The Memory Keepers (11 page)

29

‘Fucking joke!’

‘Cold bastards.’

‘Showing off people’s deaths to the world like it’s a bloody party.’

Anger rippled through the crowd gathered at Clapham Arches. Seven, watching from the back of the crowd the Screen that hung inside one of the archways under Clapham Bridge, let himself be pushed and shunted, people jostling to get out. His eyes were still focused on the Screen. He felt hollow. Carved open. Even though he didn’t know any of the dead faces he’d seen on the footage, he couldn’t help imagining himself in their place, or Loe, or Mika.

He felt sick to his stomach.

After Alastair White finished his speech, a sombre-looking reporter came on. She stood outside the market. London Guardmen patrolled the perimeter behind her, red jackets flashing in the midday sun. The tall entranceway was covered with a crime-scene sheet of black fabric.

‘The London Guard are asking those with information on the whereabouts of the escaped memory-thieves to come forward,’ the reporter was saying. ‘A monetary reward is being offered for those whose information successfully leads to a conviction.’

Some of the people who’d been turning to leave the archway hesitated, glancing back. Seven felt a new feeling ripple through those gathered there; eagerness. Everyone was suddenly alert.

The mention of money did that in South.

‘They have released visuals of tattoo markers they believe the different memory-thieving crews use as identifiers,’ the reporter continued. ‘If you see anyone with these markers, the London Guard urge you to report them immediately. We ask you all to familiarise yourselves with the following images, which we suspect to be the crew signifiers.’

The screen changed to show a series of black patterns. With each one, shivers of unease ran up and down Seven’s spine. He knew them all.

The outline of a tennis racket: that was Murray’s crew.

A rose: that was Timothy Rose’s.

A lightning bolt: Abel Potter’s.

A saw –

Seven’s heart flew into his throat.

It was the exact same image as the one inked beneath his collarbones. The tattoo was hidden today under his grey shirt, but he still clutched at the collar, sure somehow the mark shone brightly enough for the whole world to see. How did the London Guard know about their tattoos? Had they found them on the bodies of the skid-thieves their guns had brought down, or the ones they’d captured alive?

What about Carpenter’s sign? Carpenter’s skin was a riddle of tattoos. It was impossible to know what was what.

Or else  … 

‘No,’ Seven said out loud. He didn’t want to even
think
about the possibility that someone in his crew had been captured or killed. Mika and Loe; he’d go to their house now, prove to himself that they were OK.

They had to be OK.

As Seven pushed his way through the crowd another thought hit him, so strongly it made him stagger.

The girl
.

Alba.

Alba
White
.

No. She wouldn’t have.

Would she?

Her annoyingly pretty face came to mind. Thick red hair, dark and glossy, soft curls brushing pink cheeks. Bright green eyes. He remembered the way she’d looked after surfing; vulnerable and sad and happy all at once. She’d seemed so
grateful
. It had made Seven feel as though he’d given her something. A gift, a tiny piece of treasure worth more than the hundreds of expensive things lavished on her back home.

He’d thought that gift was the joy of surfing for the first time. After all, he remembered exactly how
he’d
felt after his first skid-surf, when he’d known the world wouldn’t ever be the same for him. But what if he was wrong? What if he’d given Alba the gift of something else entirely, and she’d just been delighted about having it to use against him, to pass it on to her father.

Information.

The truth.

Seven had told her things about his life as a skid-thief. Things no Souther would have ever told a Norther. He’d been stupidly open, answered her questions honestly, because  …  because she made him feel as though he
could
. As though he could trust her with anything.

You humongous bloody idiot!
Seven thought, gritting his teeth hard to stop himself from shouting. He was so angry he could punch himself.
He’d been a complete fool to trust that stuck-up North bitch.

Seven curled his hands into fists, shoving his way through the noisy crowd.

So he’d given Alba a gift, had he? Wrapped up all the details about the life of skid-thieves with a neat effing little bow for her? Well, now it was time for
him
to take something back in return.

An eye for an eye, that was the rule, wasn’t it? Alba had ruined his life. Now Seven would ruin hers.

30

Dolly’s voice reached her from the en-suite over the sound of running water. ‘Bath’s ready! Hurry up or the water’ll go cold.’

