Stitch-Up (18 page)

“Undercover feds after us, bruv!” Latif shouted.

The gang surged forwards in a wave of padded jackets, swallowed us up for a moment, before racing off. Another shot rang out. Latif pushed me to the ground. I heard the bullet ricochet off a wall, followed by a blood-curdling scream as one of the bundled guys took a bullet. An angry roar went up from his friends. A few gathered round him while the rest chased Big Stevie down the stairwell.

I steadied myself against the railings and gasped for air. My lungs were shredded. I took deep breaths. In. Out.

Down below, the gang was chasing Stevie across scrubby wasteland. Latif stood silently watching the drama unfold. A shot. Stevie roared with pain, clasped his hands to his thigh, and staggered behind a row of garages, dragging his leg. The gang ran after him. Another shot.

“Is he dead?” I whispered.

Latif didn't answer.

“That was Stevie. He's one of Dad's security detail.”
I steadied myself against the railings. “My minder.”

“That figures.” Latif's voice was quiet but full of rage. “Regular feds don't head into Crunch Town without backup. And when they do, they arrive in tanks and copters.”

“The barbed-wire tattoo around his wrist alerted me. All Dad's Golden Knights have one.”

When Latif turned towards me, I saw myself reflected twice in his sunglasses – small and scared. “You said your parents would stop at nothing to get you back.” His bundled face gave nothing away. “Now we know that includes blowing me away. For real.” He kicked an empty Coke can down the gangway.

“I think I'm going to puke,” I leaned over the railings and retched. The phrase “Sleep well, Dasha Gold!” hissed around my head. I retched again. Straightening up, I whispered, “I can't believe Dad sent Stevie to shoot you. To kill you!” My voice wobbled. “That he really truly wants you dead.” I blinked back tears. “And it's all my fault.”

“It's not
your
fault.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Come on, Dash. We need to get out of here. There might be others.” He started walking off.

I hurried after him. Catching sight of our reflections in a cracked window, I asked, “How did he find us? I mean we're bundled and everything.”

“I don't know. All our garms are new on…” He shook his head. “It beats me.” I felt his eyes travelling up and down my body. I shrank from his gaze. Then he tsked. “That bird-bot must've got a biometric of your iris.” He stared out over the
wasteland, tsked again.” Nah. The Golds couldn't have got him over here that quick. Your minder was scouting Crunch Town on a tip or a hunch. Most likely they guessed I'd head here.” He unclipped his cape. “Ditch the silk.” He let his cape drift down.

We watched the silk twist and turn in the breeze until it finally came to rest on the pathway like a pool of blood. Mine landed next to it, like a shimmering tear.

I pulled down the green hood of my trackie, withdrawing into it like a tortoise retreating into its shell.

We headed out of the tower block, past a parade of battered shops and into a children's playground. Latif climbed up a ladder and scrambled into a playhouse. I followed.

“I'm rinsed after that,” he said. “We'll hang here until nightfall.”

He took up position by the window.

It was already getting dark. The sky was shot through with pink. A talent-show wannabe warbled on a prime-time show in the distance.

I lay on the floor, eyes shut, saying nothing – desperately wishing I could put my thoughts on hold. But the silence was overstimulating my brain. Suddenly my mind's eye was a giant cinemascope, which was replaying the chase over and over again. Stevie, the gangs, Crunch Town… Then in close-up, Stevie's lips were moving behind his black balaclava, and his face was millimetres from mine:
‘Sleep well, Dasha Gold!'

I shivered. Stevie, my shadow, was dead.

The gunshot rang out in my head. I put my hands over my ears, and scrunched my eyes up more tightly. Weirdly, even though he had never been my favourite person, and he had been on a mission to hurt Latif, I wished the gang hadn't killed him. My mixed feelings took me by surprise. Stevie had been there for me twenty-four/seven, and now he was gone. Bang! The gunshot rang out in my head again, and like a starting gun at the beginning of a hundred-metre sprint, it set the horrible images racing through my head once more.

And as it got darker outside these terrifying images only burned more brightly.

Night fell.

We headed into the darkness.

Blood Diamonds

WE melted into the night, two more shadows, shifting through the estate. The place was even more terrifying after dark. Shouts, catcalls and whistles rang out from gangways. A dog barked. My heart fluttered at every sound. When we turned into an unlit gangway, glowing cigarette tips studded the darkness. My heart leapt. Latif switched course to avoid the gang.

