Alias

by Tracy Alexander

  All I could do was keep running, but more cars would arrive, with more police, and dogs. The road was too dangerous, but going across country would be too slow.

  A Land Rover came along, ancient, I stepped out into the road with my thumb out. He carried on past … and then stopped.

  Hallelujah!

  I climbed up into the passenger seat to find a stereotypical ruddy-faced farmer in a waxed jacket.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ I said, using every ounce of self-control to keep my voice steady.

  ‘If it hadn’t been me, it’d have been no one,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘It is quiet round here,’ I said, amazed that he couldn’t hear my heart booming.

  ‘That’s the way I like it.’

  Neither of us said another word.

  I was in a super-tight spot, but thanks to Dan the police were looking for a boy, not a girl. I had a window of time to get somewhere busy and disappear.

  A car raced up behind us. I looked round just as the siren shattered the quiet. The farmer tutted, pulled over slightly, and let them go past. I concentrated on breathing. In and out. Nice and slow.

  From nowhere a helicopter appeared, flying low, like my drone. I kept my stare straight ahead.

  The farmer dropped me in Wells-next-the-Sea, without noticing I had no shoes on. Seriously, I had no shoes. And no chargers. And no phone.

  My phone! My brain made the connection.

  Way before I even knew he was going to be useful, when he’d offered to get me credit, I’d given Dan my number – or rather the number of the phone I used as Angel. He must have used the GSM network, or maybe triangulated my position from the power levels … He was brilliant and determined, I knew that. But I didn’t expect him to use his skills to betray me. It was crazy. Surely I couldn’t fail because I’d overlooked eleven digits?

  Don’t think about that now.

  I bought a pair of Vans and a brown satchel big enough for my laptop, tried not to look shifty – which was virtually impossible – and caught a bus to Cromer. It was only a third full, but I sat next to an old lady. My brain couldn’t work out whether I’d left any clues to my real identity, but worst-case scenario I had, so it was safer to appear to be with someone else.

  We chatted about the floods, because she said it took her mind off the poor people in London and ‘that wicked terrorist’.

  Every single sentence was an effort. The adrenalin wasn’t helping me this time. It was killing me.

  Noon came and went. London, no doubt, sighed with relief. But I wasn’t finished yet. As soon as I could get back online, the strike was going ahead.

  In Cromer, I had my hair chopped off by a trainee – the only one with a free appointment. I ignored her attempts to talk –

  ‘Going anywhere nice tonight?’

  – so I could think.

  I was gutted that Dan had betrayed me. Our friendship had felt real. I’d assumed, because he was the one who’d actually hacked the drone, he’d be the last person to confess. Surely he was risking a jail sentence …? I’d clearly underestimated his conscience. As I watched my long dark hair fall onto the grubby lino flooring, I wondered whether he’d have been quite so ready to turn me in if he’d known about the murders.

  ‘Is that all right?’ asked my stylist.

  She was overweight and spotty, wearing black leggings and a tent of a top, but my hair looked great. A short bob with a fringe – it changed me completely.

  ‘Lovely, thank you.’

  Next door was an outdoor shop, so I bought a cagoule.

  I couldn’t decide whether to stick to public transport and risk the police being at the station or hitch and risk a lift from a nosy parker.

  Which was safer? No idea.

  I headed for the train station, but took a left because there were two police cars parked outside.

  They were closing in on me.

  I needed to act randomly so they couldn’t double guess my next move.

  Get a grip.

  I walked along the road, only turning when a T-junction forced me to make a decision. I wondered whether to try to find a shed or a garage to hide in.

  No.

  My instinct told me I had to get as far away as possible.

  Eventually I found myself on the outskirts of the town, where I dithered for a bit at a bus stop, pretending to read the timetable.

  Every vehicle that came along made my heart race. My chances of escaping were getting slimmer by the second.

