I sat down on the wall and, resting my elbows on my knees, cupped my face in my hands. From above, the shrill squawk of neon-crazed birds punctured the silence. Thinking they sounded about as strung-out as I felt, I stared up into the darkness, hoping to glimpse them in the branches. For a moment the urge to scream into the night like one of those confused birds overpowered me. I closed my eyes, clenched my fists and pressed them to my temples.
“Don’t fret, chica.” Latif squeezed my knee gently.
My eyes snapped open.
He was crouching down at my feet with his face raised towards mine. It was the first time I’d seen him properly. His skin was a deep olive colour and his cheekbones were razor-sharp. He had long, curly eyelashes, which framed huge aquamarine eyes. And he had one of those smiles that blew you away. I guessed he was from the Middle East or perhaps North Africa.
“Thought you needed some assistance.”
“I guess,” I whispered, staring down at my trembling hands incredulously. “I’m not usually this much of a loser. I can dress myself and everything, honest.” I tried a joke, but a sob clogged my throat so the words came out strange.
Fixing me with his aquamarines, he smiled reassuringly. “Don’t let negative stuff eat you up. Move on.’”
“I guess,” I repeated, even though I was thinking, Easier said than done.
When he started tying my laces he let out a low whistle. “Your creps are live.” He flicked his fingers as if they were too hot to handle. “You must’ve queued all night to get your hands on these.”
“What?” I blinked. “Queued?” I had never queued for anything in my life, and was about to tell him so, as well as explaining that Nike had biked them round for free and were paying me a cool ten thousand pounds to wear them when he said, “All I’m saying is they’re limited.”
Quickly swallowing my brags, I mumbled a lame, “Yeah, I know.”
His left eyebrow shot up. He looked as if he were about to say something, but then, deciding against it, carried on tying my laces. The top of his hat was scarred and battered. I folded my arms, feeling exposed. I was going to have to watch what I said around him. He was sharp. Nothing escaped him.
“Want a cuppa?” Latif nodded towards a small green hut, no bigger than a garden shed. Outside, a line of black cabs stood snout to tail like pot-bellied pigs. The hut had the look of a time machine about it, and for a moment, I let myself believe that Latif was some kind of time traveller – a space cowboy – who was going to whisk me off around the universe, away from all my problems.
“What is this place?” I asked. “Some kind of pop-up cafe?”
“A cabbies’ hut.” His left eyebrow shot up again. “Nothing pop-up about it. It’s been here for centuries. My mum eats here when she’s on shift.” We waited for a car to pass. “Jeannie, she runs the gaff, used to babysit me years ago, so I’m always welcome – with or without Mum. I’m mates with Ren, her son.”
“So your mum’s a cabbie?”
“Yeah. She’s been doing the night shift for years. She gets all sorts in her cab after midnight: the trashed, the spaced-out, the loved-up and the lonely. They all pile in and spill their secrets. Mum says she’s a chronicler of the human condition, or some cod like that.” He took my elbow as we crossed the road. “She’s got a book of short stories out of it, though. Beautiful, bleak, sad stories featuring losers. I swear she steals stories for a living. Ever heard of Harriet Hajjaj?”
I shook my head.
Latif pulled a slim, well-thumbed paperback from beneath his overalls. The cover featured a bird’s-eye view of London at night. Its title was The Nightingale and Other Stories.
“Not bad for a story thief.” He polished the cover on his overalls. “They’re about the city at night. Have the same vibe as Raymond Carver. You know, sad, sparse, depressing. I’m in one, too.” He flicked to the page; the title read ‘Words Disappear at Dawn’.
“I thought you said she only wrote about losers.” I smiled.
“Yeah, bubblehead. But every story needs a hero,” he shot back with a grin.
As we walked towards the hut, Latif gave a group of men a mock salute. “Salaam, bruvs.” They were huddled round the first cab in line, pulling on fags, chatting and fiddling with their smartphones. GoldRush Radio blabbed from the first cab. I recognised the voice of ‘The Rottweiler’ – Dad’s favourite shock-jock.
