The Collector

by Laura Kat Young

Genres: Dystopian; Dark Fantasy; Horror

Synopsis

A frightening dystopian horror novel in which grief is forbidden and purged from the mind

Sorrow is inefficient. It’s also inescapable.

Lieutenant Dev Singh dutifully spends his days recording the memories of people who, struck with incurable depression, will soon have their minds erased in order to be more productive members of society.

At night though, hidden in the dark, Dev remembers and writes in his secret journal the special moments shared with him—the small laugh of a toddler, the stillness of a late afternoon, the first flutter of love. But when the Bureau finds out that he has been recounting the memories—and that the depression is in him too—he is sent to a sanitarium to heal. After all, the Bureau knows what’s best for you.

A nightmarish descent from sadness to madness, The Collector is a nightmarish mix of 1984 and Never Let Me Go.

Release date: September 12, 2023

Publisher: Titan Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

ONE

That morning, Dev had breakfasted on sausages. He’d woken ravenous, his salivary glands tightening at the thought of it. He’d forgotten to eat dinner—yes, that was it—and he’d stumbled into the kitchen, groggy and still dreaming. The sausages had tasted salty, comforting. But now, sitting in his car, waiting to go inside Doris McGregor’s home, the meat churned in his belly. He swallowed his hot, thick spit down twice and tilted his head down as if he were looking at something—a map perhaps. His hands. It was only for a moment, and to anyone that had been watching it could’ve been anything. He breathed in, but it was short and rushed and unsatisfying.

Dev pulled the car visor down and looked in the small lighted mirror on its back. His throat felt tight, and he half expected to see his neck bulging, swollen and spilling over the starched fabric of his shirt. He slid his forefinger in between his sticky skin and collar. He tugged at it and then slowly placed his hands on the steering wheel, curling his fingers around the braided leather cover and squeezing until his knuckles turned white. There on his thumb were three tiny marks, little scabs from scraping against something. He dragged a fingertip over the scabs. They were fresh. It was the most curious thing.

He flipped the visor back up and looked out the side window toward Doris’s house. It was like the others on the hidden road: a detached sandstone cottage with a slate roof, and stone pillars flanking the old timber door. But unlike the other cottages on the street, whose windows gleamed and front steps were swept clean, Doris’s curtains stayed drawn. A black wreath hung on her door. There were other telltale signs that she was struck as well—an overflowing garbage can, weeds in the daffodils, a rain-soaked package that had tipped onto its side. They were things that some might easily overlook, but Dev, who had eyes trained to spot such anomalies, noticed. The Bureau had tackled blight during the early years of Mitigation, and now the streets, once rundown and dirty, were tidy; it was nearly impossible to neglect household responsibilities without someone taking note. Doris’s home looked dingy and old compared to the others. But it was to be expected.

Dev straightened his tie, his pocket square, too. Then he adjusted the delicate silver pin on his left lapel. With his thumbs and his forefingers, he reinforced the backing and made sure that the crest of the Collection Unit—a carrion crow landing in front of a setting sun—was upright and secure. When he was satisfied, he breathed in slowly through his nostrils and held the air in his lungs to the count of four. He was supposed to exhale double: four in, eight out—they taught him that in one of the trainings—but when he got to the fifth count, he let the rest of the air out through his mouth quickly, noisily, his lips flapping together in a quick drum.

He grabbed his briefcase, opened the door, and stepped out of the car onto the empty, quiet street. The early morning air was cool. The wind had shifted overnight and now blew up and over the crags, its speed carrying the scent of low tide to the small village where he lived and worked. Dev’s shoes, issued from

