“Maxine Taylor, eighty-eight Orchard Road.”
He tapped away on the keys for a few minutes. Then whistled. “The electoral register says she still lives there.”
“Result!” I jumped to my feet and fizzed around the room.
I looked over his shoulder as he entered her address on Google Earth. It was nothing much: a grotty-looking semi-detached house. My eyes fixed on a trampoline in the back garden. My heart lurched. That could only mean one thing. There was another child, maybe children. An ugly grub of jealousy wriggled in the pit of my stomach. Other children had never figured in my fantasies.
The Golds were promising exciting new revelations. “Stay tuned,” my mother purred as they went into the break.
“Thanks, but no thanks!” I headed into the bathroom, shut the door and leaned against it. Space, that’s what I needed right now, room to breathe. I wanted to shake the Golds out of my life for good. But they were everywhere, always invading my life. The only Gold-free zone was Crunch Town. At least pirate radio ruled in the junk spaces.
When the naked bulb snapped on, a cockroach skidded across the greasy linoleum. I turned on the taps to drown out the TV. Catching sight of my reflection in the mirror above the basin, I did a double take. The blond wig took me by surprise. I studied myself in the glass. Despite it appearing as if I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks, I looked cool, like a heroine in a quirky independent film – a girl making herself up as she went along…
“Tomorrow,” I whispered to the glass.
Drawing closer, I wondered whether my mother would recognise me in a flash, whether we would click immediately like lost pieces of a puzzle. I splashed cold water onto my face and watched a single droplet trickle down my left cheek. For all I knew, my mother might not recognise me at all. I buried my face in a mouldy-smelling towel.
“Dash? Your friend Coco has been released.” Latif knocked softly on the door. “It’s breaking news.”
“Really? When?” I rushed from the bathroom. “Did her parents pay the ransom?”
“Allegedly a covert police operation freed her.”
“That’s brilliant news,” I said. “I hope she’s okay.”
Coco looked angelic in a simple, chic, white tunic-dress. She was talking my parents through her ordeal: the abduction, the imprisonment and the dramatic rescue. I stood in the doorway while I listened to her story.
When she’d finished, my mother asked gently, “Do you have a message for Dasha’s kidnapper?”
Latif and I exchanged a grim look.
The camera zoomed in.
Coco batted her eyelashes. Her glitter make-up sparkled.
“Please let Dasha go. She knows nothing about politics. She’s an innocent.”
I rolled my eyes.
“So were you and Dasha close?” my mother asked.
The camera zoomed in even closer.
“I loved Dasha like a sister. We were besties.” Coco gave a curtain-call smile. “We were inseparable.”
My mouth dropped open. “News to me!”
“She’s been bought. Keep up, dim-bulb. They’ve…”
Footsteps on the stairs caused him to tail off.
We exchanged a look.
The Golds were signing off. “The prayers will continue through the night. Keep your vigil. Goodnight. God bless. Keep praying.”
Latif glided across the room. He turned off the television before taking up position by the door.
The footsteps stopped outside.
A barrage of questions went off in my head. Was it the police? Was the game up? Had the guy in the lobby called the cops? Surely not. We’d picked this dump precisely because it was the only motel on the strip without a television in the foyer. Even better, the guy on the desk had been so bonged-out he hardly knew what time of day it was.
The knock, when it came, was soft.
“Yeah?” Latif’s voice remained calm.
“Turn the TV down, yeah?” He spoke slowly. “It’s late, man. Guests are complaining.”
“It’s off, bruv.”
The steps retreated.
“They have other guests?” I whispered.
“Girls turning tricks. Civilians down on their luck.” He walked over to the window. “Turn off the light.” He drew back the curtain a crack and watched the street.
“But why would they care?”
“Exactly. We’d better shoot.”
The footsteps returned. Another knock.
“Got a ciggy? I’ll swap a couple for some weed. Come on, bruv. Open the door.”
Immediately I pictured a tough from CID piling in as soon as Latif unlocked the door. I slid under the covers and pulled the blankets up to my nose.
“Don’t!” I mouthed.
