Stitch-Up (24 page)

“What are you doing?” I glanced over.

“Hot-wiring the engine.” I heard the snip of wires.

“'Sakes! This is insane.” I kept my eyes fixed on the street

“Come on. Come on,” he growled when the engine wouldn't start.

Before long, he swung the van out into the road and accelerated.

“TDA,” he said.

“Two Dumb Assholes?”

“Sounds about right.”

“Tried Died Attempting?”

“Nah. For real. Taking and Driving Away.”

“
Boring!
” I rolled my eyes.

“Right. See how boring you find this.” He floored the accelerator pedal.

Immediately we were roller-coasting through the empty, early-morning streets. I gripped the seat, eyes half-closed as we flew over speed bumps, screeched round corners and hurtled down the centre of the road, hoovering up the white markings. An empty bottle in the back rattled from side to side. The van smelled of fags and booze. After a while, Latif slowed down.

“We don't want to get pulled,” he said in explanation. “See if there's an
A to Z
in the glove compartment, Dash. Satnav's too risky. We might be GPSed.”

“Do you think they're onto us?” I asked as I rummaged through the junk in the glove compartment, poking around until I found a pocket-sized
A to Z
wedged under an empty beer can and scrunched-up crisp packets.

“No way. They shouldn't find the security guy until Saturday evening when his shift ends. Those zero-hours guys work crazy long shifts.”

“What about the guy at the hostel? Do you think the men he described were police?”

“Nah. More like his skunk paranoia. That dude was flying. ‘Hey bruv, there was, like, a guy out there. He had feathers in his hair…'”

His dope drawl made me laugh.

All at once his tone changed. “But we'll stake your mum's house out before you make a move. Check there's no action from the feds.”

The laughter died in my throat.

When I'd found Orchard Road on the map, I handed him the
A to Z
and pointed out the coordinates. The van swerved as he checked it out.

“Got eyes on it,” he said, passing the book back.

“Euggh. I can't believe the driver keeps his socks in the glove compartment. That's so skanky.” I prodded a thick brown sock with the
A to Z
. There was something hidden inside. I removed it gingerly, took a sharp breath in. “Latif, there's a gun hidden in this sock.” I could barely say the words.

We exchanged a look.

I held it as far away from me as possible.

Latif's eyes flicked towards his rucksack.

Without saying a word, I unzipped it and slid the gun inside, next to his spray cans. Neither of us spoke; we were both too stunned by our silent agreement that a gun was necessary.

After a few minutes I asked, “Have you ever used one?”

“Of course not, bubblehead. What do you take me for? Some kind of gangster?”

He turned the music up. Conversation over.

I sat back, gripping the seat. In a couple of hours I'd be outside Maxine Taylor's house – my birth mother's home. It still felt unreal, but for some reason, knowing her name made things feel more real. It proved she wasn't a figment of my imagination. I whispered it. This action cemented my belief.

Watching the houses glide by, I pictured my mother, as she looked in the photo in my file, staring out of upstairs windows. A tingling sensation swept through my body in waves. It was so close now…

I started rehearsing possible opening lines, icebreakers. As usual, the exercise overwhelmed me. What was there to say? Everything seemed trite, stupid or too emotional. It didn't help that I was so keyed up my mind wouldn't settle. Flit, flit, flit went my thoughts. I was on edge too. I couldn't stop fidgeting. I opened the window, switched the radio station, pulled down the sun visor, checked myself in the mirror, put on lipstick, pouted, smiled, frowned. Should I wear the wig?
My frown deepened. I was tempted, but, no, this had to be the time for truth. No disguises. No fakery.

I slowly removed the wig and stuffed it into Latif's rucksack next to the gun. For a moment I was the old Dasha again – unsure of myself; it was as if the wig had given me an invincible aura. I fixed my reflection with a steely stare. Shape up. Get a grip. I combed my hair out with my fingers. I looked like a total soap-dodger. I cursed the fact that we'd had to leave the motel before I'd had time to make myself look human.

“It's mental.” I pulled a screwball face. “I'm about to meet my real mother and I feel like I'm going on a date. How weird is that?” I studied my face in the mirror. “Sheez! I've got to act natural. Be myself. Whatever that means.” I struck a few more poses. “It sounds so easy, doesn't it? Like it's a definite thing.
ME. MYSELF. I
.” I squinted at my reflection, took a deep breath. “I don't think I can go through with this, Latif.”

“Stop chirping, Dash. Picasso painted himself at the age of eighteen. It's called ‘Yo, Picasso. I am Picasso.' It's awesome. He exudes total self-belief. When you meet your mum you need to think,
Yo, Dasha
. And believe it!”

“Yo, Dasha?” I raised an eyebrow.

“That's my advice. Take it or leave it.”

I shut my eyes. Thoughts about the meeting with my mother were too huge for me to deal with right now. They pressed at the edges of my brain and made my skull ache. I cradled the top of my head, pushed the explosive mix
of feelings back down into some dark, secret place.

Bang! Next minute I was lurching forwards, the seatbelt snapped me back. Latif cursed as the van swerved into the midde of the road.

“What's going on, Latif?” I screamed. “Pull over.”

He carried on driving.

“What happened, Latif? Did you fall asleep?” I grabbed his arm. “Pull over, now.”

The van's wing mirror was shattered.

Oh no
, I thought,
seven years' bad luck
.

He slowed down. “I must've nodded off for a second. I clipped a lorry back there.” He blinked his eyes. “I'm rinsed, Dash.”

“Clipped? Hit, more like. Sheez, Latif! Talk about a lucky escape.” I did a rough calculation. “You haven't slept for about forty-five hours.” I squeezed his arm. “You need to get some sleep. We both do. I'm shattered too.” He carried on driving. “I'm serious, Latif. Pull over or you're going to kill us.”

