Stitch-Up (30 page)

He slid two beers across the bar. When I pushed the fifty-pound note into his hand, he whistled, and held it up to the light to check it wasn't a fake.

My heart raced as he went over to the till and rang up my beers. I kept on smiling; fronting it was the only option.

“Who are you with?”

My heart skipped a beat. “Friends… girlfriends.” I nodded in the direction of the hen party.

“The next two are on the house.” He pressed the change into my hand with a grin.

“Thanks,” I mouthed.

“Looks like you pulled,” Latif said when I handed him his beer. He took a swig from the bottle, never once taking his eyes off the room.

I shrugged. “He's not my type.” I placed the chilled bottle against my cheek and took in the scene. Latif was standing with one hand thrust into his pocket, bobbing his head to the beat while his eyes flitted across the crowd. He was giving everyone the once-over from the shoes up. All regulation.
Genius. I took a sip of beer. My shoulders relaxed a notch. Another sip. My spine unkinked a fraction. I started bobbing my head to the music, too. Latif nodded towards an empty booth. As we walked over, I saw Latif lift a mobile from the hen party's table while the girls were celebrating a strike. As soon as we sat down in the booth he tapped 1, 2, 3, 4 in as the security code.

“What the…”

He raised his hand. “Keep watch, Dash.”

The code worked, and he quickly started texting someone on the stolen phone.

“How did you know the code?”

“Most common one by a long shot.”

In minutes, he'd finished, and was heading back over to the girls' table. As he checked to see whether our lane was free, he casually replaced the phone. No sweat.

“Mission accomplished,” he said with a wink when he returned to the booth. “We'll be out of here in thirty.”

“What? How?”

“I took the liberty of texting a friend. Sent. Deleted. Job done.”

“Who? Ren?”

“Nah. Decca. She's an old school friend.” He looked at my watch. “We're linking outside in half an hour.”

The next swig of beer was the best of my life.

He took my arm. “It's time to knock some pins.”

While Latif kept watch, I entered our names into the electronic scorer as Zac and Max, even though Latif had
told me to keep them random. I prayed my parents' names would bring us luck. I took another swig of beer and chased away the doomy images of police preparing to storm the building. The music rocked my head; pins crashed down and punters whooped madly when they got a strike, as if they'd just won a rollover lottery. Letting my eyes travel around the hall again, I understood why we were here; anyone over twenty-three – the Golds' heavies, for example – would look like relics. I checked out the punters – regulation shoes as far as the eye could see.

“Be very scared!” I picked up a yellow bowling ball, testing its weight. “I'm a professional.”

“No way!” Latif's eyes stopped roving the room. “Don't tell me you've got your own private bowling lanes.”

“Yeah. Next to the swimming pool and Dad's art collection.”

He rolled his eyes.

I sized up the pins, took four steps, the last morphing into a skip, and released the ball. Three skittles fell. My next took out four more. Watching the machine sweep away the skittles, something snapped inside me. Only a few hours earlier my dreams had been swept away uncerimonously – just like the skittles.

Latif chose a black ball and stood a little way back from the line, eyes narrowed, as if he were working out the physics of his throw. Then he took three measured steps, bending his knees on the fourth as he released the ball. He bowled a pole-straight ball. Eight skittles fell. The two remaining
skittles were an arm-stretch apart. He turned, smiling. “Damn, a split.” He hooked his next ball down the lane, but only one skittle fell. “Your turn, Dash.” Already his eyes were looking beyond me, scoping the joint.

I picked up a ball and bowled it down with force. The stabbing anger was back, shooting up from the pit of my stomach. My relationship with Maxine was history – over before it had even begun. The ball bounced into the gutter. Totally over. The second ended up in the gutter, too. I sank down onto my haunches. I hoped they weren't going to slam her in jail.

Latif stopped mid-stride. “You know the deal. When I bowl, you keep lookout.” His eyes flicked around the room.

“Sorry. Everything came flooding back…” I tailed off.

His eyes fixed me for the first time since we'd entered the bowing alley. “You okay?”

“Not really.”

“Was Maxine there?”

“Yes.”

