Stitch-Up

by Sophie Hamilton

  “Yeah, whatever!” I snapped. “Get to the point.”

  “After he’s been convicted and the furore has died down, I will see that Latif receives a new identity. He will gain his freedom, on the condition that he lives abroad and never returns to England. Disappears.”

  “You’re too kind. That’s no life.”

  “It’s the only deal I can broker with the prime minister. There’s massive public pressure to lock him up and throw away the key. For ever. Amen.”

  I twisted the cable around my thumb and watched the tip turn purple.

  “It’s not much of a get-out-of-jail card, is it?” I eyeballed them both.

  “It’s the only one on offer.”

  I stared into middle distance. Empty. Defeated.

  A mournful trilling from outside filled the silence. The bird sounded as sad as I felt. There it was again. A jolt of electricity shot through my body.

  Meeting my father’s gaze, I said, “Okay. I’ll do it.” Although my face was expressionless, my brain was in overdrive.

  My parents were bluffing.

  The whistle. Latif was outside.

  I had to escape.

  But how?

  “I knew you’d see sense.” Dad clicked his fingers at the director. “Get ready to roll the cameras.”

  My mother clapped her hands and shouted for make-up. Instantly the room was filled with a gossip of hair and make-up artists dressed in white overalls, who rushed around the Golds, as if they were Formula One cars in a pit stop. All was chatter and noise. Except for me, who sat perfectly still – the eye of the fragrant storm that whirled around me.

  “Can I have make-up too, please?” I asked, stalling for time.

  “You’re a hostage, darling,” Tamara said, catching my eye in the mirror. “You need to look rough. You’re fine as you are.”

  “Thanks a bunch!” I said, giving her the evils.

  I leaned down and picked up one of the bottles from the floor. “So what’s this for?” I unscrewed the lid and sniffed the liquid; an acrid smell caught in my throat and made me cough. “Heavy duty!” I spluttered.

  “Careful, Dasha!” Tamara warned. “It’s sulphuric acid. You know how Dad loves to wind up the health and safety department.”

  “Terrorist paraphernalia. Brilliant touch, don’t you think?” Dad’s eyes were shut as a make-up artist applied powder to his face.

  “Genius!” I said sarcastically, picking up a second bottle. I unscrewed the cap. Then holding one in each hand like loaded pistols, I stood up and said calmly, “It’s show time, folks.”

  The Golds swivelled round to face me, their eyes wide and crazy. The make-up artists dropped their brushes, twittered and flitted behind the screen.

  “Okay guys, I’m out of here. Get back unless you want your faces burned off.” My eyes flicked around the room, holding eye contact with each one of them for a second, so they knew there were no exceptions.

  My mother was backing up behind the screen with her hands over his face, shouting, “No, my face is my life!”

  Dad slid behind the screen, one hand raised, as if he were trying to hide his face from a paparazzo. The television crew had already retreated into the shadows at the first sign of trouble. The heavy edged towards me.

  “I’m not joking. Get behind the screen. Now.”

  He kept on coming forward, eyes fixed on me, trying to psych me out.

  I held his gaze. “Behind the screen. Now!” I repeated.

  Next thing I knew he was lunging towards me. Without missing a beat, I threw the acid. And as the clear liquid looped towards him in a glistening arc, I spun round and ran from the room, slamming the door on his roar of pain.

  The hallway was empty. Upstairs TV people were crowding onto the landing. When one guy started down the stairs, I shouted, “It’s acid. It’ll take your face off. Stay back. Don’t come any closer.”

  Keeping the bottle trained on the staircase, I opened the front door, took the heavy, metal key from the old-fashioned lock and backed out, like a cowboy leaving a saloon after a ruck. Once outside, I pushed the key into the lock. I could hear people rushing down the stairs and across the hall. My hands were trembling. The key jammed. I shoved it further into the lock and twisted, putting all my strength behind it, until I heard a click. Then I left it in the lock.

  Next minute, I was running down the path, shouting for Latif.

  I stopped in my tracks.

  A man in a motorcycle helmet was sitting astride a bike in the alley next to the house, revving the engine. A goon? I looked around desperately searching out an escape route. Where the hell was Latif? The guy on the bike looked my way.