  I glanced up at a black car travelling way too fast in my direction. Forced my stare back to the timetable. It braked. I waited for the doors to open … saw myself in handcuffs with a hand forcing my head down as I got into the back … but it carried on past the thirty-miles-per-hour sign.

  I looked back to where the car had come from. There was another sign stuck in the hedge, a square hand-painted one.

  As I got closer I could see it was an advert for one of those caravans that sells egg baps and coffee in polystyrene cups. I walked the mile there almost as fast as if I’d run.

  There was a lorry, a blue Mercedes van and a battered BMW. I opted for the lorry.

  ‘Student, are you?’ the driver asked as we pulled out of the lay-by.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve had plenty a student willing to hop in there,’ he said, indicating the bed behind the front seats.

  Gross. That was the last thing I needed.

  24

  The lorry driver stopped to fill up with diesel somewhere near Cambridge, just past a bus stop. I hopped out before he could offer me the use of his bedroll again.

  ‘Cheers!’ I shouted, like the jolly student he believed I was.

  There was only one person waiting for a bus – a bloke with a huge rucksack.

  No!

  The realisation almost made my cry out. I’d mentally stripped the house in Norfolk of all my possessions, certain that nothing could lead them to Samiya. But had forgotten that Mum had written my name in permanent marker inside the flap of my rucksack. How long would it take to crosscheck my name with any other records, like the missing persons register? No time. I had to assume that not only did they know I was a girl, but that I was a five-foot-four, eighteen-year-old, mixed-race girl. A photo might already be circulating …

  I imagined my parents, holding hands on the doorstep, sobbing as they told reporters what a good girl I was before the tragedy. I shut my eyes, hoping the picture might go away.

  I got on the first bus that came along, as did my fellow traveller. We weaved through the English countryside for a few miles. Sticking to the idea that having no plan meant my behaviour couldn’t be predicted, I got off at the bus station and got straight on another bus that was about to leave, purposely sitting next to an old dear again.

  As I clocked up the miles, I began to feel more in control. Frightened, rather than petrified. But my concern for the drone grew. It was programmed to circle Norfolk until I sent it down the coast to London. What if someone spotted it before I could get back online? Or it ran out of fuel?

  In Stevenage I dumped the cagoule and bought a dark-red hoodie, just in case anyone had noticed me earlier, and spent fifty-five valuable minutes in another hairdressers getting blonde streaks. I asked the stylist to rough-dry my hair to speed up the process. The person looking back at me in the mirror could have passed for Spanish, Italian … whatever I liked.

  At the bus station I bought a newspaper and filled the crossword with nonsense while I waited for a coach to London. The busier the city, the more easily I’d be able to disappear.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said a voice.

  I jumped up like I’d been electrocuted.

  ‘I didn’t mean to startle you,’ said a fortyish man in cords and a jumper. ‘I wondered if you could keep an eye on my mum while I nip to the gents.’

  I clocked the wheelchair and its white-haired passenger.

  ‘No problem.’

  Being jittery was a sure way of standing out. I
forced my shoulder blades down my back and took a deep breath – the first in hours. I took a second.

  ‘Going far?’ I said to the old lady.

  She moved her head a tiny bit and stared through me. Good. No need to make conversation.

  The man came back thirty seconds later and wheeled her off. I made my way to the right coach bay and joined the queue.

  The doors opened and people began to negotiate the steep steps. There was a woman with a party of five girls – one of whom had brown skin like me. I sat in the seat across the aisle from their noisy party and, as soon as the coach rolled out of the depot, set about making friends.

  ‘Where are you all going?’

  ‘To see Matilda,’ said the mum.

  People like to talk. I asked questions, and answered theirs with lies. Anyone watching would have assumed I was with the party, maybe an older sister …

  We got to Victoria at six-thirty. I walked briskly to the Tube, picking up an Evening Standard on the way and tucking it under my arm. As far as I could tell, London was back to normal. My deadline had come and gone. The ticketing system was back up. Whatever chaos I’d caused earlier in the day with my DDoS had been repaired.

