The Memory Keepers (10 page)

25

Carpenter was conducting his meetings in Borough Market in a dimly lit corner of the hall. A row of stalls, their shutters locked for the night, hid them from the main crowds, though people were still milling by. Their voices put Seven on edge. He kept looking over his shoulder every time someone passed, wary they were listening.

‘Relax, S. They can’t hear us.’

Carpenter was his usual calm self, sitting opposite Seven at one of the round tables, one leg propped up on his seat. His khaki-coloured shirt was rolled back at the elbows and open low down the front, revealing the dense forest of tattoos twined across his skin. There was a saw in there somewhere, Carpenter had once said – the same design that Seven and the rest of the crew had inked on their chests – but Seven had never been able to locate it (urgh. Maybe it was somewhere he didn’t
want
to locate).

Seven picked at a piece of gum stuck to the table. ‘It’s just hard to relax after Murray and everything.’

‘I know.’

‘Everyone’s worried it’ll be them next.’

‘I know.’

Seven sighed, running a hand through his hair. It was impossible to read Carpenter.

A laughing group of men sauntered by. He glanced over to watch them pass when Carpenter spoke suddenly, making him turn back.

‘S. Listen to me.’

Carpenter’s voice had changed. It was sharp now, an edge to his words.

‘The White memory. Did you surf it?’

Seven’s cheeks flushed. ‘What d’you mean? I don’t –’

‘I know you copy all the skids you steal,’ Carpenter interrupted, ‘so don’t waste time telling me you haven’t. Just answer me. Have you surfed it yet?’

‘But –’

‘I don’t give a bloody
toss
about you copying them, Seven!’

He slammed a fist on the table so hard it shook, but it was the use of his full name that really got Seven’s attention.

‘All my crew do it,’ Carpenter said. ‘
I
do it. I wouldn’t expect anything less from a skid-thief. I just need to know about the White memory.’

Twisting his hands in his lap, Seven shook his head. ‘Not yet,’ he answered.

The truth was, he’d completely forgotten about Alastair White’s memory after everything that had happened with Alba. Seven had used Butler every day, but only to surf the memory she’d chosen that night, over and over, feeling each time as though he could somehow sense her in it, the ghost of her body imprinted in the memory-space, wanting to know how she’d felt when she’d been in the lush rainforest with its cascading waterfall, what she’d been thinking as her body plunged into the blue.

Carpenter nodded and looked away. ‘I believe you.’ Then, speaking so quietly Seven almost couldn’t hear, he muttered, ‘I thought it would protect us. That
I
could protect us by having it. Use it as blackmail, if it ever came to it. Something to keep that White pig away. And after Murray  …  But it’s bigger than that. I should’ve left it alone.’

Seven watched him warily. ‘What’re you talking about, Carpenter?’

His crew leader’s eyes snapped back to him. In one sudden move, Carpenter dropped his leg down and leant across the table. His features were edged with panic. A muscle was twitching in his temple: a quick, frantic beat that made Seven’s own heart speed up.

‘S. This is important. This is your
life
we’re talking about.’

There was a pulse of noise from deep in the hall. Seven broke Carpenter’s gaze, turning to look over his shoulder. Something seemed to be rousing the crowd. Shouts echoed off the domed roof.

‘What’s going on?’ he muttered, distracted.

‘S, listen to me!’ Carpenter’s voice was a growl, barely audible over the growing sea of noise behind them. ‘The White memory.
Do not
surf it.’

Seven looked back round.

‘Promise me you’ll destroy it,’ Carpenter urged. ‘No one can ever find it, or know that you had it.’

The panicky edge in his voice worried Seven.

Carpenter was scared.

He was
never
scared.

A tentative grin snuck across Seven’s lips. ‘Come on, Carpenter  …  you’re weirding me out.’

‘FOR FUCK’S SAKE!’

With a roar of frustration, Carpenter swung back, pushing up from the table so he was towering over Seven, his face a twisted shadow in the glow of the lights above.

‘This is important! Stop being a complete idiot and just fucking
promise
me –’

Something whistled past Seven’s ear. A second later, Carpenter let out a soft hiss of breath. Surprise flitted across his features. He raised a hand to his neck then drew his fingers back. They were slick. Wet. Red.

‘Fuck,’ he muttered, blood bubbling up over his lip.

And then Seven saw it –

The dark hole in the side of his neck.

Carpenter’s eyes swivelled, focusing on Seven. ‘The memory, S. Destroy it.’

