Stitch-Up

by Sophie Hamilton

  “Braniac!” I hissed, then repeated it louder, to make sure he could hear me above the wailers. “This place is heaving with weirdos. I want out of here, okay?”

  “See you, then.” Latif carried on staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the maelstrom of activity front of house. I followed his gaze, trying to second-guess him. Perhaps he was waiting for this ambassador character he’d mentioned on the phone back in Crunch Town. Perhaps he was a friend of Latif’s dad.

  Glossy women with shiny manes posed with stick-insect arms resting on hips as they popped fake smiles for the cameras. Valets snapped open limo doors, fussing over celebrity diners as they helped them out, before whisking their cars down into the restaurant’s underground car park. A half-moon of paparazzi shouted, “Over here, love,” whenever female flesh tottered from a limo.

  I grimaced, remembering nights at High Table, how Dad would slyly check out the punters, and say, “Full of faces tonight. Gorgeous now. With a little help from the maestro.” He’d wink and crunch his knuckles like a cartoon villain.

  A shout went up. The weirdos surged forwards. The paparazzi raised their cameras and took aim. Leggy girls from a soap opera were giggling and flashing their perma-tan thighs. Latif gave a piercing wolf whistle. I shot him a look as if to say: “Have you gone completely nuts?”

  But he simply said, “Hold that sound. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” He shoved his rucksack into my hands and disappeared into the crowd.

  I stood there bereft, close to tears, only half listening to the paparazzi cries of: “This way, darling!” “Smile for Daddy!” and “More leg, sweetheart!” I was feeling so strung out, I hardly registered a black stretch with tinted windows glide up to the restaurant, until suddenly all was shouting and noise. An explosion of flashes engulfed the Golds. They dazzled. Exquisitely turned out, they stood motionless for a few minutes, glassy-eyed, soaking up the flashes like vampires sucking up blood, recharging their sense of self and satisfying their fame fix. Then, feeling alive once again, they struck poses and sparkled. A tear glittered in the corner of my mother’s eye – a crocodile tear to match her handbag.

  I moved closer. I had to hear her every lying word. Years as a chat-show presenter ensured my mother’s delivery was perfectly pitched. Clear and crisp, so she would be heard above the wailing harpies, but quavery, too, so her words would tug at heartstrings.

  “She’s our princess. Our angel. Our life. Without her we are nothing. So please, please, if anyone has any information pick up the phone.” She made a phone gesture with diamond-encrusted fingers. “Do the right thing. Make our family whole again. We believe in you – the public.” She stretched out her arms to the sobbing women. “You are our only hope. And we choose hope over fear.”

  Her soap-opera delivery triggered a low, mournful sound from the women. Some sobbed as if they’d lost their own child. When she’d finished, she wiped away a shimmering tear from her cheek. There was no denying she was a good actress. My father was scouring the crowd. I slid behind a tall woman in an extravagant hat and looked down at the pavement. Despite my blond wig, I felt exposed. Dad was good with faces.

  A cheer went up. My parents were on the move. They posed for one more set of photos in the foyer before the maître d’ whisked them upstairs to their usual seat.

  Swept up in the tsunami of celebrity, the staff hurried to restore normality. They ferried away the flowers, candles and oriental blankets that had made up the sumptuous backdrop for the Golds’ ‘impromptu’ press conference. Meanwhile the paparazzi rushed back to their SUVs where they started uploading photos onto their laptops, emailing them across to picture desks in a desperate race to secure a media splash. Horns were sounding from further down the street. Engines revved impatiently. Self-important people, unaccustomed to waiting, were demanding immediate attention. A valet stepped onto the red carpet and whistled for the next car in line. Something familiar about the sound made me look up, double take. Latif? Despite the slicked-back hair, which gave him the appearance of a Middle Eastern Elvis, and the maroon valet uniform, which gave him the look of an air steward, there was no mistaking him. Latif was standing front of house, beckoning on the next car in line.

  A steel grey Mercedes with blacked-out windows smooched up. Slick-quick, Latif opened the door and gave a shallow bow. Out stepped a grey fox wearing an impeccable suit and a smart-arse smile. The Italian ambassador –a total sleazeball.

