Stitch-Up (17 page)

Latif let out a long low whistle. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

One of the tinies pedalled over and skidded to halt in front of Latif.

“
Salaam
, cuz.” Latif handed the kid a twenty-pound note. “What's the news?”

The tiny flashed a smile from behind his Spider-Man mask.

Great
, I thought, as I watched my only note disappear into the kid's pocket.

“You throwing up pieces today, cuz?”

“If you're lucky.”

Another toothy smile.

“Be safe, bro. Word is the feds is coming in tonight. That they're gonna go medieval. Tanks, copters, hoses. The works, yeah? We saw a copter morning time. It zipped before the soldiers got sights on it. Shame, coz otherwise…” He twirled his finger in a downward motion, and then he made a
boof
sound. “Best place to be is the souks. Trust me!”

“Safe. Stay blessed, cuz.”

They bumped fists. A sharp whistle sent the tiny pedalling back to the checkpoint. Latif left the road and headed down a scrubby path towards the security fence. He slipped under using a well-used crawl space. I followed. Inside was a vast building site: acres of exposed girders, empty retail units, peeling billboards and flapping plastic. Across a billboard advertising the defunct mall someone had scrawled the words:
ASHES To ASHES. BOOM To BUST!
My eyes were drawn to a weather-beaten billboard hyping my parents' prime-time Saturday show. They were posing like a pair of glamorous gangsters. The brand's catchphrase:
Goldrush Image turns your dreams into reality!
arced above them. The word ‘dreams' had been crossed out and replaced with ‘nightmares'. The graffiti underneath read:
The Game is Rigged. Only Suckers Play by the Rules.

As we set off, whistles echoed around the site. Looking up, I saw hoodies silhouetted against the blue sky. They were scoping us out. A wave of panic whooshed through
my body. Latif slowly raised his red fingers. The whistles died down. Seeing me staring at his fingers, he explained, “Red fingers mark you out as one of them. A Crunch Towner.” He shrugged. “It's the code. It guarantees the gangs'll leave us alone.” But the way his head kept swivelling round suggested that it wasn't a done deal.

Up ahead a group of masked kids popped up from beneath the perimeter fence. They formed a chain and started passing boxes through the gap. All were wearing gloves despite the warm spring day. When they had finished, they raced off, laden down with the goods, vanishing into the mall's foundations.

“Was that stuff stolen?”

Latif nodded. “They bring the swag through here because there are bare ways out, tunnels, scaffolding and that. The feds don't follow them in here, in case they get jumped. The gangs call this place customs. The guys up there.” He nodded skywards. “They're the customs officers.”

“And you think that's okay?”

“They've got nothing.” He shrugged. “I don't roll with them. I don't judge them. They go where the money is. There's nothing left here…” He turned to look at me. “Anyway, what do you know about anything? The rich – your people – screwed the poor. You created Crunch Town. Turned the east into junk spaces and prairies.”

A sharp clanging rang out. Our heads snapped skywards. Up in the rookeries, the lookouts were banging the scaffolding poles with iron bars. The sound echoed around the empty
retail units. Immediately everyone started running for cover.

Latif grabbed hold of my arm and we sprinted towards the scaffolding.

“Go,” Latif shouted as he lifted me onto the ladder.

Once we were up on the scaffolding planks we raced along the gangways, climbing from level to level by rickety ladders until we were way above the treetops. Then, as abruptly as it started, the clanging stopped. A deep silence settled over the site. It was as if everyone was holding their breath. The only sound was a slight whir of metallic wings. I scanned the sky. Then I saw it. A tiny bird, no bigger than a man's hand. A bird-bot. As it skimmed through the air, filming everything, it glittered in the sunlight. I exchanged a grim look with Latif. We both knew who'd sent it. I'd heard Dad talk about bird-bots. They were cutting edge spy-craft. He owned one. He described it as the ultimate executive toy.

A guy coughed. The bird-bot circled slowly and started flying towards our section of scaffolding. I looked down, terrified the bird-bot might identify me by taking a biometric reading of my iris. Despite being bundled, I wasn't going to take any risks. As the bird flew closer, the kids pelted it with bricks, hollering whenever they got a direct hit. But the robot remained airborne. I steadied myself against the scaffolding. The bird started flying straight towards us. I stared at my feet. The whirring filled my head like a ticking bomb. I shut my eyes.
Tick. Tick. Tick
. A clang. The whirring stopped. A stadium roar. Opening my eyes, I saw the bird-bot fall to the ground in a shimmer of metallic confetti.

