The Memory Keepers (12 page)

34

She would have liked the silence to have stretched on forever so she could try and convince herself the last few minutes of her life had never happened, thank you very much. But of course Seven had to say something.

‘Well  … ’

He drew out the word. She heard him get up from round the back of the tub, cracking his joints as he went.

‘I can see where you get your lovely personality from. Your mum is a real treat.’

Alba closed her eyes. ‘Just don’t.’

She didn’t want to look at him. It was utterly humiliating. Her mother had been cruel to her before in front of the servants and Dolly, but somehow this was worse. This was a boy from South who barely had a thing to his name.

Now he’d seen that it was actually
her
who was the one who had nothing.

‘I’m joking, Alba,’ Seven said.

‘Well, I’m not in the mood for jokes.’

‘Are you ever?’

‘Seven! Will you please just
get
out and leave me alone!’

It came out louder than she’d meant it to, but Alba didn’t care. Her insides writhed with anger and shame. She waited for him to leave. Her shoulders and the top of her back were exposed, and she imagined his eyes travelling over her pale skin. Had he noticed the freckles sprinkled across her back?
How can he
not
have?
she thought.
You’d be able to spot them from space.

The fact that she’d gone through all this while being naked was beyond humiliating.

And Seven was
still
here.

‘Oh,
why
have you not gone yet!’ Alba cried, finally spinning round to face him. Bathwater slopped over the lip of the tub. She hugged her knees, squeezing her arms around them to hide her body. ‘You said you hated me a minute ago. So just leave! God forbid you have to spend another second in my presence if it disgusts you that much.’

Seven’s face twisted. He stood there, frozen to the spot, drenched clothes clinging to his skinny body. His hair was plastered to his forehead. He looked hurt, mad, confused and frustrated all in one.

It was clear to Alba then that this was the last time she’d ever see him, and she felt horrible that this was the way they’d remember each other: angry, cruel words thrown between them. Aside from Dolly, he was the only friend she’d ever made.

Or at least, she’d
thought
she’d made.

Some unreadable emotion passed across Seven’s eyes before he jerked suddenly round, walking quickly past her and shutting the door without so much as a backwards glance.

There weren’t even any tears. Alba just lay back in the bath, looking up at the ceiling, tiny lights scattered across it to mimic the constellations outside. She tried to remove every memory of Seven, of memory-surfing, and of the friendship they might have shared from her mind.

They should have machines to
erase
the past
, Alba thought.
Not preserve it.

Some memories were too unbearable to keep.

When Dolly came to get her ready for bed, Alba put on her biggest smile, her happiest face. She didn’t want Dolly to know her bath had had the opposite effect she’d desired, making her feel far worse instead of better.

Once Alba was changed into her nightdress, her hair dried and left loose around her face, Dolly sat with her on the edge of the bed. Outside, the rain drummed harder. It filled the room with a watery rushing sound, which made Alba think of the waterfall memory she’d experienced last week in Seven’s flat. She’d been hoping to surf it again tonight.

No
, she reminded herself.
Erase
.

‘I meant what I said earlier,’ Dolly said. She looked serious and hard, no hint of the tears that had overwhelmed her earlier. ‘We’ll find a way to make it happen. You don’t have to give up on your dreams. I’ll get you out of here. I promise.’

Alba wanted to believe her so badly. She rested her cheek on her handmaid’s shoulder, and they stayed that way for a while before Dolly pulled away.

‘Bed now. It’s almost midnight.’

Alba flinched. Midnight. That’s when she had meant to meet Seven to go memory-surfing.

No
,
she thought.
Erase.

After Dolly left, Alba took her time getting to bed. She stood in the dark at the windows, watching the growing storm outside. Raindrops rolled down the glass in winding streams. Wind lashed the trees, whipping their branches sideways.

She should have been getting ready to sneak out to meet Seven right about now. She wouldn’t have cared about the storm. All she would have been feeling was excitement at seeing him again, safe after the raid, and the call of the memories waiting for her back at his flat.

No.

Erase, erase, erase.

Alba padded over to her bed and climbed inside. The mattress was warm from the heat-stone Dolly had placed there. Yawning, her eyes fluttering shut, she slid an arm under her pillow –

And froze.

There was something under it.

Scrambling back, she threw the pillow aside and saw a piece of paper folded in half. On the top side was her name written in a messy scrawl:

Alber

Her stomach flipped.

‘You misspelled it, you idiot  … ’ she whispered, unable to stop a disbelieving laugh escaping her lips. She snatched the note and unfolded it.

We said same time, same place, right?

