Stitch-Up

by Sophie Hamilton

  As we waited, country smells hit me: damp grass mixed with cow dung; wafts of hawthorn blossom spliced with pine. The latter reminded me of the Diptyque candles that Mum ordered the maids to light by the hundred every night.

  The temperature had bombed. I rubbed the tops of my arms and studied the stars. They were pinprick-sharp in the countryside. I couldn’t remember many of the constellations Latif had named earlier, so I reordered the stars into my own spangly patterns: a dragon, a dolphin and a dazzle of fireflies.

  After a short while, the security guard strolled into the kitchen and switched on the kettle. He stretched, walked over to the open window and stared out into the darkness, retreating when the kettle’s whistle screeched into the garden like a steam train. He made a mug of tea, wringing out the tea bag with asbestos fingers before chucking it into the sink and adding a dash of milk. Then he headed back into his den where he sprawled out on a shrugging sofa in front of the TV.

  The night watchman punched a number into his mobile. I heard him say: “Hello, babe,” in that leisurely way which suggested he was on for a good long gossip. His voice was heavily-accented. I guessed he was Eastern European. Latif took his torch from his rucksack. Then he gave me the thumbs-up sign again.

  Time to move.

  Keeping to the shadows, we skirted the house, scouting for possible entry points.

  It was a large sprawl of a building. The front was shipshape, posh and polished, while the rear looked shabby and unkempt. As far as I could make out, everything looked secure around the front and sides. The rear of the house was a different story, though. The tatty backyard looked as if it hadn’t been entered for decades. My eyes followed the beam from Latif’s torch as it swept around the yard. In one corner, there was a mower and a wheelbarrow stacked high with junk. In another, there was a mess of pipes, poles, planks and dustsheets, abandoned by builders. Latif went over to the builders’ debris and started poking about. Something copper gleamed in the torchlight. He picked up a short length of pipe and pressed it to his cheek thoughtfully, before slipping it into his pocket.

  He swung his torch around the yard again. The downstairs windows were shuttered from the inside, making access impossible. A jumble of outbuildings ran up one side. Kennel. Coalhouse. Washhouse. Next up he shone his torch along the yard’s perimeter wall and across the back of the house. He flicked the beam back and forth between the wall and the closest upstairs window, sizing up the gap. I guessed it was about a metre and a half. I could tell by the expression on his face that he was ordering this space into some kind of climbing apparatus. Even so, I could hardly watch as he vaulted from one outhouse to the next – up, up, UP – easy as if he were wearing spring-heeled boots. Then he moved stealthily along the wall, stopping about a metre away from where it joined the house. When he strapped the headtorch on, my anxiety escalated. I watched through splayed fingers as he leapt into the night. For a moment his body was bunched up like a spring. My heart rocketed. Seconds later, he landed on the window’s ledge, surefooted as a cat.

  He wedged his gloved fingers into a small gap at the top of the sash window and pushed down. After a few failed attempts, he changed tactics and started punching out one of the small square glass panes with his gloved fist. Each thud shot into the night like an explosion. After a couple more thumps, the pane splintered.

  A tinkle of glass rang out.

  I counted to twenty.

  Nobody came.

  He reached his arm through the jagged hole and rammed back the window’s rusty catch. The sash window slid up with a groan. He ducked sideways across the sill and disappeared.

  I waited.

  The moon burst out from behind a huge black cloud. I shrank back into the shadows. A hooded, wide-eyed freak was staring out at me from a downstairs window. I jumped back. But it was only my reflection. Then the shutters folded back and Latif reappeared. He turned the window lock and opened the window. A few minutes later, I was scrambling over the sill and down into the room.

  Inside, a smart state-of-the-art meeting room. A host of angelic babies were smiling down from the walls, making me think of churches in Italy where fat-faced cherubs look down at tourists from domed-ceilings. A slogan, which arced across the wall in a rainbow of colours, read, ULTIMATE CHILDCRAFT: Unlocking the Mystery of your Child’s Potential.

  My stomach clenched.

  The distant cackle of TV.

  The burble of lovers’ chat.