“
Vamos!
” Latif was halfway down the gangway already, heading for the ladders.

Five minutes later, we climbed down from the skywalks and picked our way through the ruined retail space. We left the site by crawling back under the perimeter fence into Crunch Town proper. The place lived up to all my fears.

It was a bruised and bombed-out area. The streets were lined with deadbeat, dilapidated houses. Most were squatted by families. All had rickety extensions, front and back, as if the houses were mutating and growing extra limbs. Sheds and garages were doubling as crashpads. A traffic roundabout mushroomed with brightly coloured tents. In a churchyard gravestones were being used to hang out washing. We passed a block of flats where yards had been turned into pop-up cafes or illicit drinking dens. People sat around chatting, playing cards and smoking. Makeshift barbecues sizzled.

There was hardly any traffic; no delivery vans, no Chelsea tractors, no taxis. Every now and then a clapped-out car chugged past. Frequently the hiss of bicycle spokes startled me as we walked in silence.

We skirted round a chained-up, long-abandoned supermarket. The car park was chock-a-block with makeshift houses made from cardboard boxes, strips of corrugated iron and supermarket trolleys. Families were camping out in cars, belongings spilling out from the boots. Daffodils bloomed in a tyre which doubled as a flowerpot.

Wherever we walked, we were watched. Kids monitored us from street corners, women stared from windows hung
with bedsheets and guys checked us out from souped-up cars with tinted windows. I checked my disguise was still in place.

All of a sudden the throb of music filled the air. I glanced over my shoulder. A gleaming black SUV was manoeuvring along the litter-strewn road. It slowed. A guy wearing a pollution mask, mirrored shades and a cap pulled down over his eyes was leaning out of the back window, banging a gloved hand against the door.

“Yo! Where you at, graffiti-boy?” the guy in the back shouted.

Latif raised his red fingers. “Throwing up pieces, bruv.”

The gloved hand kept on banging. My heart echoed its beat.

Everything's okay. Everything's okay
.

The driver nodded, but didn't return the signal.

My heartbeat quickened.

Latif repeated the salute. The driver slammed the horn. My heart was in my mouth. The guy in the passenger seat shouted, “On your way, bruv!”

As I watched the SUV drive away at speed, I asked, “Who the hell were they?”

“Headhunters.” His voice sounded tight.

An image of Coco kidnapped, bundled and tied-up in the SUV's boot flashed into my head. My fingers twitched nervously in my pockets. “Will you spray my fingers in case I get lost?” I whispered.

“You won't,” he said. Nevertheless he gently took my
trembling, outstretched hand and started spraying my fingers. The paint was cold against my skin. As I watched my fingers turn red, I found myself praying that the police had found Coco, and she was back with her parents.

We carried on walking through flyblown streets, lined with derelict lock-ups and work units that hadn't seen work in a long time. Neither of us spoke.

Up ahead, a guy in white overalls, sunglasses, black balaclava and monkey boots – all splashed with paint – was coming towards us. By the look of him he was a Creative.

“A brother!” Latif raised his red fingers.

I rolled up my sleeve so mine were visible, too.

The guy lifted his arm to return Latif's greeting. That was when I saw the barbed-wire tattoo circling his wrist. This sight acted like an adrenalin shot. He was from my dad's security detail. He was one of the Golden Knights. And, oh my God, he was reaching into his deep overalls pockets. Without thinking, I jumped in front of Latif, shouting, “He's one of Dad's.” Metal flashed. “He's got a gun.” I screamed, my arms and legs stretched out in a star jump of blue parachute silk.

Then Latif was yanking me into a narrow street. The man's footsteps pounded the pavement behind us. There was a crack. The air swished. A bullet rushed past me.
Smash!
A camper van's rear window shattered into a thousand shards. Another bullet ripped through a garage door. A third sank deep into an abandoned sofa. The bullets flew after Latif as he zigzagged down the street, using
free-running tricks to outwit his assassin. But the bullets kept on tracking him, missing him by seconds, as he vaulted over the bonnets of burned-out cars, bins and an abandoned wardrobe. Trailing after him, my heart pounding in my chest, like a wrecking ball, all I could think was:
Dad wants Latif dead. D. E. A. D
.

