Stitch-Up

by Sophie Hamilton

  “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 a
nd 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.”

  I liked the irony of using a gift from my fake mum to fund my quest to track down my real mum. There was something deeply satisfying about the trade-off.

  Breathless

  THE sushi bar was a dive; a row of converted garages with makeshift rooms flung up one on top of the other – all higgledy-piggledy and chaotic, which gave the place the look of a favela dwelling.

  “This place never sleeps. It’s live. Open-DJ spots. Karaoke. Gambling out back.” Latif walked under a sagging awning and sat down at one of the tables. Ashtrays piled high with cigarette butts cluttered the table. A scattering of ash dusted the surface. Latif wrote his name in bubble letters with a long, elegant finger. Then he wiped it out.

  Although the bar’s metal safety shutters were pulled halfway down, a group of Japanese workers ducked under and trooped over to the bar. All were wearing uniforms.

  Night shifters, I thought.

  A few moments later, an explosion of colour whooshed from beneath the shutters as a gang of clubbers emerged, blinking. I watched them walk off down the street, chattering manically.

  “What about the police?” I looked around nervously.

  “The feds? What about them?” Latif shrugged, eyes fixed on the entry to the dead-end street, more out of habit than anxiety. “The street’s blind and the club’s off the radar.”

  “Blind?”

  “No cameras. Want a beer?” he asked, rooting around in the back pocket of his jeans for change.

  “Yes, please.”

  I slouched down into the chair. Yeah. A beer was exactly what I needed to take the edge off things. Everything about me was jittery: my mind, my hands and my nerves.

  As Latif mooched across to the vending machines, I wondered how he managed to keep so cool. Whatever. He fired a handful of coins into the slot. Zap. Zap. Zap. The rows of silver beer cans lined up in the vending machine made me think of robots preparing for battle. He drummed his fingers against the machine, but I couldn’t decipher the tune. After a few seconds he kicked the bottom when it refused to give up its booty. Two cans clattered down. He walked back over and handed me a beer. The cans gave a satisfactory pish when we eased back the ring pulls.

  Latif watched the street, shrugging off my attempts at conversation. I guessed he wanted quiet time. His vibe wasn’t doomy, though, more contemplative. Taking the hint, I scouted the cul-de-sac for CCTV. He was right about the cameras. There weren’t any. I took a long swig of beer and rotated my neck, trying to ease the tension in my shoulders. Nothing doing. I was wired.

  Inside, whacked-out staff were propping up the bar. They were watching a Japanese game show and knocking back shots of sake. Nobody in the bar showed the slightest interest in us. We could have been in a seedy back street somewhere in Tokyo – thousands of miles away from the media storm.

  A cab turned into the cul-de-sac and trundled towards us with a throaty gurgle. My stomach clenched.

  The cab slowed.

  Stopped.

  Latif drained his can, stood up and gave a mock salute.

  At the wheel sat a Japanese guy who was smiling at us. When he rolled down the window I noticed he was styled like Elvis. His quiff was immaculate. “Respect, bruv.”

  Latif leaned into the cab. “Salaam, bruv. I owe you big time.”

  They bumped fists.

  “No worries, fam. This is deep. You’ve stirred up a commotion. You’re trending worldwide on Twitter and I was like, ‘’Sakes, either he’s lost it big time or there’s more to it.’ But I know there’s always more to it when the feds are involved. Anyway, when you called, I was like, ‘Jesus walks, he’s safe.’ I picked up Yukiko and came straight over.”

  “Rah! It’s all gone crazy!” Latif said. “Nothing Baba can’t handle. Inshallah.”

  He opened the door and I climbed in.

  Inside sat a Japanese girl with vibrant splashes of vermillion pink in her hair and swooping black make-up. She was wearing a Victorian-style maid’s outfit matched with black and white striped tights and Dr Martens. The pocket of her white, crisp apron was stuffed with cosmetics and hairbrushes. I recognised the style as GothLoli, a subculture in Japan.

  “Hi, I’m Dasha,” I whispered, slightly taken aback by the flamboyance of our new allies.

  The girl stretched out a delicate hand. “Hi, I’m Yukiko. This is bonkers, innit?”

  I nodded stiffly. When we shook hands Yukiko said, “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t panic. I’m the distraction. We’ll look like crazy tourists with me in the back, innit?”