  “Latif?” I shouted, peering into the fading light. I tried to pick out the cherry tree in the copse.

  The goon lifted his visor. “Over here, Dash.” He revved the engine and headed out into the road.

  Immediately, I was racing down the path. As the gate slammed behind me, I saw security guards piling out of the back garden and running down the alleyway towards us.

  “Security’s onto us!” I shouted, scrambling up behind Latif.

  Latif waited until he felt my arms tighten around his waist before accelerating. The bike reared up. I clung on. Then we were shooting across Orchard Road. We mounted the pavement with a jolt, next minute we were careering down through the trees. When we hit the track, a grit-cloud kicked up behind us like a genie escaping its bottle.

  Alley Cats

  THE bike ploughed along the disused railway track. I clung to Latif, my arms wrapped around his waist. The warmth from his body reassured me; it helped me understand that this was real – that I wasn’t dreaming. Latif. The bike. Escape. They were all real. I tightened my grip. He hadn’t betrayed me. He cared. I tipped my head back and looked at the sky. My hair streamed behind me. A cool rush of air sandblasted my face. My blood was charged. Despite everything, I had never felt so alive.

  Suddenly the bike’s wing mirrors were ablaze with light. I swivelled around. A jeep was chasing us down. Its headlamps dazzled. In a panic, I shouted for Latif to go faster, but our bike was making heavy work of the dirt track. I tensed up. No, that wasn’t it. Latif was slowing down.

  “What are you doing?” I screamed as we came to halt.

  Latif was shouting something. But the engine’s roar swallowed up his words. I only caught the word – ‘GUN!’ After that everything started happening in slo-mo. He kicked down the bike rest, dismounted, took the gun from his pocket, knelt down, took aim, fired. But the jeep kept on hurtling towards us, headlamps glaring and bullying in the gloaming while we remained frozen to the spot. Moments later, a loud bang as the front tyre exploded. Then the jeep swerved off the track, crashing into a tree in a mangle of metal and spinning wheels.

  Stunned, I stared at the wreckage. Without saying a word, Latif jumped back on the bike and we were racing along the track again. After about seventy-five metres, he decelerated and, leaving the track, manoeuvred the bike down a steep siding towards a road, which ran parallel to the railway track. The back wheel skidded and dragged in the undergrowth. And as we slalomed between trees, I pressed my face into Latif’s hoodie, shielding my face from low-hanging branches, which snagged at my clothes.

  When we hit the road, we raced through quiet suburban streets. High-rise security gates. Fortressed houses. Bigwig residences. Security cameras swivelled at every entrance. Switching off the headlamp, Latif accelerated into the blurry twilight, stopping at neither traffic junctions nor lights, tearing through the sleepy ’burbs like an avenging angel, leaning into corners so tightly that on occasions the bike was almost parallel with the road. I clung on. Every now and then I checked over my shoulder. At least we’d lost our pursuers. Slowly my nerves steadied.

  After a short while, we approached a busy high street. Latif cut the speed and flicked the lights back on. A young crowd was spilling out of bars and pubs onto the pavements where they stood around drinking, chatting and laughing. As Latif wove thro
ugh the dawdling traffic, bubbles of tipsy chatter reached me and I found myself wishing more than anything in the world that we could join them, relax and grab a beer – do something normal, put the chase on pause for an hour or two.

  Latif turned right by a Starbucks into a street lined with shabby business premises. He parked up in the forecourt of a printing shop; kicked down the bike rest and cut the engine.

  “We’re ditching the bike.”

  I noticed his hands were trembling.

  We left the bike with the key in the ignition, lights on full beam – screaming out to be stolen. He set off at such a pace, I had to break into a run to catch up with him. We had only gone a few metres down the road when he pulled me into a doorway and said, “Lose the hoodie.” Reaching into his rucksack, he handed me my wig. “Hide your locks.”

  I slipped out of the hoodie and was about to tie it round my waist when Latif took it off me. It was a warm night for the time of year, but even so I could feel my skin goosebumping. I rubbed the top of my arms as I watched Latif wipe our fingerprints from the gun with it. Then he headed over to a line of recycling bins.