She let out another laugh. In an instant, everything that had passed between them earlier fell away. Alba knew exactly what Seven was trying to tell her, even though he’d put it in his weird, awkward, stupidly wonderful way. She could practically hear him speaking to her as her eyes scanned his words once more.

Midnight. Outside.

I’m waiting for you in the rain, so hurry up, you stupid effing idiot.

(I’m sorry.)

35

The rain was driving down so hard, and the darkness so thick – apart from flashes of lightning illuminating everything in a ghostly, silvery glow – that he didn’t see or hear Alba coming. One minute he was staring at the house, the next he was jumping back as a figure appeared, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him into a tight hug.

Seven stiffened, arms hanging at his sides.

Not again!
he thought, groaning inwardly. He really wished Alba would stop impulsively embracing him like this. Now she was pressed up against his body and, just like the last time, he had no idea what to do.

When she finally pulled away, Seven grinned shakily. ‘You got my note then,’ he said, running a hand through his rain-matted hair.

They were under the patchy shade of the elm grove near the house, but rain was still finding its way through the thick canopy of leaves. Alba was already soaked. Her usually full, bouncy hair was plastered to her face. Raindrops clung to her lips. Only her clothes were dry, hidden underneath the camel raincoat buttoned up to her throat.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Though I could barely read it. Your handwriting is terrible.’

Seven scowled. ‘Well, no one ever taught me how, did they? Didn’t go to Fancy McFancy-Pants School for North Princesses like you.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’

‘Neither do I, most of the time.’

Alba laughed, but her face soon turned serious. ‘The raid last night. I thought  … ’ she trailed off, letting out a huff of breath. ‘I was so worried. What happened?’

An image of Carpenter falling, eyes rolling back in his head.

Blood splattering the tables and floor.

Screams cutting the night apart.

Gunshots, gunshots
everywhere
.

Seven swallowed down a rush of nausea. ‘They got my crew leader. Some other skid-thieves I know got out OK, though.’

He’d gone to Loe’s home earlier to check on her and Mika. Seven hadn’t realised until he saw them alive just how worried he’d been. Mika almost bowled him over, jumping on him the second he appeared. Loe had just scowled and grumbled something about keeping them waiting, but that was practically affectionate for her.

Perhaps Seven
did
have more friends than he thought.

Alba shook her head. ‘All those people they killed. I thought  … ’ Lightning flashed, lighting her eyes. ‘I thought you might have been one of them.’

He grinned. ‘As if they could ever get me. I’m way too fast for those London Guard idiots.’

‘Seven.’

‘All right,’ he snapped. ‘It was effing horrible. Is that what you want to hear?’

Alba’s mouth tightened. Then, slowly, hesitantly, she took his hands in hers.

A jolt ran through Seven at the feel of her touch. Her hands were wet but warm, and he felt her pulse on his own skin, as though a butterfly was trapped between their palms.

‘You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,’ she said.

Of
course
I don’t wanna talk about it
, he thought. Not that there were words to describe it, even if he did.

How could he convey the horror of seeing someone shot down in front of him? The bubbling rasp of Carpenter’s voice as he’d tried to speak with a great big bloody bullet hole in his throat? The senseless panic of a crowd rushing to live? Or – worst of all – the guilt Seven had felt when he finally came to a stop on some lonely street miles from the market and realised he was alive, and wondered why that was when so many others were dead?

The storm picked up around them. Seven felt like howling into it when he thought of all the things that had been taken from him in just one night.

Alba was watching him with concerned eyes. Her hands were trembling. He’d half-forgotten they were holding hands. Part of him wanted to yank his away, but another part didn’t ever want to let go. He felt strangely stronger with her hand in his, as though she was anchoring him to this world that felt as if it were crumbling down around him.

This is it
, Seven realised.
This is your chance to let her in. Let her be your friend.

Gods know you could use some of those.

But the weight of last night’s events was crushing down on him, and despite what he knew, despite how he felt, Alba was still a girl from North whose father was most probably one of the people responsible for the raid last night. Seven looked at her and saw everything that had been taken from him.

Well, if he was honest, he also saw a girl he found annoyingly attractive, but he pushed those thoughts down. Alba could never be his friend, let alone anything more. And besides, stolen memories were all he had to offer her. What point would there be, him letting her in, trying to win her over? In the end, some stuck-up North prince was bound to come along with the whole world in his arms, and what girl would give that up for a few stolen skids?

Seven cleared his throat. ‘Look. You and me – we’re never gonna be friends.’

Alba stared at him. After a pause she asked quietly, ‘Why not?’

He gave a strangled laugh. ‘Come on! You’re from North. I’m a Souther.’

