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.
“What did I tell you, Dash?” Latif gave me that crooked smile as he tipped up the brim of his cowboy hat. “The house doesn’t always win!”
“Against the odds!” I flashed him a huge smile.
The paparazzi cameras exploded.
His Aviators reflected a million starbursts.
My heart exploded with them.
“We smashed it, Dash.”
“Yeah. I can’t believe it!”
“Believe it.” He squeezed my hand.
“I do,” I whispered. “And now we need to tell the world.”
“It’ll be truth for a day, Dash. Truth is a slippery thing. It don’t stick.”
I frowned, desperate to put the record straight. I wanted to clear Latif’s name for starters. But Latif was no longer at my side; he had already slid back into the shadows.
He put his finger to his lip.
Yukiko and I lingered in the limelight. I cleared my throat, opened my mouth to speak. Stopped. Below, my parents’ world was pressing in on me. But they hadn’t wanted our side of the story when it mattered. The cabbies had the scoop. They’d get it out there. I turned my back on the media.
Latif stretched out his hand as I walked towards him.
“Safe,” he said, putting his arm around me as we followed Ren and Yukiko along the ramparts in the direction of Crunch Town.
Acknowledgements
I am deeply grateful to:
Laetitia Rutherford, my agent, for her encouragement, patience and invaluable advice. Mulcahy Associates for their support, and Joanna Moult for her editorial comments on early drafts.
Templar Publishing for making Stitch-Up a reality, especially Helen Boyle and Emma Goldhawk. My editors, Anne Finnis and Emily Sharratt, whose attention to detail and insights made all the difference. Will Steele and Tom Sanderson for nailing the brilliant artwork.
Olivia Mead, Sarah Benton and the publicity team for their enthusiasm.
Dad and Mum for the space and encouragement to follow my dreams.
Eppie for her constant support.
The Martin-Niemoller-Stiftung for granting permission to use Martin Niemoller’s poem.
Chima Akenzua for his parkour displays.
Oscar Stephenson for his wise words of youth.
And special thanks to Christopher for his belief, excellent advice, generosity of spirit, and for not leaving the building when the going got tough.
Sophie Hamilton was brought up in a sleepy hamlet in Warwickshire, where she spent every possible moment horse riding and going for long walks with her dog, Mopsa.
After studying history at Sussex University, Sophie came to London, and fell in love with the city’s crazy cosmopolitan mix.
For years, she worked in the television industry as a film researcher and a producer. Her programmes ranged from hard-hitting documentaries to arts shows and, most enjoyably, programmes highlighting the lifestyles, quirks and foibles of the rich and famous. S
he then decided to swap the manic environment of television for the solitary life of a writer, and the result is her debut novel Stitch-Up.
Sophie loves travelling, but is always glad to come back to London. The first thing she does on her return is go for a run along the Thames to get back into the flow of things.
She is currently busy writing the sequel to Stitch-Up, titled Mob-Handed.
sophiehamiltonbooks.co.uk
Coming in 2015…
The exhilarating sequel to Stitch-Up:
DASHA is living with Maxine, but life as a civilian hasn’t quite panned out as Dasha had hoped: Latif is in exile in Lebanon; Tracker controls Londoners, filming them day and night, and the Golds are using information stolen from data clouds to rig the forthcoming London elections.
When Latif’s mum goes missing, Dasha is forced to turn double agent and return to her old life. Can everything she learned from Latif help her to outwit the manipulative, unscrupulous figures at the heart of the conspiracy… her parents?
A TEMPLAR BOOK
First published in the UK in 2014 by Templar Publishing,
an imprint of The Templar Company Limited,
Deepdene Lodge, Deepdene Avenue, Dorking, Surrey,
RH5 4AT, UK
www.templarco.co.uk
Text copyright © 2014 by Sophie Hamilton
Cover design www.the-parish.com
Images © shutterstock/the-parish.com
Typesetting by Aztec Design
All rights reserved
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
ISBN 978-1-84877-423-0
Printed and bound in Great Britain
Stitch-Up Page 28
