Stitch-Up (8 page)

The helicopter's clatter was closer now.

Latif shouted over his shoulder for me to run faster.

But I couldn't force my aching body to move up a gear, and the stiff overalls weren't helping either.

When we reached the Peace Pagoda, Latif raced up the steps towards the gleaming Buddha. From what I could remember from my rare visits to Battersea Park, there were four Buddhas in total, looking to the north, south, east and west. Thirteen steps later, I found myself standing on the pagoda's walkway gasping for breath, watching Latif vault up onto the Buddha's platform with ease.

“Come now!” He was stretching his arms down towards me. Clasping hold of his hands, I walked my feet up the slippery white side. Seconds later, I was standing next to him – all exposed, as if on a stage.

The Buddha was sitting cross-legged on a lotus flower, a golden leaf stretched up behind him. His face was kind and peaceful, and he was making a symbol with his fingers. I prayed it was a hopeful message, one that would keep us safe…

Downriver, helicopter lights strafed the sky.

A flock of frightened birds flew out of the park, silhouetted against the moon.

“Over here, Dash!” Latif whispered, slotting himself into a hidden space behind the Buddha. The gleaming lotus leaf gave him good cover. Without wasting a second, I scrambled onto the platform, touching the Buddha's arm for luck, before squeezing in beside Latif.

There was barely room for two.

“Squeezy, huh?” Latif whispered.

I gave him a searching look. He appeared totally unfazed.

A moment later, an engine's roar eclipsed the helicopter's metallic whir, and, peeping out, I saw a motorbike tearing along the river walkway. It was one of those low-slung bikes, which Hell's Angels ride – a Harley.

“What's he doing here?” Latif muttered.

But before I could ask who exactly ‘he' was, the bike's headlamp was shining straight at our Buddha. For a couple of moments the Buddha blazed gold. I shrank back into our hidden space, heart thumping. Five parakeets shot out from under the pagoda's rafters, exploding into the night like bright green fireworks. I blinked. They looked as out of place as I felt. I heard the bike turn into the car park and skid to a halt. Sneaking a look, I saw a leathered hellhound sitting astride the Harley, revving the engine.

“Who's that?” I mouthed, eyes popping.

Latif edged closer. “Pest control from the dark side. Officially he shoots vermin, foxes mainly. Unofficially he…”

I strained to hear, but the rest of his sentence was swallowed up by the clatter of an unmarked helicopter as it flew over Chelsea Bridge and into the park. Seconds later, it was hovering above the car park, spotlighting the Harley in its beam.

The leathered biker saluted the pilot, cut the engine and dismounted. He was wearing a bush hat with fox brushes hanging from the rim. A rifle was slung over his left shoulder.

“Okay, Fred, let's hunt vermin.” The pilot's voice boomed
from a speaker in the helicopter's cockpit. “Two suspects. One male. One female. We need them alive. Do you copy? Alive!”

“No way.” My eyes widened. “I thought you said he hunted foxes.”

“Officially.”

And the way he said the word filled me with dread.

“What? They're after us?” My voice rose to a squeak.

Latif raised his index finger to his lips.

As I watched the hunter stride into the darkness, fear mushroomed up inside me. This all seemed totally irregular. The helicopter's lights swept across the park. Birds shot from its beam like arrows. Trees swayed back and forth, as if caught up in a tropical storm, their emerald-green leaves jitterbugging in its bluster. After a while, the pilot's robotic voice filled the park.

“I've got Nike trainers and an Adidas logo. Two suspects at coordinates A3-D12. I repeat, suspects are at coordinates A3-D12.”

“That copter has X-ray vision,” Latif whispered. “The temple's roof better block us – or else. Boom! We're ghosts!” Then seeing my look of terror, he added, “Don't vex. We're in deep cover. The infrared won't pick up our body heat in here. Chill.”

