Stitch-Up

by Sophie Hamilton

  I shivered. Stevie, my shadow, was dead.

  The gunshot rang out in my head. I put my hands over my ears, and scrunched my eyes up more tightly. Weirdly, even though he had never been my favourite person, and he had been on a mission to hurt Latif, I wished the gang hadn’t killed him. My mixed feelings took me by surprise. Stevie had been there for me twenty-four/seven, and now he was gone. Bang! The gunshot rang out in my head again, and like a starting gun at the beginning of a hundred-metre sprint, it set the horrible images racing through my head once more.

  And as it got darker outside these terrifying images only burned more brightly.

  Night fell.

  We headed into the darkness.

  Blood Diamonds

  WE melted into the night, two more shadows, shifting through the estate. The place was even more terrifying after dark. Shouts, catcalls and whistles rang out from gangways. A dog barked. My heart fluttered at every sound. When we turned into an unlit gangway, glowing cigarette tips studded the darkness. My heart leapt. Latif switched course to avoid the gang.

  Back on the streets again, two garishly painted cars raced towards us, headlights dazzling, sound systems booming. Twisting round to escape their glare, I saw my shadow thrown up onto a building – a cowering figure, hiding my eyes as if I’d witnessed an atomic explosion.

  “Gangs race junk cars for stupid money,” Latif shouted while we waited on the pavement for the cars to pass. “They pimp them and race them till they crash and burn.”

  The cars U-turned and screeched back. A dragon spewed fire on the purple car’s side. On the red, Pegasus swooped in a rush of winged blue.

  As soon as the coast was clear, we hurried into a hustle of narrow streets. Only a few streetlights were lit. From the shadows hisses of, “Hashish, hashish,” reached us, like the click of press cameras. A few guys confronted us with staring eyes. But Latif kept it friendly with a brief: “Not for me, mate.”

  About twenty minutes later, we entered a bustling street. I stopped in my tracks. After the gloomy backstreets, this place buzzed with light and chatter. Market stalls lined one side of the road, stacked high with fruit and vegetables; candles stuck in pumpkins threw a flickering light. The rip-off merchants had colonised the other side, their tables piled with fake brands: smartphones, tablets, bikes, perfume and the latest fashions. Boys selling knock-off cigarettes weaved through the crowds. Everyone was shouting. A stall selling hair extensions caught my eye. The wonky sign read: Slebrity & global scalps. I’d heard stories about gangs hacking off women’s hair to sell on the black market. I’d never taken them seriously, though. I rubbed a strand between thumb and finger. It was real. I shivered.

  The houses in the street were in bad shape. Some were tagged with graffiti. Most had been converted into rough-and-ready restaurants, cafes, clubs and dive bars, serving up food from all around the globe: Moroccan, Indian, Lebanese, Russian. The smell of spices hung in the air. Chinese lanterns strung across the street at intervals cast a red glow. A DJ was playing salsa records from an upstairs window. Hastily-assembled snack shacks buzzed with punters. It was a midnight feast of a place. My stomach grumbled.

  But there was something wrong in this otherwise welcoming scene. At first I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then it hit me. Everybody – men, women, kids – was bundled. Even the elderly men playing chess outside a Turkish coffee house were wearing hoodies.

  A little girl ran over with a collection of headscarves, shouting, “Please Mister, please Mister.” Latif picked out a green one with a red geometric design and handed the kid a fiver. Seeing the flash of money, restaurant touts suddenly surrounded us. All were gesticulating madly and tugging us towards their restaurants. Latif shrugged off offers of ‘half-price Turkish’, ‘’licious Thaicurry’ and ‘the best ever kebabs in the world’. Instead he walked over to a Lebanese restaurant. I recognised one of Latif’s tags on the front of the house. He greeted the restaurant owner in Arabic and they kissed three times on the cheeks. After a hurried discussion, they walked through the restaurant and out into the garden at the back.

  We sat down on leather poufs at a low mosaic table lit by a candle stuck into a beer bottle. I scoped the shadows nervously. I noticed that the walls separating the gardens had been knocked through, freeing up space to grow vegetables. Kids were playing tag, chasing in and out of the light like moths.

  “Will we be safe here?” I asked.

