The Memory Keepers (15 page)

41

‘MEMORY ACTIVATED. EXPIRATION IN SIX MINUTES, FORTY-ONE SECONDS.’

Seven entered the skid running.

He was breathless already, chest aching, a stitch digging deep into his side. Everything around him was a blur of darkness and spots of stark white light. The wail of a siren screamed through the air. He swerved down endless narrow corridors: the person whose memory it was seemed to know their way around whatever building he was in. Their pace didn’t let up.

‘Shh. Hey, it’s OK!’ he shouted, his voice coming out older, deeper.

Seven wondered why on earth the man whose memory he was in was talking to the siren that way. And then he realised with a jolt –

He was talking to something else.

Someone
else.

Looking down, he saw the baby cradled in his arms.

It was crying, its contorted face stained with the glaring neon-white of the lights. A blanket swaddled its body. One of its hands had worked up out of its binding and was waving around, grasping at the air.

Seven focused back on where he was going, confused thoughts swirling through his head as he ran on. What on earth was happening?

Ahead, the corridor ended in a door. Keeping hold of the baby with one hand, he held out the other, swiping a card across the door’s access panel. It beeped and he crashed through into a stairwell, still not slowing as he started up the stairs, taking two at a time.

‘Eddie!’

A door slammed open a few flights above. Seven craned his neck and saw a woman leaning over the railing, motioning frantically.

‘Hurry! They’re here –’

She disappeared as the sound of a gunshot tore through the air.

From higher up in the stairwell came the pounding of boots. Seven thought the woman had been hit, and his heart stopped, thinking of Carpenter and the night of the raid –
No, not again, please no
– but then she reappeared, pulling out a gun and arcing her arm up to fire returning shots.

Seven stumbled up the remaining stairs, jumping the last few to meet her. She stopped shooting to kick open the door behind her. A blast of chill night air hit him.

‘Get the baby out of here!’ she yelled.

More gunshots studded the air.

Nodding a quick thanks to the woman, Seven ducked, running through the door and out into the rain-flecked night.

He was in a wide North street. Glittering high-rises towered around him like a forest of steel and glass. Clusters of people stood on the pavement, staring with wide eyes. Behind him, the wail of the siren spilled out of the building.

‘Eddie! Get in!’

There was a car parked on the pavement, engine growling, headlights dazzling in the dark. A man leant out, door thrown wide. Seven started towards him when he felt something punch into the back of his leg.

He was knocked to the ground. He rolled as he fell, using his body to shield the baby from harm. Pain like fire tore through him. He tried to stand and cried out; he’d been shot right through his kneecap. Blood was already pooling on the polished pavement. Gritting his teeth, he struggled to his feet –

Someone collided into him.

Seven fell back down. Twisting round, he saw a huge man in the red jacket of the London Guard scramble on top of him. The guard raised a gun to his face.

‘Wait!’ Seven cried in Eddie’s deep voice.

He thrust the baby between them. It was just long enough to make the guard hesitate, giving Seven time to buck, pushing him off. Scrambling to his feet, he stumbled the short distance to the car and fell inside.

Gunshots crunched on its metal casing as the car swerved away. The baby was taken from him and Seven sprawled on the leather seat, panting, clutching his injured leg with wet, bloody hands.

‘We got him,’ the woman beside him gasped, cradling the baby. ‘Candidate Seven. We fucking
got him
.’

42

She hadn’t realised the memory would be so short. When Seven’s eyes began to flutter, Alba quickly let go of his hand. She twisted her fingers through her hair and smiled shakily.

‘Welcome back.’

He glanced at her but didn’t say anything. There was something hard and wild about the look in his eyes. Panting, he unstrapped himself clumsily from Butler, then stumbled off the stool, clutching his head in his hands.

Alba frowned. ‘Seven? What happened? What did you see?’

‘Me,’ he croaked.

She bit her lip, watching him nervously as he paced the room.

‘It was back in the labs, or some place like it,’ he explained breathlessly. The sounds of his footsteps mingled with the rushing of the rain still driving down hard outside. ‘I was running, carrying a baby in my arms, trying to escape. There were London Guards. They shot me, but I managed to escape. There was a car waiting outside and I got in and they took the baby from me, and they called it – they called it Candidate Seven.’

‘The baby was
you
?’ breathed Alba.

‘It was important we got the baby out,’ Seven went on. ‘I could tell. That was the whole point of the mission. I had an access card, so I must have been working in the labs. The whole thing was planned, Alba.’

She shook her head, dizzy with confusion. ‘By who?’

‘Dunno. It’s not like I had time to ask for a business card.’

‘But did they say why?’

Seven let out a strangled cry. ‘No, they
didn’t
effing say why!’