“And she was pleased to see you?”

“Yeah. She was pleased to see me.” I laughed bitterly. “She'd done a deal with my parents. Traded me in for an appartment in Dubai and a stack of cash.” I stood up slowly.

“She traded you. Just like that? Classy!”

“No, the Golds had put pressure on her to do the deal. They'd blackmailed her.” I raised my beer bottle. “But she fought back in the end. To Maxine!” I took a swig. “Get this – they threatened to put her in prison and take her child
away…” I trailed off; my words were getting smudgy with tears.

“I'm sorry, Dash. Life's a bitch.”

“You said it!”

“And the Golds? What was their game?”

“The usual. Trying to save face. Sabotaging people's lives. Constructing a happy ending for the brand…” I screwed up my face as if I'd sucked on a lemon. “They had a camera crew there, of course.” I took another swig of beer, and even though I didn't relish going over the events, I knew I had to put Latif in the picture. Forcing myself to remember the nightmare scenario, I ran through the bare bones of my ordeal; explaining how my parents had staged and filmed the reunion so they could keep their rotten lies alive – two identikit mothers, hidden cameras and a happy family reunion. “Priceless, eh?”

“Seriously mental.”

“They said you'd sold me out.” I could feel the pain all over again. “That they'd bribed you to go along with their plans.”

“Did you believe them?” His aquamarines fixed me.

“Guilty.” I bit my lip.

“That's never going to happen, bubblehead. As if I'd take orders from those clowns. I could've walked away when you were in the house. Cut my losses. But for some insane reason, I couldn't leave you in there. If you hadn't come out, I was going to drive the bike through the conservatory window round the back. A bit James Bond for my style, but
sometimes you have to make allowances…”

He took his turn at bowling. All the skittles fell, except for one; it wobbled, but remained standing.

I knew I had to tell Latif the rest: how my parents had framed him, how he'd go to prison if they tracked him down, how bad things were for him. But as I watched the steel jaws knock over the solitary skittle, I couldn't find the words.

He must have sensed something because he asked, “That bad?”

“The truth?”

He nodded.

“Seriously bad.” I let my eyes slide around the room. “They've totally stitched you up. They rigged up the room to look like a bomb factory. Dad said you'd be sentenced for kidnapping and terrorist offences. Although he also said that you would be given a new identity after the trial. He'd arranged for you to be released on the quiet, after the storm had died down. But you'd have to live abroad.”

“What, like an exile?”

He whacked down a ball angrily. Ten men fell. A strike. He turned triumphantly, and was about to whoop when his face froze. “We've got heavies in the house. Don't panic. Bowl.”

My eyes scanned the floor for rogue footwear.

A pair of Timberlands was checking out the bar area.

Cowboy boots barged into the toilets.

Black Dr. Martens headed downstairs.

“Bowl, screwball,” Latif growled.

I went through the motions. One skittle fell. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Timberlands was questioning the barman who shrugged in a Gallic style. Meanwhile Dr. Martens was running back up the steps and Cowboy boots was slowly checking the lanes. I noticed they were scanning punters from the floor up. They were on the shoe tip, too.

“Go for it, Dash,” Latif hissed.

I started walking towards the lane unsteadily. Cowboy boots was halfway down the bowling lanes.

Control! Control!
I thought as I measured out my steps. My heart was gunning it and I could hardly breathe so that when I went to bowl, I totally mistimed my throw. I watched the ball bounce into the gutter. I couldn't bear to turn round.

A hand grabbed my shoulder.

My stomach lurched.

It was Latif. “They've gone. We need to get the hell out of here.”

“What? Now?”

“No. Keep bowling.” He picked up a ball. “No panicky moves. We'll leave at a leisurely pace.”

When we finished our frames, Latif strolled over to the counter to reclaim our trainers. His fluid gait gave no hint of tension. Heart galloping, I followed. The guy took an age. Twice he glanced over at me. I fidgeted. I'd seen him talking to the man in cowboy boots only moments earlier. For all I knew, they might have been discussing our shoe
sizes. I stared down at my glittery socks. I found it weird that so many strangers knew the smallest details of my life, details I couldn't give a rat's arse about. I did my best to look casual, but sitting there in my socks, I felt strangely exposed. In my head, we were already caught.