With my forehead pressed against the cool, golden lotus leaf, I concentrated on bringing my temperature down. I was a penguin diving into freezing water. I was an Eskimo huddled in an igloo…

Latif jogged my elbow. An unmarked van had entered the park. It came to a halt next to the Harley. Two toughs jumped out, sauntered round to the back and unlocked the doors. A chill rose up from my guts. They had the look of the ex-SAS goons that Dad hired to protect us. Muscle. No rules. Mean. I'd spent my whole life being shadowed by them so I could spot them a mile off. As if to prove my point they shaped guns with their hands and pretended to shoot at the two teenagers Fred was marching across the grass. Arms pinned back, faces scrunched into screams, the two kids looked as if they thought their world was about to end.

Fred bundled the kids inside the van and slammed the doors shut. Then he waited while one of the goons spoke to someone on the van's radio. When he'd finished, they exchanged a few words. There appeared to be some kind of problem.

Moments later, the hunter turned on his heels and headed back into the park.

Only this time, he was walking our way.

As he approached the temple he signalled to the pilot. I shrank back into deep cover. I heard the helicopter fly over and take up position above the temple. A whirlwind rushed around the pagoda, making the bells clank madly, as if all four Buddhas were trying to ward off an evil force with ethereal music.

I glanced over at Latif. His face was expressionless, unreadable. I shut my eyes. CHOP. CHOP. CHOP. The blades churned my stomach and shredded my nerves.
Icy sweat beaded my back. My heart thumped against my ribcage.

After what felt like an eternity, the helicopter swept away. But the ensuing silence intensified my anxiety. Fred must be on the pagoda's walkway by now. I strained to hear some small sound of him. My breath was a full stop in my throat. A few more seconds passed, then I heard the flick of a lighter, followed by a deep inhalation. The tang of cigarette smoke tickled my nostrils. He began to walk around the temple, his footfalls sharp as pistol cracks. Time stretched taut, almost quivered. I found myself counting his footsteps. Thirty-seven gunshots later, he ran back down the steps.

I crumpled.

After one last tour of the park, the helicopter flew off up river. The van left at speed, red tail lights gleaming. Finally the hunter mounted his bike, revved the engine and shot out of the car park. His Harley gobbled up the walkway in one long wheelie.

Below the Radar

WE waited until the roar of the chopper had receded. Then we slid out from behind the Buddha. Standing on the platform, I stamped my feet, trying to get some feeling back into them. I took deep breaths, enjoying the fresh air – crisp and cold in my throat.

With the helicopter gone, I'd expected the park to be silent, but the undergrowth was alive with the rustle of spooked-out creatures. I peered into the darkness, scoping the shadows, half-expecting
The Hunter's Return
. The sequel.

“What was that about?” I asked. “Who were those guys?”

“Undercover feds. The clean-up squad. They pull in drunks, the homeless, taggers, outcasts. Anyone this government describes as scum.” Latif rotated his neck until it clicked. “Unofficially, of course.”

“What?” My mouth dropped open. “The government is
okay
with that?” I stamped my feet out more vigorously. “Those poor kids! They hadn't done anything wrong, had they?”

“Wrong time. Wrong place.”

“That's it?” I was struggling to get a handle on things. “What do you mean?”

“The feds are after
me
, bubblehead.” Latif shrugged. But I thought I heard fear catch in his throat. “My graffiti
triggered the mayhem. Railway Control didn't relish the tease and called the feds.”

“What? Really? That's how they go after taggers?” I asked, eyes wide as dinner plates.

“Truth, bubblehead! Two police cars stopped by the depot when we were crossing the bridge.” Then, seeing my incredulous look, he added, “Believe it!”

“It was insane, though,” I persisted, shaking my head, still stunned by what I'd just witnessed. “It was…” I searched for the word. “Disproportionate.”

“Where have you been for the last decade, bubblehead? Another planet? These days, Dash, the feds pull you in for taking photos on the streets. Anything goes. Trust me! It's called zero tolerance.” He tipped up the brim of his hat, setting his eyes on me for a few seconds, and then he jumped off the platform.

My gaze travelled to Millbank Tower, and the city's lights behind. It wasn't news to me, not really. I knew the government came down hard on civilian kids or the hood-rats, as Dad called them. His TV channels were always calling for zero tolerance. I guessed that was what zero tolerance looked like. I shivered. I had never really given it a shape. But now I'd seen it, I would never forget it. And I never wanted to see it again.