With a movement so sudden it made Alba flinch, he lunged forward and ripped the DSC from the feed cable connecting it to the memory-machine, throwing it to the floor and grinding it under his boot.

‘Seven!’ she cried. She ran towards him, but he flung his arms out, glaring at her.

‘Don’t you get it, Alba? I don’t
wanna
know. This was a stupid, stupid idea. Who gives a crap what happened to me in the past? Obviously no one cared enough about me or they’d still be here!’ He gave a harsh, barking laugh, his eyes wild. ‘Where are they now, huh? Where’re all these people who fought so hard to free me from TMK, then just dropped me like the piece of crap I am?’

Seven fell silent, chest heaving as he raked in heavy breaths. The grin twisting his lips looked painful. Alba realised with a jolt that his eyes were wet.

She was close to tears herself. As he dropped his head, arms going limp at his sides, she took a tentative step towards him. When she was confident he wasn’t going to lash out at her again, she reached out, fingers curling round his arm.

He flinched under her touch, but she held on.

‘Don’t
ever
think that’s what you are,’ Alba said sternly. ‘I don’t know what happened with those people, but I’m sure that if they were fighting so hard to free you they wouldn’t have just let you go afterwards.’

‘Then why am I alone?’

Seven’s voice was so small it broke her heart.

‘
I’m
here,’ she whispered.

And for the first time since they’d met, it was Seven who opened his arms and pulled Alba against him, his heartbeat fast where her ear pressed to his chest, the smell of mint lacing his skin and his strange, beautiful scent of boy closing round her like a kiss.

43

They said goodbye as usual under the elms outside her house. Starlight touched their faces: the storm had finally cleared. They were both soaked through, and Seven tried to avoid looking at all the places where Alba’s clothes clung tightly to her body – which was difficult, as they were practically flashing at him with signs saying,
LOOK AT ME
.

Alba smiled up at him through thick lashes. ‘Tomorrow, then,’ she said simply.

Seven loved how it wasn’t a question.

So
this
was what it was like having friends.

He grinned. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

44

Sunday service at St Paul’s was more of a social event than a religious one, though of course none of the attendees would admit it. The cathedral’s breathtaking interior, with its gilded domes and carved columns and velvet sheets draped over white stone walls, were just a backdrop for the finery of North’s most prominent families, decked in their Sunday best.

‘What on earth was Hilary Goodwin thinking when she got dressed this morning?’

‘Heavens knows. She looks like an overstuffed pumpkin. That shade of orange belongs only on a child’s Halloween costume.’

‘Well, that dress could certainly pass for one.’

Alba resisted an eye-roll as she passed rows of gossiping women to the high-backed wooden pew at the front of the nave. She didn’t think she could cope with all the bitchiness and social strutting that came with Sunday service today. Her life in North was feeling ever more like some faded dream; one she couldn’t wake from until she ran out into the moonlit grounds of the estate and saw Seven waiting for her under the elms.

‘Watch your dress,’ her mother muttered as they took their seats. Oxana slipped out of her fur coat and folded the delicate chiffon of her dark red dress around her. Her hair was pulled up into a sleek bun. A flick of black liner defined her eyes. She gave Alba a sharp look. ‘Chartreuse creases easily, and I don’t want people to think we employ incompetent servants. Though it often feels like it.’

Not wanting to give her mother any reason to become angry with her, Alba rearranged her dress so the fabric wasn’t crumpled. She stifled a yawn. Earlier this morning – and just hours after she’d got back from South – Dolly chose a beautiful yellow dress for her to wear. It fitted snugly around her waist before spreading out in a structured fan-like effect over her legs, stopping just past her knees. Tiny jewels were sewn into the fabric like drops of dew on sunflower petals.

Despite everything the dress stood for, Alba couldn’t help but feel pretty wearing it. It hid her plumpness and elongated her figure. She also liked how Dolly had done her hair in a twisted braid wound over her head, a few soft curls falling free around her cheeks.

I wonder whether Seven would like me in this
,
she thought. Then she sighed, giving a little shake of her head. What was wrong with her? Seven probably wouldn’t even notice if she was wearing a bin bag right now. His whole world was tipping sideways, everything he knew – his job, his security, his past – slipping out of reach.

Alba snuck a glance at her father. He was sitting on her mother’s other side, head bowed as he talked to the person beside him. The low rumble of his voice cut under the noise of the hall, like a threat lurking, waiting to break free.

What are you doing?
she wondered.
What secret are you hiding in Lab 32? What’s TMK?

And what is
Seven’s
part in it all?

Alba was so lost in thought she didn’t notice the boy who had sat down next to her until he spoke.

‘What a bore, don’t you agree? I’d still be asleep if I had my way. But we must keep up appearances, I suppose.’

She looked round, mouth falling open when she saw who it was.