His eyes unfocused. A wave of sadness flushed his face, and it made him look young, as young as a child, lost and alone and scared of the darkness. Scared of the sounds in the night.

‘S-sorry.’ Carpenter forced the word out, voice thick and gurgling.

More blood filled his mouth. His teeth were
black
with it.

Seven couldn’t move, couldn’t think. All he could do was whisper, ‘C-Carpenter?’

But his crew leader didn’t respond. His eyes just rolled up in their sockets, his face softening, and then he fell straight back with a thud to the floor.

Before Seven had a chance to do anything – even
think
anything – the roar of the crowds swelled louder and suddenly there were people everywhere, a tide surging through the hall, bodies breaking against him in the rush, and above it all the hard, angry studs of gunfire, and screams, as more bullets found their mark.

26

Voices stirred her from sleep.

Alba woke, disorientated, so twisted up in her duvet and sheets, pillows scattered around her, that she felt a rising thrum of panic. She was trapped. Trapped as she’d been in her dream. It took her a few moments to realise where she was.

The voices were coming from outside her room, scratching in the night-time silence. Easing out of the tangle of sheets, she padded across the room and opened the door.

There were lights on in a room down the corridor. On this floor, that end of the house was Alba’s parents’ private wing, a part she was forbidden to enter unless invited by one of them, which was rare. The lights were on now in her father’s office. Their yellow glow spilled out into the hallway, shifting shadows thrown across the floor as figures moved inside.

The voices were male, gruff, tense. Alba couldn’t make out what they were saying from here; their sentences were shapeless, only noises. Then she heard a single word that made her body run cold –

Memory-thief.

‘Seven,’ she breathed.

Heart thudding, Alba tiptoed down the hall. She kept close to the wall, touching her fingertips to the velvety wallpaper engraved with soft, swirling patterns lost in the darkness. She stopped a short way from the open door to the office, close enough now to hear snatches of conversations inside.

‘ …  the raid  … ’

‘ …  Borough Market  … ’

‘ …  ten dead, and at least thirty more injured  … ’

‘ …  unconfirmed  … ’

‘ …  escaped  … ’

The men were talking over one another. It sounded like there’d been some sort of raid by the London Guard on a memory-thief meet-up. Alba remembered Seven mentioning something about these big events where all the thieving crews got together to do business.

‘The London Guard have been placed on high alert for suspected memory-thieves that might have escaped the raid.’

Her father’s voice cut above the busy chatter. At once, the room fell silent. There was the rustling of suits, a chink of a glass being set down as the men gave Alastair White their full attention.

‘They have identified some of the tattoos marking out the different crews, and will be searching both South and North for people carrying those signifiers. Without any strong evidence or confessions, however, we are unable to ascertain how many memory-thieves have gone unapprehended.’

There were jeers.

‘Give Interrogations a few hours. They’ll have those confessions in no time.’

‘South scum. What did they think – that they could keep taking our memories without any repercussions?’

‘Let’s see how they like a bullet in the head.’

‘Men. A little dignity, please.’ Her father’s voice quietened the room again. His tone was smug. ‘Remember, we
are
in North.’

The room burst into laughter.

Alba dashed back to her room. She’d heard enough. Pressing her back to the inside of her door she heaved in deep, shaky breaths, listening to the footsteps of the men passing as they left a few minutes later. She stood there long after they’d gone, the slam of the grand front doors too loud in the stillness of the house, quiet now despite the storm of thoughts inside her mind.

Raid.

The London Guard.

Memory-thieves.

Interrogations.

Bullets –

Alba stuffed a hand over her mouth. She felt sick. How could those men – how could her
father
– talk so flippantly, so smugly, about the loss of lives? They’d even laughed about it.

Laughed
.

Alba let the anger overtake her, let it rip through her in a roar of red, because the alternative was worse. Utter sadness over what was happening to those poor skid-thieves right now, and the horrible, sick fear that Seven might be one of them.

27

He only just escaped, only just made it out alive.

The market had turned into a wave, a chaotic, churning, surging swell of bodies, all straining to reach the shore where the hope of safety waited outside the glass-roofed hall, just metres but miles and whole lifetimes away.

Seven was swept up along with the crowds. When it came to fighting, his scrawniness had always been a disadvantage; tonight it saved his life. He used elbows, bones, limbs to battle his way out of the crush of bodies, stop himself from going under. He slipped through gaps. He ran, crawled over others where he had to.

And he had to, to live.

