movement members also shifted to clear the space in front of the screen.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Sung announced, spreading out an arm, ‘let me present to you the truth about The Memory Keepers!’
The screen turned white. A second later, a face flashed onto it, Alba’s heart flying as she took in its tangled flop of hair, those sharp, grey eyes, and that beautiful, beautiful grin, lopsided and messy and just about the best thing in the world.
It was Seven.
91
SEVEN
The crowd gasped as one. Well, all except for one. The one. Seven, standing there in the middle of the ball-goers, staring with them all at his ugly mug splashed across the screen, could only let out a half-hearted, ‘Effing hell.’
Alba reached back for his hand as whispers filled the air.
‘He’s that memory-thief, isn’t he?’
‘The one from the London Guard News Net broadcast?’
‘His name was something like Eight. Or Six … ’
Then, a louder voice, cutting over them all –
‘Look! He’s here!’
Alba squeezed Seven’s hand so hard he could feel her fingernails digging into his skin. Faces were turning their way. With a rising panic, he stumbled back into someone who pushed him roughly away. A space opened in the crowd around him and Alba.
‘Come with me,’ said a kind voice.
Kola had come down from the stage. He curled an arm round Seven and, Alba in tow, led him to the front of the crowd. They climbed up to join Sung.
Sung gave him a quick, tense smile before taking his hand and pulling him forward.
‘This boy’, he announced to the crowds, ‘is Candidate Seven. Due to operations on his brain when he was a baby, Candidate Seven is able to manipulate the physical properties of memories – just like all the Candidates involved in TMK’s experiments. All of the Candidates, that is, who don’t die from the operations forced upon them by these men standing behind us.’
‘Lies!’ hissed Pearson, who had managed to free his mouth from the hand of the Movement member restraining him. ‘You’ll be executed for treason, all of you!’
His shouts were muffled as his mouth was covered again.
‘Execution,’ said Sung slowly, and the word seemed to carry the weight of a physical object. It hung heavy in the air. Still gripping Seven, he turned back to the crowd, sweeping his gaze over them. ‘Lies. Mr Pearson has aptly hit upon the two things TMK is founded upon. Creating lies in the very things we trust the most – our own memories. And using those lies to execute innocents.’
Seven saw the expressions on the ball-goers’ faces. Doubt flickered in their eyes, along with confusion, anger, fear. There was no belief yet … but there was the space for it.
Maybe, he thought, a flush of hope spreading through him, this is actually gonna work!
And then the roar of a second explosion ripped through the night air.
The next things happened so quickly they all seemed to bleed into one long, terrible moment. Screams. The shuddering ground. Sung’s hand dropping from his. Thuds of gunfire rising, drawing nearer. People scattering, the crowd turning once more into a crushing throng of chaos as men in red jackets – the London Guard – charged round the side of the house, guns aimed at the stage.
They’d cleared through Takeshi’s defence, Seven realised. They’d bombed them, all those boys.
‘We have to get out of here!’
A small, warm hand slipped into his and then he and Alba were off, running to the edge of the stage, stumbling down and careening wildly through the panicked crowd, not looking back, not waiting to see if the
y were being followed, just running as fast as they could, getting as far the eff away as possible from this hell of a night.
92
ALBA
They charged into the flame-cut darkness of the outer edges of the Ball, slipping on the frosty lawn, feet pounding in time with their heartbeats. Screams and gunfire beat against their backs. Alba chanced a quick look over her shoulder but could only see a mess of fire-lit figures, the silhouettes of fighting bodies.
And then it hit her.
‘Dolly!’
She dragged Seven to a stop. Panting, she doubled over, clutching the stitch in her side.
‘We have to go back,’ she gasped between gulps of breaths. ‘We have to find her!’
‘Alba … ’
She tugged him in the direction of the Ball. ‘She was with you and the Movement, yes? She might still be back there! She might be hurt!’
Alba pulled harder but Seven was rooted to the spot. She felt like screaming at him. What’s wrong with you? she thought desperately. Don’t you understand? Dolly’s my family! I can’t leave her!