The Buddha's tranquil face gleamed in the moonlight, radiating peaceful vibes. I placed my fingertips on his hand, hoping to suck up good karma. But the chill was creeping up from my stomach again, seeping into every cell of my body,
invading every particle of my being – a kind of sixth sense – irrational, maybe, suggesting that my parents were somehow involved. I started whispering a single mantra: “Please don't let Mum and Dad have anything to do with this. Please don't let…” I rubbed the top of my arms and shooed this crazy thought away.

Latif was already down by the river, leaning on the railings and staring out into the darkness. I was surprised to see the tide had gone out, leaving two pebble-dashed beaches stretching up from a glassy twist of river. Battersea Park was submerged in silence once again. The windows of the houses on the other side of the river were unlit.

There was a sizeable drop down from the platform, and I cursed Latif for leaving me stranded, but fearing he'd think me useless if I called him back, I grasped the thick perimeter pole and lowered myself down, landing in a mess of arms and legs. After picking myself up, I joined Latif riverside.

He was lost in his own world.

Resting my elbows against the red railings, I gave him a sideways glance. His face was as smooth as the river's surface. He appeared unruffled. Feeling my eyes on him, he turned and smiled.

“Dad said the government was getting tough on the small stuff – graffiti and that. But I didn't take any notice. The feds are always after taggers. We're soft targets. Even so, that was excessive.” He picked up a twig from the walkway and dropped it over the railings. We watched it twist and turn as
it fell to the riverbed. “I thought Dad was being paranoid. That's what he does for a living. Turns out he was right.”

“What? He's paranoid for a living?” I said.

“In a way.” Latif grinned. “He's paranoid about our freedoms and that. He's a lawyer – one of the good guys. He defends our rights and liberties and tries his best to stop this crookin' government taking them away. He's always on at me to watch out.” Latif shook his head. “It's whack sending copters after taggers. But it's not unusual. Swear down! You can't do nothing these days. Soon they'll introduce curfews and that. And all we'll be able to do is stay home and watch television.”

“Have you ever been caught?”

“A few near misses, and as I say, I was busted as a kid.” He flashed a smile. “But that's the buzz.” He shook his head again. “Too much craziness.”

“Too much craziness.” I repeated, still in a trance of disbelief.

Staring at the river, trying to gather my thoughts, I was unsure what to think. Too much craziness!
But why?
Was it really about Latif's graffiti? I couldn't help thinking there was more to it. For some reason, I found myself thinking about Dad's relationship with the chief of police. They were close; I knew that. But how close? I pictured the two of them laughing and joking together at GoldRush Image Inc's New Year's Eve party before disappearing into Dad's office for one of their private chats. Then there were the nights when the whirl of a helicopter landing on our helipad
would wake me, and going to the window I'd see the chief of police emerging from the cockpit, moments before a ring of security swallowed him up, marching him across the lawn and into the house. Like a hood paying his respects to a Mafioso boss. I grimaced, tucking my hands under my armpits. They probably knew I was missing by now, so, I guessed, Dad would be holding crisis meetings with the chief of police. I pictured the policeman's Action Man face, courtesy of GoldRush Image Inc, nodding in agreement with Dad's every crazy demand.

My unease slid back.

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

“You're joking?” Latif turned to face me. “
We're
doing nothing. You're going home and I'm keeping a low profile. You saw what happened to those kids, Dash. It isn't safe.”

“But…”

“I'm gonna be straight with you, bubblehead.” He gently pulled me round by my shoulders, and fixed me with a narrow-eyed look. “And you mustn't take it personal, yeah? I can't hang with you. You're not a nighter. You don't know the rules. You'll get us both nicked.” He turned back to the river. “It's too risky with the feds crawling all over the city. That's why you're going home.” His words dropped like stones onto the riverbed, smashing my hopes.

In a panic, I tried to think of alternatives.

Deep breaths. Okay. Okay. Think!
I could revert to my old plan. No. No that was hopeless. Scarlet was as clueless about civilian life as I was – if not more so. We'd both been raised
in the celebrity intensive-care bubble so hooking up with her would get me nowhere fast. I looked up at the luminous moon for inspiration.