  Latif handed me the green headscarf. “Yeah. But cover your head – Arab style.”

  He began working the beads over his knuckles, watching the shadows. “Back here’s a special place, huh? The restaurant owners clubbed together and turned the gardens into allotments. They grow veg for their restaurants. The supermarkets moved out years ago. No great loss. Although Crunch Towners have been ghettoised, they’re turning things round. Cool, huh?”

  The Lebanese guy (who had introduced himself as Zayan) came out with a tray laden with dishes. It was a meze of tabbouleh, hummus, salad and pitta bread. “Enjoy!” he said, placing the dishes on the table.

  My stomach rumbled in anticipation. Latif tucked in, tearing off strips of pitta and scooping up dollops of hummus and tabbouleh. I followed his lead.

  “This is good,” I said between chews, pointing at the food enthusiastically. Suddenly eating seemed more important than anything else. The stars were bright as jewels. I stared up at them. I was all chased out.

  They exchanged a few more words in Arabic. Then Zayan headed back inside.

  “The stars are amazing,” I said.

  “Less neon pollution in this barrio. Folks can’t afford the electric.” Latif scooped up more hummus. “See the Plough.” He pointed out the constellation. “We still call those stars by their Arabic names: Alkaid, Mizar, Alioth and Megrez… We Arabs were ahead in the astronomy game.”

  Zayan whistled from the doorway.

  “We’re rolling.” Latif snapped into action mode.

  He took the ring from his pocket and placed it in the palm of his hand. The candlelight caught the diamonds and spangled them. “Chuka’s on his way. He’ll take the ring off us, if he rates the jewels.” He closed his fist around it. “No questions asked.”

  Latif’s eyes searched the garden. I followed suit, uncertain what I was looking for. The darkness pressed in on us. The candle spat and crackled in the silence. Suddenly a thickset guy emerged from the shadows and walked over to our table. He was wearing a coat with a fur-lined hood, zipped up to his nose. His shades were reflectors. Zayan greeted him warmly and introduced Latif. When they shook hands, the stranger said, “My associates call me Chuka. You know Ren, innit?”

  “Yeah. He’s fam.”

  The guy studied us both. The candle’s flame was reflected in his shades, giving him fire for eyes. “Got the cargo?” he asked, after a few long minutes.

  Latif held the ring between thumb and finger; the diamonds glinted. He took a few seconds before handing it over.

  Chuka whistled when he held the ring up to the naked flame. Lifting his sunglasses for a moment, he ran a hawk eye over the jewels. His smile revealed two rows of silver-capped teeth. “This cargo’s live, bruv! Whaddya want? A grand?”

  “Two grand,” Latif countered, poker-faced. “Face value’s eight. You won’t get better without ram-raiding De Beers, bruv.”

  “But you’re in a hurry, bruv.”

  The candlelight danced in their reflectors. Neither smiled.

  Latif held his hand out for the ring. “Not that much of a hurry.”

  Chuka held the ring closer to the flame, running his tongue along his lower lip as he watched the diamonds sparkle.

  “One thousand five hundred or the deal’s off.” Latif leaned forwards, palms on the table, and repeated his final offer. His breath made the flame flicker.

  “You win, bruv.” Chuka closed his fist around the ring. “I’ll sort the paper.”

  He took a crumpled brown envelope from his coat’s inside pocket and, sliding out a wedge
of fifty-pound notes, started counting them out beneath the table. I counted with him. When he reached the agreed amount, he shuffled the notes into a pile and placed them on the table.

  “Go ahead. Check the paperwork.” He pushed the money towards Latif. Then he slipped the ring into the envelope and returned the package to his inside pocket. After he’d double-checked the amount, Latif stuffed the notes into the front pocket of his jeans. “Good to do business with you, bruv.” He held out his hand. “Till next time.”

  Chuka shook his outstretched hand. “Yeah, next time soon.” Then he vanished back into the shadows, leaving as mysteriously as he had arrived.

  “Time to shoot with the loot.” Latif scraped back his chair.

