Stitch-Up (19 page)

After about five minutes, we turned into a dingy street where an underground club bellowed urban beats. Outside, clubbers were smoking and dissing the avian police. Across from the club there was a dodgy-looking mini-cab firm. Latif was walking towards it.

“What are you doing?” I whispered.

“What does it look like? Getting a ride out of here, dim-bulb.” His eyes flicked heavenwards. “They're looking for people on foot, doughnut. Not cars.”

“But what if they shop us?” I peered into the office through a grimy window, trying to suss out the cabbies, who were playing a rowdy game of cards.

“Got a better idea?”

I kicked at a stone, looked daggers.

“Bubblehead, these guys are illegals. They want the police in their life like they want a gun to their head. They'd be bounced back to their countries quicker than you can say ‘asylum seeker'. These guys care nothing about the news and that. They don't give a damn about you! I'm not saying it's safe. But we don't have much choice.”

Homemade rockets sputtered up towards the advancing helicopters. Still, the noose of light inched closer. The police had Crunch Town in a stranglehold.

Another group ran past. McDonalds brown paper bags with eyeholes cut out covered their heads and faces. The upside down golden M was a W for war. At the bottom the McDonald's logo bellowed:
GOING THAT EXTRA MILE.
The gang looked like they intended to do just that.

I took a deep breath. “Okay. Let's go.”

“No names,” was all he said as he went inside.

From the street I watched Latif haggle with a tall African guy. A flurry of hand gestures later, they reached a deal and high-fived. I hung back as they walked over to a beaten-up, silver ghost Mercedes. Another battalion of hoodies ran past.

“Over here, babe. We're in the Benzo.” Latif beckoned me over. “Load up!”

I slid onto the back seat. He squeezed in beside me and draped his arm across my shoulders. “You okay, babe?” It was only then that I got his game. We were lovers, not kids on the run. I rested my head on his shoulder, shut my eyes – I could play that role. Easy. I moved closer, soaking up his body warmth. Slowly my jitters calmed down.

“Let's get out of here, brother.” Latif slapped the back of the passenger seat. “And pump them tunes up loud. Them helis are doing my head in.”

“Sure thing, boss.” The minicab driver looked up at the sky. “Avian flu, bruv.
Tsk!
” He sucked air through his teeth. “They're deadly.” He cranked up the stereo. Grime blasted out.

The cabbie checked me out in the rear-view mirror. I rolled down the window and inhaled the cool night air. The helicopter lights strobed the sky, searching out the main actors. The runaways. Us.

Suddenly our cab was centre stage, spotlit in the helicopter's beam. Despite the blaring music, I heard the helicopter lose height. The minicab driver floored the accelerator, jumped a red light and swung a right. I crashed against the door. My hands white-knuckled the driver's seat. The helicopter continued flying into Crunch Town. I coughed, attempting to hide a rapid exhalation of air.

“Hey girl,
tranquilo
. What would they want with us?”

The driver stared at me in the rear-view mirror.

I averted my eyes.

Up ahead, hoodies were standing at a checkpoint, hurling bottles at two police cars, which were speeding towards Crunch Town, blue lights twirling. A storm of bottles glittered in the headlights. Minutes later, both police cars were spinning out of control. The hoodies cheered.

I watched the helicopters through the rear window. Hatches open, lights trained down on the policemen swinging down on hoists, like deadly spiders. Kids lasered the helicopters from tower blocks, green bars of light stabbing at the sky like witchy fingers. The helicopters' lights searched them out. My stomach clenched. Innocent people were going to get hurt tonight. And it was all my fault. I started praying that no one would get injured or arrested. It was the only thing I could think to do.

“Sorry, mate, which street do you want in Mayfair?”

“Drop us outside the cinema, bruv.”

“Mayfair?” I shot Latif a what-the-hell-are-we-going-to-the-centre-of-town-for look. He counterpunched with a winning smile before relaxing back into the seat, his eyes fixed on the streets, his head bobbing to the stark, gritty beat.

