Stitch-Up

by Sophie Hamilton

  “Dash, rule number one. Don’t believe everything you read.”

  “Do you really think my dad would go through normal channels?”

  He still looked doubtful.

  “Okay. How dodgy is this? You can’t access FuturePerfect’s site on the normal Internet. There’s another invisible, shadowy web, the dark web, where illegal stuff goes on. It’s a haven for cybercrims who traffic everything. You know, the buying and selling of guns, drugs, women, tasers and me!” My voice rose to a squeak.

  “You accessed the dark web?” he asked dubiously.

  “No way. I can’t access that. You need special software. It’s for crims, gangsters and villains.”

  “And the police,” he said grimly.

  “That figures.” I juggled my phone from hand to hand. “The chief of police probably did the deal.” It was a joke, but my tone was bleak. “The truth is my parents bought me, preordered with specific requirements.”

  “So why’s he knifing you?” Latif said dubiously.

  “There’s always room for improvement, I guess. He chose the best raw material to work with, like a potter works with quality clay – you know, hair colour, height, frame, eye colour, skin – and now he’s going to create his ideal. He sees himself as an artist. He spends hours in art galleries, studying portraits of beautiful women. I’m going to be his masterpiece.”

  “That’s capo criminal!”

  I raised an eyebrow as if to say, “When has that ever stopped my dad?”

  “More to the point, Dash, you’ve got no proof.” His voice was impatient again. “Dash, you’ve got to get real. Deal with the facts. Are you trying to tell me you’re a superior being?”

  “Okay. Okay. But my real mum’s the only person who knows the truth. That’s why I have to find her. I need answers. I need to find out who I really am. It’s driving me nuts.”

  He laughed. “Now that’s a fact.”

  It was a good sign that he was joking around again. “So you’re still up for it?” I said, taking advantage.

  “Here, give me your phone.”

  When I handed it to him, he removed the SIM card with a paperclip, and then, before I could stop him, he had ground it beneath his heel and thrown it onto the railway tracks.

  “Hey, what the hell are you doing?” I snatched my phone back. “That’s my life.”

  “I thought you wanted a new life.”

  “But my photos and…” I tailed off when I saw his eyebrow shoot up again. “Not of me… my dog and stuff.” I shrugged. “Memories.”

  “You can’t be sentimental, Dash.”

  “So I’m going to be a person with no past, like a spy.” I smiled. “I could get used to that.”

  “Invisible. That’s what you’ve got to be.”

  Two trains trundled off.

  “You still up for it?” I whispered again, dreading his reply.

  “Killer!” He was already heading for the streets.

  The sun was up. Daylight. Bright. Exposing.

  Eyes Everywhere

  EUSTON Station. Rush hour. A grimy hangar of a space clotted with commuters. Latif coasted the perimeter, checking for CCTV. I kept close – his shadow. Our reflections in shop windows showed two lurkers: caps down, hoods up, scowling, skulking, avoiding eye contact.

  After we’d completed one full circuit, Latif headed into the centre of the concourse, weaving through the crowds, finally coming to a halt when he reached a Paperchase kiosk, where he pretended to browse for cards. I stopped, too, wondering if he’d lost his mind. Get Well Soon. The card-stand swivelled with a creak. GOOD LUCK.

  You said it, I thought, tracing the outline of a four-leaf clover, wishing I could absorb luck by osmosis. But Latif’s eyes were looking beyond the cards, checking out the cameras’ sight lines. I imagined them intersecting the space like a complicated mathematical diagram, which illustrated the blatantly obvious point – there’s nowhere to hide, suckers! Not an atom of unfilmed air. Not a millimetre of unsurveyed space. Instantly my mind pictured our images shooting along underground cables, faster than a Tube train, swooshing up into some cavernous bunker where we’d slink ghostly across monitors watched by jobsworths with puffy Burger King skin. Creepy. I pulled my hood down a fraction further.

  A station announcement droned that CCTV cameras were watching the station for safety management.

  “Don’t look up,” Latif hissed, anticipating my reaction.