Back on the streets again, two garishly painted cars raced towards us, headlights dazzling, sound systems booming. Twisting round to escape their glare, I saw my shadow thrown up onto a building – a cowering figure, hiding my eyes as if I'd witnessed an atomic explosion.

“Gangs race junk cars for stupid money,” Latif shouted while we waited on the pavement for the cars to pass. “They pimp them and race them till they crash and burn.”

The cars U-turned and screeched back. A dragon spewed fire on the purple car's side. On the red, Pegasus swooped in a rush of winged blue.

As soon as the coast was clear, we hurried into a hustle of narrow streets. Only a few streetlights were lit. From the shadows hisses of, “Hashish, hashish,” reached us, like the click of press cameras. A few guys confronted us with staring eyes. But Latif kept it friendly with a brief: “Not for me, mate.”

About twenty minutes later, we entered a bustling street. I stopped in my tracks. After the gloomy backstreets, this place buzzed with light and chatter. Market stalls lined one side of the road, stacked high with fruit and vegetables; candles stuck in pumpkins threw a flickering light. The rip-off merchants had colonised the other side, their tables piled with fake brands: smartphones, tablets, bikes, perfume and the latest fashions. Boys selling knock-off cigarettes weaved through the crowds. Everyone was shouting. A stall selling hair extensions caught my eye. The wonky sign read:
Slebrity & global scalps.
I'd heard stories about gangs hacking off women's hair to sell on the black market. I'd never taken them seriously, though. I rubbed a strand between thumb and finger. It was real. I shivered.

The houses in the street were in bad shape. Some were tagged with graffiti. Most had been converted into rough-and-ready restaurants, cafes, clubs and dive bars, serving up food from all around the globe: Moroccan, Indian, Lebanese, Russian. The smell of spices hung in the air. Chinese lanterns strung across the street at intervals cast a red glow. A DJ was playing salsa records from an upstairs window. Hastily-assembled snack shacks buzzed with punters. It was a midnight feast of a place. My stomach grumbled.

But there was something wrong in this otherwise welcoming scene. At first I couldn't put my finger on it. Then it hit me. Everybody – men, women, kids – was bundled. Even the elderly men playing chess outside a Turkish coffee house were wearing hoodies.

A little girl ran over with a collection of headscarves, shouting, “Please Mister, please Mister.” Latif picked out a green one with a red geometric design and handed the kid a fiver. Seeing the flash of money, restaurant touts suddenly surrounded us. All were gesticulating madly and tugging us towards their restaurants. Latif shrugged off offers of ‘half-price Turkish', ‘'licious Thaicurry' and ‘the best ever kebabs in the world'. Instead he walked over to a Lebanese restaurant. I recognised one of Latif's tags on the front of the house. He greeted the restaurant owner in Arabic and they kissed three times on the cheeks. After a hurried discussion, they walked through the restaurant and out into the garden at the back.

We sat down on leather poufs at a low mosaic table lit by a candle stuck into a beer bottle. I scoped the shadows nervously. I noticed that the walls separating the gardens had been knocked through, freeing up space to grow vegetables. Kids were playing tag, chasing in and out of the light like moths.

“Will we be safe here?” I asked.

Latif handed me the green headscarf. “Yeah. But cover your head – Arab style.”

He began working the beads over his knuckles, watching the shadows. “Back here's a special place, huh? The restaurant owners clubbed together and turned the gardens into allotments. They grow veg for their restaurants. The supermarkets moved out years ago. No great loss. Although Crunch Towners have been ghettoised, they're turning things round. Cool, huh?”

The Lebanese guy (who had introduced himself as Zayan) came out with a tray laden with dishes. It was a meze of tabbouleh, hummus, salad and pitta bread. “Enjoy!” he said, placing the dishes on the table.

My stomach rumbled in anticipation. Latif tucked in, tearing off strips of pitta and scooping up dollops of hummus and tabbouleh. I followed his lead.

“This is good,” I said between chews, pointing at the food enthusiastically. Suddenly eating seemed more important than anything else. The stars were bright as jewels. I stared up at them. I was all chased out.

They exchanged a few more words in Arabic. Then Zayan headed back inside.

“The stars are amazing,” I said.