Media Circus

I KNEW the restaurant well. Anyone who was anyone did. High Table was a favourite with stars and politicians – a face place. Located in a narrow townhouse in Mayfair, it was the restaurant of choice for celebrities who wanted to get snapped. It was impossible to get a table unless you were
someone
and you never left without dropping five hundred pounds.

Latif was doing his stake-out thing; silent and secretive, frowning whenever I asked him what we were doing standing fifty metres away from the most exclusive restaurant in London, like a pair of freaky autograph hunters – watching and waiting, for what? I really had no idea. I looked at my watch. I couldn't for the life of me work out how hanging around here could help us get to FuturePerfect, especially as this was my parents' weekday restaurant of choice, which meant they were due to turn up at any minute. Brilliant. Genius. Perhaps we were going to hitch a lift with them.

“You know this is my parents' favourite restaurant, don't you, brainiac?” I couldn't keep the panic from my voice. “They eat here most nights and it's a dead cert they'll come here if there's a crisis. It's the place to be seen. Show the world you're coping. Put on a brave face.”

“For real?” This revelation seemed to genuinely surprise him.

“Take a wild guess why.” I nodded towards the thronging paparazzi. “Just the place for PR-hungry psychos.”

“Might work in our favour,” he replied, a little too breezily.

“Like how? Come on, talk to me, Latif. Why are we here?” I asked. “My parents are about to show, and guess what? I'd rather not be here, if that's okay by you.”

He shrugged. “Tough. It's the only way out.”

“That's really reassuring. I know you have to keep your enemies close, but this is ridiculous…”

“Don't get stabby, Dash. We're safer here than anywhere else right now. It's the last place on earth anyone would expect to see us. And we have the perfect cover.” He pointed to a ramshackle group of women who'd just arrived. They were holding homemade posters plastered with photos of yours truly cut from newspapers. Across the top, messages were spelled out in a jumble of capital letters and joined-up writing. The most popular read:
For the
LOVE of
GOLD
Give
Dasha
back
and
We
feel
Your
PAIN
. Studying this ragbag of women, I knew they felt everybody's pain. They were attracted to grief like bloodsucking bugs. They gorged on others' pain, especially celebrity pain, because somehow it gave their life meaning, and made them feel less sorry about their own existence. Kidnap gawpers. Pain hunters. Losers. I shrugged inwardly. But who was I to judge? At least they weren't stalking one set of parents while looking for the other set. That had to put me right up there with the sobbing loons for Fruitcake of the Year award. That really was
something else
.

We pushed further into the crowds from where I watched hyped-up paparazzi jockeying for position. It was a busy night even for High Table. My heart sank when I saw the head waiter fussing over my parents' favourite table, setting out my dad's preferred wine glasses and lighting the candles. Now there was no doubt in my mind. My parents were about to show. I imagined my mother and her stylists discussing what she should wear as the mother of a kidnapped child; calculating how many diamonds she could sport without looking heartless; rejecting fur in case she appeared callous; deciding whether black was too funereal or a flash of a red Louboutin sole too gory.

“Braniac!” I hissed, then repeated it louder, to make sure he could hear me above the wailers. “This place is heaving with weirdos. I want out of here, okay?”

“See you, then.” Latif carried on staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the maelstrom of activity front of house. I followed his gaze, trying to second-guess him. Perhaps he was waiting for this ambassador character he'd mentioned on the phone back in Crunch Town. Perhaps he was a friend of Latif's dad.

Glossy women with shiny manes posed with stick-insect arms resting on hips as they popped fake smiles for the cameras. Valets snapped open limo doors, fussing over celebrity diners as they helped them out, before whisking their cars down into the restaurant's underground car park. A half-moon of paparazzi shouted, “Over here, love,” whenever female flesh tottered from a limo.

I grimaced, remembering nights at High Table, how Dad would slyly check out the punters, and say, “Full of faces tonight. Gorgeous now. With a little help from the maestro.” He'd wink and crunch his knuckles like a cartoon villain.

A shout went up. The weirdos surged forwards. The paparazzi raised their cameras and took aim. Leggy girls from a soap opera were giggling and flashing their perma-tan thighs. Latif gave a piercing wolf whistle. I shot him a look as if to say: “Have you gone completely nuts?”