  Fighting the urge, I fixed my gaze to the floor, focusing on footwear: ballet pumps, trainers, high-tops, wedges…

  Then we were off again, ducking the invisible sight lines like a couple of jewel thieves dodging security lasers. We stopped by the Britannia pub and crouched down. The acrid smell of piss and disinfectant blasted my nostrils.

  “Blind spot.” His eyes flicked towards the CCTV cameras. “And we’ve got an awesome view of the star attraction.”

  For the first time since we’d entered the station, I registered the huge news screen next to the departure boards, and seeing my goofy face staring down, muttered, “’Sakes. Give me a break.”

  Bold red headlines screamed: Kidnap Terror! as footage of me posing with my parents at the Oscars played out; mother and daughter decked out in diamonds, smiling and blowing kisses. Commuters were staring up at the news board like zombies, desperate for fresh gore. I buried my head in my hands and whispered, “This is totally weird. It feels like the whole world is looking at me. I mean, looking for me.”

  “Chill, Dash. People are looking for that.” Latif pointed to the shiny, happy person on screen. “Not a grunge-ball.” He turned towards me with a wry smile. “People only see what they expect. And they don’t expect to see you without the gloss. Honest. Check it. Nobody’s giving you a second look.”

  “Great, so now I’m invisible,” I muttered, pinching myself to check I still existed. Because crouching there, looking up at my larger-than-life, glamorous TV self, I felt like a ghost. I put my hands up to my mouth, palms cupped, and breathed into them, enjoying the sensation of my warm breath on my skin.

  Okay, Dash, don’t panic. You’re still alive. I exhaled again, wanting to reassure myself once more.

  “You okay?” He squeezed my arm.

  “Take a wild guess.” I shot him an angry look. “Watching my life flashing by up there is creeping me out big time. All the photos and praise, it’s like an obituary, isn’t it? I feel like I’m dead.” I shuddered, shifted my gaze. “And these crazy dudes are freaking me out.” I nodded towards the rubberneckers, staring up at the news screen. “They remind me of those weirdoes who gawp at car crashes…” I broke off as an unsettling thought struck me. Each and every one of those crazy losers had assimilated my image, processed it and stored it away in some dark cranial nook where it would remain lodged, like a ticking bomb, until a glimpse of my chin or nose would detonate it. Kepow! Game over!

  “No way!” Latif muttered. “That’s all I need.”

  Looking up quickly, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Latif was on screen. Despite his masked face, I recognised him instantly. The CCTV footage showed him giving a freedom fighter’s fist to the camera down by the train depot. Luckily, apart from the cowboy hat, which was stowed away in his rucksack, he looked like any other hood-rat. I crossed my fingers. As far as I could see there was no way of recognising him. Then the headline flashed up: Goldrush Image Inc Exclusive: The Kidnapper’s Identity Revealed.

  What? For real? But how? I watched through splayed fingers as the yellow ticker tape crawled across the screen, like a poisonous spider.

  Latif Hajjaj has been named by police in the Dasha Gold abduction case. His motives are so far unclear. Although police sources believe Latif Hajjaj is a lone wolf, they haven’t ruled out that he may have connections to a terrorist cell. There are as yet unsubstantiated reports that Dasha Gold’s kidnap may have links to a wider terrorist plot.

  I was totally confused. His face had been covered, so how had they got his name? Weirder still, how had t
hey linked him to me? I thought he moved in the shadows. A panic switch in my head clicked to on, then maxed out.

  Next up, grainy CCTV footage showed two figures running down a street at night. It had to be us because the taller of the two was wearing a cowboy hat. But there was something odd about it. The taller figure hadn’t got Latif’s loose-limbed gait. The camera zoomed in to reveal a gun. We exchanged a grim look. The figure in the cowboy hat and keffiyeh was pushing the gun into the smaller figure’s back. Latif removed his keffiyeh and shoved it into his rucksack. Then I noticed more discrepancies; the girl in the film was wearing the same outfit as I’d been wearing on the train – sparkly top, high heels and a Dior bag bumping at her hip, not overalls. And she was struggling.

  “That footage is too good for CCTV,” he growled. “Go figure.”

  My head started to spin. I moved closer to Latif, shrinking into my hood.