Thierry Burton-Lyon.

As in,
the
Thierry Burton-Lyon, son of the city’s Lord Minister, Christian Burton-Lyon, who had ruled London for the past twelve years.

Thierry looked much like his father. He had a round, unattractive face with squashed features: dark beady eyes and a large, flat nose. The shiny olive suit he was wearing turned his flushed complexion a sickly shade. His brown hair was smoothed back over his head, the comb-lines still evident. Unlike his father, however, he was tall and strong-looking, the hint of muscles under a suit a size too tight.

Thierry’s lips stretched in a lazy smile as she met his eyes.

‘Miss White.’ A French accent curled his words. He reached out and brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. ‘I am so pleased to finally meet you.’

Finally meet me?

The phrasing seemed odd. Alba didn’t know how to respond.

‘Oh, um  … ’ She forced a smile. ‘Thank you. I – I haven’t seen you at Sunday service before  … ’

Thierry clicked his tongue. It was a sound she associated with her mother, and did nothing to help her warm to him.

‘Religion. A mode of practice for those too poor and spineless to afford their own sense of self. I have no time for it.’ He shrugged, breaking eye contact to scan the room. ‘My parents wanted to debut my return to London, and it seems this is where high society goes to show off their children. After all,’ he added, smiling again as he turned back to her, ‘look at
you
.’

For what seemed far too long a time to be decent in public, Thierry’s eyes crawled down the front of Alba’s dress. It was as though his gaze had somehow forced apart the fabric stretched over her chest and he’d pushed his way inside, careless fingers crawling over her flesh. She felt violated.

‘Return?’ Alba asked, resisting the urge to punch him straight in the face (which would not be seemly of a young North lady, least of all because they were in a holy place). ‘Where have you been?’

‘France – I’ve been attending boarding school in Paris, studying at my father’s old school. But now I’m nineteen I have returned to work with my father. And find a wife too, of course.’

God help the poor girl
, thought Alba.

But she gave him what she hoped was a sweet smile and said, ‘And have you found anyone yet?’

Thierry raised his eyebrows. He let out a chuckling laugh. ‘At least my parents found me someone with a sense of humour.’

It took Alba a moment to take in his words. By that time, the vicar had stepped up to the great carved altar in front of them, the choir in the stalls beginning to sing as an organ flooded the cathedral with noise, and thankfully all attention was diverted from Alba, whose face was pale with shock at the prospect of marrying Thierry Burton-Lyon.

Her mother’s fateful words came back to her, the meaning all too horribly clear now.

Because one day, if things go as planned, the whole world will care what you think.

Alba was to become the wife of the Lord Minister’s son.

Throughout the service, Thierry kept a hand close to her on the pew, moving it occasionally to brush her hips or legs as though he’d already claimed her for his own. He snuck sideways glances, smiling in a way that made Alba’s skin crawl. Every time his hand grazed her dress it made her want to be sick. Each time he looked at her it made her feel like screaming, like jumping up and running out of the cathedral.

Running out of her life.

Alba knew one thing for certain. There was no way on earth she was going to spend the rest of her life with this boy.

When the service ended, Oxana turned to her, a sly look in her cool blue eyes.

‘My darling, I see you have met Master Burton-Lyon,’ she said, leaning in, her voice low so Thierry couldn’t hear. ‘We’re joining him and his parents for lunch. We thought it would be a wonderful opportunity for the both of you to get to know each other better. We’re so hoping you’ll get along.’

Oxana was smiling at Alba as though Thierry was some delicious treat she couldn’t wait to give her. Her mother truly thought that Alba was going to be happy with her match.

It was so ironic Alba could laugh.

‘Mrs White.’

Thierry leant past her and stretched out a hand to her mother. He raised her fingers to his lips. ‘You are looking as beautiful as ever.’

Oxana’s smile glittered. ‘And you even handsomer than when I last saw you. You must tell me all about your recent adventures in Paris, Thierry. I do miss that city. Memory-surfing simply does not do it justice.’

She rose, Thierry standing with her. They started towards the end of the pew where crowds were moving down the centre of the hall, leaving the cathedral. Her mother glanced over her shoulder to make sure Alba was going to follow them before being swallowed up by the rush of colourful silk suits and sparkling dresses. Her father’s seat was already empty; he always left as soon as the service finished.

Alba toyed with the idea of not following them. But it was never really an option. As much as it killed her to admit it, she wouldn’t dare defy her mother in such an outright, bold way.

Though her secrets felt safe in the ink-blue shadows of the night, daylight exposed her, took her bravery away.

Brushing down her dress and swinging her coat over her shoulders, Alba followed the crowds out of St Paul’s, the thought of what Seven would make of Thierry just enough to bring a small, sad smile to her face.