the Bureau, clicked on the asphalt and then the gravel drive as he approached Doris’s door. He bent to pick up the package on the edge of the stoop—it was the least he could do. The cardboard was soggy and whatever was inside small but heavy. He cradled the box in his arm, and at precisely nine in the morning he rang the bell. A muffled chime announced his presence. A moment passed and then another—perhaps she was not home, and Dev would not have to collect Doris’s donation to the Catalog. He looked at his hands again. Or maybe this was the day, the one he’d kept waiting for, kept dreading, dreaming of. Dev rang the bell a second time. The dog barked. One more ring and he’d have to go in; the collection would turn into a search and rescue. Maybe in the minutes he waited for Doris to come to the door she was swallowing the last of the pills. He tried to steel himself against the idea, but it was of no use. He had already envisioned it, a messy scene played on the backs of his eyes. He wanted to enter then, but he had to give the bell three tries. He turned his good ear toward the door and listened, counting up to twenty in his head. When he reached nineteen, he lifted his hand and at twenty rang the bell for the third and final time. From his pocket, he took a lock opener and opened it to the gauge of the door handle. He thought of Doris, of her photo in her file, and wondered if she wasn’t tucked away somewhere in a closet, a belt or a rope or even bedsheets wrapped tight around her neck.

There was a sudden movement then, a shadow behind the small, frosted window, and the heavy curtains swayed and fell still behind the glass. A dog barked. Three locks clicked, and the door opened. Doris stood there, a good two heads shorter than Dev. She held a small, white dog back with her foot. “Oh,” she said. “It’s you.”

“Yes, yes. Ms. McGregor,” Dev said loudly and put the lock opener back into his pocket. He cleared his throat and still held the small package in his left arm. “Here,” he said. “Careful. It’s a little heavy.”

Dev handed her the package gently. She took it in her old hands but did not look at it. The dog whined and its tail wagged, and Dev bent slightly to hold out his hand to the little pup. “I’m Lt. Singh, from the Collection Unit,” he said as the dog sniffed and then licked Dev’s knuckles. He stood up straight again and took his badge out of his pocket, flipping it open to reveal his photo and credentials. “You should’ve received our correspondence.”

Doris squinted at his identification and then said, “I never got anything.” 

This may or may not have been true, and Dev saw that the post box was full. “Lt. Singh, huh?”

“That’s correct,” he said, stuffing his badge back in his pocket quickly. He motioned to the post box. “May I?”

“By all means,” Doris said.

Dev pulled out the bundle of mail and flipped through each piece quickly, scanning the upper left corners for the Bureau’s crest. He found it near the middle of the stack, pulled it out, and handed it to Doris. She shifted the package to her other arm to take the piece of mail, and as she did, Dev saw the mourning band tied just above her elbow. Doris must have seen him eyeing it. “I got a right,” she said. “One year from the warning.”

“Of course you do,” Dev said gently. He smiled at her and spoke softly. “I’m sure you are aware, Ms. McGregor, that is today.”

Doris stared at him, her face still and expressionless. She blinked her eyes, glassy but not wet, and she did not reply.

“It’s the twenty-first of June, Ms. McGregor,” Dev said.

She squinted her eyes and looked down at the ground. The dog whined behind her. “Huh. So it seems,” she said. “How do you like that?”

“It’s not uncommon to forget.”

“I didn’t forget. Just didn’t realize what day it was.”

“Yes, well, in any case, it happens often. You’d be surprised.”

Doris’s eyes focused on Dev’s face as if she just noticed he was standing there. “So,” she said. “You’re the Collector. You’ve been out here? Watching me?” She pointed out the door and over his shoulder toward his car.

“Watching you? Oh, no. That’s Surveillance. I simply get the report and do the collections. You won’t see anyone else but myself, and later, the Resetters.”

“Oh, yes. That’s right—I forgot about them.”

The dog barked, a tiny yelp that could have meant anything, and Dev and Doris jumped. “Alright, alright Max,” she said and the dog wagged its tail. “He won’t do a thing,” she said. “Least he hasn’t yet.”

“I like dogs,” Dev said. “Never had one myself, though.”

“They make for good company.”

“Yes, I imagine they would.”

“Well, come on in, I suppose,” she said. “I’ll put some tea on.”

She pulled the door open all the way, and Dev entered, closing the door firmly once he was inside. She bent and put the package on the floor next to the scattered mail and newspapers still in their sleeves leaning up against the wall. Though people could be struck for any reason really, the evidence was always the same: an unkempt property, the stale air of a house sealed shut for months. Dev recognized the thick scent of sadness, and his stomach lurched. He instinctively brought

his hand to his nose, but then lowered it. He did not wish to be insulting.

