Stitch-Up (32 page)

“Silence,
chicas
.” Latif held his hand up. “We've got some thinking to do.”

I watched the city slide by. Despite the late hour, lights were burning in most houses. I pictured people settling down to watch
Tracker
on TV, or hunched over computers – each and every one of them dreaming of becoming a millionaire by morning. I drummed my fingers against the window. I couldn't hack the silence. Without conversation to distract me, black thoughts had taken control again. Bitching. Scaremongering. Shouting the odds. I blew on the window with misty breath, drew a hangman, smudged it out.

Up ahead, GoldRush Towers loomed like two massive fingers flicking a V sign at us. I knew that Dad held all the cards. Anyone that mattered was on his side.

“What? You've sold me out?” Latif's angry words jumped me back to reality.

“I'm sorry. I need the money for my college fees.”

Decca might as well have lobbed a hand grenade onto the back seat of the car. Silence. I imagined the fuse burning, waiting for the blast.

After a few seconds, Latif said, “Yeah right. Nice one, Dex.”

“I've been told to take you straight to GoldRush Towers.” Her voice was emotionless.

“Come on, Decca, cut the crap. I'm not in the mood.”

Above a helicopter was dipping down low.

“That's the police.” Decca's voice was deadpan.

“This better be a joke, right?” Latif kicked the dashboard. I slid across the backseat and squeezed the door handle, ready to jump.

Peals of laughter. The glint in Decca's eyes was back. “Just kidding around. Honestly, you two were being so glum I thought I'd liven things up. You can't problem-solve when you're gloomy – your brain slows down. FACT!”

“Jesus, Dex,” Latif growled. “Don't be funny all your life.”

“Give us a break, guys. Did you really think Dex would give up her midnight runners?”

We all laughed. Laughter helped. We relaxed a little.

“Okay, guys. We're here.”

Ghosts in the Machine

LATIF and Decca were messing around; arm in arm, stumbling as if they'd had a few too many beers. I knew they were pretending for the CCTV cameras, on the off chance that
Tracker
was up and running, but when I tried to follow suit, I became camera shy. Even though
Tracker
was scheduled to start at midnight, I couldn't shake the idea that wannabe millionaires could be tapping in postcodes and searching London streets on their smartphones and computers. I imagined Pimlico residents spying on their streets, like neighbourhood snoops. I tensed up even more.

The other two had stopped outside a rundown house at the far end of the street that we'd parked up in. A lopsided sign read
PimPlico Arts
. Someone had added the extra bright pink P with a spray can. In other circumstances I might've laughed, but right now I was too busy trying to calm my escalating panic. I took a deep breath.

Keep cool!
One foot in front of the other… each step felt as ungainly as an astronaut's on the moon.

By the time I reached the house, Latif and Decca were already inside. The house throbbed to a techno beat. I crept in. A room scattered with found objects – a weather vane, driftwood and black railings hung about with string. Canvases were propped haphazardly along one wall. The only furniture
was a saggy sofa draped with tie-dye throws. A clay obelisk stood in one corner surrounded by scrunched-up beer cans. A kiln stood in the opposite corner, large-mouthed and hungry.

Despite the raging techno, Decca placed her finger to her lips before heading into the hallway and up the stairs. We tiptoed after her.

Decca's bedroom was crammed with canvases, too. Pages pulled from newspapers from the last few days were stuck across one wall. I stopped dead – creeped out, stunned, as if I'd stepped into a stalker's lair. The cuttings shared one common feature – yours truly. Weirdest of all, a freshly finished oil painting stood on an easel in the middle of the room. My face filled the canvas. Bathed in light from the paparazzi flashbulbs at some premiere or other, there was something spooked-out, otherwordly about it.

“I look like a ghost.” I moved closer. “This is insane.” I fixed Decca with a curious look. “Why would you want to paint me?”

“Because you're a superstar, doll. Live with it!” Decca switched on her laptop. “I chose that shot because you look lost. Disconnected. Haunted. Like the others.” She gestured around the room.

“Wow,” I whispered, barely moving my lips.

