Stitch-Up (9 page)

It was then that it hit me, and with a force that took me by surprise: Latif's help was crucial for my mission. Without him I might as well give up and go back to the Golds. I knitted my brow.

So what now?

I had to find a way to stop him dumping me.

I glanced over at him. My hopes bombed.

His face was fixed in a steely mask.

“I can't go back,” I said in a tiny voice. “Or else my life's going to get really dark.”

“Not my problem.” He shrugged. “You've picked a bad night for private adventures, Dash.”

“Fine. But you have to help me out of here. You owe me that.” I heard the sulky tone in my voice, and seeing him frown, I realised that I'd hit the wrong note.

“Like I'm going to leave you here, bubblehead. You'd probably die of fright.” His tone was gruff. “But you need to stop whining or I just might. Trust me!”

I stared at the river. I'd run out of ideas.

“Getting emotional won't work this time. As soon as we're out of here, I'm giving Mum a bell and she'll take you home.” His expression remained steely. “Accept it, Dasha. You're in too deep.”

“You think I'm a real loser, don't you?” I forced a smile, realising I had to lighten up, ditch the spoilt brat routine.

“A liability, more like.”

“Thanks a bunch!” I kept the smile blazing. On the inside I was scowling.

“Pleasure.” He took a coiled rope from his rucksack.

“Snakes alive! Since when was cluelessness a hanging offence?”

“I wish,” he said, but he was smiling again. “Tricks of the trade,” he continued with a wink. “We'll be safe down on the riverbed. It's below the radar. Off the grid.” There was a glint in his eyes.

“Radar? Grid? It's like being in a spy thriller.” I grinned. The excitement of the adventure had him in its grip again. He was back onside. Better still, being off the grid was exactly where I wanted to be right now.

“Stay still. I'm gonna rope you down.”

Latif tied one end of the rope around my waist in a simple pulley knot. I watched silently, my stomach contracting at the thought of a spot of amateur abseiling. He looped the other end around the rust-red safety railing, which ran along the top of the river wall, and said, “Walk your creepers down the side. It's easy.”

“If you say so.” I heard the wobble in my voice.

I climbed over the railings, and then, holding the bottom railing with both hands, I pressed my feet against the river wall, as if taking up position for a backstroke race. My stomach tumble-turned, and for a few seconds, I couldn't face pushing off into the darkness.

“Move it, Dash, or the tide will catch us,” Latif hissed.
“See the chains running along the wall? Use them as footholds.”

I grasped the rope and started to inch down. Although it burned my palms and cinched my waist, I carried on, desperate to prove to Latif that I wasn't a complete loser. Luckily the wall wasn't as steep as I'd anticipated, so, in a matter of seconds, the riverbed squelched beneath my trainers.

“What took you so long, bubblehead?” Latif threw his rucksack down onto the riverbed, followed by the rope. It slithered across the pebbles.

“Very funny,” I said. The rope wriggled from my belly, like an umbilical cord, and in that instant, I saw myself through Latif's eyes – helpless as a newborn baby. I untied the rope.

No wonder he wants to lose me
, I thought.

All of a sudden, I sensed the thick seaweedy air stir in the river basin and, looking up, I saw Latif swooping through the inky darkness. His body appeared fluid, elastic, but controlled – like a high diver spinning shapes. Except… Oh my God! There wasn't any water. I screwed up my eyes, hardly able to watch. He landed with a dull thud, rolled and jumped to his feet, easy as if he'd jumped off a bus.

“You scared the hell out of me,” I hissed. “What are you trying to do? Kill yourself?”

“No, you're the spare part. Remember!”

I couldn't help smiling as I handed him the tangled rope. “That was awesome! Where did you learn to do that?”

“I jump London, Dasha. No sweat. I've been doing it for years.” Latif coiled the rope lasso-style around his arm, took
his hat and keffiyeh from his rucksack, before stuffing the rope back inside.

“Like in the adverts?'”

“Yeah. Something like that.” He rolled his eyes. “Come on. The tide's on the turn. Keep close to the wall.” He set his cowboy hat low on his head and strode off into the darkness. The riverbed smelled stale and salty, like a fisherman's pocket. There wasn't a whisper of breeze. Downriver, Chelsea Bridge's reflection blazed across the water's glassy surface, like a vast cathedral of dreams.

