Stitch-Up (14 page)

Outside, a street colonised by lap-dancing clubs and tacky bookstores. Latif ran across a busy road, dodging traffic, I followed with my heart in my mouth. Then we were hurtling down sooty-sided streets. My knees knocked together and I nearly fell. We tore into a housing estate. A moped zipped past in the twisty labyrinth of walkways. Still running but on my last legs, I trailed Latif through a graveyard marooned
between a road and railway tracks, down a flight of steps into a maze of redbrick Victorian hospital buildings, spiked with Gothic towers. Finally Latif stopped by a line of trolleys piled high with laundry bags and disappeared into an outhouse. I hesitated in the doorway. The labels on the bags read:
For incineration only
.

“Come on, Dash!” Latif said as he squeezed between gridlocked trolleys. At the far end, an incinerator glowed. The small room was sweltering. Slipping in behind a row of trolleys lined up against the back wall, I followed Latif's lead by gripping the mesh with both hands and pulling myself up so my feet were a few inches off the ground. When we heard footsteps pounding past, we exchanged a look; it confirmed what we knew already, that we'd been spotted on CCTV, which could only mean one thing –
people were watching
.

After a short while, I heard running footsteps again. They were returning.

They slowed.

Stopped.

A devil dog clamped my heart in its jaws.

They started up again. One, two, three… I guessed the goon from the station was approaching our hideout. I imagined his bulk filling the doorframe, his big slaphead ballooning up from his neck like a bubblegum blow. I held my breath. The mesh cut into my fingers. Sweat beaded my temples. Time folded in on itself. Suddenly the crash of trolleys split open the silence. A gruff voice shouted something in an Eastern European language.

Another clash of metal out-jangled my nerves.

Out of nowhere, a second voice, clipped with authority barked, “Excuse me, sir. Can I see your ID tag, please? This is medical waste. Are you authorised to be here?”

A grunt, followed by one set of footsteps retreating rapidly.

We waited until we heard the second set of footsteps heading off, before slipping out from behind the trolleys. My hands were moulded into claws from clinging to the mesh; I slowly stretched out my sore fingers.

After a few minutes we crept out and sprinted in the opposite direction.

Beyond the hospital gates, there was a drab industrial park, full of elephant-grey buildings, blowing out stale air through metal pipes. We ran in silence. Every so often I'd glance over my shoulder. Nobody, apart from a bag lady pushing a pram piled high with junk. We raced on along bleak, desolate roads towards the empty steel basket of a gas tower, its grid reminding me of a giant cat's cradle, then down onto a canal path, quiet and gloomy; a no-go area, forgotten London. The canal water was brown and stagnant. Petrol rainbows smeared the surface. Beer bottles bobbed. As I hurtled along the towpath, loose paving stones splashed filthy water over my trainers.
SLOW!
warned white lettering across the path before each low canal bridge. I sped up.

After a while, Latif stopped under a bridge, which stretched for about thirty metres along the canal. It was
gloomy and smelled of mausoleums, but the shadows offered good cover and an excellent view in both directions. Latif squatted down and, picking up a few flat stones, started skimming them one after the other. He didn't say a word, simply watched the stones bounce and skid across the water.

Placing my hands on my knees, I took a few minutes to catch my breath.

“I'm really sorry,” I said as soon as I could speak without puffing. “Making out you're a terrorist is low even for them.”

Latif remained silent. He was leaning back, knees bent, as if on a skateboard, fine-tuning his posture. As I waited for him to speak, I noticed the stone that he was holding between his thumb and fingers was smooth and brown – the same colour as his skin. And all I could think was:
Please don't dump me now
.

“So you don't think it's true.” His aquamarines fixed on me.

“What?”

“That I'm a lone wolf. That I've spent time in a terrorist training camp.”

“Are you nuts?” My laughter bounced off the water and echoed around the curve of the bridge. “My family
is
television. I know what my parents do and it's ugly. 'Sakes, Latif, they make up the news most of the time. Reality's too boring or it doesn't play right, so they spice it up. Guess what Mum's favourite phrase is? ‘Make it happen.'” I shrugged. “That's code for ‘make it up'. Right now, my parents want me back and they'll do anything to
make that happen
.”