“All right, Lazio FC,” they said. Nobody bothered to look up.
“This bunch of professional blowhards worship the ground I walk on,” Latif said, swinging his arm around the shoulder of a middle-aged guy in a biker’s jacket.
“Yeah right, Lazio. Sure we do.” The cabbie gave him a soft punch on the arm. “Have you heard the news?”
“What news?” Latif leaned into the semi-circle, tilting his head towards the cab so he could hear the radio.
“There’s been a crash. One of them chartered trains has come off the tracks. News is patchy. The police haven’t released many details yet. Sounds like a hold-up.”
“What? A snatch job?” Latif asked.
I stepped back into the shadows.
“Yeah. Sounds like it,” a bearded man in an anorak chipped in. “The train was full of stuck-up global girls from the Star Academy, heading home for Easter.” He rubbed his thumb against his fingers. “Rich pickings.”
Feeling Latif’s eyes on me, I lowered my gaze, pretending to examine a splodge of chewing gum stamped into the shape of a four-leafed clover on the pavement. I hoped nobody had been kidnapped, I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy – not even Coco.
“Trouble in Westminster, too. Our wire says it’s a bomb scare,” a cabbie with a pinched face said through a veil of cigarette smoke that did nothing to soften his skull-like features. “No offence, Latif, but it sounds like your mob are up to no good again.”
“Offence taken, Dave,” Latif muttered.
Although Latif’s tone was cold, Dave treated his reply as a joke. His laughter rang out behind us as we walked towards the cafe.
Inside, the hut was tiny – a sandwich box of a room. Benches and Formica tables ran down three walls. A kitchenette filled the fourth. On the counter an old-fashioned tea urn stood huffing steam. Chelsea kit, posters and memorabilia covered the walls. In one corner a bearded man sat hunched over a plate of chips, shovelling in massive mouthfuls while flicking through The Mirror. A middle-aged woman with mashed-potato skin and ketchup-red hair was standing behind the counter reading a magazine.
“Hey, Lats. Help us with this, love. There’s a holiday up for grabs. I’ve got to answer a few questions and think up a witty ending.” She shoved a magazine under Latif’s nose and pointed to the relevant bit. “Finish that. All the world’s…”
“Going to hell in a handbag?” He tilted his head and scrutinised her, rubbing his chin with spindly fingers, as if assessing her ideal holiday destination. “I reckon hell’s your kind of place, Jeannie. It’s hot and full of bad boys.”
Jeannie flicked at him with a grubby J-cloth. “No joking around, Lats. This is serious business.” She shook her head. “No wonder your mum despairs. Everything’s a joke to you, innit?” She handed him a pen with a chewed end. “Go on, have a go. There’s a love.”
Latif looked at the quiz while helping himself to a Kit Kat from a display on the counter. I hung behind him like a shadow.
“Same as usual?” Jeannie was already placing a chipped mug beneath the urn.
“Yeah. Make that two, Jeannie.” A winning smile guaranteed he’d get everything for free. “Has Mum been in tonight?”
“Not yet. She’s late. The boys say there’s all sorts of trouble out there tonight. Suppose the traffic’s snarled up all over.” She waved at the shaggy-haired bloke as he left and shouted, “See you, Geoff. Take care.” He gave her a Border-terrier smile.
While they chatted and joked, I studied Latif: the street overalls, the keffiyeh, the cowboy hat and the book sticking out of his overalls pocket. Nothing abo
ut him added up to a nice neat whole. I desperately wanted to stick a label on him – Civilian, Outcast, Geek, Goth, Skater, Street cleaner, Poet – but I couldn’t make him out at all.
“Jeannie, news if you want it,” one of the cabbies shouted.
When Jeannie and Latif trooped out, I remained inside, moving closer to the door, straining my ears, desperate to hear the headlines. Despite missing the first half of the lead news item, I heard enough to catch the gist. Two girls had been kidnapped, as yet unnamed. This news shocked me. Assuming they were counting me as the other, the kidnap crew had actually taken a girl from my school. That was bad. Terrifying. Steadying myself against the wall, I let the news sink in, and tried to work out how it affected my situation. For now my parents must believe me kidnapped, which would buy me some time. A couple of deep breaths calmed my jittery nerves. At least they hadn’t released my name.