“I hear you. I hear you,” he said. “There's a place up here where we can stop. The warriors won't mind.”

“
Warriors?”

“Eco.” He gave me a sly smile. “Don't vex, Dash.”

I rolled my eyes.

Frowning a little, he said, “You're right. We gotta be sharp for the next episode. And if you're lucky you might get to scrub up.” He sniffed the air. “Which wouldn't be such a bad thing.”

I laughed and mouthed, “My hero.”

After about ten minutes, he pulled into a derelict petrol station. Two camper vans were parked up, curtains drawn. Brightly coloured tents bubbled the forecourt. Pairs of trainers were lined up outside each tent like guard dogs. Everyone was sleeping, apart from a freckle-faced boy with purple hair, who waved us through a gap in the security fence. Banners with eco messages were tied to the mesh:
I
the planet.
Green is the new black.
THERE'S NO PLANET B.
The petrol pumps had been boxed in with hardboard, and were shaped like teepees. Murals of totem poles adorned them. A hammock hung between two petrol pumps. Grass sprouted up through the concrete. Creepers in huge blue pots climbed around the station's struts. The red
TEXACO
sign now read
TEXANO
.

We parked up, facing the exit. “In case we need to leave in a hurry,” Latif said, getting out of the van. He mooched over to the purple-haired boy, hands sunk deep into his pockets. I was glad to see he was wearing his face coverings. They chatted for a while, and from their pointing and gesturing, I guessed that they were discussing the graffiti sprayed across the boarded-up service station.

When Latif came back, he hoiked his rucksack off the seat. “I'm going to throw up a piece. Payment for our stay,” he said to my raised eyebrow. “And Jake says you can have a shower.” He pointed to the car wash.

“Seriously?” I asked, not sure what to believe. “In the…” I stopped when I saw the glint in his eyes.

“Nah. Bubblehead. They've rigged up facilities round the back. A shower and that.”

Jake came over with towel and soap, which Latif passed through the window, before heading over to the garage.

The shower room was basic. The water was cold and little more than a trickle, but I didn't care – it just felt good to wash away the grime and sweat from the chase. The smell of the chemical toilet turned my stomach.

When I came back out, Latif had finished his tag and was back in the van. This time the freedom fighter's aviators reflected a polar bear stranded on an iceberg. Underneath he'd written
ICED
.

“Iced? Like cold?” I asked as I got back into the van.

“Nah. Iced, like slang for killed. Jake wanted an eco message. He's going to look out for us while we sleep.” Latif settled back into his seat, pulling the material from his face coverings down over his eyes.

I climbed into the back of the van and straightened out the grubby blankets. They were thin and threadbare, but I could have slept anywhere. I curled up like a dog in its basket and fell asleep in minutes.

When Latif shook me awake a few hours later, I saw squares of cobalt blue sky through the van's windows. I rubbed my eyes.

“Yo, Dasha!” he said with a wink. “It's time to hit the road.”

Maxine Taylor

ORCHARD Road was a quiet, leafy street – quite possibly a nosey-parker street before the repossessions set in. Tatty, tumbledown houses lined the right-hand side of the road. A scraggy, wooded area sloped away to the left. It wasn't a no-go area yet, but I had the feeling that it was sinking fast. I counted eight trashed
For Sale
signs. Although I couldn't help thinking that the gardens, wild and unkempt, gave the street a romantic air.

Barely breathing, I pressed my nose to the window as we cruised down the street, swerving potholes and roadworks, checking out my mother's house like a couple of hit men. Eyes fastened to it, I twisted round as we drove past, not wanting to let the place out of my sight for a single second.

“Act normal, bubblehead!” Latif said. “If you know what that means.”

“This isn't a normal situation,” I protested.

“All the more reason.” I could hear exasperation in his voice.

My mother's house was, I guessed, in civilian terms, family-sized with a tidy garden. Nondescript. It was painted white with blue guttering, door, windows and trim. There was nothing special about the house – no fast cars parked up, no security. Dull and undistinguished, it didn't square
with the place I had imagined my mother would live, which would be all cottagey and clad with ivy – a kid's picture-book house.

Latif swung a U-turn at the bottom of the road and we coasted past the house again, and then up to the Station Pub on Archway Road, where we parked up. As we got out of the van, a fox, eyes burning as orange as its brush, left off scavenging through a pile of bin bags, before slinking down a muddy dog-walkers' path.

“Spies approach sideways on,” Latif said, heading after the fox.

“What's the plan?” I asked when we reached a disused railway track. I checked my watch; it was twelve-thirty.

“Stake the house out. Check there's no fed action.” His eyes scoured the shadows. “Make sure there are no uglies hanging around. You can head in when I'm sure the coast is clear.”

His use of the word
you
jolted me right back into the present. Soon I'd be entering my mother's house –
alone
.

We walked along the gritted track for about two hundred metres, before climbing up a wooded slope. We hid behind a stack of recently felled timber, a little way up from my mother's house. There was nobody about. Bluebells sprawled across the slope and a silver birch gleamed in the pearly rays of the spring sunshine. The shuttered house gave the impression of a place with secrets. I dug my nails into my palm. The trouble was, the biggest secret was standing right outside.

My nails jabbed deeper into my skin. Watching my
mother's house like a snoop ramped up my anxiety. Was it okay to turn up uninvited? Would she be pleased to see me? Would she slam the door in my face? If only things had been different, and I could have let her know…

“Psst.”

When I looked around, Latif had vanished.

“Up here.” His disembodied voice whispered from a powder-puff of blossom.

I climbed up into the cherry tree and peered out. We had a partial view of the front of the house and the alleyway next to it.