“That dope is dirty. It sticks. I'll never clear my name now. Never.”

“Yeah. I know.” I tailed off, wishing I could think of something positive to say.

He skimmed another stone, but didn't speak.

“Look, Latif, I know you think I'm clueless, but I can identify faked CCTV footage and generic news images of a terrorist training camp. No trouble. I've spent hours in edits with Mum and Dad so I know the score. That's where they construct the lies. They don't care if they ruin lives. They don't care about anyone, except their brand.” I shrugged. “They'd probably kill for ratings.”

“Truth!” He shaped a gun with his fingers and put it to his temple. “They've sure as hell killed my rep.”

“Don't be stupid.” I squeezed his arm, desperately trying to think of something a little less lame to say.

“So you don't think gap-year jihad's my style?” There was a hint of a smile.

“Yeah! Right!” I rolled my eyes. “You spend your nights tagging Arabic graffiti. What's so sinister about that? You're cool. Different. And those headcases are using that against you.”

“We've gifted them a great story. A ratings winner. Tragedy sells, Dash. Kidnapped glob-girl. Heartbroken parents. Throw a terrorist into the mix. Boom! Suddenly it's explosive.” Latif depth-charged a rock. “They're making it up as they go along.” Our reflections shattered into a million pieces. Our faces swam back into focus bit by bit.

“But how did they connect us? In the CCTV footage they're pumping out, the girl impersonating me wasn't wearing overalls. She's in heels and carrying a handbag.” I spoke slowly, trying to work things out as I went along. “So they can't have seen recent footage of us together.”

“They've worked out we were both near the depot around the same time. They're running with that. They need a fall guy, and I'll do. Wrong time. Wrong place. Lucky me!”

“I'm so sorry,” I repeated dismally. I could picture my parents fleshing out the storyboard, working out the most sensational angle – the one that would hook viewers in. “Framing you is…” I tailed off. No word in the English language was bad enough to describe their behaviour.

“If they think you're with me they have to discredit me.”

An uneasy silence followed.

When he turned to look at me his eyes were burning with anger, which gave them a hard edge, like a newly-cut jewel. “Your parents have to explain your disappearance somehow. They can't say you've run away coz that'll make them look bad, so they've decided to fit me up. I'm half-Lebanese. I tag in Arabic.” He shrugged. “That doesn't take much spinning, doctor.” He stretched out his hand. “Lone wolf, self-starter and enemy of the state number one. Pleased to meet you.”

I didn't take his hand. I wasn't in the mood for jokes. Instead I batted his hand away and picked up a stone.

“I guess that's Dad's speciality.” I jiggled the stone in my hand. “Stitching things together. Stitching people up.” I chucked the stone into the canal. Smack! It hit the water like
a big, bold exclamation mark. THE END! “We can't even go to the police. They're
so
involved in this. They must've seen us on CCTV in the station and tipped off my parents, and that's why the goon showed up.”

“Total connectivity. Believe it!”

“Do they think I'm kidnapped?”

He shrugged. “What do you think?”

I dropped another stone into the canal and watched the ripples radiate out and vanish. This was big. And we had no one to turn to.

“Sooo.” I stretched the word out, not wanting to ask the next question. “What are we going to do now?” My question echoed around the bridge's curve. When I looked up he was taking his spray cans out of his bag. My heart jumped. His doomy expression had dissolved into a broad smile.

“We're gonna reframe the story.”

My eyes widened. “How?” I made a square with my fingers and thumbs, and viewing him through it, said, “Easier said than done.”

“Your parents want a scalp –
mine
. But they ain't going to get it. Baba will sort it, no problem.
Inshallah!
”

“Baba?”

“Dad. He'll run rings round your folks and he'll enjoy the fight. I'm gonna have to keep below the radar. Avoid getting into an arrest situation.”

He was throwing up his piece as he spoke. First up, the template of the freedom fighter. This time his Aviators reflected banks of plasma screens. Across the screens he
blasted the words:
DON'T BELIEVE THE LIES!
in Arabic and English.

When he'd finished he pulled his cheap mobile from the back pocket of his paint-spattered jeans.