Because he wanted to live. So badly. He might wonder why the hell he bothered most of the time, but right at this minute, on this night, after seeing one single bullet fell Carpenter like a chainsaw to a tree, Seven
had
to live.

Death roared around him and he fought his way from it.

It felt like he was running for hours. He only let himself slow when he realised he couldn’t hear gunshots any more, that he was alone on a dimly lit street, gulping for air.

Seven looked blearily around. He had no idea where he was. He hadn’t even noticed where he’d run, just that it was in the direction the men and their guns weren’t. Staggering into the shadows of a nearby alley, he slumped to the ground, letting himself relax for the first time since leaving the market (well, not relax. This was
nothing
like relaxing, this heart-still-pounding, mind-still-a-bloody-mess kind of state).

‘The London Guard,’ Seven gasped, choking on the words.

Of course that’s who the attackers were. Who else would know to raid a night-market in South where a secret skid-thieving ring just so happened to be doing business? Who else would come in with guns first, questions later, only for the ones they caught alive? Who else would have shot Carpenter in the neck, shot him dead –

Dead
.

It couldn’t be real. Not Carpenter. He was sturdy, strong, built of muscle and grit. He was clever and sharp. It didn’t seem possible that he’d been hit. Seven wouldn’t have been surprised if his crew leader had calmly plucked the bullet from his neck and went on as though nothing had happened.

If anyone should’ve died, it was him. Seven could barely lace his own boots without falling over himself, for gods’ sake. He should have died. His body should be back there in the market, piled with the others.

Except it wasn’t.

He was alive.

Seven tipped his head back against the wall behind him, closing his eyes. They felt strange. Wet. A moment later, he realised why: he was
crying
. Effing
crying
. He stuffed his hands into his eyes and ground his knuckles against them until the tears stopped.

All he could keep thinking was,
I’m alive
. But it didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel like relief.

For some reason, it felt like the worst thing in the world.

28

The raid was all anyone could talk about the next morning at school. Alba didn’t think it was because the girls were that interested in London politics; it was more because of the thrill of it. Guns and death; these sorts of things felt a world away from the plush lives of the Knightsbridge Academy students. Something exciting, a different world entirely. Like going to the zoo to stare at caged animals, or how some of the girls from Alba’s class would walk along the bridges crossing the Thames, just to get a close-up glimpse of South and its residents (another type of caged animal, she supposed).

But to Alba, the consequences of the raid felt very real. She couldn’t stop thinking about Seven. How had he felt during it all? Had he even been there when it happened?

She hoped he hadn’t.

Just a few more hours
,
she kept telling herself as the morning’s lessons dragged on.
He’ll come tonight, and then it’ll all be fine. He’ll come, and you’ll know he’s alive.

He
will
come.

Alba didn’t let herself imagine what it’d be like if he didn’t.

Perhaps she only cared so much because Seven was her link to memory-surfing. That he had helped her escape, at the very time she needed it most.

But perhaps it was more than that.

Perhaps it was also because this strange South boy had given her a gift, opened up a whole new world to her, when he hadn’t even known how much it would mean to her. Apart from Dolly, no one had ever done something like that for her.

Alba felt connected to Seven now. She felt as though she owed him. And how could she ever repay him if he was  …  if he was
dead
?

A compulsory broadcast about the raid was being shown on the main news Net channel at midday. Unlike South, there weren’t any public Screens in North displaying news at all hours, so when it was time for the announcement the students filed out of their classrooms to the assembly hall, where a large screen slid down from the ceiling to hang above the stage.

The hall was grand, with dark, carved wooden walls and an elaborate chandelier dominating the ceiling. Its crystal embellishments threw sparkling shards of light across the room. Ornate gilded frames lined the walls, painted portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses staring blankly down. As Alba took one of the seats filling the hall, Rosemary Dalton sat down in front of her.

‘I hope all of the memory-thief scum they captured are executed live on the Net,’ Rosemary said, tossing a blonde curl over her shoulder. ‘Serves them right, thinking they can take memories for free from people who’ve worked hard to get to where they are.
And
sell them on for a profit.’

Alba bristled. She leant forward and clutched the back of Rosemary’s chair. ‘Did you ever think they might not have to steal if we didn’t make things so hard for Southers in the first place? Maybe
we’re
the ones who have been stealing.’

An image of Seven flashed into her mind: him spreading his arms to gesture round at the blue filing cabinets of his little memorium, unable to hide his pride, even though the place was dirty and dingy, and in a block of flats so horrible Alba’s mother would probably rather die than set foot in it. He needed those memories as much as Alba needed them now.

