Stitch-Up (4 page)

Anger started fizzing up from the pit of my stomach, spreading through my body like a brushfire, finally exploding into my brain in a geyser-rush of rage. For months we'd been having massive fights about my surgery, especially after they'd told me how extreme it was going to be. I hated the fact that my parents were trying to control me in every way, right down to how I looked. The next thing I knew I was punching my fists against the padded walls, screaming into the soundproofed silence until I thought my lungs were going to pop. Slumping back against the wall, I wiped away a tear with the back of my hand. I took deep breaths. In. Out. Slowly my fury subsided.

I stared at my feet, confused by how sad I was feeling. In many ways, I should have been glad that I wasn't made up of their demented DNA. What kind of psychos would force their daughter to have cosmetic surgery, anyway? But I wasn't glad. I wasn't happy, not really.

I closed my eyes, clasping my hands tighter around my head, and, like a thwacked piñata, the happy memories came tumbling out – glittery, flashy and fun: days hanging out with Mum and Dad at GoldRush Towers, sitting with them in the edit or mucking around on set; evenings spent watching films in our private cinema; nights at VIP parties and premieres, meeting stars. I indulged in the good memories for a few
more moments. There I was riding my pony, Miami; hanging out with my favourite band backstage and chilling out on our island. Dad was a laugh, Mum too, when they weren't ‘outsourcing' – another of Dad's slimy words – my care to nannies, minders, stylists and gurus. They weren't around much, but that was the global way. But the glitz and the glamour had filled the space, until the dark stuff kicked off, poisoning everything.

The whiteness and underwater stillness of the panic room pressed in, squeezing the breath from me, as if I were swimming in arctic waters; my heart was slowing and I was drifting into a trance-like state. I punched the wall again, firing up my fury once more. I'd had it with their lies and schemes. I stood up, went into the bathroom and splashed cold water onto my face.
Why would I want to be a Gold, anyway?

As I became less shell-shocked, I focused on the positives. Okay, I wasn't the Golds' daughter. But was that really so bad? I had another mother. Unbelievable! And if I wasn't their daughter, they had absolutely no right to mess with my face – turn me into some kind of brand-bot. I pictured the woman in the hallway again, her beautiful face framed by Dad's heavies. And in the silence of the panic room, I realised that this woman – if she were my mother, as she claimed – could offer a solution to my problems, if, and it was a very big if, I could track her down.

Squinting at my reflection in the mirror, I wondered why she'd described me as baby 9614. That struck me as weird.

At last I heard the bleep, bleep of the code being tapped in.

The buzz of the door opening. Big Stevie entered.

“False alarm, Dasha.”

“What, like everything else in my life?” I spat the words out.

He shrugged, puzzled by my tone. “Your dad has given me your schedule for tonight. We've got to leave in thirty.”

I ignored him and started walking back to my bedroom. I could hear his footsteps padding along, ten metres behind me, as per usual.

I gripped the side of the bridge, anger flashing up again at the memory.

Big Ben struck eight. A reality check – like the bongs at the beginning of the news. Two hours had passed since the train crash. I pictured Mum pacing her penthouse office mad with worry while Dad was on his mobile calling in favours. I focused on the London Eye, wanting to sync my racing thoughts with its slow spin. I could live a different life if I held my nerve. The measured turn of the wheel steadied my thoughts. The pavement felt firm beneath my feet. I was grounded now and, despite everything, I felt strangely anchored. The crash had given me the chance to realise a dream. Could I do it? Doubt zapped me. Although I had been thinking about finding my real mother more or less constantly since that night, it took the form of daydreaming rather than concrete, practical plans, because, I guess, I had never imagined even in my wildest dreams that I would ever escape the Golds. But against the odds I had given Big Stevie
the slip. Like the spin of a bottle or a roulette table, my number had miraculously come up, and I couldn't blow my good luck. I had to give it my best shot.

Keep calm, deep breaths, this is your one chance, Dash. Okay? Okay?
I had to get to the adoption agency.
But how?
I clutched at the silver locket, which I always wore round my neck, and considered the options. Hidden inside the locket was the address of FuturePerfect. That was a step in the right direction, at least. I had something, somewhere to aim for. I glanced up at Big Ben. But it was too late to do anything tonight.