Too late! Latif had already wrapped himself up in a blanket and was opening the door. The guy’s bloodshot eyes goggled. He steadied himself on the doorjamb, peered at Latif, and slurred, “Hey man, cool outfit. You scared the hell out of me. Got a cigarette?”
“Sorry. Don’t smoke, bruv.” He shook his head when the guy offered him a lump of black wrapped in cling film. “Not for me, bruv. But you could do me a favour.” He pressed a fifty-pound note into the guy’s hand. “Bell me if anyone asks after us. Our parents aren’t cool about this – us.” He jagged his thumb back towards me. “Don’t exactly approve, know what I’m saying? My dad’s a cop. His mind’s so small I could use it in a pea-shooting contest. So it’d be good if you’d buzz up, if anyone comes looking.”
Eyes half-covered by hooded eyelids, the guy peered into the unlit room. Not that there was much to see as I was lying in bed with the blanket pulled right up to the tip of my nose, scared that he might recognise me even in his drugged-up fug.
“Anything you say, man.” I heard him walking unsteadily back down the corridor. About halfway down, he stopped and said, “Oh yeah. Two brick shithouses with walkie-talkies were checking the flophouses across the road. They had the look of feds. Probably an immigration swoop, innit?”
“Thanks mate.” Latif shut the door.
“Time to road it,” he hissed, wedging the window open with the fire extinguisher.
Moments later, we were heading down the fire escape like a couple of stray cats.
Tooled Up
LEAVING the main drag of strip joints, sex shops and motels behind, we headed down a dimly lit street lined with ramshackle B&Bs and hostels. We walked in silence apart from the click, click, click of car-door handles. We were in the Edgelands, a strange twilight zone on the fringe of the city. Here, everything was low rent.
“TWOC time,” Latif said in explanation.
“TWOC?”
“Police speak for Taking Without Owner’s Consent.” He swore under his breath when a bashed-up Mini refused to open.
“What?”
“Borrowing, bubblehead.”
I laughed.
He continued pulling the door handles as we walked. Meanwhile, I examined the formerly well-to-do family houses, which were seedy and rundown now, and by the looks of things, rented out by the room. We traipsed up and down streets for what seemed like hours until finally – open sesame – we were inside a grimy white van. Taking the metal cutters from his rucksack, Latif reached down and started fiddling about under the steering wheel. I kept my eyes on the street as instructed, watching for goons. There were piles of clothes and blankets in the back. The van was a tip. Someone had been sleeping rough in it by the looks of things.
“What are you doing?” I glanced over.
“Hot-wiring the engine.” I heard the snip of wires.
“’Sakes! This is insane.” I kept my eyes fixed on the street
“Come on. Come on,” he growled when the engine wouldn’t start.
Before long, he swung the van out into the road and accelerated.
“TDA,” he said.
“Two Dumb Assholes?”
“Sounds about right.”
“Tried Died Attempting?”
&nbs
p; “Nah. For real. Taking and Driving Away.”
“Boring!” I rolled my eyes.
“Right. See how boring you find this.” He floored the accelerator pedal.
Immediately we were roller-coasting through the empty, early-morning streets. I gripped the seat, eyes half-closed as we flew over speed bumps, screeched round corners and hurtled down the centre of the road, hoovering up the white markings. An empty bottle in the back rattled from side to side. The van smelled of fags and booze. After a while, Latif slowed down.
“We don’t want to get pulled,” he said in explanation. “See if there’s an A to Z in the glove compartment, Dash. Satnav’s too risky. We might be GPSed.”
“Do you think they’re onto us?” I asked as I rummaged through the junk in the glove compartment, poking around until I found a pocket-sized A to Z wedged under an empty beer can and scrunched-up crisp packets.
“No way. They shouldn’t find the security guy until Saturday evening when his shift ends. Those zero-hours guys work crazy long shifts.”
“What about the guy at the hostel? Do you think the men he described were police?”
“Nah. More like his skunk paranoia. That dude was flying. ‘Hey bruv, there was, like, a guy out there. He had feathers in his hair…’”
His dope drawl made me laugh.
