“You haven’t heard?” asked Decca. Taking our silence as a negative, she continued. “They – that’s your parents, by the way, Dasha – are making a monster reality show called Tracker.”
“What, like a huge game show?” Latif asked.
“Exactly. GoldRush has networked London’s CCTV onto the web, so when Tracker goes live tonight, the public can log on and surf every street in London. Your parents are dressing it up as a deluxe Crime Watch when in reality it’s the mother of all game shows; a real-live thriller and a cop show rolled into one. There are cash prizes for sightings, and a whacking million for information that leads to Latif’s arrest. It’s a game of cat and mouse citywide. And your parents are hosting the whole jackass jamboree. GoldRush’s coverage of your story has aced every show ever made. It’s like the best real-life soap opera ever. Lost little rich girl kidnapped by dishy terrorist. Female columnists can’t get enough of you, Latif. Swoon! Swoon! They’ve seriously got the hots for you. Crazy, eh?”
“Great!” I said bitterly. My parents had upped the game. London was the set. We were the hunted. This was Big Brother for real. “And the government is okay with it?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.
“You bet! Even the PM has endorsed the show,” Decca said.
Dad had often talked about the Metropolitan Police’s CCTV network and joked about its connectivity, how he dreamed of using it for a reality crime show. That was when I remembered the trial runs in Northampton, which used the police’s CCTV cameras. My parents had been working on the idea of networking CCTV for some time. They had created a top-secret development division. Even so, networking all of London’s CCTV cameras would be a difficult trick to pull off at such short notice. But knowing Dad, he’d probably had everything in place for months – awaiting his moment. Now with my kidnap and the alleged threat of a terrorist attack, he wouldn’t have any problem getting the authorisations required at the highest level.
A chill crept up my back. I couldn’t believe my escape had given him the excuse to implement his grand plan. How ironic was that!
I pictured Dad in private meetings with the chief of police and the prime minister – how he would argue that Tracker was in the public interest, how it was the best way to find his precious daughter, that it was the only way to keep London safe from an attack. They were both so thick with my dad, so stupidly scared of him, that they wouldn’t have raised any objections, anyway.
The chill spread through my body. He had probably been pushing to implement his all-singing, all-dancing chase show from the moment he thought I’d been kidnapped.
“So how does it work?” Latif asked.
“The CCTV feeds – you know, the footage you see police monitoring in movies. Dasha’s parents have networked up to ninety-five per cent of them so when Tracker is transmitting live, anyone, anywhere can tune in, tap in a postcode and monitor their ’hood or any place else in London. That’s the idea, anyway. That’s what I understand from the trailers.”
“Yeah. That sounds about right. Dad’s been developing this concept for ages. He’s just been waiting for the right time to put it into action. It seems like I’m the excuse for his hunt ’em down show, guys. He’ll have had teams of people working on this twenty-four/seven. So when was Tracker announced?”
“This evening. That’s when they started trailing the show. You’re not going to like this, but Tracker’s going to be epic. The whole world is hooked on your story. The kidnap is all anyone’s been talking about since Dash did her vanishing act. You’re superstars. Hollywood’s bidding for the rights. Lats, you’re a legend. There are websites devoted to you.”
“Just what I’ve always wanted.” He put his feet up on the dashboard, totally gloomed out.
“Come on, you’re hotter than the hottest hottie in Hottiewood.”
“That’ll be really helpful when I’m in jail.”
“Get with the programme, Lats. I’m seeing cameras in your cell and twenty-four/seven coverage. GoldRush TV is probably working up the idea right now: you in the exercise yard, you doing pull-ups in your cell, you reading Sufi poetry in the prison library. TV gold.”
“Shut it, Decca. Sounds like you’ve signed up already.”
“Only joking,” she said with a wink.
“Don’t. I’ve had a humour bypass.”
“Everyone’s real jumpy. I mean we’ve seen your bomb factory and everything. Although I did think that was a bit much.” Decca giggled. “I can’t believe I thought you’d flipped for real.” She squeezed his arm. “God. Am I glad to see you again! The last few days have been a living nightmare.”