Halfway down the street, Latif vaulted over a recycling bin and, crouching down behind it, out of sight, he waited until I'd run past, before pushing the bin into the hit man's path.

I ran on for a few paces, but hearing only one set of running footsteps behind me, I glanced back. The street was empty apart from the assassin.

“
LATIF!
” I screamed.

His name echoed back off the shuttered garages.

It was as if he'd vanished off the face of the earth.

I screamed his name again.

The hit man had stopped shooting, but that meant he was running faster. My brain was shutting down. Without Latif at my side, I couldn't think straight. I knew I had to keep on running.
But where to?
Up ahead, a block of flats loomed. Checking the street for Latif again, my foot landed in a pothole; I stumbled, falling forwards. The goon was on me in seconds. He clamped my neck in a rock-hard grip, pinching my tendons. Then he viced my neck in the crook of his arm, lifting me off the ground. My arms and legs windmilled uselessly. Fighting back tears, I tried to shout Latif's name again, but the goon's grip was squeezing my windpipe so hard, nothing came out. The hit man ripped the scarf
from my face and, taking a white cloth from his pocket with a gloved hand, muttered, “Sleep well, Dasha Gold!”

I recognised the voice beneath the balaclava immediately.

“Stevie!” I choked. “Don't!”

“Sweet dreams, Dash,” he said, as he placed the cloth over my mouth.

It was cold, moist and suffocating.

A sweet, sickly whiff hit me and, guessing I had less than thirty seconds to go before I went under, I summoned up my last ounce of strength and kicked down on Stevie's kneecaps, before ramming my elbows into his ribs. He grunted, but didn't relax his grip. The cloth felt soft against my skin. Now the smell was overpowering. I held my breath. The world was swimming in and out of focus. Suddenly everything was warm and fuzzy.

Up above, the sky was Caribbean blue. I was floating on my back in the warm, warm ocean. A bird of paradise took off from its perch, swooping above me in a burst of red, purple and gold plumage –
and trainers
? The bird had feet, was running through the air.
Bam!
Two trainers hit Stevie's shoulders with such force that he was thrown across the street. Then the road was rushing up towards me.
Smack!
I crumpled on impact, but my body was so relaxed that I hardly felt any pain; it was as if the drug had caused me to grow a new, bouncy layer of skin, a magical shock absorber. I embraced the pavement like a long-lost friend. Schoomed out, I lay there counting stars.

Next thing I knew, Latif was pulling me up. But my
rubbery legs gave way and I slumped back down onto the road, as if filleted of bone.

“Latif? Shwhere didshh you go?” My speech was slurred, as if someone were holding my tongue. “I missshhed you. I looossht…”

Before I could finish, Latif was shaking me by my shoulders. I groaned. All I wanted to do was sink back down onto the road and sleep.
Slap!
Then my face was stinging and Latif was shouting, “Get up, Dash.” I shrank from him. “Can you hear me?” He slapped me again. His face was millimetres away. “Dash, snap out of it. Breathe!” He demonstrated by taking long, deep breaths. I mimicked him. And as things began to come back into focus, I gulped down more air. The fug in my head began to clear. That was when I saw Stevie start crawling towards his gun.

“Run!” Latif shouted, pulling me to my feet.

Next up I heard the click, click, click of his gun being reloaded.

The sound snapped me into flight mode. The terror switch in my head flicked on. Panic pumped up to ten. I channelled all my thoughts into the act of running. My legs were bionic. They were made of metal, not jelly. They would carry me out of danger. We tore down the street towards the brutal-looking tower block. Latif was running at my side shouting instructions, like a personal trainer, demanding I run –
faster, faster, faster
. We sprinted through the tower block's car park, taking cover behind burned-out cars and skips piled high with rubbish. Entering the block,
we raced up a concrete stairwell and along an unlit gangway. The smell of drains hung in the air. Broken glass scrunched underfoot. Another set of stairs. Another gangway. At the far end, a bundled gang moved to block our way.
No!
They had guns, too. The stairwell rang with Stevie's footsteps. No way back. We were trapped. The horror soundtrack in my head maxed out. Its feedback vibrated my guts. One of the hooded figures flashed a spotlight. Caught in its beam, Latif raised two red fingers. The guy with the flashlight spotlit his own, and shouted. “You okay, bruv?”