  “So that’s your excuse for hitching a ride in my road movie, Yukiko!” Latif said as he ducked into the cab. He pulled down the bucket seat and sat directly behind Ren. Once settled, he sprawled out his legs. “Starlets are so pushy these days.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world, Lats.” Yukiko kissed him on both cheeks. “Anyways, you’d better be nice to me, because I’ve got garms in here to save your skinny arse.” She patted a large sports bag, which lay at her feet.

  “You blackmailing me, Yuks?”

  “Could be.” She unzipped the bag and pulled out a scarlet piece of parachute fabric. “It’s your choice.”

  “Where to?” Ren asked. “East?” We were already hurtling down the road. “We need to ghost. There are bare loads of bully vans all over.”

  “Yeah. East.” Latif swivelled round on his seat and pushed back the plastic partition. “We’re gonna lie low while the media’s roaring.”

  “I can’t believe those muppets broadcast that photo of you posing as Elvis to grub your good name. That shot rocked, fam.” Ren kissed his knuckles and punched his fist towards a black and white photo of Elvis, which was stuck to the dashboard.

  “Believe it!” Latif poked his head through the partition.

  “How come they were on you so quickly?”

  “Facebook, I guess. Even though I deactivated my account years ago. That info’s always out there. The algorithm squad must’ve sussed it.”

  “That sucks. I guess few people tag in Arabic,” Ren said.

  “And you did that cool graffiti for the youth project in south London,” Yukiko said. “There was press about that.”

  Latif shrugged. “Has Mum spoken to Jeannie?”

  “Yeah. She stopped by the cafe as soon as the TV started blagging. Your dad’s on it already. She says keep calm. Don’t panic.” Ren laughed. “As if my main soldier’s gonna freak out.”

  “As if… Get Jeannie to tell Mum everything’s under control.”

  Control? My eyes opened wide. If this was control I’d hate to see things when they got messy. I almost said as much, but decided against it. For some reason, I sensed it would be better to let the conversation come to me rather than seek it out. It was just a feeling.

  “So what’s going on, cuz?” Ren was eyeing me with suspicion in the rear-view mirror. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “The real story?”

  “We were IDed on CCTV at Euston, and boom, an ugly started tailing us. We lost him in the hospital. The feds are on it for once. With massive help from GoldRush Image Inc…”

  “We haven’t got time for this,” Yukiko cut in brusquely. She turned to face me and said, “You’re obviously not kidnapped, so w
hat’s your game?”

  “Game?” I blinked.

  “Is this some kind of publicity stunt?” She got straight to the point. Her tone was no-nonsense “I want to know what you’re up to.” She emphasised each word, treating me like some kind of moron. “We don’t want you doing Lats over, that’s all.”

  My jaw dropped open. I glanced over at Latif, wanting backup.

  “Straight-up, guys, she’s running,” he said. “She’s got personal reasons, so back off. I know what I’m doing. It’s cool.”

  Ren and Yukiko shot each other a doubtful look.

  “No really… It’s the truth. I want out. I promise,” I flustered. The knot in my stomach had shifted to my chest and I was finding it difficult to breathe.

  “Don’t blame you. But why?” Ren’s tone was sceptical.

  I exchanged another look with Latif.

  “Tell them.” He shrugged. “Ren’s adopted. He’ll understand.”

  “What?” Ren and Yukiko chorused in unison. “You’re adopted?” Yukiko’s eyes popped wide.

  “Yes. I’m adopted.” I fidgeted in my seat, reluctant to discuss something so private with strangers, and not very friendly strangers at that. “Latif is going to help me find my birth mother. The Golds aren’t my real parents. Strictly no blood ties.” I enjoyed using my parents’ surname. It gave me distance, almost made me believe that I’d finally escaped their world. “That’s why I’m on the run.”

  “You’re joking me? You ain’t a twenty-four-carat Gold.” Ren swivelled round in his seat so he could get a better look at me. “You’re skin and bone, like the rest of us.”

  Yukiko’s eyes looked as if they might explode out of her head. “You ain’t real Gold,” she repeated, as if she’d lost the power to think for herself.

  “That’s a twist I wasn’t expecting.” Ren shook his head in disbelief. “So you ain’t got their rotten blood in your veins.”

  “Not a drop.”

  “Totally unreal.” He checked me out in the rear-view mirror again.

  “She’s bona fide, fam. Trust me!” Latif said.

  “That’s crazed.” His eyes flicked to the mirror once more.