  The Circle Line train came in two seconds – I sat down and started reading the paper. The front page was a photo of crowds of people pouring out of King’s Cross, lots of them looking up, with the headline: Dronejacker’s Deadline Passes. Inside there was much more, but nothing concrete. Crucially there was no mention of Samiya, and no photographs.

  My knowledge of London was ropey. I needed somewhere I wouldn’t be disturbed, that was open late. I opted for Marble Arch, so I switched to the Central Line at Notting Hill Gate.

  When I reached street level I was pleased to see that the skies were clear – good flying weather. I bought a laptop charger from Maplin and went from there to a Costa on the Edgware Road that a random stranger said was open until ten. According to my rough calculations I was three miles from the target – far enough away to be safe.

  I ordered a large hot chocolate – keen for a sugar rush – then sat by a wall socket and waited for the life to come back into my computer. I was worried that my VPN routing would already have been compromised, but thankfully my connection behaved as normal. Listening to the advice my many hacker friends had given me had paid off – knowing my name wasn’t going to help anyone find the virtual me.

  To get the Wi-Fi I had to sign in using an email address. They never validate it so it wasn’t a problem – I pressed any old keys.

  First job was to check the whereabouts of the drone. It was, as I’d hoped, still circling over the Norfolk/Suffolk border. I executed the code and took over manual control. Tick. I input the new GPS co-ordinates. The Predator automatically set a course down the coast. ETA 21:00. Target – Waterloo Station, aka the busiest train station in Europe.

  I made myself eat half a panini while I scanned news reports from earlier in the day when the strike was imminent, and the post-noon hypotheses. Security forces said the threat level remained at critical. No one knew whether the missed deadline meant it was all over or just postponed. Except me. Everyone agreed that Dronejacker was also responsible for the DDoS. No one knew who I was, or, at least, the media didn’t. Huge relief.

  I took the folded-up photograph of Jaddah, Lamyah and me out of my purse.

  Not long now.

  When I left Costa, the drone was approaching Southend. Within an hour blood would be spilled. A single strike on London, to make people understand that using drones wasn’t playing fair. The feeling was incredible. When news filtered through to Dad’s village, there’d be a party – goat and khat.

  I walked for ten minutes until I found another café. As soon as the deed was done, I’d kill time on a night bus.

  ‘A peppermint tea, please, and the Wi-Fi password.’

  ‘Coffeecoffee,’ said the waiter.

  I set up the VPN and ran the code. While I waited for the heads-up display to load, I wondered who would happen to be in the cross hairs … Lunchtime would have been busier, but even in the evening there would be casualties. They were not my concern – sacrifices had to be made for the greater good.

  I was only one more command away from carnage …

  The connection failed.

  I tried again.

  Nothing happened.

  No matter how many times I tried, I couldn’t establish the link.

  My tea went cold.

  The lines of code to transform my PC into an operations centre might as well have been a nursery rhyme. I was powerless. My expertise was in getting people to help me and splicing things together. No way could I reroute the connection.

  Time ticked on. I persevered.

  The café emptied. The waiter came and asked me if I wanted anything else. I had no choice but to leave. Try from somewhere else.

  I shut my laptop just as a bloke poked his head out of the kitchens.

  ‘They got the drone. Shot it down!’ he yelled.

  I put my laptop in the satchel. It was over.

  25

  I went from London to Swansea to Glasgow to Birmingham, too scared to check into a hotel. As the train approached Leeds, my final destination, I washed my armpits in the loos and, with a trembling hand, plastered my face in the cheap make-up I’d bought from a skanky chemist. I stank of three days’ travelling and a lifetime’s fear and disappointment. I was exhausted, and terrified of being recognised.