  I placed the wig on my head. Then, crouching down by the side of a parked car, I twisted the wing mirror towards me and made a few adjustments, tucking up stray wisps of my hair, and adding a slash of red lipstick to complete the look. Instantly I felt camouflaged when I saw my ’fugee-self staring back.

  The clank of metal against the bottles made me glance up. Latif was already walking back; he looked as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. In fact, he appeared to have his swagger back.

  “How do I look?” I stared straight into his eyes. “Would you recognise me?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Nah. You’re masked!”

  I hid my disappoinment.

  You’re on the run, idiot. Looking hot isn’t top priority. But still I felt crushed.

  He put on the England shirt, which he’d taken from Yukiko’s bag as a last resort, and strode off, pulling a white baseball cap down over his eyes as he went.

  “What now?” I asked.

  He gave me that sideways glance. The one I hated. “What do you think, bubblehead? Getting the hell off the streets. This barrio will be a hotspot in no time.”

  I looked up at the sky, I couldn’t see any helicopters, but I could sense them. The air was charged. My skin prickled with fear.

  Back on the high street, we pushed through clusters of happy punters with booze-pink cheeks. All was noise and jostle. Everywhere I looked, dangly gold earrings, sparkly eyeshadow and ironed hair. An undercurrent of violence rippled, but had yet to make waves. We kept to the most crowded parts of the pavement, trying our best to blend in. Latif led the way, mumbling, “Sorry, mate,” every time he knocked an elbow or jogged someone’s drink. I fixed my eyes on the pavement.

  “What happened back there?” Latif asked, as we left the crowds behind. “Were the Golds there?

  “They arrived in the Thames Water vans, or so they said.”

  “I knew it was bad when a heavy came out and started nosing around. I jumped him when he walked under the tree. Knocked him out.”

  “Was that his bike?” I searched Latif’s face for signs of a fight.

  “Yeah. I borrowed it.”

  A siren wailed. His eyes darted back and forth, checking the shadows. Up ahead there was a bus station and a railway bridge. Beyond that, Finsbury Park Bowling Alley’s neon sign flashed. Latif took my arm.

  “Fancy bowling?”

  I held back, unsure if I had understood his drift. “What? Are you mad?” I asked, goggle-eyed.

  “Never more serious.” He had his arm around my waist now, and was guiding me towards the bowling alley.

  “Screwball. This is suicide.” I muttered, heart pounding like a pneumatic drill.

  “And staying on the streets isn’t?” He glanced up at the sky.

  I heard the clatter of helicopter blades in the distance.

  He squeezed my arm. “Ten pin is our best chance. Truth!”

  A screech of girls on a hen night was keeping things lively in the queue. An array of headboppers – glittery stars, red hearts and bumblebees – bobbed and clacked as the hens huddled round a girl wearing a flashing Bride-to-Be sash and a tiara with a veil attached. She had a pack of ten cards fanned out in her hand with which she was rating boys in the queue. After a confab with her hens, she pulled out SEVEN: Dream Boy. An auburn-haired Scot laughed and gave a deep bow.

  Latif pulled his cap down further.

  They turned in our direction. My heart lurched. Latif was next.

  I cringed at the attention, terrified one of them might recognise him, but he didn’t seem phased, instead he was playing along with them. The girls clustered round the cards whispering scores. There seemed to be some kind of disagreement. Finally the bride-to-be held up an EIGHT. The verdict read: Total Hunk!

  “Thank you, ladies,” Latif said with a twinkle in his eye. The bride-to-be smiled, and then looking over at me mischievously, she asked, “Is he with you?” Without waiting for an answer, she raised her veil, and scooped Latif underneath it. A pang of jealousy stabbed.

  As they approached the cashier, the security guy went to lift the veil, but the bride-to-be batted his hand away playfully, and giggle-whispered, “Hey, hands off! He’s mine.”

  Latif pushed money for both of them under the partition, and they swished through. The rest of the girls followed with a clack of deely boppers. My palms were sweating as I pushed the twenty-pound note towards the cashier, but he was gawping at the hens. I headed after them, heart racing.

  Once we were inside, Latif took me by the hand. “Come on. We need shoes.”

  “Hand in our trainers?” I turned to face him. “What if the police show up?”

  “We’ll scoot. Shoes, bubblehead, are shoes.” He adjusted his cap so it completely shadowed his face.