  Not so smart now, I thought, when he handed Latif his keys. Moments later, Latif was behind the wheel.

  Skirting the crowd, I watched Latif drive the car down into the garage and shoot out the other side. I scooted after him; the red tail lights guided me for a few seconds, and then he swung a left and he was gone. Brainsnap. Where had he said to meet? Had he? No, he hadn’t. I sped up. Then, remembering Latif’s rules, I reined myself back; terrified I’d already drawn attention to myself.

  Don’t blow it. Don’t blow it, I thought, turning left into the street and scouring its length for the silver car. No sign of it. It was like he’d performed another vanishing trick. Keeping my eyes fixed in front of me, I carried on down the road. The end of the street loomed. Still no sign. Then I saw the Merc tucked behind a black Range Rover; it gleamed in the moonlight. It was all I could do to stop myself from breaking into a run, but I checked the impulse. When I reached the car I tapped on the tinted window. It zizzed down slowly. For an instant, I imagined eyeballing a mafia heavy. Instead I was greeted by Latif’s crooked smile.

  “The ambassador sends his compliments…” He jerked his thumb toward the rear seats. “You’d better take the back. I’m your chauffeur for tonight. Next stop FuturePerfect, milady.”

  Sliding onto the back seat, I inhaled the familiar smell of expensive leather upholstery. Latif pulled away from the kerb and we shot off down the road. The borrowed uniform lay discarded at my feet.

  “What the…?” I laughed, giddy with excitement.

  “This boss motor is a diplomat’s car.” Latif stroked the dashboard. “D plates give us top-notch immunity. The feds can’t touch us. But you know all about that, don’t you, milady?” Seeing me frown, he laughed. “Smile, Miss Gold, we have the perfect getaway car.”

  “Can’t they track it?”

  “Not tonight. The ambassador was using it for pleasure, and that’s strictly against the rules, especially without a driver. He’s switched the GPS tracker off so we’re off the radar until he realises his car’s gone MIA. That gives us three or four hours’ head start.” He grinned. “Dash it all, Dasha. I think we’ve only gorn and done it again,” he said in an upper-crusty voice.

  I smiled and slid down in my seat. A getaway car just like in the movies. Green Park slid by on one side, jazzy hotels on the other. I snuggled into the soft leather seat as we whooshed through London, finally on our way to the sci-fi-sounding FuturePerfect. I wound down the window and watched the houses flick past. I imagined London mapped out like a Monopoly Board: Green Park, Baker Street and Park Lane. Collect two hundred pounds when you pass go. The tang of petrol filled my nostrils.

  “So? How did you pull that off?” I asked, high on car fumes and escape.

  “My friend works as a valet. He’s told tales of the Italian ambassador and his nocturnal habits.”

  “Yeah. Dad knows him. He creeps me out. He’s always hitting on women. He even tried it on with some of my friends.”

  “The sleazeball’s in there most nights with an assortment of chicks on his arm. Never his wife. We always joked that his car would make a smart getaway car. And here we are.” He thumped the steering wheel. “I made Hassan an offer he couldn’t refuse: two hundred pounds for his skanky uniform. Another two hundred if he zips it.” He mimed a zip across his lips.

  “You were robbed,” I joked. Then I asked more seriously, “Has he seen the news?” I clamped my lips together, but couldn’t stop myself from blurting out, “He won’t tip the police off, will he?”

  “Nah. We go way back. Some of
us have real friends, Dash. Not just airheads and flunkies.” Seeing me frown, he added, “We’ve got wheels. That’s all that matters.” He turned on the radio and fiddled with the tuner until he found a station playing back-to-back mash-ups. “Sit tight, chica. We’re gonna mash it up, pirate style.”

  The oncoming headlights dazzled me. I pictured my parents’ phoney faces illuminated by the paparazzi flashbulbs. I shivered.

  “Mum’s tears creeped me out. Not bad for a vampire, huh?”

  “Yeah. The Golds are good. I’ll give them that. Professional blag artists. The whole world believes they actually care.”