  We exited through the garden without saying goodbye to Zayan. The market was packing up. All was chaos and noise. People were shouting for loved ones. Mothers screamed for children. Husbands shouted for wives. Punters were hurrying home while market stallholders shoved their wares into bags. The vibe in the street had changed. A buzz of fear energised the market. Everyone kept glancing up at the sky, jostling and shoving as they left. I searched the skies, but saw nothing but stars and inky blackness.

  Latif stopped at a table where a guy was packing away stolen tablets. None were in boxes or packaged. “These untraceable, bruv?” The guy glanced up, but carried on cramming the merch into a sportsbag.

  “Yeah. False IP included.” Latif picked the cheapest, peeled a few notes off the wedge and paid. We’d only gone about halfway down the street when a low, vibrating throb cut through the market’s din. Although I still couldn’t see lights in the sky, I recognised the unmistakable sound. Helicopters. The shout went up in a jangle of languages. Panic swelled the street. Latif started pushing through the crowds with greater urgency. I tucked in behind him, grabbing hold of his trackie, scared that I might lose him in the mayhem.

  Latif took out his phone and punched in a number. He spoke for about thirty seconds. The only word I caught was ‘ambassador’. After he’d finished he tossed the phone into a pile of empty boxes. Then we headed into the side streets where we picked up speed. A battalion of balaclava-heads ran past shouting instructions to each other. I noticed some had shotguns slung over their shoulders. At intervals they stopped to set off fireworks or flares. A rocket sputtered upwards, exploding in a kaleidoscope of red and orange.

  After about five minutes, we turned into a dingy street where an underground club bellowed urban beats. Outside, clubbers were smoking and dissing the avian police. Across from the club there was a dodgy-looking mini-cab firm. Latif was walking towards it.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered.

  “What does it look like? Getting a ride out of here, dim-bulb.” His eyes flicked heavenwards. “They’re looking for people on foot, doughnut. Not cars.”

  “But what if they shop us?” I peered into the office through a grimy window, trying to suss out the cabbies, who were playing a rowdy game of cards.

  “Got a better idea?”

  I kicked at a stone, looked daggers.

  “Bubblehead, these guys are illegals. They want the police in their life like they want a gun to their head. They’d be bounced back to their countries quicker than you can say ‘asylum seeker’. These guys care nothing about the news and that. They don’t give a damn about you! I’m not saying it’s safe. But we don’t have much choice.”

  Homemade rockets sputtered up towards the advancing helicopters. Still, the noose of light inched closer. The police had Crunch Town in a stranglehold.

  Another group ran past. McDonalds brown paper bags with eyeholes cut out covered their heads and faces. The upside down golden M was a W for war. At the bottom the McDonald’s logo bellowed: GOING THAT EXTRA MILE. The gang looked like they intended to do just that.

  I took a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  “No names,” was all he said as he went inside.

  From the street I watched Latif haggle with a tall African guy. A flurry of hand gestures later, they reached a deal and high-fived. I hung back as they walked over to a beaten-up, silver ghost Mercedes. Another battalion of hoodies ran past.

  “Over here, babe. We’re in the Benzo.” Latif beckoned me over. “Load up!”

  I slid onto the back seat. He squeezed in beside me and draped his arm across my shoulders. “You okay, babe?” It was only then that I got his game. We were lovers, not kids on the run. I rested my head on his shoulder, shut my eyes – I could play that role. Easy. I moved closer, soaking up his body warmth. Slowly my jitters calmed down.

  “Let’s get out of here, brother.” Latif slapped the back of the passenger seat. “And pump them tunes up loud. Them helis are doing my head in.”

  “Sure thing, boss.” The minicab driver looked up at the sky. “Avian flu, bruv. Tsk!” He sucked air through his teeth. “They’re deadly.” He cranked up the stereo. Grime blasted out.

  The cabbie checked me out in the rear-view mirror. I rolled down the window and inhaled the cool night air. The helicopter lights strobed the sky, searching out the main actors. The runaways. Us.

  Suddenly our cab was centre stage, spotlit in the helicopter’s beam. Despite the blaring music, I heard the helicopter lose height. The minicab driver floored the accelerator, jumped a red light and swung a right. I crashed against the door. My hands white-knuckled the driver’s seat. The helicopter continued flying into Crunch Town. I coughed, attempting to hide a rapid exhalation of air.

  “Hey girl, tranquilo. What would they want with us?”