“Less neon pollution in this barrio. Folks can't afford the electric.” Latif scooped up more hummus. “See the Plough.” He pointed out the constellation. “We still call those stars by their Arabic names: Alkaid, Mizar, Alioth and Megrez… We Arabs were ahead in the astronomy game.”

Zayan whistled from the doorway.

“We're rolling.” Latif snapped into action mode.

He took the ring from his pocket and placed it in the palm of his hand. The candlelight caught the diamonds and spangled them. “Chuka's on his way. He'll take the ring off us, if he rates the jewels.” He closed his fist around it. “No questions asked.”

Latif's eyes searched the garden. I followed suit, uncertain what I was looking for. The darkness pressed in on us.
The candle spat and crackled in the silence. Suddenly a thickset guy emerged from the shadows and walked over to our table. He was wearing a coat with a fur-lined hood, zipped up to his nose. His shades were reflectors. Zayan greeted him warmly and introduced Latif. When they shook hands, the stranger said, “My associates call me Chuka. You know Ren, innit?”

“Yeah. He's fam.”

The guy studied us both. The candle's flame was reflected in his shades, giving him fire for eyes. “Got the cargo?” he asked, after a few long minutes.

Latif held the ring between thumb and finger; the diamonds glinted. He took a few seconds before handing it over.

Chuka whistled when he held the ring up to the naked flame. Lifting his sunglasses for a moment, he ran a hawk eye over the jewels. His smile revealed two rows of silver-capped teeth. “This cargo's live, bruv! Whaddya want? A grand?”

“Two grand,” Latif countered, poker-faced. “Face value's eight. You won't get better without ram-raiding De Beers, bruv.”

“But you're in a hurry, bruv.”

The candlelight danced in their reflectors. Neither smiled.

Latif held his hand out for the ring. “Not that much of a hurry.”

Chuka held the ring closer to the flame, running his tongue along his lower lip as he watched the diamonds sparkle.

“One thousand five hundred or the deal's off.”
Latif leaned forwards, palms on the table, and repeated his final offer. His breath made the flame flicker.

“You win, bruv.” Chuka closed his fist around the ring. “I'll sort the paper.”

He took a crumpled brown envelope from his coat's inside pocket and, sliding out a wedge of fifty-pound notes, started counting them out beneath the table. I counted with him. When he reached the agreed amount, he shuffled the notes into a pile and placed them on the table.

“Go ahead. Check the paperwork.” He pushed the money towards Latif. Then he slipped the ring into the envelope and returned the package to his inside pocket. After he'd double-checked the amount, Latif stuffed the notes into the front pocket of his jeans. “Good to do business with you, bruv.” He held out his hand. “Till next time.”

Chuka shook his outstretched hand. “Yeah, next time soon.” Then he vanished back into the shadows, leaving as mysteriously as he had arrived.

“Time to shoot with the loot.” Latif scraped back his chair.

We exited through the garden without saying goodbye to Zayan. The market was packing up. All was chaos and noise. People were shouting for loved ones. Mothers screamed for children. Husbands shouted for wives. Punters were hurrying home while market stallholders shoved their wares into bags. The vibe in the street had changed. A buzz of fear energised the market. Everyone kept glancing up at the sky, jostling and shoving as they left. I searched the skies, but saw nothing but stars and inky blackness.

Latif stopped at a table where a guy was packing away stolen tablets. None were in boxes or packaged. “These untraceable, bruv?” The guy glanced up, but carried on cramming the merch into a sportsbag.

“Yeah. False IP included.” Latif picked the cheapest, peeled a few notes off the wedge and paid. We'd only gone about halfway down the street when a low, vibrating throb cut through the market's din. Although I still couldn't see lights in the sky, I recognised the unmistakable sound. Helicopters. The shout went up in a jangle of languages. Panic swelled the street. Latif started pushing through the crowds with greater urgency. I tucked in behind him, grabbing hold of his trackie, scared that I might lose him in the mayhem.

Latif took out his phone and punched in a number. He spoke for about thirty seconds. The only word I caught was ‘ambassador'. After he'd finished he tossed the phone into a pile of empty boxes. Then we headed into the side streets where we picked up speed. A battalion of balaclava-heads ran past shouting instructions to each other. I noticed some had shotguns slung over their shoulders. At intervals they stopped to set off fireworks or flares. A rocket sputtered upwards, exploding in a kaleidoscope of red and orange.