Stitch-Up (23 page)

“Let us pray,” my father said.

I rolled my eyes. Dad famously claimed that he didn't ‘do' God. As far as I knew he thought he
was
God.

The studio audience chanted the prayers in a mesmerising murmur. For those at home, the words rolled along the bottom of the screen like a karaoke machine. I imagined
hundreds and thousands of viewers whispering the prayers in their sitting rooms. I shifted uneasily. The effect was more seance than prayer meeting; as if my parents were trying to conjure up my spirit live on TV.

“I'm not dead.” I shook my fist at the TV.

Another clip montage started rolling. Prayers and thoughts texted in by viewers whizzed across the screen.

A loud heartbeat boomed. Up came a scan image of a baby in the womb. My mother cradled her stomach.

My mouth fell open. “Oh no. That's too much.”

The heartbeat boomed out from the sound system. It was hypnotic.

She waited for the beats to subside, before saying as an introduction to a montage: “From the very beginning Dasha was loved…”

The opening shots showed me crawling around in a gold lamé romper-suit. The song was Robbie Williams' ‘Angels'. Not one of my favourites.

“
Basta!
” Latif made a zapping gesture with his thumb. “I want to see if there are any visuals on my parents' interview. Eyeball something that matters,” he added with that lopsided smile.

I stuck my tongue out at him.

But before I had time to switch channels, breaking news flashed up on screen. His face darkened. My eyes locked onto the TV. A presenter was reporting live from a leafy suburban street. “I'm standing outside Latif Hajjaj's parents' home in Kensal Rise, west London. Minutes ago, armed
police stormed the building on a warrant issued from the Home Office. Mr and Mrs Hajajj will be held under the Prevention of Terrorism Act. Mr Hajjaj is a lawyer who has made it his life's work to defend terrorists and terrorist activity. A police spokeswoman has informed the press that the police are investigating claims that Latif Hajjaj and his parents are part of a coordinated network of cells, planning a series of outrages in London. Dasha Gold and Coco York's kidnappings are thought to be the first of many attacks on London and Londoners.”

Live footage showed police in riot gear leading Latif's parents from their house in handcuffs. His father was wearing striped pyjamas while his mother was in jogging pants and a faded T-shirt with the slogan
PEACE & LOVE
. Men in white forensic suits, carrying computers sealed in plastic bags, brought up the rear.

“Tell me this isn't happening,” Latif groaned, flicking his worry beads. “This is totally insane.”

The police van's doors slammed shut and then it screeched off in a blur of blue strobe.

Then my parents were on screen again.

“Beats me how you've put up with those clowns for so long. My parents are worth a million of them.” Latif slumped forwards. All the defiance and finger-to-the-world cockiness had disappeared. I wanted to put my arms around him and tell him that everything would be okay. But I kept quiet. Anything I said would sound hollow. My chest was constricting. Everything was my fault. If Latif hadn't rescued
me from that creep, he'd still be a nighter, a tagger and a free spirit. Instead the world believed he was a monster. I placed the heel of my hand against my forehead. How had that happened?

On screen Latif punched a freedom fighter's fist at the CCTV camera down by the train depot. His grainy image punched again and again, sometimes in slo-mo, sometimes in real time. Meanwhile a reporter went hard on the terrorist angle.

Minutes passed, the only sound my parents blabbing big, vivid lies that would stick in people's minds. Propping myself up on my elbow, I studied Latif – or, more precisely, the two Latifs in the room: the on-screen Latif, fired up with rebellion, and, in contrast, the real-life Latif, who looked smaller somehow, crushed.

I slid down onto the floor beside him. “Don't let their lies get to you, Latif.”

“The world believes this crap.” He flicked his worry beads angrily. “Get real, Dash. I'm as good as dead.” He jumped to his feet, walked over to the window and peered out from behind the curtains. “They've arrested my parents, for Chrissakes.”

“But none of this is real.” I flapped my hands in the direction of the TV. “It's make-believe. We've got to do something.” But my mind was blank. I tapped my fingertips against my temples, desperately trying to crank it back to life. “We could go to a rival TV channel. Explain this terrorist blab is all lies.” I didn't say it with any conviction.