Alba sighed. The last thing she wanted was a soak but Dolly had insisted, saying that Alba had been restless all day and this would calm her (no doubt she’d laced the water with herbal sedatives, just to be sure).

Twisting her hair into a bun and sweeping away a few loose strands, Alba padded to the bathroom. A haze of steam filled the air, woody smells of sandalwood and sage enveloping her. The bathroom was almost as big as her bedroom, white and gold tiles covering the floor. In the centre was a large, claw-footed tub with a gilded rim. Candles bathed the room in a comforting glow.

The taps squeaked as Dolly twisted them off. The bathroom fell into a secretive hush, the only sound the popping of the bubbles in the tub and the patter of raindrops on the window.

‘Come on then.’ Dolly went over to Alba and took off her bathrobe, folding it on a chair by the sink. ‘You’ll feel better after an hour in here.’

Alba climbed over the side of the tub. She slid in slowly, the water – a perfect temperature, warm and golden – rising to her neck. Bubbles hid her body from view. Straight away, she felt calmer. She tipped her head back to rest it on the edge of the tub and gave Dolly a small smile.

‘You know, I feel a little better already.’

But as soon as she said it, Alba thought guiltily of Seven. She thought of the skid-thieves lying dead on the floor of the market. The ones who had been captured by the London Guard, and were now enduring whatever horrible processes were involved in their interrogations.

How could she relax after everything that had happened? When she didn’t even know if Seven was alive?

Her face must have fallen, because Dolly stepped over and crouched down. ‘What is it? I know something’s wrong. You’re keeping something from me, and I’m worried, because if you don’t feel like you can tell me about it then it must be bad
.
’

Alba dropped her gaze. ‘It’s nothing,’ she murmured.

‘Alba  …  are you hiding something?’

‘No, I –’

‘Is it your mother?’ Dolly’s voice was sharp. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Has she hurt you again?’

Alba bit her lip. Hating herself, really hating herself then, she looked down and nodded. ‘I don’t think I can take it much longer, Dolly.’

‘Alba Philippa Darcy White,’ said Dolly sternly, and Alba jerked her eyes up at the sound of her full name.

Dolly cupped Alba’s face with both hands. ‘Now, you listen to me. Your mother might not always know how to show it, but
I
know just how special you are. You are strong and brave and honest and good. Work hard at school to get your grades and prove to your parents that there is more for you than this arranged marriage, and in two years’ time you will go to a university far away from London, just as we’ve always dreamed. And I will come with you, and you will succeed and make yourself proud, and
you
, Alba Philippa Darcy White, will forge your own future. Do you hear me?’

Dolly fell silent, and Alba felt her eyes welling up. She stared into her handmaid’s brilliant blue gaze, too humbled and grateful to say anything.

‘If you were
my
daughter,’ finished Dolly quietly, ‘I would never stop telling the world how proud I am of you.’

Alba laced her arms round Dolly’s neck. Tears tracked her cheeks. They clung to each other, neither one of them caring that Dolly’s clothes were soaked from Alba’s wet skin, or that bathwater had spilled over the side of the tub. Alba realised properly then that she did have a family that loved and cared for her, and it was Dolly, this incredible woman holding her.

‘I’ll come back in an hour to get you ready for bed,’ Dolly said when they pulled apart. She stood, a soft smile lighting her face as she brushed down her uniform and left the room, pulling the door shut behind her.

Alba wiped away her tears with the back of one hand. Was it possible, the future Dolly had promised for them? She didn’t dare believe it was. Everything good in her life was eventually ruined. Why would this be any different?

Just as she closed her eyes, sinking back down into the perfumed water, the door opened again.

‘Dolly?’ she murmured, sitting up and turning, expecting to see her handmaid in the doorway.

But it wasn’t Dolly –

It was
Seven
.

31

Holy effing hell, she’s
naked
!

32

Oh almighty god, I am
naked
!

33

Alba’s face flushed so red, a tomato might have mistaken her for one of its own. Even through the dewy haze of the bathroom it was
that
red. She splashed down in the bath, fragranced water slopping everywhere, the tub squeaking as her body – her
naked
body – slid along its smooth ceramic curves. She dipped low, her mouth just above the water’s surface. Hair loosened from the messy bun she’d piled on the top of her head, red curls framing her cheeks.