  “Once upon a time our ickle, lickle princess was kidnapped.” I mimicked my mother’s TV voice. “She’s our world. Our angel. All we want is our golden girl back.” Anger sharpened my delivery. “That’s why we’ve set our goons onto her. That’s why we’re hunting her down like a dog. That’s why we’ll knife her when we get our hands on her. That’s why we want to make her into someone else. Chop. Chop. Chop.”

  “Girl, that’s one virtuoso impersonation.”

  “Years of practice.” I leaned forwards and turned the music up. “I don’t want to think about those freaks any more. I hate them. They’re history.”

  We swooped up onto a motorway. Danger Mouse’s ‘Encore’ pumped up loud. I glanced over at the speedometer and seeing the needle was hovering at 80 miles per hour, shouted, “Won’t we get stopped?”

  “Nah. I told you: diplomatic immunity. We’d be arrested if we didn’t bash the speed limit.” He floored the accelerator and the car purred towards 100 miles per hour. “Shame I haven’t got a test,” he shouted.

  “But…” I made a gesture with my hands as if to say, “But you’re driving.”

  “Joyride only. Speed’s my thing.” He laughed. “Don’t freak, chica. I’ve been driving Mum’s cab off-road since I was old enough to reach the pedals.”

  I settled back into the luxurious leather seats. So here I was in a stolen diplomat’s car, being chauffeured by a speed freak without a licence. So what? I shrugged inwardly. In the twisted scheme of the Golds’ universe this wasn’t such a big deal.

  Nodding my head to the music, I studied Latif. He must have felt my eyes on him because I saw him flash one of his sideways smiles in the rear-view mirror. Something melted inside. And as we flew into the darkness, I felt happier than I’d ever felt before. I wished we could keep driving into the night for ever. But unease crept back.

  My eyes lasered the darkness. Since being on the run, the helter-skelter heart-race of the chase had swept me along so completely that I hadn’t had time to think things through. I pressed my hand against the cool window glass, as if reaching out to touch a ghost. Hopefully I would meet my birth mother soon. I still couldn’t quite believe it.

  A quiver of what ifs shot straight into my heart. What if she acted like a stranger? What if we had nothing to say to each other? What if we hated each other on sight? What if we didn’t have an instant bond?

  I shook my head and shooed these thoughts away.

  My mother had come to find me. I must hold onto that thought.

  We were driving along country lanes now. Catseyes spangled a gleaming path. A lush canopy of bright spring green leaves blocked out the stars.

  “We’re here,” Latif said.

  I glanced at the car clock. It was almost midnight.

  With the engine off, the car was a dark hushed space. He parked up on a grass verge about one hundred metres up from an imposing spiked gate. Behind it, a large house loomed. Dark and unfriendly-looking, it made me think of a Victorian loony bin. A high perimeter wall snaked around the grounds.

  As Latif put on a pair of leather gloves, he said, “I’m going in over the wall.” I reached to open the door; he leaned back and placed his gloved hand on my wrist. “I’m going in alone.” When I started to protest, he shrugged. “You can’t come, bubblehead.” His voice was firm. “It’s way too risky.”

  I fronted cool. On the inside I was fuming. It was my story. My mother. My life.

  I focused my thoughts; I had to tell him how I felt. But by the time I’d ordered my words, he’d already slipped on a pollution mask, wrapped his scarf around his head and was halfway out the door. As an afterthought, he poked his head back into the car and said, “Don’t chat up any locals.” And with that he was gone.

  As I watched the darkness engulf him, I was overwhelmed by an urge to run after him. I took deep breaths. Be brave. I clicked on the central locking system. Be brave. I ducked down as oncoming headlights razored the darkness, strafing the inside of the car. Be brave. Terrified, I sank down onto the backseat.

  Moments later, tap, tap, tap. Then I saw a silhouette outside the blacked-out window.

  I froze.

  Tap, Tap. Tap.

  I slid down to the floor.

  “It’s only me, Dash!”

  I melted. Waves of relief swept through me as I switched off the central locking system with trembling fingers and opened the door. A rush of country air, clean and tangy, caught in my throat.

  He slid in, started the car and said, “We need to hide the motor.”

  He drove along the road to a field. I guessed he must have checked it out already because the gate was open. The wheels sank deep into the grass when we drove in. He parked up behind the hedge and cut the engine and the headlights.