“How long have we got?” I asked.

“An hour max.” His words drifted back, muffled by the clammy-fingered air.

We walked in silence, sidestepping Londoners' rubbish – a fridge without magnets or messages, a computer wiped of information and a headless doll. Buttons, glass, clay pipes and triangles of pottery scrunched underfoot.

The river wall shot up to the stars. We were in a secret, subterranean world, way below the sleeping city, safe for now. I searched the sky for a shooting star or some other lucky sign. But the constellations were cocooned in fuzzy orange neon. Only the big fat Michelin moon dazzled. I felt sad. Somewhere in the city my birth mother might be looking up at the same moon. Perhaps she was even thinking about me. I sighed and kicked a stone towards the water.
As if
. She'd be in bed, like the rest of London – that was if she even lived in London.

Maybe it was the silence or the full moon or thoughts of
my impossible quest, but my throat started constricting and suddenly I couldn't breathe. I clutched my throat with both hands, gulping at the night air.

Latif stopped. “Bubblehead, what's with the crazy breathing routine?” he asked, clearly exasperated. “Be easy, Dasha!” He turned on his heels and headed off.

I took a few more deep breaths before following him.

He was striding ahead now, shoulders hunched, hands sunk deep into his pockets, and, even though he was wearing workers' overalls, a cowboy hat and a keffiyeh, he looked super cool – an urban cowboy. I doubted that he'd ever had an identity crisis in his life. He just was Latif. Unique. Unconventional. Charismatic. So different from the blaggers and jetsetters I hung out with. He cared about things – the world and other stuff that mattered – which was probably why he hadn't got time for me.

“Wait!” I shouted, breaking into a run.

Latif stopped close to Chelsea Bridge.

When I reached him, he asked, “Are you okay?” His voice was gentle. It caught me off guard, and for a second, I considered telling him the whole truth – revealing my real identity, and asking him straight out for help. I studied his face in the glow cast by the lights on Chelsea Bridge. It was handsome, kind – almost serene. But his eyes glinted with cool amusement. I had to face facts. Latif thought I was a liability and wanted shot of me. He'd also made it clear that he thought the global super-rich were a complete waste of space. For that reason, I couldn't risk giving him the perfect
excuse to send me back to the Golds and pick up a huge reward into the bargain.

“Yeah, I'm fine.”

“So no more heavy-breathing routine, bubblehead,” Latif cautioned gruffly. “We're ghosts. Silent. Get me?” He kicked a soggy tennis ball into the river.

I nodded and clamped my lips shut.

The foreshore became a narrow strip down by Battersea Power Station, its white chimneystacks stretching up to the heavens. Inside, I imagined a spaced-out Moon Goddess putting silvery lips to the white funnels and sucking stardust down from the night sky, getting wasted – just as Coco and the List would be doing round about now. Crammed into The Glitz, shouting shiny-eyed lies about how good, great, fantastic their lives were, their eyes roving, desperate for stardust.

We trudged on, our progress monitored by landing cranes that stood in the river like prehistoric wading birds – past the Toxic Waste Company and its mountain of yellow containers, past Fedex, past bleak industrial units, finally stopping twenty metres upriver from a huddle of houseboats, stranded on the riverbed by the tide. They were moored to a jetty. The American embassy squatted further down the river.

Latif gestured for me to hang back in the shadows, but seeing my alarm, he said, “
Tranquilo, chica
. It's not the Yanks you have to watch out for.” He paused before adding cheekily, “It's the rats. They're king-size.”

I watched him skulk over to the boats, silent as a moon shadow. Crouching down, he removed a pair of bolt cutters from his rucksack, and started cutting through a chain that attached a small dinghy to a yellow houseboat.

More tricks of the trade
, I thought.

The water was edging closer. A rat scurried past, its tail slapping at the pebbles. I stepped back. Stones scuttled sideways. The riverbed was a scrabble of crabs. Squatting down, I studied them, amazed to find them living in the Thames.

Hearing a scraping sound, I looked up; Latif was dragging the dinghy towards me, like a funky, twenty-first-century Robinson Crusoe.