  The driver stared at me in the rear-view mirror.

  I averted my eyes.

  Up ahead, hoodies were standing at a checkpoint, hurling bottles at two police cars, which were speeding towards Crunch Town, blue lights twirling. A storm of bottles glittered in the headlights. Minutes later, both police cars were spinning out of control. The hoodies cheered.

  I watched the helicopters through the rear window. Hatches open, lights trained down on the policemen swinging down on hoists, like deadly spiders. Kids lasered the helicopters from tower blocks, green bars of light stabbing at the sky like witchy fingers. The helicopters’ lights searched them out. My stomach clenched. Innocent people were going to get hurt tonight. And it was all my fault. I started praying that no one would get injured or arrested. It was the only thing I could think to do.

  “Sorry, mate, which street do you want in Mayfair?”

  “Drop us outside the cinema, bruv.”

  “Mayfair?” I shot Latif a what-the-hell-are-we-going-to-the-centre-of-town-for look. He counterpunched with a winning smile before relaxing back into the seat, his eyes fixed on the streets, his head bobbing to the stark, gritty beat.

  Media Circus

  I KNEW the restaurant well. Anyone who was anyone did. High Table was a favourite with stars and politicians – a face place. Located in a narrow townhouse in Mayfair, it was the restaurant of choice for celebrities who wanted to get snapped. It was impossible to get a table unless you were someone and you never left without dropping five hundred pounds.

  Latif was doing his stake-out thing; silent and secretive, frowning whenever I asked him what we were doing standing fifty metres away from the most exclusive restaurant in London, like a pair of freaky autograph hunters – watching and waiting, for what? I really had no idea. I looked at my watch. I couldn’t for the life of me work out how hanging around here could help us get to FuturePerfect, especially as this was my parents’ weekday restaurant of choice, which meant they were due to turn up at any minute. Brilliant. Genius. Perhaps we were going to hitch a lift with them.

  “You know this is my parents’ favourite restaurant, don’t you, brainiac?” I couldn’t keep the panic from my voice. “They eat here most nights and it’s a dead cert they’ll come here if there’s a crisis. It’s the place to be seen. Show the world you’re coping. Put on a brave face.”

  “For real?” This revelation seemed to genuinely surprise him.

  “Take
a wild guess why.” I nodded towards the thronging paparazzi. “Just the place for PR-hungry psychos.”

  “Might work in our favour,” he replied, a little too breezily.

  “Like how? Come on, talk to me, Latif. Why are we here?” I asked. “My parents are about to show, and guess what? I’d rather not be here, if that’s okay by you.”

  He shrugged. “Tough. It’s the only way out.”

  “That’s really reassuring. I know you have to keep your enemies close, but this is ridiculous…”

  “Don’t get stabby, Dash. We’re safer here than anywhere else right now. It’s the last place on earth anyone would expect to see us. And we have the perfect cover.” He pointed to a ramshackle group of women who’d just arrived. They were holding homemade posters plastered with photos of yours truly cut from newspapers. Across the top, messages were spelled out in a jumble of capital letters and joined-up writing. The most popular read: For the LOVE of GOLD Give Dasha back and We feel Your PAIN. Studying this ragbag of women, I knew they felt everybody’s pain. They were attracted to grief like bloodsucking bugs. They gorged on others’ pain, especially celebrity pain, because somehow it gave their life meaning, and made them feel less sorry about their own existence. Kidnap gawpers. Pain hunters. Losers. I shrugged inwardly. But who was I to judge? At least they weren’t stalking one set of parents while looking for the other set. That had to put me right up there with the sobbing loons for Fruitcake of the Year award. That really was something else.

  We pushed further into the crowds from where I watched hyped-up paparazzi jockeying for position. It was a busy night even for High Table. My heart sank when I saw the head waiter fussing over my parents’ favourite table, setting out my dad’s preferred wine glasses and lighting the candles. Now there was no doubt in my mind. My parents were about to show. I imagined my mother and her stylists discussing what she should wear as the mother of a kidnapped child; calculating how many diamonds she could sport without looking heartless; rejecting fur in case she appeared callous; deciding whether black was too funereal or a flash of a red Louboutin sole too gory.