But he simply said, “Hold that sound. I'll be back in fifteen minutes.” He shoved his rucksack into my hands and disappeared into the crowd.

I stood there bereft, close to tears, only half listening to the paparazzi cries of: “This way, darling!” “Smile for Daddy!” and “More leg, sweetheart!” I was feeling so strung out, I hardly registered a black stretch with tinted windows glide up to the restaurant, until suddenly all was shouting and noise. An explosion of flashes engulfed the Golds. They dazzled. Exquisitely turned out, they stood motionless for a few minutes, glassy-eyed, soaking up the flashes like vampires sucking up blood, recharging their sense of self and satisfying their fame fix. Then, feeling alive once again, they struck poses and sparkled. A tear glittered in the corner of my mother's eye – a crocodile tear to match her handbag.

I moved closer. I had to hear her every lying word. Years as a chat-show presenter ensured my mother's delivery was perfectly pitched. Clear and crisp, so she would be heard
above the wailing harpies, but quavery, too, so her words would tug at heartstrings.

“She's our princess. Our angel. Our life. Without her we are
nothing
. So please, please, if anyone has any information pick up the phone.” She made a phone gesture with diamond-encrusted fingers. “Do the right thing. Make our family whole again. We believe in you –
the public
.” She stretched out her arms to the sobbing women. “You are our only hope. And we choose hope over fear.”

Her soap-opera delivery triggered a low, mournful sound from the women. Some sobbed as if they'd lost their own child. When she'd finished, she wiped away a shimmering tear from her cheek. There was no denying she was a good actress. My father was scouring the crowd. I slid behind a tall woman in an extravagant hat and looked down at the pavement. Despite my blond wig, I felt exposed. Dad was good with faces.

A cheer went up. My parents were on the move. They posed for one more set of photos in the foyer before the maître d' whisked them upstairs to their usual seat.

Swept up in the tsunami of celebrity, the staff hurried to restore normality. They ferried away the flowers, candles and oriental blankets that had made up the sumptuous backdrop for the Golds' ‘impromptu' press conference. Meanwhile the paparazzi rushed back to their SUVs where they started uploading photos onto their laptops, emailing them across to picture desks in a desperate race to secure a media splash. Horns were sounding from further down
the street. Engines revved impatiently. Self-important people, unaccustomed to waiting, were demanding immediate attention. A valet stepped onto the red carpet and whistled for the next car in line. Something familiar about the sound made me look up, double take.
Latif?
Despite the slicked-back hair, which gave him the appearance of a Middle Eastern Elvis, and the maroon valet uniform, which gave him the look of an air steward, there was no mistaking him. Latif was standing front of house, beckoning on the next car in line.

A steel grey Mercedes with blacked-out windows smooched up. Slick-quick, Latif opened the door and gave a shallow bow. Out stepped a grey fox wearing an impeccable suit and a smart-arse smile. The Italian ambassador –a total sleazeball.

Not so smart now
, I thought, when he handed Latif his keys. Moments later, Latif was behind the wheel.

Skirting the crowd, I watched Latif drive the car down into the garage and shoot out the other side. I scooted after him; the red tail lights guided me for a few seconds, and then he swung a left and he was gone. Brainsnap. Where had he said to meet? Had he? No, he hadn't. I sped up. Then, remembering Latif's rules, I reined myself back; terrified I'd already drawn attention to myself.

Don't blow it. Don't blow it
, I thought, turning left into the street and scouring its length for the silver car. No sign of it. It was like he'd performed another vanishing trick. Keeping my eyes fixed in front of me, I carried on down the road. The end of the street loomed. Still no sign. Then I saw the
Merc tucked behind a black Range Rover; it gleamed in the moonlight. It was all I could do to stop myself from breaking into a run, but I checked the impulse. When I reached the car I tapped on the tinted window. It zizzed down slowly. For an instant, I imagined eyeballing a mafia heavy. Instead I was greeted by Latif's crooked smile.

“The ambassador sends his compliments…” He jerked his thumb toward the rear seats. “You'd better take the back. I'm your chauffeur for tonight. Next stop FuturePerfect, milady.”