‘Alba,’ Seven repeated, firmer this time, and it was only then that she heard it in his voice.
Dolly was dead.
She dropped his hand as though it had burned her.
No.
Seven took a step towards her but she backed away, stumbling on the icy grass.
No!
Alba couldn’t breathe. She felt as though she were dying. Her chest was cleaving in two, her heart shattering into tiny pieces of glass that were digging into her insides.
A few people ran past them across the shadowy grounds, but they were like ghosts, echoes, distant and untouchable.
‘No,’ Alba breathed, and it came out like a question.
A beg.
Seven answered softly, ‘Yes.’
She stared at him through blurred eyes. ‘When?’ she croaked. ‘How?’
‘She was shot when we were escaping. She – she died in the car on the way here. When we arrived.’
Alba felt sick. Dolly had been here. She’d been so close, and she hadn’t got to see her, talk to her one last time. Hold her in her arms and tell her that she loved her, that she couldn’t have ever asked for a better friend. That Alba thought of her as a sister and it didn’t matter what their blood said, she was her family.
Seven moved closer. He took both of her hands in his. ‘Do you want to see her?’ he asked.
Alba closed her eyes and nodded.
They moved slower now, partly because it felt safer in the dark, moonlit grounds of the estate, far from the fight raging back at the Ball. But they were also slower because Alba couldn’t run. She was having a hard enough time just walking, staying upright, breathing. It took every inch of her energy to keep from dropping to the ground and screaming her lungs apart.
When they reached the lake, the Serpentine’s surface was still and silvered in the starlight. Shadows of willows dipped their long leaves into the water at the edges of the lake. The soft rush of the water filled the air like a lullaby.
Alba saw blurrily that there was a car waiting on the bank beside the lake.
‘I thought there’d be more,’ Seven muttered. ‘This was their getaway spot. Where’re the rest of the cars?’
‘They went to help.’
A voice sounded from the car. A few seconds later, a girl’s thin silhouette came out from behind it.
‘Loe,’ Seven said, sounding relieved.
The girl stepped closer, moonlight washing over her to reveal a face so torn and swollen she looked disfigured.
‘Who’s with you?’ she asked.
‘Alba.’
There was a pause.
‘Your girlfriend?’
The girl’s voice took on a mocking tone, and suddenly Seven moved forward to wrap his arms around her.
‘You’re back,’ he croaked.
She flashed a crooked smile. ‘Barely.’ When they broke apart, she took a heavy breath. ‘They explained everything to me while we were waiting. But they left when they got an SOS message from the others at the Ball. Took the cars. They’re hoping to get away straight after the fight – said we could have this one.’
‘I can’t drive,’ Seven said.
‘Well, learn.’
Alba listened to their conversation as though she were far away; their voices reached her thickly through her tears. When she couldn’t bear it any longer, she asked, ‘Can I see Dolly now?’
The girl’s eyes met hers. Understanding darted between them, and she nodded. Silently, she led Alba and Seven to a willow at the edge of the lake and brushed back its leaves, stepping aside to let Alba through.
But before she went in, Alba stopped. Suddenly, panic gripped her. Dolly was dead. If Alba saw her, saw her body, then she would know it was real, and forever she’d have the image to haunt her, to replace the memories of her laughing, smiling handmaid with the darker, still, shadow version.
Alba turned back to Seven. Tears flowed fast down her cheeks. ‘I don’t think I can,’ she said, voice breaking.
He was by her side at once. He pulled her against him, wrapping his arms tenderly around her.
‘Yes, you can. You can do this, Alba.’
She shook her head, face still pressed into the warm fabric of his jumper. ‘I don’t think I can.’
‘Well, I know you can.’
‘She’s dead, Seven,’ Alba breathed. ‘Dolly’s dead.’
‘I know. But nothing can bring her back now. And you’ll never forgive yourself if you leave without saying goodbye.’