First up, my appearance needed attention. Nipping behind the counter and over to the sink, I waited for the water to run hot before washing the smell of the horrible pervert from my skin. Then I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and wiped every trace of make-up from my face with a paper napkin. Taking a compact mirror from my bag, I flicked it open and assessed the results. Yeah. That was a definite improvement. I looked younger, less plastic, more like a civilian, which had to be a good thing. Pleased with my new look, I sat down at the table facing the door. Salt scattered the yellow Formica tabletop.
So what now?
Under the harsh light of the fluorescent strips, my plan to track down my birth mother seemed about as attainable as a dream. The incident down by the river had put me off night adventures, and my cluelessness about the real world was tragic. For a moment I thought about going back to my parents and resigning myself to my future.
My parents always got what they wanted in the end.
Why put off the inevitable?
But another, louder, more insistent voice in my head wouldn’t hear of it. If I went back now, I would never forgive myself. I had a chance to change my life in so many ways, and I mustn’t blow it. I had to get match tough. Once again the image of my mother in the hallway popped into my head – the memory that had haunted me every night for the last month. I checked my new look in the compact mirror once more. It was unreal how similar we looked. But I was glad – my face was my passport to my new world. I snapped the mirror shut. I had to find her. She held all the answers. Well, an escape at least. My resolve strengthened. I had to discover the truth. The question was how I was going to do it. Not if…
Laughter from outside made me look up. Latif was ribbing the cabbie in the biker jacket, who took a playful swing at him. Latif dodged his fist, then, tipping his hat to the guy, headed back into the hut.
My next thought took me by surprise. Latif would be the perfect person to help me find my parents. He knew his way around the city and was totally at ease with lurking in the dark. I studied his loose-limbed coolness for a few seconds. Dream on. Why would someone like him help someone like me? But the idea seeded itself in my brain. I had to find a way…
I smiled when Latif entered the room and studied him with new interest.
“Beware of the builder’s. It’s like a blow to the head.” He plonked two chipped mugs down onto the table, slopping tea over the yellow Formica. “Jeannie’s tea is knock-out strong.” His overalls swished as he sat down opposite. I couldn’t help noticing his hands were soft, his nails clean. They didn’t look like worker’s hands.
“Thanks.” I cradled the cup in my hands. I found the warmth against my palms comforting. The heat spread up my arms. I took a slurp and relaxed a little. I prayed he’d keep the banter coming, because right now jokes were better than questions.
And he did.
I sat back and let him chat away. I liked the way he spoke about nothing in particular, cracked jokes and seemed totally uninterested in any of the usual stuff – parents, school and celebrities. I also loved the way he was behaving as if rescuing a girl under a railway bridge was just part of an ordinary day. I listened, nodded and smiled. Although I felt shy and out of my depth, there was a leapiness in my stomach and excitement ballooning up inside me. It was all so different from what I was used to.
After a while I asked casually, “What’s the news on the train?”
“Two glob-girls have been kidnapped. The media’s gone mad for it.”
“Have they been named?”
“No names.” His eyes pierced through me. “Those kidnap guys are getting real slick. Holding up the Bullet is smooth.”
“I hate those kidnap guys,” I said with a little too much feeling. “They’re out of control. Those kidnap videos give me the creeps.” My mouth was running away from me again. I stopped abruptly. My eyes slid towards the door, searching the night for a second or two. I shivered. It was dark out there.
“It’s all about the money.” He shrugged. “The girls’ parents will pay. Then, boom, they’ll go back to their safe little lives. Nobody’s ever been murdered. It’s a game.”
“Great game.”