Latif grunted, half-smiled. “Seriously, though, Decca is there a way out?”
She turned to look at him. “You want the truth, right?” The radio was hissing and spitting. “Not that I can see.”
A pause, eerie as the silence before a bomb blast.
Latif fiddled with the tuner. He swore under his breath. The radio wheezed. He turned the dial some more. A pirate radio boomed. A phone-in. A sonata. More screeching static. A syrupy ballad. A hyped-up presenter on GoldRush Radio signed off his show by saying: “Don’t forget. Tracker goes live at midnight. Why don’t you stay up and bag yourself a million?”
I checked my watch. “That’s in an hour. Midnight’s a weird time to air a live show, isn’t it?”
“Less traffic. More chance for people to get involved,” Decca said.
Latif drummed his fingers on the dashboard. “What’s the playlist? Swerve the city? Go country? Jed would take us in. He’s sound.” None of these options were said with conviction. It was as if he were merely thinking out loud.
“I don’t reckon we’ll get out of London, if they’ve networked all the CCTV cameras,” Decca said.
“It’s way too risky,” I agreed.
“There must be blind spots.” The drumming of his fingers on the dashboard became more insistent. “It’s impossible to network all the CCTV cameras in London in under fifty hours – to make it a real slick operation. Even if they’ve bribed the feds and are piggybacking on the police’s network of cameras there must be blind spots. Believe it!” He sounded more cheerful. “The question is where?”
“Crunch Town?” I said with unusual enthusiasm.
“There’s a ring of steel around Crunch Town,” Decca said. “The police are stopping people getting in and out.”
“Another junk space, then?” Latif said grimly.
“I think we should go back to mine. Log onto the Tracker site and see if we can find a safe route out of town to…” Decca tailed off.
“To where?” I whispered. My question hung in the air.
“If only Dad wasn’t banged up.” Latif rapped his forehead with his knuckles. “There must be someone out there who isn’t in your parents’ pockets, Dash. Who’s brave enough to speak out?”
I pictured the guests arriving at GoldRush Image Inc’s NewYear’s party and shook my head miserably. “Nope. He’s got most of them sewn up.”
“In more ways than one. And the rest are too scared to speak out or stand up to him.” Latif was trawling the airwaves again. “Don’t depress me. I need to think.”
“It’s an outrage!” The words floated out of the aural snowstorm like bright orange lifeboats. Latif slid the dial on the radio a fraction. A dissenting voice? I held my breath; scared I might waft the words back into the staticky squall. I thought I heard the words ‘human rights’. Then, clear as a bell, a female voice cut through the static. “Tracker is a fiasco for human rights. An absolute outrage.”
“Freedom Radio!” Latif punched the air. “Dad had his own show on Freedom a few years back.” A slow smile spread across his face. “That’s Chitra Azmi. She heads up Freedom. She knows Dad. She was born to kick ass.”
“Do you reckon she could help us get our story out there?” But even as I spoke, I knew my plan was a non-starter. Dad would have the station blocked as soon as it started broadcasting the truth. Freedom Radio was a med
ia minnow. Dad would eat Chitra Azmi for breakfast.
“I wish. There are probably about three people listening.” He held up three fingers. “Us.”
“Great!” I growled.
“But it’s good to know there are still a few sane people out there,” Decca said.
“Silence, chicas.” Latif held his hand up. “We’ve got some thinking to do.”
I watched the city slide by. Despite the late hour, lights were burning in most houses. I pictured people settling down to watch Tracker on TV, or hunched over computers – each and every one of them dreaming of becoming a millionaire by morning. I drummed my fingers against the window. I couldn’t hack the silence. Without conversation to distract me, black thoughts had taken control again. Bitching. Scaremongering. Shouting the odds. I blew on the window with misty breath, drew a hangman, smudged it out.
Up ahead, GoldRush Towers loomed like two massive fingers flicking a V sign at us. I knew that Dad held all the cards. Anyone that mattered was on his side.