To escape reality. Escape the truth of his life.

Seven stole to
survive
.

Of course, he hadn’t said so to Alba, but she could tell. It was obvious by the way his eyes lit up every time he talked about memory-surfing. How he had patted Butler like he was a real person. The excitement in his voice as he’d told her about his life as a memory-thief on the way to South that night.

Rosemary looked over her shoulder, her piggish face scrunched in disgust. ‘Who’d have thought it? Alba White, a liberal.’ She let out a whiny laugh, and a couple of the girls nearby joined in.

Alba scowled. ‘At least
I
don’t get excited about watching people die live on the Net.’

‘What
does
excite you?’ Rosemary sneered. ‘Dirty South men? Like mother, like daughter, huh?’

The words were a slap in the face.

Alba couldn’t help it; her mouth dropped open in surprise. Her cheeks flushed. Around her, the hall started spinning, everything whirling into a colourless blur.

‘What did you say?’

Rosemary smirked. ‘You heard me.’

Alba realised that the students nearby were watching her. Some of their faces were painted with the same disgust Rosemary was wearing, but some looked scared or shocked.

No one spoke to Alastair White’s daughter the way Rosemary just had.

Before Alba could think of an appropriate response that wasn’t to launch herself at Rosemary and claw out her hair (and her mother said it was only
Southers
that were dangerous), a gong rang out. The hall fell into an expectant hush. Everyone turned to the stage as the school’s headmistress walked out.

Headmistress Fortescue was a tall, sharp-boned woman, her greying cloud of mousey hair the only soft thing about her. The ridge of her collarbones stuck out through her blouse. As she did for all assemblies, she wore a sweeping black robe with dappled purple-and-white fur trim. It swirled around her heels as she walked to the front of the stage.

‘Girls,’ she began in a high, nasal voice. ‘As you are aware, there is a compulsory broadcast on the Net today dealing with the raid on an illegal memory-trading ring last night. As London’s future leaders and wives of leaders, it is of the utmost importance that you all take an active interest in our city’s politics. A Knightsbridge Academy young woman must understand the rules of our society, and the necessity of abiding by and maintaining those rules for the health of the city at large.’

Headmistress Fortescue looked round the hall, her gaze seeming to sweep a cold wind wherever it moved. When the gong sounded again, she gave a curt nod.

‘The broadcast is about to begin. Girls, may I remind you that this is not a football stadium or public square in South. You are all young ladies of the highest breeding. There will be no cheering or shouts during the broadcast, no matter how pleasing it may be.’

Alba could have slapped her.

Heels clacking on the wooden floorboards, the headmistress took her place with the rest of the teachers on a raised ledge to one side of the hall, and a few moments later the screen suspended across the stage flared into life.

A roar of colour and sound flooded the hall. Alba squirmed in her seat as the familiar face of her father appeared. He always seemed different somehow on broadcasts to how she thought of him. Colder. Hard-edged. But after overhearing him last night, she saw that perhaps
she
was the one who had the wrong image of him. The breeze lifted his cape as he walked out of the courthouse, the doors of the Old Bailey behind him pulled shut by two suited workers.

Camera lights flashed. Reporters hidden off-screen shouted out, but Alastair White ignored them.

‘We can confirm that last night a raid was undertaken by the London Guard on an illegal memory-trading ring in Borough Market in South,’ he announced in his flat, detached voice. ‘Eleven Southers were killed, and twenty-nine more injured. Eighteen memory-thieves have been taken into custody for questioning. Official footage of the scene of the raid will now be shown. Please be aware it contains graphic images.’

The screen cut to black. For the split-second before the footage came on, Alba willed her eyes to close. She didn’t want to see this. She
didn’t
.

But her eyes wouldn’t shut.

Her heart jumped when the screen lit back up and images of the aftermath of the raid flashed across it in a lurid display. Bloodied bodies littered the floor of the market, some half-hidden under tables and chairs; arms and legs flung wide; close-ups of eerie white faces, mouths gaping.

Alba was frozen, terrified she was about to see Seven’s face like that any second, ghostly and pale, his eyes staring blankly out.

When the footage stopped and the broadcast cut back to her father on the steps of the Old Bailey, his voice echoing around the hall, Alba’s eyes finally squeezed shut. But no matter how relieved she was that she hadn’t seen Seven in the footage, she couldn’t escape the sick feeling all the images of the other dead Southers had brought, and the thought of their families being forced to watch.

And, worst of all, the way her father had just carried on talking as though nothing, nothing at all, had happened.