  Latif crept across the room.

  I followed; his less stealthy shadow.

  The door creaked open, the sound of arthritic joints.

  Outside, a corridor of squeaky floorboards – a country house’s in-built burglar alarm – separated us from the front hallway and the watchman’s room. Latif crossed the space in seven graceful leaps, glancing back when he reached the stairs, as if to say: “What’s keeping you, Dasha?” I tiptoed after him, my heart hammering each time a floorboard creaked beneath my feet.

  Crouching down behind the banisters, we listened to the night watchman chatting. Laughter and whispered promises. Minutes ticked by. The TV clowned around in the background. A grandfather clock tutted out seconds. My heartbeat boomed.

  Please let Latif’s plan work.

  It seemed like hours before the night watchman finally hung up, sat back and turned up the television.

  Latif glided across the parquet-floored hall. He paused in the doorway while the watchman switched channels, before moving stealthily to the sofa. Without hesitation, he took the copper piping from his pocket and pressed it against the watchman’s neck, just below his hairline. The man froze momentarily. Then he started trembling and pleading with Latif in broken English.

  “You won’t get hurt if you do what I say,” Latif said in a monotone voice. “I want the keys to the office and the password to the main computer.”

  The guard remained silent.

  “The keys?” Latif gave the piping a nudge.

  “Okay. Okay,” the guard muttered. “I do what you ask. The keys is on my belt.” He fumbled to unclip the key ring, all thumbs. He flinched as he handed over the keys.

  “Which one?” Latif jiggled the key ring in front of the man’s nose.

  The man pointed to the largest key.

  “You sure about that?” Latif applied more pressure.

  “I sw-swear.” Stuttering this time, “D-d-do what you likes.” Sobs glued the words to the roof of his mouth. “L-listen, b-b-boss. I’m nothin’. I hate this job. It pays n-nothin’. Do what you want. It makes no d-difference to me.”

  He tried to shrug off the gun muzzle.

  I averted my eyes, finding it difficult to watch Latif playing the hard guy.

  “The password?” Latif gave the piping another nudge.

  “Swipe cards.” He pointed to a glass cabinet in the hallway. “No password needed.”

  “For the main computer?”

  He nodded. “Show me keys, boss.”

  Latif held up the keys.

  “That one.” He pointed to the smallest key on the chain and then back to the cabinet. “Mrs Haslett-Hines is the boss lady. That the card you need.”

  “Thanks, bruv,” Latif took five hundred pounds from his pocket with his free hand and waved it in front of the guy’s nose. “Payment,” he said.

  “What? You serious, boss?”

  “Yeah. I’m serious. When’s your shift end?”

  “Saturday evening.”

  “This is the deal. Don’t call the feds.”

  “Sure. Whatever. I told you. I don’t care. You’re the boss.”

  “I trust you, brother. But in case you come over all law-abiding and decide to make that call, I want you to know one of my crew’s watching this place and you don’t want to mess with him. Get me?”

  The guard nodded wearily.

  “Give me your mobile.”

  “Anything you say, boss.” The guard handed over his smartphone.

  Latif pocketed it and took the coiled rope from his
rucksack. “Sorry, bruv, I’ve got to tie you up.” He wound the rope around the man’s wrists and tied it securely. Then he fashioned his paint-splattered rag into a blindfold and placed it over the guy’s eyes. “I’m going to put the cash in the freezer so the police don’t find it, think you’re in on this. Or else you’ll be doing time.”

  Latif went into the kitchen and hid the money in the freezer compartment. Returning with a grubby tea towel, he asked, “Where’s the office?”

  “Go down the hall. Turn left. You’ll know you’re in the right place because it look real good. Velvet paper and that. You want the big green door. You can’t miss it. Security code is 1322.”

  “Sorry about this, man,” Latif repeated. And I could tell from his tone that he meant it. “Enjoy the cash. Sometime soon you’ll understand. When it all unravels.” Latif tied the tea towel over the watchman’s mouth. “It’ll look more authentic.”

  “Whatever, man.” The cloth muffled his words.