  Before he had a chance to cold-shoulder me, I said, “I’m coming with you, Latif. This is my life!”

  Without waiting for a reply, I jumped out of the car, slamming the door on him.

  He got out slowly. Then he rested his elbows on the car roof and stared at me. He took a few minutes before he spoke. “I’d be breaking all the rules, bubblehead, but I guess it’s your identity we’re chasing.” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe he’d broken his number-one rule. Don’t burden yourself with losers. “But if we get caught, you’re on your own. Believe it!” But his voice had a smile in it.

  “Very funny.” I stuck my tongue out.

  “You’re in luck.” He was already loping across the muddy field. “I’ve scouted a tree for beginners, dim-bulb.”

  I smiled, although I didn’t believe him.

  Identity Theft

  LATIF shone his torch along the perimeter wall. Coils of barbed wire ran along the top, glinting like sharks’ teeth in its beam. Watching the light skid back and forth, I began to wish I’d stayed in the car. He handed me the head torch and I strapped it on. We walked over to a stout, gnarled, old oak tree. I ran my hands across the rough bark, searching for holds.

  “Action, bubblehead.” He shone his torch into my face. “We’re not at a village fete.”

  “Okay. Okay.” I muttered. “I was just…”

  “Hands there…” He spotlit the grabholds. I looked up at the tree, its branches stretching up to the stars. There had to be a way. Next thing I knew, Latif was shunting me up so I could reach the hold. The bark was chunky and strong like oversized Lego pieces; it gave me good grip. Then, with Latif pointing out grabholds and guiding my feet into footholds, I clambered into the tree’s fork. Latif climbed up after me in seconds. Once in the fork he tested the strength of the branches. They stretched over the wall.

  He went first, walking along the branch swiftly and gracefully, arms out, as if on a high wire. A second later, he swung down, landing on the grass with a light thud. No sweat.

  He whistled.

  The sound I’d been dreading. It was my turn to walk the plank.

  Edging forwards, a vertigo-tingle hypersensitised my feet, connecting me to the branch, as if by a magnetic force. Below, barbed wire coils rose and fell in steely waves. I inched forwards, gripping hold of branches for support. Baby steps.

  An owl hooted. I froze.

  “I can’t do this, Latif,” I whispered.

  The branch swayed a little beneath my feet. Quivers shot up my legs. My knees were caving in. I glanced over my shoulder. The fork was metres away. No way back.
>
  “Jump, Dash.” He stretched his arms up. “I’ll catch you.”

  I crouched down slowly, keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead, until I was sitting astride the branch. The tingling sensation sizzled my fingers and toes. The grass was a long way down. Latif looked spindly, like a stickman. I shut my eyes. I lifted my leg over the branch and lowered myself down.

  I dangled in space.

  Vertigo whizzing.

  The sweat on my hands slipped my grip.

  “I’ve got you!” he hissed.

  Not exactly, I thought, looking down at his outstretched arms. They looked light years away. My grip was giving way millimetre by millimetre.

  “It’s all about trust, Dash. Let go. Trust me!”

  I fell into his arms.

  We tumbled to the ground. The grass was wet. His cheek was warm against mine. His arms closed around me. He smelled musky. I moved closer, sucking up his body heat. Straightaway, he unhooked himself from my clasp and stood up. The cold from the earth seeped into my body.

  “See?” He pulled me to my feet. “You need to trust me, Dasha Gold.”

  “I do,” I whispered.

  But he was already on the move.

  I switched off the head torch before chasing after him.

  We kept to the shadows, avoiding the moon-drenched lawns. A twig cracked underfoot. My brain snapped back into the moment. I focused on the house. There was a single light on in a downstairs window, which gave the house the look of a guard dog snoozing with one eye open.

  We crept closer. The watchman, a heavy-set guy with craggy features, was sitting at a table in the lit room, hunched over a Pot Noodle. I took his slouched body language to be a good sign. His shoes lay discarded under the table. His socks were odd colours. He looked like he’d settled down for the evening. Latif gave me the thumbs up and we retreated behind a yew bush.

  “He’s in kickback mode,” Latif whispered. “It’s just a matter of time.”