‘What on earth are you doing here!’ she gasped. Her eyes travelled over his wet hair and clothes, drenched from the walk here in the storm. ‘How did you get in?’

Seven’s anger had rolled away the instant he saw Alba in the bath (his mind had been too full of the thought of her naked right here before him to have space for anything else). Now it gnawed its way back.

Who cares what she looks like? This North bitch is the reason Carpenter’s dead.

‘How d’you think I got in?’ he snapped. ‘I break into houses for a living.’

Seven tried to keep calm, remembering the reason he’d come in the first place – revenge, an eye for an eye and all that – but he couldn’t help the grimace of a grin twisting his lips, the way his cheeks flushed with anger and embarrassment. He ran a hand through his rain-slicked hair, trying for a cool,
I don’t care
gesture. Instead, his fingers got tangled and he spent the next minute tugging them out.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Alba whispered.

He glared. Of course she’d think that. He was just a Souther to her. What made him think he could just come strolling into North?

‘Don’t worry,’ he said coldly. ‘I’ll be gone soon.’

She shook her head fiercely, the motion causing more water to lap over the side of the tub. ‘Of
course
you shouldn’t be here, after last night! If they find you –’

‘I know exactly what’ll happen. I’m not an idiot.’

‘I wasn’t saying you were.’

‘You were thinking it.’

‘No!’

‘Look, just stop with your lies, all right? I know what you did!’

It came out as a shout. Alba’s eyes widened. When Seven stepped towards her she shrank back, shifting to the other side of the tub as though scared of him.

‘I dunno why I ever thought I could trust you,’ he said, voice rising with each word. He gestured wildly round the room and gave a barking laugh. ‘Look at this! It’s not like you’ve ever had to struggle for anything in your life. You have no idea what it’s like. I hate all you Northers, lounging here in your fancy houses and splashing money around and killing Southers like we’re
rats
–’

‘Little Alba.’

From the bedroom there was a knock on the door, then the sound of it opening.

One second.

That’s all the time Seven had to react. One tiny second.

Running forward, skidding on the spilled bathwater, he dived round the back of the tub, pressing as flat against its curving side as possible.

There was the click of heels as someone entered the bathroom.

‘I thought I heard voices.’

The voice was a woman’s, its letters curled with an Eastern European accent.

‘Just – just me here, Mother.’

Seven’s eyes widened. He’d seen Alba’s mother before when observing the house. She was blonde, icily beautiful, as though her features were carved from stone; it was strange to think of Alba as her daughter. He held his breath, heart thundering in his ears.

‘Did you want something, Mother?’

Alba sounded terrified. Her voice was faint and trembling.

Why is she scared?
Seven wondered.
Why isn’t she giving me away? She should be
glad
to have me trapped.

‘Please, darling. How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that?’

The snap of heels on the ceramic tiles drew closer and Seven shrank back, pressing his back so hard against the tub it hurt his spine.

‘What’s that awful smell?’

For a second, Seven thought Alba’s mother meant
him
.

‘Herbs,’ Alba murmured. ‘Dolly mixed them into the bathwater. It’s supposed to be nice.’

‘Well, it’s not. What remedy is she concocting now? Trying to help slim you down before the Winter-turn Ball?’ A pause. ‘That’s not a bad idea.’

‘Yes.’

Alba’s voice was so small it crushed Seven. It hit him then just how wrong he’d had it. She hadn’t told her parents about him, or given them the information leading to the raid last night. Otherwise she’d have told her mother he was here by now.

A memory came to him of Alba standing outside his flat, her voice quiet as she’d said,
You’re lucky
.

Lucky wasn’t a word Seven would associate with himself (hah! As if)
.
He’d
thought Alba had been trying to make him feel better about living in his dump of a flat. But now it was clear she’d actually meant it. She envied him, because she wished she could escape
her
parents, too.

Alba envied
him
.

He’d never imagined someone from North could envy a Souther.

‘It’s getting late,’ Alba’s mother said, breaking the tense silence. ‘Don’t be too long. I don’t want you to be tired at church tomorrow.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘And one more thing. Perhaps you
should
try and lose weight before the Winter-turn Ball. We’ve got an important announcement to make on the night, and I want my daughter looking her best.’

The bathroom door clicked. Heeled footsteps on the wooden boards of Alba’s bedroom grew faint as her mother left, the room falling silent once more.