Stitch-Up (36 page)

“No pressure, then,” I joked.

When I took the phone I noticed my hands were shaking. I shut my eyes, took deep, measured breaths. My mind cleared. I heard Ren say: “Dasha Gold is ready to come down the line.”

“In three.” Ren held up three fingers and counted me in. I began speaking, hesitantly at first, until I found my groove.

“This is Dasha Gold. I want to put the record straight. Latif Hajjaj is innocent. He is neither a kidnapper nor a terrorist. He is my friend. He saved me…” I spoke in simple sentences, outlining the crazy chain of events starting with the train crash, right up until
Tracker
and the taxi revolt. The lies. The set-ups. The twists. How we'd been stitched up.

When I signed off I knew the cabbies and their fares would find a way to get our story out there, so by morning the facts would be in the few papers, TV channels and radio stations that my parents didn't own, as well as on the
Internet. My heart fluttered. I had finally changed the script.

“You dusted, Dash?” Latif asked.

I nodded. He squeezed my hand. “You killed it.”

“Professional job,” Yukiko said. “Ever thought of working in the media?”

Yukiko and I started giggling.

Ren was talking to radio control intently. “Okay, guys. Less gas. Next lights we pull the three-card trick.”

“Musical cabs,” was all Latif said in explanation, gripping the door handle ready for action. “Mirror me.”

When Ren pulled up at the lights, we all jumped out and ran down the queues of stationary cabs, their engines growling throatily. Cabbies wished us well as we darted through the grid, bent over double. A few bumped knuckles with Ren. We slipped into a cab a little way down the road – the only one with its
for hire
sign on. As Ren slid into the driver's seat, the cab's owner, a black guy with dreads, slapped him on the back, and said, “Stay blessed!” Then he jogged over to Ren's cab.

Even as we slammed the doors, I heard the drone of helicopters heading our way. Sirens wailed in surround sound. Blue neon pulsed the night sky.

Ren swung a U-turn. The traffic was less heavy in this direction and we picked up speed. Latif had taken up position on the bucket seat and was directing Ren. The unfilmed route, I guessed. There were fewer get-rich-quick gits patrolling the roads as we drove out of the city.

“We're heading for the front line. Turbulence ahead.
Be ready to assume the crash position,” Ren shouted.

“Doors to manual, innit?” Yukiko said, pointing at the doors. She looked like an air hostess from hell. “Your lifejackets are in the smugglehole.”

We were laughing again, high on the madness of the moment.

As we hurtled east, I noticed the streets were becoming more rundown. Functioning streetlights were few and far between. Rubbish was piled high on the pavements. Crunch Town must be close now. Boards nailed to a tree said in many languages,
We want to live not exist
.

Up ahead, police were flagging cabs down. Ren picked up speed, ignoring the policeman's frantic gestures. As we shot past, I saw the policeman reach for his gun. My heart rate maxed out. We were on the radar again. Ren made an SOS call to the wire for backup. In next to no time, cabs materialised from nowhere, forming a motorcade around us, steering us through the streets in a high-speed convoy, as if we were heads of state being whisked off to an important summit meeting.

With the law
, I thought gloomily.

Overhead the unmistakable rattle of a police helicopter. I heard it dip down low. Gunfire rang out. A terrifying ripping sound filled the cab as a bullet shot through the roof and sank deep into the passenger seat. Both Yukiko and I screamed. Ren cursed. The cab in front of us veered off the road and crashed into a lamppost, a jet of steam escaped from its crumpled bonnet. Another smashed into a parked
car, the relentless honk of its horn blasted into the night. Ren swerved to miss the pile-up. A bullet took out our wing mirror, sending a spume of glass cartwheeling into the night.

A robotic voice was instructing the taxi drivers to stop and step out of their cabs for their own safety. A moment later, a fleet of police vans hoved into view at the far end of the street. The white vans and the black cabs edged towards each other from opposite ends of the road, like pieces on a chessboard. A few moments later, more bullets hailed down, peppering the cabs up ahead. A bullet shattered our windscreen. Ren frantically punched out the shards with his bare hands.

We swung a right. A fleet of cabs followed.