Tracker

OUTSIDE. Chaos. Everywhere.

Kids were gawping as if they'd walked onto the set of their favourite cop show. A frisson twitched the crowd as they jostled for a ringside view of the action, hoping for a bit of post-pub entertainment – an arrest, a drugs bust, a shoot-out, even. Parked up in the high street under the railway bridge a fleet of police vans stood empty – spooky as pirate ships.

Latif pushed a way through the boozy hangers-on gathered on the pavement outside the bowling alley. I slid in behind him, grabbing a handful of football shirt so we wouldn't get separated. He stopped a little way back from the road. I squeezed in next to him.

A policewoman was striding towards us, shouting into a megaphone: “Move along now, folks. Haven't you got homes to go to? For your own safety, please go home.”

The policewoman was looking my way. “You.” I stared down at my trainers. “Haven't you got somewhere to go?” I kept my eyes lowered. Fear mushroomed up from my stomach. Time slowed down. My heart hammered. I waited, expecting the policewoman to handcuff me at any moment and haul me over to the vans. But she'd already moved on down the line, repeating the same orders, which fell on
deaf ears. A story was unravelling, and the crowd weren't going to miss it for the world.

“What's up?” a bloke with a nose piercing asked the policewoman. “I heard that religious nut was spotted round here. Some bloke said he's got a belt of explosives and had a gun to that chick's head. Boom!”

The policewoman ignored him, repeating robotically: “Move along now, people. Time to go home.”

Suddenly there were shouts. Then policemen charged out into the high street. They formed a line and began advancing at a steady jog, shields thrust forwards. The crowd taunted them with shouts of “Filth!” while boys in hoodies chucked cans and bottles. Huddling close to Latif, I buried my head in his shirt and shut my eyes. I didn't have a good feeling about this, not at all. The stamp of boots reverberated in my ears.

Moments later, the pounding footsteps stopped.

Silence, except for the swish and rustle of protective clothing. I pictured the police taking up position. A volley of bangs rang out. The crowd cheered. I looked up quickly. A flotilla of red tail lights was disappearing up the high street. More doors slammed shut, followed by the screech of vehicles leaving at speed.

The crowd pushed forwards. Two peel-heads were shovelling a way through the crowd like a couple of digger-trucks. One was shouting into a walkie-talkie, something about “MI5”, “a motorbike”, “Hackney Marshes”. I caught words, not meaning, until the guy shouted to his mate.
“Suspects traced. All systems go. The bowling alley tip-off was a dud.”

Within minutes, the rest of the police vans tore off.

I exchanged a look with Latif, but we kept our heads down.

At least the traffic was on the move again. Cars were crawling past the bowling alley, stopping and starting as the traffic lights changed from red to green. Petrol-heads and speed freaks were honking their horns impatiently as the traffic crept forwards – making no headway. The lights changed back to red and the cars ground to a halt.

“Come on. Our ride's here,” Latif shouted over the hoots. Taking my arm, he shoved a way through the crowd, and then, stepping off the pavement into the road, we walked quickly down the waiting queue of traffic. The next thing I knew, he was opening the rear door of a clapped-out Ford, which couldn't have cost the owner much more than a fiver on eBay. He pushed me inside. A dark-haired girl was at the wheel. Latif jumped into the passenger seat, leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

“Hey Decca. Let's get the hell out of here.”

The lights remained red. The girl hammered the horn. “Jeez, Latif. What the hell's going on? I've been mad worried. Your mobile's dead. Your parents have been arrested.” She squeezed his arm. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Decent.”

The dark-haired girl was staring at me in the rear-view mirror. “You didn't say
she'd
be here.” Her look was
unfriendly. “What's the deal with her, anyway?”

I hated being talked about as if I were a piece of lost luggage. But I kept quiet. Latif could sort this. I'd only mess things up if I spoke. What's more, I really wasn't sure what the deal was…

“Dec, it's a long story. Anyway ‘she' has a name – it's Dasha.”