All at once his tone changed. “But we’ll stake your mum’s house out before you make a move. Check there’s no action from the feds.”
The laughter died in my throat.
When I’d found Orchard Road on the map, I handed him the A to Z and pointed out the coordinates. The van swerved as he checked it out.
“Got eyes on it,” he said, passing the book back.
“Euggh. I can’t believe the driver keeps his socks in the glove compartment. That’s so skanky.” I prodded a thick brown sock with the A to Z. There was something hidden inside. I removed it gingerly, took a sharp breath in. “Latif, there’s a gun hidden in this sock.” I could barely say the words.
We exchanged a look.
I held it as far away from me as possible.
Latif’s eyes flicked towards his rucksack.
Without saying a word, I unzipped it and slid the gun inside, next to his spray cans. Neither of us spoke; we were both too stunned by our silent agreement that a gun was necessary.
After a few minutes I asked, “Have you ever used one?”
“Of course not, bubblehead. What do you take me for? Some kind of gangster?”
He turned the music up. Conversation over.
I sat back, gripping the seat. In a couple of hours I’d be outside Maxine Taylor’s house – my birth mother’s home. It still felt unreal, but for some reason, knowing her name made things feel more real. It proved she wasn’t a figment of my imagination. I whispered it. This action cemented my belief.
Watching the houses glide by, I pictured my mother, as she looked in the photo in my file, staring out of upstairs windows. A tingling sensation swept through my body in waves. It was so close now…
I started rehearsing possible opening lines, icebreakers. As usual, the exercise overwhelmed me. What was there to say? Everything seemed trite, stupid or too emotional. It didn’t help that I was so keyed up my mind wouldn’t settle. Flit, flit, flit went my thoughts. I was on edge too. I couldn’t stop fidgeting. I opened the window, switched the radio station, pulled down the sun visor, checked myself in the mirror, put on lipstick, pouted, smiled, frowned. Should I wear the wig? My frown deepened. I was tempted, but, no, this had to be the time for truth. No disguises. No fakery.
I slowly removed the wig and stuffed it into Latif’s rucksack next to the gun. For a moment I was the old Dasha again – unsure of myself; it was as if the wig had given me an invincible aura. I fixed my reflection with a steely stare. Shape up. Get a grip. I combed my hair out with my fingers. I looked like a total soap-dodger. I cursed the fact that we’d had to leave the motel before I’d had time to make myself look human.
“It’s mental.” I pulled a screwball face. “I’m about to meet my real mother and I feel like I’m going on a date. How weird is that?” I studied my face in the mirror. “Sheez! I’ve got to act natural. Be myself. Whatever that means.” I struck a few more poses. “It sounds so easy, doesn’t it? Like it’s a definite thing. ME. MYSELF. I.” I squinted at my reflection, took a deep breath. “I don’t think I can go through with this, Latif.”
“Stop chirping, Dash. Picasso painted himself at the age of eighteen. It’s called ‘Yo, Picasso. I am Picasso.’ It’s awesome. He exudes total self-belief. When you meet your mum you need to think, Yo, Dasha. And believe it!”
“Yo, Dasha?” I raised an eyebrow.
“That’s my advice. Take it or leave it.”
I shut my eyes. Thoughts about the meeting with my mother were too huge for me to deal with right now. They pressed at the edges of my brain and made my skull ache. I cradled the top of my head, pushed the explosive mix of feelings back down into some dark, secret place.
Bang! Next minute I was lurching forwards, the seatbelt snapped me back. Latif cursed as the van swerved into the midde of the road.
“What’s going on, Latif?” I screamed. “Pull over.”
He carried on driving.
“What happened, Latif? Did you fall asleep?” I grabbed his arm. “Pull over, now.”
The van’s wing mirror was shattered.
Oh no, I thought, seven years’ bad luck.
He slowed down. “I must’ve nodded off for a second. I clipped a lorry back there.” He blinked his eyes. “I’m rinsed, Dash.”