A few streets later, the street lighting disappeared. Driving through the pitch-black gave the impression we'd entered a war zone. Crunch Town proper couldn't be far now. Two outriders flanked us, tearing down the pavement. Paparazzi. They reminded me of wolves running at full stretch.

We turned hard left. Halfway down the street a police checkpoint stood between our cab and Crunch Town. I recognised the shopping mall, moored in darkness, like a half-built, abandoned luxury cruiser.

“The front line,” Ren shouted. “Crash positions.”

“Go hard, Ren,” Latif shouted.

The cab surged forwards. “Don't worry, guys, these cabs are built,” Ren yelled, as the makeshift barrier rushed towards us. He accelerated even more, crouching low over the wheel. Latif assumed the crash position, his hat tipped forward. Yukiko and I clung to each other. On impact, we
shot forwards, landing on the floor in a jumble of limbs. I heard gunshots.

“Are we through?” Latif shouted. “In Crunch Town?”

“Yeah. But the feds are on us!” Ren ducked down. He tried to start the engine; the sound of a heavy smoker coughing.

Peeping out, I saw our cab had taken out the barrier, and we'd skidded to a halt in a kind of no man's land between the police barricade and the roundabout where the Crunch Town ‘soldiers' camped out. Since our last trip, the gang had fortified the sentrypoint with metal shutters scavenged from the mall's retail units. A red flag with a clenched fist at its centre fluttered in the breeze. Both sides were aiming guns in our direction.

The engine spluttered uselessly. It was beat.

“We've got to head out. Stay close.” Latif took control.

“I'm going out alone,” I said, scrambling onto the seat. “This is my mess. The police won't shoot me, and if they do –
too bad
.” I wanted to sound brave, but my voice cracked.

“Chill, Dash. No heroics. We're going out together.” Latif grabbed my arm.

Yukiko took the other. “Ready, Ren?”

“We good?” Latif offered his fist, we all touched knuckles.

Throwing open the door, Latif shouted, “We're unarmed.
Don't shoot
.”

His words were swallowed up by the helicopter's deadly chop.

Gunfire rattled.

The helicopter's searchlight lit up no man's land.

“Wait up!” I tried to hold him back. “No…!”

He slipped my grip and jumped out into the firestorm of light with his hands up.

For a second, he stood alone, silhouetted against a blowtorch sky, a cowboy at a midnight gunfight. Then Ren was by his side, his quiff flattened by the helicopter's whirlwind. I stepped out with Yukiko, holding hands.

Braced myself for bullets.

Nothing.

The Crunch Town soldiers were charging forwards, using dustbin lids and road signs as shields. They were wearing hard hats and balaclavas. The tinies were sprinting down the pavements, banging saucepan lids together. For a moment we were caught up in the melee, and then Ren and Latif were hustling us out of the road. Next minute we were running down a muddy path and scrabbling through a crawl-hole into the mall. Gunfire rang out from no man's land. The helicopter buzzed above the battle.

“Head for the rookeries, Ren,” Latif shouted.

Inside the mall, Latif took my arm as we sprinted towards the scaffolding. From the ease with which he navigated the wilderness, I knew he'd taken the route many times before in the dark. Whistles rang out from the scaffolding. Crunch Towners were commanding the ramparts. I twisted my ankle, but ran on. When we reached the scaffolding, we climbed the ladder at speed. My hands slipped on the rungs. Ren pulled the ladder up behind us while Latif spoke to a group of Crunch Towners, who told him to head to the top.
Seconds later, we were running along the gangway to the next set of ladders, Yukiko bringing up the rear, her widow's weeds flapping out behind her like monstrous bat wings. Four levels later, we stopped, puffing for breath.

The mall clanked and jangled as the gangs bashed metal poles against the scaffolding. The beat was hypnotic. There must have been hundreds of Crunch Towners in the derelict mall. As my eyes became more accustomed to the gloom, I saw hooded shapes silhouetted against the sky. Every now and again torches flashed in empty retail units or spaces occupied by families.

Suddenly the banging stopped. Whistles cut through the clash of battle coming from no man's land.

“Customs has been breached,” Latif said to Ren, as the police entered the mall.