So what now? Think straight, Dash. Calm thoughts. THINK! THINK!

I looked helplessly at the massiveness of London stretched out before me, overwhelmed by my cluelessness. How the hell was I going to get round the city when the only Tube map I'd ever studied in detail was the lithograph, ‘The Great Bear', which was hanging in Dad's bathroom. The artist had replaced the tube stations with the names of famous people, so I could get to Albert Einstein, Michael Caine or Charles Darwin, but what the dib-dab-scritch use was that?

Think!
I could head over to Scarlet's apartment, tell her about my situation and swear her to secrecy. That was a plan of sorts, although she was about as useless as me when it came to the civilian world. Scarlet was my oldest friend. We'd known each other for twelve years, and we were close, although not as close as we used to be since I'd been attending the Academy. But we hung out together most weekends.
We were partners-in-crime on the party circuit. We'd had zillions of sleepovers, shared buckets full of ice cream and watched a million movies together. She knew all my secrets – well, almost. Luckily she lived alone in a secure Gate on Royal Hospital Road because her parents were out of the country most of the time, which meant I could hide out there without raising parental suspicion. Her Gate was about fifteen minutes upriver by limo, so I guessed it couldn't be more than an hour by foot – not that I fancied walking, but as I'd never taken the bus or the Tube in my life, and I reckoned taking a cab was too risky, I didn't have much choice.

A siren burst into life on the other side of the river – another reminder.

I took a deep breath. My skin prickled with excitement. London twinkled and pulsed around me. I drew myself up to my full height, blew a kiss to GoldRush Image HQ and murmured, “Who's in control now?”

Figuring it would be a smart move to avoid the roads and CCTV cameras where possible, I scooted back down to the river walkway, taking the last few steps at a gallop. The section across the river from the Houses of Commons was deserted and dark – no clowns, no Disney characters, no tourists; nobody, apart from a couple kissing on a bench.

At intervals the walkway was lit by old-fashioned lamps, which cast a murky glow. The gloom gave me goosebumps. Glancing over at the Houses of Parliament, I imagined MPs, or ‘my people', as Dad liked to call them, watching me from the Houses of Commons. I shivered and walked
on purposefully. Up ahead, a gang of skaters were mucking about. Their boards whizzed and zipped as they did stunts. A police boat sped downriver, its hull crashing against the water like a warning drum. For a second, the darkness pressed in on me. I hesitated, but telling myself not to be so jumpy, I shoved my hands into my pockets, quickened my pace, slotting in behind the zigzagging skaters. A guy with a blond mop of hair turned around, clocked me and grinned. I smiled back, but kept my distance. I followed them over Lambeth Bridge, past Millbank Tower on the north side of the river and up to Tate Britain, where they picked up their boards and mingled with groups of arty-looking kids drinking beer and smoking outside on the steps.

Above the entrance a white neon artwork stated:
EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE ALRIGHT
. I knew it was stupid, but I crossed my fingers and repeated the phrase under my breath. I couldn't help myself: it was just something I did. I was always looking for signs to reassure myself: magpies, shooting stars, lucky numbers, pennies to pick up or a vapour-trail kiss up in the sky. It was the way I was – superstitious.

The partygoers looked as if they were having such a good time that, for an instant, I was tempted to stay, but I rejected the idea at once, realising it wasn't exactly the cleverest move when you're about to trend worldwide on social media. Anyway, I'd had enough of parties for a lifetime, so I carried on walking, adrenalin spinning through me like a supernova sugar rush.

The stretch of river beyond the Tate was deserted. A great hulk of a restaurant stood empty, its roof stripped of slate. Next door, there was a boarded-up petrol station covered with graffiti. Red neon spelled out
Dolphin Square
across a block of art deco flats. A car swished past in a rush of steel and blank eyes. On the other side of the river, Battersea Power Station loomed like a ghostly ocean liner.

It was a beautiful night. The full moon shone on the water, shaping a silvery superhighway. I sucked a deep breath of night air down into my lungs. My blood felt charged up, as if I'd bungee-jumped right down from the stars.