“Get in!”

He steadied the boat while I clambered aboard. He waited until I was seated before jumping in after me.

Latif rowed in silence, his brow furrowed. Every so often, he'd let out a puff of exertion. I could tell something was troubling him, but whenever I asked him if everything was okay, he shrugged me off.

The oars splashed against the water and finding their splish-splish soothing, I tipped my head back, and watched the planes gliding through the darkness at two-minute intervals, red lights blinking. Their reflections slid across the glassy surface of the river, like blips on a GPS grid. I let out a slow sigh of relief – if my parents had got their way, I'd be up there right now in their Learjet, heading for our private island in the Caribbean.

For a minute or two – out there on the river – I let myself believe that I'd slipped the moorings of my old life. But the tide was on the turn, and I could feel the swirling currents tugging at the boat, pulling it this way and that. I clasped the sides, terrified a dark, dangerous undertow might drag us under at any moment, and sweep us back downriver to GoldRush HQ. I started counting the dip and splash of the oars. Slowly my anxiety settled.

We were about halfway across the river when Latif leaned forward and asked, “Did you take photos of my tag?”

“Yeah, just one.” I took my smartphone from my pocket and was about to turn it on when he hissed urgently, “Don't, Dasha.”

I stared down at my mobile. My fingers twitched. I longed to see if the kidnap story was trending worldwide, find out who had been kidnapped for real. I hoped she was okay.

“Not now.” There was something in his voice, which made me shove my phone back into my pocket without protesting.

A siren wailed. A blue light twirled on the embankment. We were about fifty metres from the shore.

“Not a word,” he said.

I glimpsed the red letters of Dolphin Square once again.

My heart sank; I was more or less back where I had started.

So much for being on the run
, I thought.

We came ashore by Westminster Boating Base. Its rickety pier was knee-deep in water. A line of tiny, beached sailboats lay on the mud like multicoloured seals. Latif jumped out
and dragged the dinghy up onto a strip of stony ground, before helping me out. Then he pushed it back out into the river. I watched it bob and twist on the current. To our left a large blue fishing boat stood on the riverbed, its white prow towering above us, like a huge cresting wave. We walked over. There was a ladder on the river wall next to where the boat was anchored. Latif climbed up first. I followed, but the rungs were slimy, forcing me to take it slowly. Reaching the top, I held Latif's outstretched hands and stepped onto the deck. I did a double take. The boat was moored alongside an Astro Turf tennis court, which gleamed emerald in the moonlight. At one end, a pair of swans stood on the baseline, beak to beak, as if discussing tactics for a doubles match.

“Does anyone live here?” I asked, even though the boat was fenced off from the tennis compound by wire mesh. I cringed. Sometimes nerves made me ask questions to which I already knew the answers.

“Nah. Squatters did, but the feds evicted them months ago. You'll be safe here for a few nights, that's if you don't want to go home. Sleep on it. You'll probably think differently by the morning.” He turned to leave.

“No, Latif!” I grabbed his arm and said urgently, “Please don't.”

“I've told you, Dash. I'm not going back on my word. It's too complicated with a novice.” But seeing my panicked face, he relented. “Okay. I'll stay with you tonight. One night only, special offer, so you can get some kip. I'll keep watch.”

We exchanged a look, as surprised as each other by his
choice of words – keeping watch suggested some kind of war footing.

But war against what?

We let the moment pass.

It was a classic fisherman's tug, made of wood with a little wheelhouse on its prow. The door groaned open. It was warm inside and there were blankets piled up in the corner. I stared at the sailboats, bobbing off Westminster Boating Base's pier, their masts clinking and clanking. I turned the ship's wheel, my emotions spinning.

“So?” Latif said, as soon as he'd shut the door.

“So what?” I'd been dreading this question.

“What are you running from?” His turquoise eyes trapped me in their beam.

Immediately my mouth was full of marbles. “I told you I'm trying to track down my real mother. And…” My words came out thick and strange as if my tongue had been needled with anesthetic.

“And?” His gaze bored into me. “It's not my style to ask questions. Everyone's got a right to silence. But I get the feeling you're not being straight with me. You're a rubbish liar, bubblehead. So the truth, from now on – else I'm ghosting.”