“What? You’ve sold me out?” Latif’s angry words jumped me back to reality.
“I’m sorry. I need the money for my college fees.”
Decca might as well have lobbed a hand grenade onto the back seat of the car. Silence. I imagined the fuse burning, waiting for the blast.
After a few seconds, Latif said, “Yeah right. Nice one, Dex.”
“I’ve been told to take you straight to GoldRush Towers.” Her voice was emotionless.
“Come on, Decca, cut the crap. I’m not in the mood.”
Above a helicopter was dipping down low.
“That’s the police.” Decca’s voice was deadpan.
“This better be a joke, right?” Latif kicked the dashboard. I slid across the backseat and squeezed the door handle, ready to jump.
Peals of laughter. The glint in Decca’s eyes was back. “Just kidding around. Honestly, you two were being so glum I thought I’d liven things up. You can’t problem-solve when you’re gloomy – your brain slows down. FACT!”
“Jesus, Dex,” Latif growled. “Don’t be funny all your life.”
“Give us a break, guys. Did you really think Dex would give up her midnight runners?”
We all laughed. Laughter helped. We relaxed a little.
“Okay, guys. We’re here.”
Ghosts in the Machine
LATIF and Decca were messing around; arm in arm, stumbling as if they’d had a few too many beers. I knew they were pretending for the CCTV cameras, on the off chance that Tracker was up and running, but when I tried to follow suit, I became camera shy. Even though Tracker was scheduled to start at midnight, I couldn’t shake the idea that wannabe millionaires could be tapping in postcodes and searching London streets on their smartphones and computers. I imagined Pimlico residents spying on their streets, like neighbourhood snoops. I tensed up even more.
The other two had stopped outside a rundown house at the far end of the street that we’d parked up in. A lopsided sign read PimPlico Arts. Someone had added the extra bright pink P with a spray can. In other circumstances I might’ve laughed, but right now I was too busy trying to calm my escalating panic. I took a deep breath.
Keep cool! One foot in front of the other… each step felt as ungainly as an astronaut’s on the moon.
By the time I reached the house, Latif and Decca were already inside. The house throbbed to a techno beat. I crept in. A room scattered with found objects – a weather vane, driftwood and black railings hung about with string. Canvases were propped haphazardly along one wall. The only furniture was a saggy sofa draped with tie-dye throws. A clay obelisk stood in one corner surrounded by scrunched-up beer cans. A kiln stood in the opposite corner, large-mouthed and hungry.
Despite the raging techno, Decca placed her finger to her lips before heading into the hallway and up the stairs. We tiptoed after her.
Decca’s bedroom was crammed with canvases, too. Pages pulled from newspapers from the last few days were stuck across one wall. I stopped dead – creeped out, stunned, as if I’d stepped into a stalker’s lair. The cuttings shared one common feature – yours truly. Weirdest of all, a freshly finished oil painting stood on an easel in the middle of the room. My face filled the canvas. Bathed in light from the paparazzi flashbulbs at some premiere or other, there was something spooked-out, otherwordly about it.
“I look like a ghost.” I moved closer. “This is insane.” I fixed Decca with a curious look. “Why would you want to paint me?”
“Because you’re a superstar, doll. Live with it!” Decca switched on her laptop. “I chose that shot because you look lost. Disconnected. Haunted. Like the others.” She gestured around the room.
“Wow,” I whispered, barely moving my lips.
The other canvasses showed women with sad faces transfixed by TV; each held a remote, which they pointed at loved ones – kids, husbands, lovers – as if they desperately wanted to turn off their demands.
Latif walked over to a mirror propped up on a chest of drawers. There were twenty or so beer mats tucked into its frame. Each mat pictured Latif wrapped up bandit style. Bloodthirsty capitals bellowed: WANTED! DEAD OR ALIVE, like a poster from a cheesy old Western.
“Suppose that’s every geezer’s idea of fame,” he said, staring at them, hands thrust deep into his pockets. His eyes appeared grey in the mirror. A flash. He winced. “Cut it out, Dex! I’ve had enough of photos for a lifetime.”