The other canvasses showed women with sad faces transfixed by TV; each held a remote, which they pointed at loved ones – kids, husbands, lovers – as if they desperately wanted to turn off their demands.

Latif walked over to a mirror propped up on a chest of drawers. There were twenty or so beer mats tucked into its frame. Each mat pictured Latif wrapped up bandit style. Bloodthirsty capitals bellowed:
WANTED! DEAD OR ALIVE
, like a poster from a cheesy old Western.

“Suppose that's every geezer's idea of fame,” he said, staring at them, hands thrust deep into his pockets. His eyes appeared grey in the mirror. A flash. He winced. “Cut it out, Dex! I've had enough of photos for a lifetime.”

“Hey, Lats. It's my pension plan.” She took another. “Have a heart.”

The music stopped. We exchanged a look. In the ensuing silence my heart banged out the techno beat. Upstairs a door opened.

“Hey Decca, you wanna come up and play
Tracker
? It's going to be wild.”

Footsteps descending.

Decca scooted across the room, opened the door and stuck her head out. “Hey Ralph, how's it going?”

“I'm about to do some tracking. Wanna join me?” His voice had a nails-on-blackboard quality about it.

Decca stepped out into the corridor, closing the door behind her. “Are you mad? Latif's our mate, for God's sake.”

“
Your
mate – and
I'm broke
.”

“'Sakes, Ralph. Since when has it been okay to hunt people down on TV? What's wrong with you and the whole freakin' world? You're all sick in the head. Anyway, I've got to finish a canvas for college.”

“Suit yourself.”

Footsteps retreating.

“Night.” She rolled her eyes as she shut the door. “Loser. Home alone as usual.”

Latif turned on the television and started channel-hopping, transfixed like the women in Decca's paintings. He stopped when he saw a title sequence showing two kids in silhouette viewed through telescopic gun sights. Thriller music blared as the title
Tracker
spun into view.

“This is it,” he murmured.

My parents were sitting in a studio on an orange sofa. Two massive photos of Latif and me provided the backdrop. Superimposed across the images were the words –
Beauty and the Beast.
Video jockeys dressed in white boiler suits stood at mixing desks with rows and rows of controls, twiddling knobs. They were cutting together visuals of London landmarks, streetscapes, police snatch squads and gangs of bounty hunters captured from London's network of CCTV cameras. The video jockeys were projecting the images onto huge screens, synching the montages to spooky electronic audio.

A drum roll hushed the audience.

“Welcome to
Tracker
,” Dad announced solemnly. “Tonight we are showcasing a new tracking system, which allows you – the public – to play detective. We are relying on you to bring Latif Hajjaj to justice. You are our eyes.” He stood up and walked towards the audience. He was holding a silver-tipped cane, which he was twirling like a bandmaster. Then,
silver-haired and silver-tongued, he set about seducing the viewers with a silky preamble.

It was pretty much as we'd predicted. The Golds had networked all the police CCTV cameras, as well as those belonging to private companies, covering a vast area from central London right the way out to the M25. Through networking the cameras, this cutting-edge technology could bring London's
A to Z
of streets into everybody's homes, and allowed anyone with a computer, tablet or smartphone to log on, tap in a postcode and monitor every street in London, more or less.

His slick sales pitch was persuasive. He explained how this game-changing technology was a force for good in society, how it would keep London's streets safe and crime-free. Not just tonight, but every night, and every day too. “Just imagine if you could check your kid was safe as she walked to school or monitor Granny when she totters to the shops. This technology will be vital both in times of national crisis and as we go about our day-to-day lives.”

He ended with a call to arms: “So log on. Get tracking. Time is running out for Dasha.
Dasha needs you
.” Lies came easily to him, as toxic as the poison that his teams of surgeons injected into celebrity faces. “Together we must make sure Latif Hajjaj has nowhere to hide. Spin through
Tracker
's street-finder app, pick a street and pray you strike lucky.”

He started reeling off names of London streets at top speed, as if he were calling bingo numbers. He pointed his
silver-topped cane into the audience. “Pick a street, any street.” The studio audience yelled out hundreds of names. “You, the woman in red… Rupert Street, you say? How can we recognise it? By the Duke of York pub?”