A driver honked his horn and I swore under my breath as I watched the car's red tail lights glide off into the night. A taxi cruised by with its
for hire
sign lit up. My hands twitched in my pockets. I balled them and carried on walking.

I'd just passed a single red phone box when I heard footsteps approaching at speed. I glanced back, half expecting, half hoping to see Big Stevie. Instead I saw a scruffy man in a T-shirt and trackie bottoms. His face split into a leer, and then he broke into a run.

Heart rocketing, I was running, too, but my heels were slowing me down. Without looking round, I could tell he was gaining on me, because I could hear his trainers pounding the pavement in long strides while, in contrast, the tickity-tack of my stiletto steps were small and uncertain. And all I could think was,
Oh my God! What the hell am I going to do now?

Although I knew I'd lose valuable seconds, I pulled off
my heels, fumbling and fluffing, and nearly falling over in my haste. Then, clasping a shoe in each hand, I surged forwards, like an Olympic runner sprinting from the blocks. The cool pavement felt good beneath my feet. My Dior bag bumped against my hip, unbalancing me. I used my shoes like paddles, pushing them through the air, ramping up my speed. I concentrated on planting my feet in the centre of each paving stone, forcing myself to take them two at a time, stretching myself to the limit and building up a rhythm which would propel me forwards. In my head, I was certain he would catch me if I accidentally trod on a crack.

Seeing a sprawling estate – a junk space – to my right, I thought about heading in, but picturing dead ends, poor lighting, hood-rats, I kept on running. About five hundred metres up the road, Chelsea Bridge's lights were twinkling, which meant Scarlet's Gate couldn't be more than ten minutes away. But before that I had to negotiate an underpass beneath a railway bridge, its lights smashed out by vandals. I estimated twenty metres of dimly lit terrain. I dug deep for a final spurt of energy and raced in.

The creep's stride lengthened, too. Seconds later, his footsteps were reverberating around the railway bridge. The sound of his piggy breath swallowed me up. In the distance, I saw a set of traffic lights change to green.

Go! Go! Go!
A voice screeched in my head.

He was on me in three steps.

“Got you!” A wet slap of a whisper.

His breath smelled like road kill.

His hands gripped my shoulders, and then he was pushing me down towards the pavement. His lips were right next to my ear, and he was calling me baby.

No way
, I thought. This wasn't meant to be happening.
Everything is going to be all right
. I repeated the phrase in my head, picturing the phrase lit up on Tate Britain in neon lights. The rhythm of the words calmed my mind. Suddenly a part of me was floating a few feet above the scene, directing my earthbound self to relax. Obeying orders, I went limp, which threw the creep off balance, and then I rammed my stiletto heel up into his armpit with all my strength. Cussing loudly, he grabbed hold of my face with a sweaty hand and turned my nose like a key in a lock. Spluttering for breath, I pushed the shoe in harder. He loosened his grip. Squirming free, I spun round to face him. Then, pointing the heels of my stilettos at him as if they were blades, I started edging away, never once taking my eyes off him, so that when he lunged towards me, I danced out of reach with ease. Then I rushed at him, stabbing the heel into his face. When he staggered backwards clutching his eyes, I started sprinting for the traffic lights.

From behind, I heard running footsteps, a thud of fist on flesh, a groan, followed by the crump of a body hitting the pavement. I glanced over my shoulder, stopped in my tracks. A tall, slim kid in a cowboy hat had knocked the creep to the ground. The boy turned. His smile was wide and crooked. He was dressed in street cleaners' overalls and was wearing a black and white chequered keffiyeh around his neck.

“You okay?” He nodded up the brim of his hat with the tip of his middle finger, and smiled reassuringly. “Looked like you were in a bit deep.”

I didn't reply, just stood there goggle-eyed and gasping.

“Are you okay?” he repeated, walking over.

My eyes flicked from the boy to the heap of human on the pavement.

“
Vamos, chica
.” He grabbed my arm so I had no option but to follow him back down the road that I'd run up moments earlier.

Brainsnap!
I was heading into the night with a boy – a stranger, a civilian, most probably an outcast. He could be dangerous. But at that moment, it just felt good to be whisked away from there, and to be escaping the vile creep without having to think…