  Grainy footage showed the Latif lookalike forcing the girl onto a motorbike. Then he jumped on behind and they shot off down the road.

  Latif’s eyes never moved from the screen.

  I started scanning the station nervously. The news package cut back to the shot of Latif punching the air in slo-mo by the train depot. The keffiyeh wrapped around his face knee-jerked prejudice. Then the graffiti that he’d painted on the train hit the screen. The freedom fighter with images of rioting kids reflected in his glasses menaced. The Arabic lettering exploded off the screen like a homemade bomb. Boom! Guilty! This was followed by generic shots of soldiers training in a dusty camp somewhere in North Africa. The ticker tape read: Gun Mad Graffiti Artist Holidays in Terrorist Boot Camp. A personal photo of Latif, posing in the style of Andy Warhol’s Double Elvis ended the news item. In less than two minutes my parents had turned Latif into a terrorist.

  “Your parents are scum,” Latif hissed. “They’ve made this up. Totally concocted the story. They’re setting me up.”

  “I know,” I whispered, scanning the station. “But how did they get your name so quickly?”

  “Facebook, I guess, even though I deactivated my account years ago. That’s where they got the Elvis photo. I posted my early graffiti there too.” He was working the worry beads across his knuckles. “I exist on the net. That’s enough.”

  It was then I saw the thug.

  “We’ve got to go, Latif!” I tugged at his sleeve. “Over there!” I flicked my eyes towards a man, not unlike Big Stevie, dressed in a bomber jacket and Timberland boots. He was pushing through the commuters talking into a hands-free.

  “Okay, goon alert! Stay cool.” We stood up slowly. “Don’t run. These guys are like dogs; start running and they’ll give chase.”

  I hurried after him, skipping a few steps to keep level.

  “Cut it out,” he said, eyes fixed straight ahead. “You’ll draw attention to us.”

  A few paces later, he glanced over his shoulder. I couldn’t stop myself from mirroring him. The goon was talking into his walkie-talkie and he was looking in our direction. He sped up. Something had triggered his interest. The guy broke into a run.

  “Okay. He’s got peepers on us. We need out of CCTV range and fast.” Now Latif was running. “Look for spaces,” he shouted.

  I tore after him and for a few strides we ran in sync, but in a matter of seconds, he was streaking ahead, even though I was running flat-out. I hadn’t got his knack for searching out spaces.

  “Wait!” I screamed, pumping my arms harder in a desperate attempt to generate more speed as we ran past fast food outlets, florists and sandwich bars.

  Latif was slowing down. I glanced back; the goon was still coming. Latif fetched something out of his rucksack’s side pocket and gestured for me to move to my left. As I got out of the way, he dipped down and bowled a handful of marbles along the concourse. They rattled past like balls in a pinball machine.

  When I caught up with him, Latif winked and said, “If it was good enough for the Sidney Street anarchists… Low-tech never fails.”

  I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about, but looking over my shoulder, I saw the bomber-jacketed goon was lying beneath a day-trip of ladies, his Timberland boots kicking out at the passing snaffle-bit loafers.

  Latif was already charging down an empty gangway towards platforms one, two and three. I kept my eyes peeled for guards, but luckily the barriers were unmanned. When Latif reached the platforms, he turned right and sprinted for the fire exit. With one swift movement, he pushed down the metal safety bar and flung open the double door. Turning round, he yelled for me to run faster. His words hissed towards me with fire-hose intensity.

  Outside, a street colonised by lap-dancing clubs and tacky bookstores. Latif ran across a busy road, dodging traffic, I followed with my heart in my mouth. Then we were hurtling down sooty-sided streets. My knees knocked together and I nearly fell. We tore into a housing estate. A moped zipped past in the twisty labyrinth of walkways. Still running but on my last legs, I trailed Latif through a graveyard marooned between a road and railway tracks, down a flight of steps into a maze of redbrick Victorian hospital buildings, spiked with Gothic towers. Finally Latif stopped by a line of trolleys piled high with laundry bags and disappeared into an outhouse. I hesitated in the doorway. The labels on the bags read: For incineration only.