  Latif unlocked the cabinet where the swipe cards were kept, and took Haslett-Hines’s security tag from its nail. The photo showed a smartly dressed businesswoman in her fifties.

  We followed the corridor round. A fire door. Beyond that, posh became deluxe. Loud, swirling wallpaper kaleidoscoped my vision. Reaching the door, Latif zapped in the code and inserted the key, twitched it back and forth, but it wouldn’t turn. Sweat beaded his temples. He took the key out, blew on it and eased it back into the lock until it clicked, then, with a quick flick of his wrist, he turned it until the door groaned open.

  The air was heavy with the scent of lilies. Glass cabinets lined one side, which gave the room the feel of a pharmacy. Expensive art hung from the other two. When I shone the torch over the walls, I recognised a Damien Hirst spot painting.

  Latif made straight for the computer. I followed. Then we both huddled round the screen. My heart jumped when Latif turned the computer on. The machine requested a password, and I held my breath as Latif swiped the card across the screen. Panic balled my throat. A red light flicking on and off in the corner of the screen quickened my pulse, but a few minutes later a big bug-eyed baby floated up out of the blue background and onto the screen. The red light stopped flashing. My heartbeat slowed.

  Latif went into the finder window. He typed in the name Gold. Nothing. The files were numbered, not named.

  “Any ideas?”

  My mind froze.

  “Significant numbers the Golds use. Phone passwords?” he hissed.

  Brainfreeze. My mind was blank. “I don’t know. I can’t think. No, nothing,” I gabbled, pressing my fingers against my temples.

  “Come on, Dash. I need you to beam yourself down to planet earth.”

  I gripped the table. Shut my eyes. Nothing. Come on, Dash, Get your brain in gear. Think! Think! My mind remained a blank. And then a number flashed into my head. 9614. It was the number my birth mother had shouted out in the hall. I heard it clearly, as if she were standing right next to me. It was worth a try. “Baby 9614,” I whispered, my fingers crossed.

  He tapped the number in. The time arrow rotated. Kepow! My file sprung up. He clicked onto it.

  I checked my parents’ personal details and gave Latif the thumbs up. He took a data-stick from his pocket and saved the Gold file onto it.

  “Shoot, Dash. I’ll catch you up.” He handed the data-stick to me. As I closed my hand around it, a jolt of electricity shot up my arm. My heart rate spiked.

  “Still here?” he said, as he finished shutting down the computer.

  We headed back to the front door. Tacky thriller music was blaring from the television. The escalating orchestral chords ramped up my anxiety. Convinced I heard footsteps from the security guard’s room, I glanced back, heart thumping. But the night watchman was still sitting there – exactly as Latif had left him. He must have sensed our presence because he shouted, “Good luck!” A muffled sound, but the meaning was clear.

  Latif quickly drew back the bolts and turned the keys.

  “Sorry, mate,” he shouted.

  Then he walked out into the night. I knew playing the hard guy wasn’t his style. He hurled the watchman’s mobile into the bushes.

  The Real Deal

  “BINGO!” Latif slid into the driver’s seat. He slammed the car door, unwrapped the scarf covering his head, pulled off the pollution mask and took the tablet out of his rucksack. He took a few minutes to set it up and then passed it to me. His hair was crazy with static, like candy floss.

  I sat completely still for a few minutes staring down at the data-stick, cupped in the palm of my hand. I couldn’t believe such life-changing information was stored inside. Latif frowned.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  I clenched my fist around the data-stick.

  My secret world lay inside.

  “Whatever!” Latif sounded weary, as if he’d had enough of being given the runaround by a spoilt brat.

  “Sorry!” I whispered. “I need to do this in my own time.”

  Latif started the car, swung a U-turn and rocketed back down the lane. Then he turned the music up full blast, making conversation impossible. The data-stick was burning a hole in my hand. Still I didn’t put it into the slot. I wanted the music off. I wanted peace and quiet. I wanted to hear myself think. The blaring music was a wall of sound, locking us into different worlds. As I closed my fist around the stick, hundreds of questions bombarded me. Why had my birth mother given me up? Was it money? Circumstance? I squeezed it tighter. The answers lay inside. I took a deep breath.