“Clipped? Hit, more like. Sheez, Latif! Talk about a lucky escape.” I did a rough calculation. “You haven’t slept for about forty-five hours.” I squeezed his arm. “You need to get some sleep. We both do. I’m shattered too.” He carried on driving. “I’m serious, Latif. Pull over or you’re going to kill us.”
“I hear you. I hear you,” he said. “There’s a place up here where we can stop. The warriors won’t mind.”
“Warriors?”
“Eco.” He gave me a sly smile. “Don’t vex, Dash.”
I rolled my eyes.
Frowning a little, he said, “You’re right. We gotta be sharp for the next episode. And if you’re lucky you might get to scrub up.” He sniffed the air. “Which wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”
I laughed and mouthed, “My hero.”
After about ten minutes, he pulled into a derelict petrol station. Two camper vans were parked up, curtains drawn. Brightly coloured tents bubbled the forecourt. Pairs of trainers were lined up outside each tent like guard dogs. Everyone was sleeping, apart from a freckle-faced boy with purple hair, who waved us through a gap in the security fence. Banners with eco messages were tied to the mesh: I the planet. Green is the new black. THERE’S NO PLANET B. The petrol pumps had been boxed in with hardboard, and were shaped like teepees. Murals of totem poles adorned them. A hammock hung between two petrol pumps. Grass sprouted up through the concrete. Creepers in huge blue pots climbed around the station’s struts. The red TEXACO sign now read TEXANO.
We parked up, facing the exit. “In case we need to leave in a hurry,” Latif said, getting out of the van. He mooched over to the purple-haired boy, hands sunk deep into his pockets. I was glad to see he was wearing his face coverings. They chatted for a while, and from their pointing and gesturing, I guessed that they were discussing the graffiti sprayed across the boarded-up service station.
When Latif came back, he hoiked his rucksack off the seat. “I’m going to throw up a piece. Payment for our stay,” he said to my raised eyebrow. “And Jake says you can have a shower.” He pointed to the car wash.
“Seriously?” I asked, not sure what to believe. “In the…” I stopped when I saw the glint in his eyes.
“Nah. Bubblehead. They’ve rigged up facilities round the back. A shower and that.”
Jake came over with towel and soap, which Latif passed through the window, before heading ove
r to the garage.
The shower room was basic. The water was cold and little more than a trickle, but I didn’t care – it just felt good to wash away the grime and sweat from the chase. The smell of the chemical toilet turned my stomach.
When I came back out, Latif had finished his tag and was back in the van. This time the freedom fighter’s aviators reflected a polar bear stranded on an iceberg. Underneath he’d written ICED.
“Iced? Like cold?” I asked as I got back into the van.
“Nah. Iced, like slang for killed. Jake wanted an eco message. He’s going to look out for us while we sleep.” Latif settled back into his seat, pulling the material from his face coverings down over his eyes.
I climbed into the back of the van and straightened out the grubby blankets. They were thin and threadbare, but I could have slept anywhere. I curled up like a dog in its basket and fell asleep in minutes.
When Latif shook me awake a few hours later, I saw squares of cobalt blue sky through the van’s windows. I rubbed my eyes.
“Yo, Dasha!” he said with a wink. “It’s time to hit the road.”
Maxine Taylor
ORCHARD Road was a quiet, leafy street – quite possibly a nosey-parker street before the repossessions set in. Tatty, tumbledown houses lined the right-hand side of the road. A scraggy, wooded area sloped away to the left. It wasn’t a no-go area yet, but I had the feeling that it was sinking fast. I counted eight trashed For Sale signs. Although I couldn’t help thinking that the gardens, wild and unkempt, gave the street a romantic air.
Barely breathing, I pressed my nose to the window as we cruised down the street, swerving potholes and roadworks, checking out my mother’s house like a couple of hit men. Eyes fastened to it, I twisted round as we drove past, not wanting to let the place out of my sight for a single second.
“Act normal, bubblehead!” Latif said. “If you know what that means.”
“This isn’t a normal situation,” I protested.
“All the more reason.” I could hear exasperation in his voice.
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