  “Come on, Dash!” Latif said as he squeezed between gridlocked trolleys. At the far end, an incinerator glowed. The small room was sweltering. Slipping in behind a row of trolleys lined up against the back wall, I followed Latif’s lead by gripping the mesh with both hands and pulling myself up so my feet were a few inches off the ground. When we heard footsteps pounding past, we exchanged a look; it confirmed what we knew already, that we’d been spotted on CCTV, which could only mean one thing – people were watching.

  After a short while, I heard running footsteps again. They were returning.

  They slowed.

  Stopped.

  A devil dog clamped my heart in its jaws.

  They started up again. One, two, three… I guessed the goon from the station was approaching our hideout. I imagined his bulk filling the doorframe, his big slaphead ballooning up from his neck like a bubblegum blow. I held my breath. The mesh cut into my fingers. Sweat beaded my temples. Time folded in on itself. Suddenly the crash of trolleys split open the silence. A gruff voice shouted something in an Eastern European language.

  Another clash of metal out-jangled my nerves.

  Out of nowhere, a second voice, clipped with authority barked, “Excuse me, sir. Can I see your ID tag, please? This is medical waste. Are you authorised to be here?”

  A grunt, followed by one set of footsteps retreating rapidly.

  We waited until we heard the second set of footsteps heading off, before slipping out from behind the trolleys. My hands were moulded into claws from clinging to the mesh; I slowly stretched out my sore fingers.

  After a few minutes we crept out and sprinted in the opposite direction.

  Beyond the hospital gates, there was a drab industrial park, full of elephant-grey buildings, blowing out stale air through metal pipes. We ran in silence. Every so often I’d glance over my shoulder. Nobody, apart from a bag lady pushing a pram piled high with junk. We raced on along bleak, desolate roads towards the empty steel basket of a gas tower, its grid reminding me of a giant cat’s cradle, then down onto a canal path, quiet and gloomy; a no-go area, forgotten London. The canal water was brown and stagnant. Petrol rainbows smeared the surface. Beer bottles bobbed. As I hurtled along the towpath, loose paving stones splashed filthy water over my trainers. SLOW! warned white lettering across the path before each low canal bridge. I sped up.

  After a while, Latif stopped under a bridge, which stretched for about thirty metres along the canal. It was gloomy and smelled of mausoleums, but the shadows offered good cover and an excellent view in both directions. Latif squatted down and, picking up a few flat stones, started skimming them one after the other. He didn’t say a word, simply watched the stones bounce and
skid across the water.

  Placing my hands on my knees, I took a few minutes to catch my breath.

  “I’m really sorry,” I said as soon as I could speak without puffing. “Making out you’re a terrorist is low even for them.”

  Latif remained silent. He was leaning back, knees bent, as if on a skateboard, fine-tuning his posture. As I waited for him to speak, I noticed the stone that he was holding between his thumb and fingers was smooth and brown – the same colour as his skin. And all I could think was: Please don’t dump me now.

  “So you don’t think it’s true.” His aquamarines fixed on me.

  “What?”

  “That I’m a lone wolf. That I’ve spent time in a terrorist training camp.”

  “Are you nuts?” My laughter bounced off the water and echoed around the curve of the bridge. “My family is television. I know what my parents do and it’s ugly. ’Sakes, Latif, they make up the news most of the time. Reality’s too boring or it doesn’t play right, so they spice it up. Guess what Mum’s favourite phrase is? ‘Make it happen.’” I shrugged. “That’s code for ‘make it up’. Right now, my parents want me back and they’ll do anything to make that happen.”

  “That dope is dirty. It sticks. I’ll never clear my name now. Never.”

  “Yeah. I know.” I tailed off, wishing I could think of something positive to say.

  He skimmed another stone, but didn’t speak.

  “Look, Latif, I know you think I’m clueless, but I can identify faked CCTV footage and generic news images of a terrorist training camp. No trouble. I’ve spent hours in edits with Mum and Dad so I know the score. That’s where they construct the lies. They don’t care if they ruin lives. They don’t care about anyone, except their brand.” I shrugged. “They’d probably kill for ratings.”