It was that which finally made her realise what she had to do. Sniffing, Alba pulled away. She met Seven’s eyes and nodded, then took a deep breath and stepped through the willow’s curtain of leaves into the hushed darkness below.
Dolly was lying at the base of the tree. Her silhouette was small. Still. Alba’s heart skipped at the sight of her, and her tears flowed faster, warm as they traced down her face, but she forced herself on. She crouched down beside Dolly. Reaching out, she cupped her handmaid’s cold cheek as gently as she could.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Alba whispered. ‘I’m sorry you were dragged into this. And I’m sorry I can’t drag you back out.’
Her voice broke. Letting out a soft cry she collapsed, holding Dolly tight, wishing she’d been able to see her one last time, just to tell her what she’d never told her enough.
That Alba loved her.
That she loved her more than sunshine and moonbeams. That she loved her to the ends of the earth and back. That she had loved her – and would love her – every day, every night, every single moment of her life.
Three weeks later
4.40 p.m., West Gloucestershire countryside
Seven had been out fishing at the river all afternoon. Sometimes Alba came with him. Not that she joined in; she just sat beside him, wrapped in a thick coat he’d stolen for her from the farmhouse, staring out in silence at the water rushing by. But today she’d stayed back.
The river was starting to ice over. December was just around the corner, and he could feel winter in the air. There was a cold, bitter wind that made his nose run. The ground was covered in frost. It glittered in the misty grey light like a field of crushed diamonds.
Seven wished it were diamonds. They could do with more money at the moment (could do with any money at the moment).
The walk back to the barn from the river took over an hour. Seven’s fingers were freezing by the time he arrived. He fumbled with the latch bolted across the barn doors, easing it up, then slipped inside. He still worried each time he went in. But the farmhouse was a good distance away, and from what he’d observed this was the least used of their two barns, and they’d not been caught yet.
Seven felt a touch of pride. ‘Still got it,’ he muttered.
‘Got what? Your charm? Your looks? Trust me, you never had any in the first place.’
‘A pleasure as always to see you too, Loe.’
&
nbsp; She moved out from her lookout spot by the door, throwing him a mocking smile. Three weeks on and she was looking much better, though her face was still shadowed with bruises and her right ankle was twisted oddly, making her walk with a limp. She was dressed in a big black hunting jacket and a pair of men’s trousers. Her hair hung messily around her face.
Seven handed Loe the newspaper he’d wrapped the fish in and wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘How was she today?’ he asked.
Loe shrugged. ‘Better, I think. Moving about a bit more. She’s telling Mika a story right now.’
He followed her gaze up past the space of the barn’s lower level – cluttered with bales of hay and broken tractor parts, the concrete ground hidden beneath mussed straw – to the upper floor covering the back half of the building. It was just an open ledge with a ladder running up to it, but they’d piled some of the haystacks along it to create their own private space. It was where they slept and spent most of their time when they were in the barn, just in case anyone came in and they needed to hide.
A hushed voice drifted down.
Nodding a thanks to Loe, Seven crossed to the ladder, climbing effortlessly up the wooden rungs (if only skid-thieving had been this easy). Squeezing through a gap in the haystacks at the top, he put on his widest grin and shouted –
‘Boo!’
Alba and Mika were at the far end of the balcony. Mika was wrapped in a puffy coat, lying on her elbows and gazing up at Alba, who was wearing a khaki farmer’s coat and a tartan scarf. Her hair was loose and long. It hung in thick auburn waves past her shoulders, golden strands shining in the dim light of the barn.
‘Seven! Seven! Seven!’
Mika pounced on him at once. Her little arms squeezed round his neck. He laughed, picking her up round the waist, and walked over to Alba. He had to crouch to avoid hitting his head on the sloping roof of the barn.
Alba’s eyes lifted to meet his. They were red, and her skin was still a little sallow, but her cheeks were fuller now, almost like they were before.
She managed a tiny smile, and Seven’s heart flipped. It still did that every time she smiled at him, which unfortunately wasn’t a lot lately.