“Yeah right. Like that's really going to work. The Golds have created a slamming story. That's what people want, Dash.” His voice was emotionless, resigned. “Even if you held a press conference saying it was all bollocks, your dad would pay an expert to explain that I'd brainwashed you. That this is a classic case of Stockholm syndrome and you'd fallen in love with your kidnapper. That you're the twenty-first-century Patty Hearst – posh girl gone bad. Dash, you know how it works. Your parents will undermine you as a credible witness.” He paused. “But thanks, anyway.”

I gave a weak smile. And as I stared at the television screen, I struggled to straighten stuff out in my head. The trouble was everything seemed so unreal. I looked around. Even reality, the two of us hiding out in a fleapit motel on the run, felt unreal! Bonkers! As for the stuff on television, which was shaping up like a Hollywood blockbuster; that was beyond bonkers. Yet,
that
was the story people believed. It was as if our television personas had lives of their own, like avatars – dreamed up by my parents to act out their crazy game of cat and mouse. I watched the TV miserably; I was beginning to lose my grip on reality.

My finger hovered over the off button on the remote. I wanted everything to stop. I wanted to turn the Golds' world off. But their lies were out there. They'd been pumping their version of the truth into thousands of homes for the last twenty-four hours, poisoning everyone's minds against Latif. We couldn't counter the untruths or press rewind. I felt as if we were in a video game which we couldn't exit,
and the levels kept on getting harder. That was our problem – well, one of them.

“What are we going to do now?” I asked.

“The plan remains the same.” He took the tablet out of his rucksack and hunched over it as he logged onto the wi-fi.

“I'm so sorry for…

He put his hand up. “Forget it. Dad'll be out in no time. He'll smash it. But right now we've gotta get our swagger back. Boom, I'm connected. What's your mum's name? Address?”

“Maxine Taylor, eighty-eight Orchard Road.”

He tapped away on the keys for a few minutes. Then whistled. “The electoral register says she still lives there.”

“Result!” I jumped to my feet and fizzed around the room.

I looked over his shoulder as he entered her address on Google Earth. It was nothing much: a grotty-looking semi-detached house. My eyes fixed on a trampoline in the back garden. My heart lurched. That could only mean one thing. There was another child, maybe children. An ugly grub of jealousy wriggled in the pit of my stomach. Other children had never figured in my fantasies.

The Golds were promising exciting new revelations. “Stay tuned,” my mother purred as they went into the break.

“Thanks, but no thanks!” I headed into the bathroom, shut the door and leaned against it. Space, that's what I needed right now, room to breathe. I wanted to shake the
Golds out of my life for good. But they were everywhere, always invading my life. The only Gold-free zone was Crunch Town. At least pirate radio ruled in the junk spaces.

When the naked bulb snapped on, a cockroach skidded across the greasy linoleum. I turned on the taps to drown out the TV. Catching sight of my reflection in the mirror above the basin, I did a double take. The blond wig took me by surprise. I studied myself in the glass. Despite it appearing as if I hadn't had a good night's sleep in weeks, I looked cool, like a heroine in a quirky independent film – a girl making herself up as she went along…

“Tomorrow,” I whispered to the glass.

Drawing closer, I wondered whether my mother would recognise me in a flash, whether we would click immediately like lost pieces of a puzzle. I splashed cold water onto my face and watched a single droplet trickle down my left cheek. For all I knew, my mother might not recognise me at all. I buried my face in a mouldy-smelling towel.

“Dash? Your friend Coco has been released.” Latif knocked softly on the door. “It's breaking news.”

“Really? When?” I rushed from the bathroom. “Did her parents pay the ransom?”

“Allegedly a covert police operation freed her.”

“That's brilliant news,” I said. “I hope she's okay.”

Coco looked angelic in a simple, chic, white tunic-dress. She was talking my parents through her ordeal: the abduction, the imprisonment and the dramatic rescue. I stood in the doorway while I listened to her story.

When she'd finished, my mother asked gently, “Do you have a message for Dasha's kidnapper?”

Latif and I exchanged a grim look.

The camera zoomed in.

Coco batted her eyelashes. Her glitter make-up sparkled.

