The Memory Keepers

To Nicola, for making it happen

‘Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.’

Haruki Murakami

2.30 a.m., Hyde Park Estate

Seven bit back a curse as his fingers slipped on the balcony ledge. One hand lost its grip and swung free, his body smacking against the building he was scaling (completely illegally, of course). He only just managed to cling on with the other. In front of him, the wall rushed down in a hard, shining waterfall of polished white. He was only three floors up. Land on lawn from this height and you’d get away with just a few broken bones. But this house was ringed by a marble patio –

One slip and he’d be a goner.

Sucking in a deep breath, Seven grabbed the edge of the balcony with both hands again and pulled himself up. His arms were aching by now. He’d already scaled the five-metre fence to get into Hyde Park Estate, and that was
before
starting the slow climb up the side of the house, which had annoyingly tall floors.

‘Why the eff do rich people need such big houses?’ he muttered through gritted teeth. Of course, if
he
had millions of pounds to his name, he would probably buy a house twenty times the size of this one, just because he could. But that wasn’t the point.

The balcony was small, with twisted iron bars fashioned to resemble a rose bush and painted white to match the walls. Once he’d pulled himself safely up onto it, Seven crouched in the shadows. He caught his breath, pushing back the sleeves of his top and ruffling his messy black hair with one hand. He checked his worker boots were done up securely – undone laces were the downfall of many a skid-thief – with the ends of his slim blue trousers tucked in.

The glass doors which led out onto the balcony were dark, no lights on in the room beyond. Seven strained to see through the layers of net curtains drawn across the doors, but all he could make out was the shadowy depths of the room, the sense of space and height.

A few minutes passed as Seven waited.

Leaves rustled around him in the darkness. An owl hooted from somewhere nearby, and rabbits scampered in the bushes, but for the most part it was quiet. The private estate was set within the huge grounds of what had once been Hyde Park. There were only five houses scattered within. At this late hour, even the near-constant purr of traffic and building work in the city had faded away to a thick, sleepy silence.

Seven had been observing this house long enough to know its residents’ rhythms. They should all be in bed by now, including the servants. Still, you could never be one hundred per cent certain, and it was better to be safe than sorry. Seven didn’t really fancy his chances with the death penalty.

Finally confident no one was around, he took out a lock-pick from the utility belt slung round his hips. He slid it into the doors’ keyhole and eased it round in the lock.

Seven’s heart hammered. A tight, anxious feeling wound its way up his chest as he worried, like he did every time, that this wasn’t going to work, before – exhale, relief – there was the softest of clicks and the lock released.

‘Thank you, gods,’ he whispered with a grin. Not that Seven believed in any gods, of course. If there
were
any, they’d clearly forgotten to look out for him so far. But prayers were free (unlike pretty much everything else in London).

Pushing open the door, Seven slipped inside.

The first thing that hit him, as it always did, was the smell of the room. Clean air, papery and musty from the books lining the shelves, and most definitely
not
containing any of the following scents: puke, piss, shit, garbage, cigarette smoke, factory fumes, hashish, weed, or any of the million other stinks that filled the streets near his block of flats back in South.

Stretching his arms above his head to ease the knots in his muscles, Seven breathed in deep. The pungent scent of flowers filled the air. As his eyes adjusted to the moonlit darkness, he saw whole bunches of them in vases throughout the room, overflowing in clouds of pearly white. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. That was another thing he hated about rich people; they were so arrogant with their money, they threw hundreds of pounds at things that not only smelled awful, but would only die a few days later.

Creak.

A sound from the landing beyond the room. Breathless, Seven pressed back against the wall, melting into the shadows. Sweat prickled his neck. Finally, when no further sounds came from the landing, he peeled away from the wall.

‘Straight to business, then,’ he mumbled.

Seven was so used to thieving jobs he usually took his time, browsing the shelves, running his fingers up and down the spines of books. He even helped himself to food when it was left out. But tonight he couldn’t afford to go about it so casually.

This was Hyde Park Estate, the most expensive area in North.

This was the White family’s residence.

The
White
family.

This was the home of the man who handed people like him straight into the arms of Death himself, and smiled while doing it.

Moving as lightly as he could, Seven went out into the hall, which disappeared at both ends into darkness. Directly ahead was a broad, curving sweep of stairs leading down three floors to the base of a huge entrance hall. A circular window painted with intricate swirls took up most of the wall above the tall front doors. Moonlight filtered through the glass, recreating the window’s pattern across the marble floor, like a ghostly tangle of vines.

It was without doubt the grandest house Seven had ever been inside, but he wasn’t the slightest bit impressed. Scowling at the view, he turned away and headed down the hall.

The room he was looking for – the memorium – was at the back of the east wing of the house, tucked away behind a secret doorway in the least used of the family’s eight drawing rooms. Seven had learnt these details on his observation trips. Though the memorium didn’t have any windows, so he couldn’t be completely sure, he’d seen the same layout in other houses he’d stolen skids from. Plus, he’d spotted figures disappearing into the bookshelf on the far right of the room. Unless he was going mad (a possibility – it was a side effect of hunger), then that had to be where the Whites’ memorium was hidden.

There was
always
a secret doorway. After all, memories were powerful things. You didn’t want them getting into the wrong hands.

‘And guess what
these
are?’ Seven grinned, raising his hands and giving a little wave as he reached the drawing room.

He only had to scan the bookshelves lining the far wall once before spotting the edge of a doorway etched into the wood, moonlight catching on the ridge. He tiptoed over. Heart quickening as it always did in this moment – his second favourite part of a thieving job – Seven pressed his hands against the wood to one side of the shelves. For a few seconds, he hesitated. If the door was locked, he’d come all this way for nothing. But, reminding himself that Northers rarely locked their memoriums, he slid his fingers into the grooves of the hidden doorway and pushed.

It opened, its weight gently giving way under his hands.

Seven relaxed, a grin sneaking its way to his lips.

And then his stomach plummeted.

There was a light on in the room, a flickering lamp set on a desk, and the door swung wider to reveal a girl inside. Her glossy curtain of auburn hair rippled in the firelight as she turned towards him. He saw it all as though in slow motion; her pretty eyes widening, her mouth dropping open, hands balling into fists at her sides.

For some mad reason, Seven didn’t run. He could have. He might just have made it out. Instead, he was rooted to the spot. All he could do was stare stupidly at the girl, his lips still twisted in a half-grin, thinking how annoying it was that this time he wouldn’t get to experience his number one favourite moment of a skid-thieving trip –

Getting out of the house with the stolen memories, having not been caught.