As Dev followed Doris down the hall, he glanced quickly at the art and photographs hanging on the walls. There were people in some. They were smiling, heads leaning in close. Landscapes of various places and handwritten notes hung crookedly in others. The frames sloped to the left or the right, the nails holding them bent and nearly coming out of the cracked plaster. When Dev approached the end of the hall, he saw on his left through a door an unmade bed. Next to it was a nightstand littered with glasses and bottles of medication. Crumpled paper lined the floor next to the bed. He looked away, but he’d already seen it.

Doris turned right and walked through another door into the lounge, closing it as soon as Dev was through. The weather, wet and gray most of the year, found its way easily through the cracks and broken seals of the houses in the village. It was not a poor village— or, rather, no poorer than any other. Doris’s house was somewhat in disrepair both inside and out, but keeping one up took energy, desire, and Dev did not wish to judge the old woman any more than he had to already. In the lounge, large windows faced the street. Two armchairs flanked a fireplace, blackened and well used, and a television in the corner buzzed, the sound turned down low. At first glance, the room looked no different from any of the others he had been in over the last fifteen years. But Dev’s eyes were keen and he was quick to gather evidence someone else might miss. There, on the table next to the armchair closest to the window, was a half-filled jar of jelly beans sitting on top of a neatly arranged stack of glossy magazines. He went to place the rest of Doris’s mail next to them, and as he did he looked at the seat of the chair, indented as if someone had just gotten up and left the room. Though he knew the circumstances from the report, he would have been able to deduce the situation even if it was not his job. Two seats, one empty. Things around them organized as if another person would be right back.

Though Doris had mentioned tea, she did not go into the kitchen. Instead, she lowered herself slowly down into the other chair, the one closest to Dev. Once settled, she patted her lap and the dog jumped up, circling once and then twice before laying down. Dev watched Doris. He made sure to take note of her hands, knobby and buckled, and the single balled-up tissue on the table next to her.

“This shouldn’t take long, though feel free to take as long as you need,” Dev said quietly. He reached into his breast pocket and took out a small black recorder no bigger than his hand. They still did it the old way, on tape, despite the progress that society had seen. There was comfort in pressing the tiny buttons—play, record, rewind—a kind of physical finality to it all. The memories transferred to the tape, and only the tape, invisible on the thin, black material. Whenever he collected a memory, for just a moment, Dev held it all in his hands

inside his suit jacket. “I’ve just got to read you the statement from the Bureau and take your donation, and then I’ll be on my way.”

“Would you mind putting the tea on?” Doris asked.

“Oh, yes,” Dev said. “Of course, Ms. McGregor.”

He put the recorder back in his pocket and went into the kitchen. He filled the kettle with water from the faucet and turned it on. Then he opened the middle cupboard, but instead of tea, he found only one box of wheat cereal and a tipped-over jar of instant coffee. He stood the jar upright and closed the door. He opened another cupboard to find mouse droppings—just a few—lining the back edge of the shelf. While he waited for the water to come to a boil, he took a paper towel from underneath the sink, wet it, and wiped down the shelf. He straightened the items on the shelves— bottles of medication, jam jars opened and half-empty, containers of gravy granules, and a Christmas tin of cookies—and then moved to the next. Doris must have heard all the rummaging for she called from the lounge, “The tea is on the counter.”

“Ah, yes,” Dev said. “I’ve got it now.”

The water in the kettle rumbled and bubbled, and when the steam finally rose out of the spout, Dev flipped the switch to the off position. He poured the hot water slowly into a cup with a letter G on it, allowing the teabag to soak and settle to the bottom before topping it off. “Milk or sugar?” he called to Doris.

“No,” she said. “Just a splash from the bottle in the drawer below you.”

Dev pulled open the drawer and found a single unopened bottle of whiskey. He did not recognize the label nor the name, though he himself did not drink much alcohol. She’d been saving this, and for how long was anyone’s guess. He opened it and poured a small amount into the cup. Holding the string between his fingers, he bobbed the teabag up and down in the cup and watched the water darken. Then, for no reason at all, he poured just a tiny bit more of the whiskey into the cup and carried it slowly back into the lounge, careful not to spill on the cushioned linoleum on his way out of the kitchen. He held his right hand underneath the cup just in case, and when he crossed the kitchen threshold, he noticed the balled-up tissue on the small table beside Doris was gone.