‘So? What does it matter, really?’

‘Course it matters. Don’t be stupid –’

‘Don’t call me stupid.’

‘I’m not –’

‘I don’t care about North or South, Seven.’

‘Look –’

‘I said, I don’t
care
. Why can’t we be friends if we want –?’

‘Alba, don’t be so effing naive!’

Seven’s shout was swallowed by the storm, the lash of the rain. He dropped Alba’s hands and stepped back.

‘We both know what this is, all right?’ he said roughly. ‘You wanna skid-surf. I don’t wanna get handed over to the London Guard. That’s it. You use me, I use you. That’s how life goes, no?’

Alba glared at him. She seemed frozen to the spot despite the whip of the wind and the rush of the rain. Lightning flashed, turning her eyes into two discs of white gold. For some reason, seeing her like that made something in Seven’s stomach twist, almost painfully.

He’d hurt her. She was trying to care, to be kind, and he was throwing it back in her face.

‘I was never going to tell my parents you stole a memory from them,’ Alba said softly. ‘Just so you know.’

Seven’s face twisted. ‘What does it matter? Tell them if you want. It’s not like I’ve got anything left to lose.’

(That was both a lie and not a lie.)

He coughed, tearing his eyes away. ‘So come have your surf, Princess, and then we never have to see each other again. Thank
gods
.’

Seven grabbed Alba’s arm and pushed her forward. With every step, he forced himself not to look at her, or think about everything he didn’t have, yet might have just lost.

36

The storm had died down a bit by the time they got to Seven’s memorium, the rain a distant rush on the walls outside.

They hadn’t spoken a word during the journey here. This was partly because for most of it, the rain had been beating down in driving, wind-whipped sheets, thunder growling across the sky. But it was also because of the things they’d just said to each other. Words that were pressed between them like a physical weight in the air, keeping them apart.

Now, in the hushed quiet of the memorium, Alba felt the coldness between her and Seven even more. She was hurt, but also angry with him too; some of the things he’d said were unnecessarily cruel. She couldn’t wait to get away from here and lose herself in a memory. And – though it made her feel a little guilty – she was already feeling the pull of the hundreds of memories calling for her from behind their blue cages.

If this is my last time memory-surfing
, she thought,
I’m going to make the most of it.

Alba unbuttoned her coat and laid it on top of one of the cabinets. Her plum-coloured jumper, black trousers and boots were all water-logged, her supposedly rain-proof coat beaten by the strength of the storm. She wrung the hem of her jumper out; water splattered onto the floor.

Leaning against the door, Seven stuffed his hands in the pockets of his trousers and stuck his elbows out.

‘Go on, then, Princess,’ he said, sighing, and ducked his head, sweeping out an arm.

Alba didn’t need telling twice. She spun on the spot, looking round at the cabinets, trying to decide what type of memory she wanted to surf tonight (the problem was, she wanted them all). Then her eyes caught a broken mug on top of one of the cabinets. Inside were a few of the small metal clips the memories were recorded on.

‘What are these?’ she asked, reaching out.

But before she could touch the mug, Seven had rushed over and grabbed it, cradling it to his chest. The tips of his ears were pink.

‘These are – these are private,’ he said, avoiding her eyes.

Alba stepped back. ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’ Feeling awkward, she dropped her eyes, and noticed one of the metal clips on the floor. She picked it up. ‘Here. One fell out.’

As she held it out to him, she noticed the writing on the label:

24.10.2128, A.W, the White family’s house (Hyde Park Estate)

‘Is this  …  is this my
father’s
memory?’ she asked in a whisper.

A thrill of something – anticipation? Fear? – ran down her spine. Before she met Seven, Alba had never really thought of her father as someone who had secrets. Of course, she understood his job was difficult, and he had to
do
difficult things for it, but after overhearing his secret meeting with Pearson outside their house and his words on the night of the raid, she realised there were so many things she didn’t know about her father.

Holding one of his own memories in her hand made Alba feel sick. What dark things were buried in his past?

Did she
want
to know?

Alba looked up. ‘Have you surfed it?’ she asked Seven.

He shook his head. ‘I put it there to remind myself to sort it, but I forgot about it ’cause of everything that happened after –’

He stopped abruptly. For a second, Seven’s face was blank. And then it twisted. His eyes were wide. He was staring at the object in her hand as though it were a bomb, about to explode and shatter the world any second.

Alba frowned. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘That skid,’ Seven croaked. He took a step back (now Alba really
did
feel like she was holding a bomb), and ran a shaking hand through his tangled hair. ‘That’s what Carpenter was trying to warn me about before he – before he was shot.’