My friend Georgina had been kidnapped on Christmas Eve the year before last. In the video, her kidnapper had stood at her side dressed in a Santa suit with a gun pressed to her head. A tinny version of ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’ had been playing in the background. Her parents had paid over a million pounds to get her back. Now another of my friends had been snatched. I shut my eyes and massaged my temples with the tips of my fingers. It could have been me. And Latif would have shrugged, wouldn’t have cared. I was shocked to find this bothered me.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. Yeah.” I stuttered. Quickly reminding myself that he was asking about the attack, I raised my head slowly and said, “No. Not really. Every time I close my eyes I see that creep. It’s like his ugly mug has been tattooed beneath my eyelids.”
“It’s dodgy down by the river at night.” Latif tilted his head and gave me a sideways look. “Why were you down there alone and that?”
I hesitated. My eyes slid towards the door again. Then I heard myself explaining that I’d decided to walk from Tate Britain to my friend’s house on Royal Hospital Road because the river had looked so beautiful with the full moon glinting on its surface. Well, it was half-true, I thought, as I spun the story out.
“What was on at the Tate?”
“An opening,” I said a fraction too late, praying he wouldn’t ask the artist’s name. I felt the full beam of his interest for a few seconds. He seemed to be going to ask another question, but decided against it.
I stirred two heaped teaspoons of sugar into my tea to hide a slight exhalation of breath.
“More tea with your sugar?” he joked.
I laughed a little too loudly. “I’m not allowed sugar usually.”
“Damn!” he said. “Now that’s what I call rebellion.”
I took a gulp of the sugary liquid, cringing inwardly at my comment.
Latif slipped a cheap mobile from beneath his waterproofs. “I’ll give Mum a bell. She’ll give you a ride home.” He held out the phone. “First you’d better call the feds. Report him. You know, so he can’t try it again. Another girl might not be so lucky.”
Home? Police? The words jolted me straight back to my dilemma. The life-changer. I stared at the phone but didn’t take it. Once again I was overwhelmed by a desire to go home, curl up in my heart-shaped bed and fall asleep in front of my plasma TV with Bling, my Dalmatian. I pushed the thought to the back of my mind. I couldn’t chicken out now.
I studied Latif for a few moments. That crooked smile again. Suddenly my earlier recklessness was back. It was a gamble. What the hell? I didn’t make a habit of cosying up to strangers. But Latif seemed cool. He knew the city and seemed like the kind of guy who was up for adventure. Things would be a whole deal easier if I could hook him into my quest. Hope surged through me for a minute, then fizzled out. I frowned. It was going to take all my powers of persuasion.
“I can’t go ho
me.” I met his eyes with unwavering resolve. “And I don’t want the police involved.”
Latif narrowed his eyes. “Why?” he asked after a few long seconds.
“I’m on the run, sort of,” I said, keeping the details as vague as possible. I could feel a blush rising up my neck.
“What? Murdered your maid or something?” A hint of a smile twitched his lips.
“Is it that obvious?” I laughed, wanting to keep it light. “And I thought I was coming across so street.”
“Yeah. About as street as a Chihuahua.”
“Thanks a bunch!” I traced the wet rings left by my mug on the table. “Look, it’s parent stuff. It’s complicated.”
“Why so secretive, chica?” Latif narrowed his eyes again. “Don’t think it makes you seem mysterious because it don’t. But if that’s the way you want to roll…”
“I’m not trying to be mysterious.” I shrugged a little too carelessly. I made a swift calculation about how much I should tell him. However friendly, he was a stranger, and a stranger who wasn’t exactly a big fan of globals or celebrities, so the less he knew about my background for now the better. In a couple of hours, I would be named as one of the kidnapped girls, and if my parents thought me kidnapped there would be a massive reward – a million pounds at least. I studied him for a few more minutes. My guts were saying he was a good bloke, but even a saint might be tempted to hand me in for that kind of money. For that reason, I had to remain anonymous for the time being at least – until I’d had a chance to work out whether I could trust him a hundred per cent.
“Honestly, I’m not trying to be mysterious,” I repeated nervously, desperate to fill the silence.
He raised an eyebrow, but took the hint and eased off the interrogation gas.
The silence crackled with static.
I took a few more moments to work out my approach. I’d tell him half the story – the half that might win him round.
I cleared my throat. “I haven’t told anyone this before.”
Stitch-Up Page 4