Doris had placed a coaster on the table. As Dev bent to place the teacup on it, he saw that the picture on the coaster was of the Bureau’s clocktower. It was a beautiful clocktower—no one could argue otherwise, and Dev, who grew up in the Bureau’s care like the other children of Resets, had spent many days looking at it out of the Home’s window. In fact, if Dev thought hard enough,

he could hear the bells that very moment, the deep, reverberating clanging of metal against metal, a reminder that time was indeed passing even if it didn’t seem like it.

Doris leaned over and inspected her teacup, sniffing quietly the steam that rose from it. She did not look at Dev, nor motion for him to sit in the other chair, and so he remained standing. He clasped his hands together in front of his waist and twirled his thumbs softly. Around and around they went, the soft pad of his finger brushing over the nail again and again.

“Shall we get started, Ms. McGregor? They should be here shortly.”

“What do they need my donation for anyway?”

“The correspondence should’ve explained—here—” Dev walked back over to the table where Doris had placed the letter. “May I?”

Doris waved her hand in Dev’s direction. He opened the mail and unfolded the thin letter inside. He cleared his throat and read: “‘Dear Ms. McGregor. You are slated for Reset two weeks from the date of this letter. Should your condition improve within that time, we will notify you via mail. Should your condition remain or worsen, you will be assigned a Collector, who, at 9 a.m. on the date provided, shall come for collection. You may call the number below with any questions. We thank you for your support of the Bureau’s Mitigation program. We look forward to your speedy recovery.’”

Doris sat still for a moment. Then she turned her head upwards toward Dev. “Who reported me?” Doris asked quietly. “Was it Roger on the other side of us?” She leaned her head to the right. “Always nosing around. I never liked him. He got on with Gemma fine, but me… huh,” she said. “That was how it was with her though. Won everyone over in the end.”

“Actually, it was your cleaners,” Dev told her. “You brought in your wife’s clothing two months ago.”

Doris brought her hand to her mouth quickly, and her eyes fell to the floor just beyond her feet. She knitted her brow as if trying to remember doing such a thing. The dog squirmed, but did not move from her lap.

“Yes,” she said. “You’re right. I must’ve forgotten, I…”

But although her mouth remained open, she said no more. Instead, she reached for her tea and brought it to her lips. She held the cup there, not drinking or blowing to cool it. She simply sat, the ceramic edge touching her flesh, a distance in her eyes as though she were looking at something other than the carpet. Dev waited patiently for it to pass as he had been

 trained to do. Then Doris took a sip. This time the sip was not as small. She took another and another still until the cup was empty. She placed it back onto the coaster gently and looked up at Dev. “I didn’t think they’d say anything. We’d been going there for so long, I just thought…”

Dev waited until he was sure Doris was finished speaking. Then, quietly, he said, “There were other signs, too, Ms. McGregor. You’ve only left the house three times in the last four months. And the weeds—”

“I’ve got arthritis. And who cares if there are weeds?”

“Well, it’s just an indicator, Ms. McGregor. And you’re correct—just one indicator wouldn’t stand on its own, but with the other evidence… it all amounts to it.”

“The cleaners? I just can’t believe it, I really can’t,” she said and shook her head. Her brows creased, her eyes darting, trying to put the evidence together herself. But whether or not she recognized her own behaviors as problematic was of no use; whether the cleaners or the grocers or the neighbor who sat looking out the window all day long had reported her, none of it mattered.

“Not sure if you knew this, Ms. McGregor, but the Bureau added ‘preserving artifacts’ to the list. Not too long ago. Maybe that’s what did it.”

Doris did not say anything at first. Dev stood there, his feet hot in his shoes and the large hand of the clock on the wall in front of him inching toward the hour. “Well,” Doris said eventually, “I see how it might seem. You know, to others who maybe haven’t… but— Lt. Singh, does it seem like it to you? I mean  it was just a matter of respect, ...