With a rush of blades, the helicopter swept over the mall. The plastic on the scaffolding flapped, rising skywards like angry phantoms. Paper and rubbish whirled upwards. The police moved through the storm of sweet wrappers, spotlit in the helicopter's beam. They were in full riot gear – helmets, visors, shields and guns. Faceless. Flakjacketed. Bulletproofed.

A bombardment of bricks, rubble and everday objects rained down on the advancing police lines. Shadows raced along the ramparts to defend the section the police were targeting.

The police raised their shields above their heads, edging forwards like a monstrous armadillo – missiles bouncing off
its reinforced shell. Fireworks rocketed down in an explosion of colour. A petrol bomb missed the police-beast by metres. Metal poles and planks shot down like javelins. Every now and then, sorties of Crunch Town ‘soldiers' raced from the foundations to lob missiles, retreating rapidly.

The helicopter's searchlights scoped the mall. Hoodies turned their backs; their shadows rising up large and sinister on the walls of the empty units. Lasers shot up towards the helicopter's cockpit. A volley of fireworks exploded around its blades. The copter wheeled away.

Down at ground level, the police continued to edge forwards. Lasers zapped their protective shell with virulent green dots. A barked command, and the front line charged forwards. The speed with which the police were running suggested they were wearing night glasses. When they reached the scaffolding a terrible roar filled the mall.

“Boiling tar,” Latif said. “They do defence medieval style here.”

The police retreated and regrouped, preparing for a second assault. The helicopter was hovering above the mall once more, and as the police started to advance for a second time, a robotic voice ordered them to withdraw. The command from the helicopter came again and again.

The police line stopped.

Then they began walking backwards, shields held out.

For a moment I thought they might target another section of the scaffolding, but no, they were definitely pulling out.

The ramparts rang with a victory beat.

I searched the sky for news helicopters. No sign. Weird. GoldRush Media usually arrived at a newsworthy incident around the same time as the police, if not before. From the direction of the city, I heard the throb of a helicopter approaching. Minutes later, a news helicopter hovered above the mall. I checked for the GoldRush logo, heart pounding. It was a rival news team. Even weirder.

Yukiko nudged me. Reporters were scuttling across the wasteland like rats.

The helicopter's beam scoped the ramparts. We turned our backs.

News teams were setting up beneath a rain-drenched billboard – featuring the Golds. The lights showed anchors preparing to go to air. With their immaculate hair-dos and expensive suits they looked completely out of place in this desolate scene.

A producer on the ground made a sign, and the helicopter removed its clatter.

The anchorwoman started her piece-to-camera. We could just about make it out. “Thirty minutes ago the prime minister held an emergency press conference outside Downing Street in response to the breach of his security network. He believes Tarquin and Tamara Gold have overstepped the mark by hacking into Downing Street's CCTV network. The police will be asking them to present themselves at Westminster police station for questioning. However, we are receiving as yet unsubstantiated reports that the Golds have left GoldRush Towers in a helicopter.
It is believed they are planning to flee the country on their private jet. We are reporting live from Crunch Town where it is reported Dasha and her friends are hiding out after a dramatic police chase. We hope to bring you Dasha Gold's comments on the breaking news shortly.”

We exchanged looks. Eyes popped wide.

“They'll be back,” I muttered.

The helicopter's lights were searching the ramparts again. Hundreds of hoodies raised their fists in triumph. We did too, taking care to keep our heads down. Reporters were fanning out, walking towards the scaffolding. The helicopter's tannoy system demanded: “Dasha, if you're out there, we want to hear your side of the story.”

“Too late,” Latif muttered.

The helicopter's searchlight stopped, trapping us in its beam. We turned our backs, but it didn't move on. Perhaps the TV producer had picked out Yukiko's garb, Latif's hat or Ren's quiff on their megapixel camera. We weren't exactly the most inconspicuous crew.

The press rushed forwards, questions popping like champagne corks at a premiere. I only caught a few. “What do you think of the shocking news, Dasha? What about your parents fleeing the country? What's your story?”

We raised our fists in a freedom fighter's salute. The world had to see we were friends. The paparazzi's flashguns were our witness. We had claimed the story back and it felt good –
really, really good
.