  Samiya’s life story, including the murders of Lamyah and Jaddah, was all over the papers, accompanied by one of two photos – a blurred one, with my eyes half closed and my hair long and straggly, and a school mug shot from Year 11. It was difficult to imagine anyone recognising me – the last-minute makeover had done its job – but that didn’t stop me feeling wired.

  There was no reason why anyone would trace me to Leeds – I had no links with the place – but Dronejacker was the news. Who wouldn’t be a bit jumpy?

  All I had inside the rucksack I’d bought in London were a few clothes, a lot of cash, a new phone and my papers. I’d left my computer in a London wheelie bin, in case I’d accidentally left an online trail. I thought I’d been careful, but somehow they’d found the drone and brought it down …

  I waited for everyone else to get off the train and then walked through the carriages until I found what I was looking for – a discarded tourist map of Leeds. A quick look told me all I needed to know. Turn left, go through the town, carry on up Woodhouse Lane to Hyde Park – student territory. I didn’t want to appear as though I didn’t know where I was going.

  I walked briskly along the platform.

  The short-term plan was simple – to hide myself among the thousands of students. I kept repeating the name Saffron to make sure I reacted naturally when someone used my alias for the first time. That someone happened to be Mack.

  ‘You a student?’ he said.

  I assumed the little boy in front of me was talking to someone else, but when I looked around I was the only person left on the platform.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Are you getting a taxi?’

  ‘No,’ I said, wishing I’d ignored him.

  I put my ticket into the slot and pushed the turnstile. He ducked underneath.

  Great! I was trying to blend in while my sidekick was flouting the law. Luckily the guard was half asleep.

  ‘Are you walking, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I’d get rid of him once we were out of the station.

  ‘I’m Mack.’

  Social niceties were so not top of my agenda, but I decided I might as well try out my new name.

  ‘I’m Saffron,’ I said. ‘And I really don’t want company.’

  ‘Me neither,’ he said, which bizarrely, given how frightened I felt, made me laugh.

  I turned left out of the station, and he came too. There was a man in uniform bang in front of us. Instinctively I looked away, and as a result stumbled slightly. Mack noticed.

/>   ‘It’s only a traffic warden,’ he said.

  I needed to get a grip. If even a small boy could tell I was nervous, I’d be locked up in no time. I made a snap decision.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Always,’ he said.

  ‘Know any good cafés?’

  Mack grinned and led me down a back street to a burger bar. It was useful having him by my side. The world was looking for a solitary girl, whereas with him I was clearly one of a pair. I relaxed a little, the conversation slowing down my racing thoughts.

  He asked for a cheeseburger, chips and a Fanta. I had the same. Your brain needs food and rest. I hadn’t had enough of either.

  ‘You smell,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t have to sit so close,’ I said. He’d squashed himself up next to me on a bench seat. I wondered if he was cold. I was wearing a hoodie, but all he had on was a grubby short-sleeved football shirt.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ he said.

  In between eating with his mouth open it became clear that he spent his time latching onto strangers, hoping for food, drink, money or all three.

  ‘Where do you live?’ I asked.

  ‘Delph Lane.’

  He’d clocked that I was a stranger, so I let him explain where it was. Turned out we were heading the same way. Suited me. I had a guide, in the shape of –

  ‘How old are you, then?’

  ‘Nine,’ he said.

  – a nine-year-old boy.

  The walk up Woodhouse Lane was very fruitful. Two hours after meeting Mack, I had a place to stay.

  I’d assumed I’d have to risk a hotel – at least for a few days – but Mack said there was a postcard advertising a room in the window of the Hyde Park Corner Post Office.

  ‘Whereabouts?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘But you’re the one who’s telling me there’s a room,’ I said.

  ‘The lady from the café said.’

  It was like a word game. I persevered. It turned out that Mack couldn’t read, but happened to be outside the Post Office when the lady from the café had quoted the ad, pointing out what an astronomical price it was. (He had several goes at ‘astronomical’.)