Zap! The VJs conjured up the street in nanoseconds. “Where do you live?” he asked a woman wearing a twinset. They switched to the cameras in her street. She squealed when she saw her son and daughter rush to the window and wave. “All you need to access
Tracker
is a smartphone, tablet or a computer. Log in, and you will have London at your fingertips.”

Dressed in black, my parents were like two poisonous spiders, sitting at the centre of an invisible web, waiting for us to fly into one of its invisible strands.

“Blast off!” Decca's fingers galloped across her laptop's keyboards. “Come on. Come on.” She drummed the table. “'Sakes! There's monster traffic. I can't log on.”

I prayed the grid would crash.

On the television screen a montage of scenes from earlier was rolling: shots of the so-called bomb factory, my freak-out, the rescue and a slickly edited ‘happy family' moment, showing my tearful reunion with Maxine, which had been expertly cut together so it looked as if I were being reunited with Tamara. If I hadn't actually been there, I would have been fooled. The package finished with a stuntman wearing a black and white keffiyeh, exploding into the conservatory on a motorcycle in a blizzard of glass. My parents' version of events spun as truth.

A reporter was standing outside the alleged bomb factory talking to camera. “Tamara and Tarquin Gold are in shock. They are still reeling after Latif Hajjaj thwarted a rescue attempt, dramatically snatching Dasha Gold back from right beneath their noses. The police have carried out a thorough search of the premises. Martyr videos, weapons and bomb-making materials have been retrieved. The evidence points to a network of terrorist cells. Reports suggest the kidnappings are the first of many planned outrages against so-called degenerate Western values. Tomorrow Latif Hajjaj's parents will be charged with masterminding a series of attacks on London. The police are stepping up security.”

“These clowns kill me,” Latif muttered.

Next up, Dad announced they were going live to Downing Street to hear from the prime minister, and then we were in Number 10. The prime minister was at his most statesmanlike. Speaking directly to camera, he locked eyes with the nation and said gravely, “Latif Hajjaj is a threat to democracy, to liberty and to Londoners. That's why you must log onto
Tracker
and hunt him down. Be vigilant. Today it is Dasha. Tomorrow it could be your child. So get tracking. Together we can cleanse society of terrorism and make London a safer place. We will never give in to terrorism in any form.”

My heart stopped. Dad had pulled it off. He had managed to network the CCTV cameras and roll out the surveillance state – all in the name of entertainment. And by a weird twist of fate I had given him the opportunity.
He'd conjured up my kidnap, a lone wolf and a terrorist threat to convince people that they must come together to fight a terrible evil. He'd brainwashed the nation into chasing down make-believe villains.

A sappy photo of me flashed up. A smile flickered across Latif's face. “To think I'm risking my neck for
that
…”

I stuck my tongue out at him.

As they went to the commercial break, my parents chimed, “A million pounds goes to anyone who gives us information leading to Latif's arrest. Change your life by changing our lives. Remember, it pays to play. Dasha's counting on you.” In the office behind the studio the phones lit up.

“See what I mean?
Tracker
's turning crimewatching into a game, and that sucks,” Decca growled. “'Sakes, next he'll be dishing out loyalty cards, luxury yachts and kill-all-you-want vouchers.”

“Tonight's like a pilot for
Tracker
. If he catches us, then he'll argue that
Tracker
should be kept in place as a weekly show. I know what angle they'll use.” I impersonated Mum's voice. “It's all about making crime-fighting fun. Edgy.
Tracker
is Sherlock Holmes for the media-savvy generation.”

Latif laughed. “Media-sappy generation, more like.”

“Man, this laptop's slow!” Decca tapped her fingers frantically on the table. “Come on. Come on. I can't get connected to the ‘street search'.” She scraped back her chair and began pacing up and down the room. “There must be monster traffic.”

Latif took his tablet out of his rucksack. “Wait up,
chicas
,
I'm going to be good at this. Don't forget monitoring CCTV cameras is my specialty. So with the help of
Tracker's
eyes, I should have an exit plan in zero time.” He hunched over the unregistered tablet, logging onto
Tracker
under some fake identity – as God knew who…