“Please let Dasha go. She knows nothing about politics. She's an innocent.”

I rolled my eyes.

“So were you and Dasha close?” my mother asked.

The camera zoomed in even closer.

“I loved Dasha like a sister. We were besties.” Coco gave a curtain-call smile. “We were inseparable.”

My mouth dropped open. “News to me!”

“She's been bought. Keep up, dim-bulb. They've…”

Footsteps on the stairs caused him to tail off.

We exchanged a look.

The Golds were signing off. “The prayers will continue through the night. Keep your vigil. Goodnight. God bless. Keep praying.”

Latif glided across the room. He turned off the television before taking up position by the door.

The footsteps stopped outside.

A barrage of questions went off in my head. Was it the police? Was the game up? Had the guy in the lobby called the cops? Surely not. We'd picked this dump precisely because it was the only motel on the strip without a television in the foyer. Even better, the guy on the desk had been so bonged-out he hardly knew what time of day it was.

The knock, when it came, was soft.

“Yeah?” Latif's voice remained calm.

“Turn the TV down, yeah?” He spoke slowly. “It's late, man. Guests are complaining.”

“It's off, bruv.”

The steps retreated.

“They have other guests?” I whispered.

“Girls turning tricks. Civilians down on their luck.” He walked over to the window. “Turn off the light.” He drew back the curtain a crack and watched the street.

“But why would they care?”

“Exactly. We'd better shoot.”

The footsteps returned. Another knock.

“Got a ciggy? I'll swap a couple for some weed. Come on, bruv. Open the door.”

Immediately I pictured a tough from CID piling in as soon as Latif unlocked the door. I slid under the covers and pulled the blankets up to my nose.

“Don't!” I mouthed.

Too late! Latif had already wrapped himself up in a blanket and was opening the door. The guy's bloodshot eyes goggled. He steadied himself on the doorjamb, peered at Latif, and slurred, “Hey man, cool outfit. You scared the hell out of me. Got a cigarette?”

“Sorry. Don't smoke, bruv.” He shook his head when the guy offered him a lump of black wrapped in cling film. “Not for me, bruv. But you could do me a favour.” He pressed a fifty-pound note into the guy's hand. “Bell me if anyone asks
after us. Our parents aren't cool about this – us.” He jagged his thumb back towards me. “Don't exactly approve, know what I'm saying? My dad's a cop. His mind's so small I could use it in a pea-shooting contest. So it'd be good if you'd buzz up, if anyone comes looking.”

Eyes half-covered by hooded eyelids, the guy peered into the unlit room. Not that there was much to see as I was lying in bed with the blanket pulled right up to the tip of my nose, scared that he might recognise me even in his drugged-up fug.

“Anything you say, man.” I heard him walking unsteadily back down the corridor. About halfway down, he stopped and said, “Oh yeah. Two brick shithouses with walkie-talkies were checking the flophouses across the road. They had the look of feds. Probably an immigration swoop, innit?”

“Thanks mate.” Latif shut the door.

“Time to road it,” he hissed, wedging the window open with the fire extinguisher.

Moments later, we were heading down the fire escape like a couple of stray cats.

Tooled Up

LEAVING the main drag of strip joints, sex shops and motels behind, we headed down a dimly lit street lined with ramshackle B&Bs and hostels. We walked in silence apart from the click, click, click of car-door handles. We were in the Edgelands, a strange twilight zone on the fringe of the city. Here, everything was low rent.

“TWOC time,” Latif said in explanation.

“TWOC?”

“Police speak for Taking Without Owner's Consent.” He swore under his breath when a bashed-up Mini refused to open.

“What?”

“Borrowing, bubblehead.”

I laughed.

He continued pulling the door handles as we walked. Meanwhile, I examined the formerly well-to-do family houses, which were seedy and rundown now, and by the looks of things, rented out by the room. We traipsed up and down streets for what seemed like hours until finally – open sesame – we were inside a grimy white van. Taking the metal cutters from his rucksack, Latif reached down and started fiddling about under the steering wheel. I kept my eyes on the street as instructed, watching for goons. There
were piles of clothes and blankets in the back. The van was a tip. Someone had been sleeping rough in it by the looks of things.