“I thought you said no phones.”

“It's pay-as-you-go. Can't be traced to me.” He punched in a number.

“Who are you calling? Your dad?”

“Nah! My parents' mobiles will be slammed.” Seeing my puzzled look, he tugged his ear. “The feds will be listening in. They'll have spooks tailing Mum's cab most likely.” He put his hand up to stop my chat.

“Ren. Yeah. It's deep, fam. I need a ride. Links at the sushi, yeah?” He finished the call without saying goodbye and tossed his mobile into the canal. Clocking my expectant look, he filled in the gaps. “Ren's Jeannie's son. We've been bros for time. I'm hoping Mum's got word to Jeannie.”

He took a roll of masking tape from his rucksack. “Catch, Dash!” he said, throwing it over. I missed and as I scrambled after it, he said, “Cover up any logos on your garms. Hundred per cent the police have the info on your runners.” He winked. “De-brand or die.”

I tore off strips of masking tape with my teeth before sticking them over the Nike logos on my trainers – front, side and back. By the time I'd finished, there wasn't much trainer left.

“Won't it look weird?” I asked, as I smoothed the tape over both heels.

“Nah. This look is cool with the anti-capitalist crew. A DJ did it and now lots of people rock it.” He adjusted his face coverings, sealing himself off from the world.

I examined my feet dubiously. They looked like miniature Egyptian mummies.

“What else, Dash?” He ran an expert eye over my outfit. “Your jeans. Sort it!”

I pulled my trackie top down over the label.

Latif started walking off. “Let's creep. It helps me spin.”

“Spin?”

“Think, bubblehead!”

He set off down the canal at a brisk walk, deep in thought, past brightly painted houseboats moored up at a New Age hippy outpost, past a ragged line of ducks that took off in fright, past neglected barges.

“So you've got money and that?” he asked.

“What do you think? I'm a Gold, for Chrissakes. Why?”

“Case the going gets tough.”

“Like it hasn't already.” I bit my lip, working out the best way to broach a subject, which would definitely make things get a whole deal tougher. I dreaded a negative response.

Just say it, Dash
, I thought,
you have to know one way or the other
. But I felt uneasy.

I cleared my throat. “Are you still up for finding my real mother?” The words tumbled out in a rush.

“Don't push it, Dasha Gold.” But there was a smile in his voice.

“You're still up for it? Despite everything?”

“Yeah. You deserve better than those muppets.”

“Really?” My voice shot up an octave. “I don't want to get you in any deeper.”

“As if…” He gave me that sideways look. “It don't get much deeper than this, Dash.”

I stuck my tongue out. “But don't say I didn't warn you. Dad holds all the cards and the house always wins.”

“Yeah. But he doesn't know London like I do. The police keep clear of Crunch Town unless something serious is kicking off. They can't touch me out there.” He pretended to flick dust off his shoulder. “It's another world out east.”

My heart sank. Crunch Town was the last place on earth I wanted to go. We headed up some crumbling steps and into a rundown estate.

“So what now?” I asked, all smiles. “I've got twenty on me and my cash card.”

“That's it? I thought you were rolling in it.” He tsked. “Using an ATM's risky. Your dad's probably stopped your card. But in Crunch Town we'll have flight time.”

“Flight time?”

“Time to scarper.” His voice crackled with excitement. “So, Miss Gold, we'd better go see if we've got the Midas touch.”

He held out his hand and we bumped knuckles. Seeing my ring, he whistled and then he took hold of my hand, lifting it up so he could get a better look. An electric current shot up my arm. “Now that could get us out of trouble.” The ring was white gold with a diamond inset. “That's serious bling. It must've cost a stack.”

“Eight thousand pounds. Vulgar, innit?” I joked.

“Eight k!” He whistled. “That would sort our jaunt, no problem. Cover favours, bribes and that. You okay to flog it?” he asked as we walked through the estate.

“No. I couldn't. It has huge sentimental value for me.” I clutched the ring to my chest. “It's a present from Mummy dearest.” I eased the ring off my finger and gave it to him. “Only joking. Take it. They're blood diamonds. People died because of them. They're ugly diamonds for ugly people.”