  Dope! Put it in. What have you got to lose? My fingertips tingled as I pushed the data-stick into the slot. The file showed up on the screen. Baby 9614. It was weird to be defined by a number, like the latest model of a smartphone. I tapped my finger on the file nervously, as if knocking on a secret door into a parallel world; a fantasy world that I’d been constructing for the last few weeks. My perfect life…

  I could hardly breathe. FuturePerfect’s logo and mission statement spun into view: unlocking your child’s potential… followed by the contents page.

  baby 9614

  i

  dna profile

  ii

  biological parents

  iii

  adoptive parents

  iv

  specified requirements

  v

  contract

  My eyes travelled down the options. Where to start?

  I touched the adoptive parents heading first; wanting to double-check this was my file. Up came the Golds’ details. I swiped the screen and the next page came into view. The Golds stared out. A glossy PR shot. But I knew enough about them to last me a lifetime. I returned to the menu. Now for what really mattered.

  Okay, Dash. Be brave. My finger trembled as I tapped onto the biological parents heading. Parents? Up until now I hadn’t given my real father much thought. I held my breath.

  In a flash, a beautiful face popped up – a young woman’s. Although the photo had been taken sixteen years ago, I was certain she was the woman who I’d glimpsed in the hallway. My real mother. The crackle of connection electrified me, as if every cell in my body had lit up in recognition. I took a few moments to trace the outline of her face with my fingertips. Wow! It had to be my birth mother. We shared so many features: jet-black hair, thick eyebrows and intense green eyes. Spellbound, I scrutinised her face – a face that I’d conjured up a billion, perhaps a zillion times over the past month, which now I had the chance to study in detail. She was even more beautiful than I had remembered. She looked sad, though. This gave me hope. For in her sadness, I saw the possibility of a happy reunion.

  Underneath the photo, my mother’s name – MAXINE TAYLOR – was typed in capital letters. Her birth date was 3November. She was a Scorpio. I quickly did the calculations; she would be thirty-eight this year. Her status was single mother; a graduate. I swiped to the next page.

  A photo of a young man with dark, curly hair, beard and piercing blue eyes sta
red out at me. My father. I took a few minutes to examine his face. It was kind and open somehow. His name was Zac Cable-Smith. I read on. Kepow! His status jumped off the page and punched me right between the eyes. Father dead. My jaw dropped open.

  On the next page, there were more detailed profiles of my parents. I read on. According to the file, my father had studied at Oxford where he had received a first-class degree in Philosophy, Politics and Economics. He had died in a motorcycle accident a month before I was born. My mother had also been an outstanding student, having received a first-class degree from Oxford in English. Both had IQs of over 150. I flicked back to the photo of my dad. He had a smooth look about him – dapper, I supposed. His style was retro smart. He was wearing a sharp suit and a thin black tie. I had his nose and his smile.

  Flicking between the two photos, I tried to picture them together back before he died. Had they been happy? In love? Had they wanted a baby? Me? Had my dad even known of my existence? I bit my lip. My life had been tragic right from the very start. I wiped away a tear. That was when the killer question hooked itself into my brain like a burr: why had my mother given me up for adoption when I was the one person who would remind her of Zac? I stared into the oncoming headlights. Perhaps that was why.

  I gave their medical history a miss, swiping instead to the sections detailing the Golds’ special requirements. My eyes widened. My parents’ shopping list covered two pages, and took the form of a catalogue of desired physical attributes and traits. Physical attributes wanted: female, straight dark hair, emerald eyes, slim, size eight, high cheekbones, porcelain skin, heart-shaped face, small nose, wide smile, height five foot nine inches, compact ears, curly eyelashes, narrow feet and so on and so on. It seemed no detail was too small. There were also sections on talents, mental skills, traits, IQ and longevity. FuturePerfect guaranteed all the babies on their books would be free from disease, addictions, mental health problems and abnormal genes. Snakes alive! By the looks of things, I was going to live until I was about 130. I shivered.