  We couldn’t have picked a noisier place on earth. Music blared, skittles crashed and balls thundered down the bowling lanes. Even better, the hen party provided the perfect diversion. Their raucousness demanded attention, drawing everyone into their orbit. They had to be noticed. I could have hugged the whole giggling whoop of them.

  As I watched Latif trade our trainers for bowling shoes, all I could think was: We’re on the run. And we’re handing in our trainers? What kind of cuckoo plan is that? Brilliant! I slumped back against the wall, adrenalin gone. What was the point of dragging the chase out? We were going to get caught sooner or later. It was just a matter of time. Three days. Twenty-four hours. Thirty minutes. For all I knew, police in riot gear were lined up outside the bowling alley right now, awaiting orders to storm in.

  When Latif handed me my bowling shoes, he said, “Think about it, bubblehead. These beauties work on two levels: first up, camouflage; second up, warning – if we see someone out of regulation shoes we know we’re in trouble. Get me?”

  “Okay. Okay. I get it. You’re not mad.”

  As we made our way over to the bowling lanes, he said, “It’s Saturday night, Dash. You’re meant to be having fun. Smile. Pretend you’re in Premium, Minted or somewhere swanky, if that helps.”

  I frowned. Was Latif always going to see me as a global, a fake and a class tourist? My brow furrowed some more. Whatever. I felt his eyes on me.

  He leaned down and whispered, “I’m serious, smile.” His breath was warm against my cheek. “Just hang on my every word! As usual.”

  I smiled.

  “Hold that smile.” His eyes flicked towards the bar. “I could murder a beer.” He fished a note out and tsked. “But a fifty’s flash.”

  “I’ll go.” I held out my hand. “I’m better disguised.”

  His eyebrow shot up. “You sure, bubblehead?”

  “’Sakes, Latif. I’ve just outwitted the Dark Lord and his apprentice. I think I can get us a drink.” I rolled my eyes. “Anyway, I haven’t road-tested the wig yet.”

  He pressed the note into my hand. “Kill it!
” He cracked a heart-stopping smile.

  The bar was heaving. I checked out the punters and headed for a section rammed with scruffy-looking boys. Elbowing my way into the crush, I caught a glimpse of my blond self in the mirror behind the bar. The transformation from teenage dirtbag to presentable human being was spectacular. In the low lights, my skin looked dewy, my crop was standout and my lips were lush. Ready for action! I turned my attentions on the barman. He was serving a boy a little further down the bar. I fixed him with a stare and smiled. He returned my smile. My stomach lurched; I knew I would be next.

  The barman came over.

  “Two Becks,” I shouted across the bar.

  The barman leaned forwards, pointing at his ear.

  “Two Becks,” I shouted, louder this time.

  He gave me the thumbs up and headed over to the fridge, took out two bottles and removed the tops with a bottle-opener attached to a chain on his belt. I watched him exchange a few words with a pretty red-headed girl. They both looked my way. I smiled. The girl nudged him in the ribs and went back to her customer.

  He slid two beers across the bar. When I pushed the fifty-pound note into his hand, he whistled, and held it up to the light to check it wasn’t a fake.

  My heart raced as he went over to the till and rang up my beers. I kept on smiling; fronting it was the only option.

  “Who are you with?”

  My heart skipped a beat. “Friends… girlfriends.” I nodded in the direction of the hen party.

  “The next two are on the house.” He pressed the change into my hand with a grin.

  “Thanks,” I mouthed.

  “Looks like you pulled,” Latif said when I handed him his beer. He took a swig from the bottle, never once taking his eyes off the room.

  I shrugged. “He’s not my type.” I placed the chilled bottle against my cheek and took in the scene. Latif was standing with one hand thrust into his pocket, bobbing his head to the beat while his eyes flitted across the crowd. He was giving everyone the once-over from the shoes up. All regulation. Genius. I took a sip of beer. My shoulders relaxed a notch. Another sip. My spine unkinked a fraction. I started bobbing my head to the music, too. Latif nodded towards an empty booth. As we walked over, I saw Latif lift a mobile from the hen party’s table while the girls were celebrating a strike. As soon as we sat down in the booth he tapped 1, 2, 3, 4 in as the security code.