“Hey, Lats. It’s my pension plan.” She took another. “Have a heart.”
The music stopped. We exchanged a look. In the ensuing silence my heart banged out the techno beat. Upstairs a door opened.
“Hey Decca, you wanna come up and play Tracker? It’s going to be wild.”
Footsteps descending.
Decca scooted across the room, opened the door and stuck her head out. “Hey Ralph, how’s it going?”
“I’m about to do some tracking. Wanna join me?” His voice had a nails-on-blackboard quality about it.
Decca stepped out into the corridor, closing the door behind her. “Are you mad? Latif’s our mate, for God’s sake.”
“Your mate – and I’m broke.”
“’Sakes, Ralph. Since when has it been okay to hunt people down on TV? What’s wrong with you and the whole freakin’ world? You’re all sick in the head. Anyway, I’ve got to finish a canvas for college.”
“Suit yourself.”
Footsteps retreating.
“Night.” She rolled her eyes as she shut the door. “Loser. Home alone as usual.”
Latif turned on the television and started channel-hopping, transfixed like the women in Decca’s paintings. He stopped when he saw a title sequence showing two kids in silhouette viewed through telescopic gun sights. Thriller music blared as the title Tracker spun into view.
“This is it,” he murmured.
My parents were sitting in a studio on an orange sofa. Two massive photos of Latif and me provided the backdrop. Superimposed across the images were the words – Beauty and the Beast. Video jockeys dressed in white boiler suits stood at mixing desks with rows and rows of controls, twiddling knobs. They were cutting together visuals of London landmarks, streetscapes, police snatch squads and gangs of bounty hunters captured from London’s network of CCTV cameras. The video jockeys were projecting the images onto huge screens, synching the montages to spooky electronic audio.
A drum roll hushed the audience.
“Welcome to Tracker,” Dad announced solemnly. “Tonight we are showcasing a new tracking system, which allows you – the public – to play detective. We are relying on you to bring Latif Hajjaj to justice. You are our eyes.” He stood up and walked towards the audience. He was holding a silver-tipped cane, which he was twirling like a bandmaster. Then, silver-haired and silver-tongued, he set about seducing the viewers with a silky preamble.
It was pretty much as we’d predicted. The Golds had networked all the police CCTV cameras, as well as those belonging to private compani
es, covering a vast area from central London right the way out to the M25. Through networking the cameras, this cutting-edge technology could bring London’s A to Z of streets into everybody’s homes, and allowed anyone with a computer, tablet or smartphone to log on, tap in a postcode and monitor every street in London, more or less.
His slick sales pitch was persuasive. He explained how this game-changing technology was a force for good in society, how it would keep London’s streets safe and crime-free. Not just tonight, but every night, and every day too. “Just imagine if you could check your kid was safe as she walked to school or monitor Granny when she totters to the shops. This technology will be vital both in times of national crisis and as we go about our day-to-day lives.”
He ended with a call to arms: “So log on. Get tracking. Time is running out for Dasha. Dasha needs you.” Lies came easily to him, as toxic as the poison that his teams of surgeons injected into celebrity faces. “Together we must make sure Latif Hajjaj has nowhere to hide. Spin through Tracker’s street-finder app, pick a street and pray you strike lucky.”
He started reeling off names of London streets at top speed, as if he were calling bingo numbers. He pointed his silver-topped cane into the audience. “Pick a street, any street.” The studio audience yelled out hundreds of names. “You, the woman in red… Rupert Street, you say? How can we recognise it? By the Duke of York pub?”
Zap! The VJs conjured up the street in nanoseconds. “Where do you live?” he asked a woman wearing a twinset. They switched to the cameras in her street. She squealed when she saw her son and daughter rush to the window and wave. “All you need to access Tracker is a smartphone, tablet or a computer. Log in, and you will have London at your fingertips.”
Dressed in black, my parents were like two poisonous spiders, sitting at the centre of an invisible web, waiting for us to fly into one of its invisible strands.
Stitch-Up Page 24
