Stitch-Up (15 page)

I liked the irony of using a gift from my fake mum to fund my quest to track down my real mum. There was something deeply satisfying about the trade-off.

Breathless

THE sushi bar was a dive; a row of converted garages with makeshift rooms flung up one on top of the other – all higgledy-piggledy and chaotic, which gave the place the look of a favela dwelling.

“This place never sleeps. It's live. Open-DJ spots. Karaoke. Gambling out back.” Latif walked under a sagging awning and sat down at one of the tables. Ashtrays piled high with cigarette butts cluttered the table. A scattering of ash dusted the surface. Latif wrote his name in bubble letters with a long, elegant finger. Then he wiped it out.

Although the bar's metal safety shutters were pulled halfway down, a group of Japanese workers ducked under and trooped over to the bar. All were wearing uniforms.

Night shifters
, I thought.

A few moments later, an explosion of colour whooshed from beneath the shutters as a gang of clubbers emerged, blinking. I watched them walk off down the street, chattering manically.

“What about the police?” I looked around nervously.

“The feds? What about them?” Latif shrugged, eyes fixed on the entry to the dead-end street, more out of habit than anxiety. “The street's blind and the club's off the radar.”

“Blind?”

“No cameras. Want a beer?” he asked, rooting around in the back pocket of his jeans for change.

“Yes, please.”

I slouched down into the chair. Yeah. A beer was exactly what I needed to take the edge off things. Everything about me was jittery: my mind, my hands and my nerves.

As Latif mooched across to the vending machines, I wondered how he managed to keep so cool. Whatever. He fired a handful of coins into the slot. Zap. Zap. Zap. The rows of silver beer cans lined up in the vending machine made me think of robots preparing for battle. He drummed his fingers against the machine, but I couldn't decipher the tune. After a few seconds he kicked the bottom when it refused to give up its booty. Two cans clattered down. He walked back over and handed me a beer. The cans gave a satisfactory
pish
when we eased back the ring pulls.

Latif watched the street, shrugging off my attempts at conversation. I guessed he wanted quiet time. His vibe wasn't doomy, though, more contemplative. Taking the hint, I scouted the cul-de-sac for CCTV. He was right about the cameras. There weren't any. I took a long swig of beer and rotated my neck, trying to ease the tension in my shoulders. Nothing doing. I was wired.

Inside, whacked-out staff were propping up the bar. They were watching a Japanese game show and knocking back shots of sake. Nobody in the bar showed the slightest interest in us. We could have been in a seedy back street somewhere in Tokyo – thousands of miles away from the media storm.

A cab turned into the cul-de-sac and trundled towards us with a throaty gurgle. My stomach clenched.

The cab slowed.

Stopped.

Latif drained his can, stood up and gave a mock salute.

At the wheel sat a Japanese guy who was smiling at us. When he rolled down the window I noticed he was styled like Elvis. His quiff was immaculate. “Respect, bruv.”

Latif leaned into the cab. “
Salaam
, bruv. I owe you big time.”

They bumped fists.

“No worries, fam. This is deep. You've stirred up a commotion. You're trending worldwide on Twitter and I was like, ‘'Sakes, either he's lost it big time or there's more to it.' But I know there's always more to it when the feds are involved. Anyway, when you called, I was like, ‘Jesus walks, he's safe.' I picked up Yukiko and came straight over.”

“Rah! It's all gone crazy!” Latif said. “Nothing Baba can't handle.
Inshallah
.”

He opened the door and I climbed in.

Inside sat a Japanese girl with vibrant splashes of vermillion pink in her hair and swooping black make-up. She was wearing a Victorian-style maid's outfit matched with black and white striped tights and Dr Martens. The pocket of her white, crisp apron was stuffed with cosmetics and hairbrushes. I recognised the style as GothLoli, a subculture in Japan.

“Hi, I'm Dasha,” I whispered, slightly taken aback by the flamboyance of our new allies.

The girl stretched out a delicate hand. “Hi, I'm Yukiko. This is bonkers, innit?”

I nodded stiffly. When we shook hands Yukiko said, “I know what you're thinking. Don't panic. I'm the distraction. We'll look like crazy tourists with me in the back, innit?”

“So that's your excuse for hitching a ride in my road movie, Yukiko!” Latif said as he ducked into the cab. He pulled down the bucket seat and sat directly behind Ren. Once settled, he sprawled out his legs. “Starlets are so pushy these days.”

“I wouldn't have missed this for the world, Lats.” Yukiko kissed him on both cheeks. “Anyways, you'd better be nice to me, because I've got garms in here to save your skinny arse.” She patted a large sports bag, which lay at her feet.

“You blackmailing me, Yuks?”

“Could be.” She unzipped the bag and pulled out a scarlet piece of parachute fabric. “It's your choice.”

“Where to?” Ren asked. “East?” We were already hurtling down the road. “We need to ghost. There are bare loads of bully vans all over.”

“Yeah. East.” Latif swivelled round on his seat and pushed back the plastic partition. “We're gonna lie low while the media's roaring.”

“I can't believe those muppets broadcast that photo of you posing as Elvis to grub your good name. That shot rocked, fam.” Ren kissed his knuckles and punched his fist towards a black and white photo of Elvis, which was stuck to the dashboard.

“Believe it!” Latif poked his head through the partition.

“How come they were on you so quickly?”

“Facebook, I guess. Even though I deactivated my account years ago. That info's always out there. The algorithm squad must've sussed it.”

“That sucks. I guess few people tag in Arabic,” Ren said.

“And you did that cool graffiti for the youth project in south London,” Yukiko said. “There was press about that.”

Latif shrugged. “Has Mum spoken to Jeannie?”

“Yeah. She stopped by the cafe as soon as the TV started blagging. Your dad's on it already. She says keep calm. Don't panic.” Ren laughed. “As if my main soldier's gonna freak out.”

“As if… Get Jeannie to tell Mum everything's under control.”

Control? My eyes opened wide. If this was control I'd hate to see things when they got messy. I almost said as much, but decided against it. For some reason, I sensed it would be better to let the conversation come to me rather than seek it out. It was just a feeling.

“So what's going on, cuz?” Ren was eyeing me with suspicion in the rear-view mirror. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “The real story?”

“We were IDed on CCTV at Euston, and boom, an ugly started tailing us. We lost him in the hospital. The feds are on it for once. With massive help from GoldRush Image Inc…”

“We haven't got time for this,” Yukiko cut in brusquely.
She turned to face me and said, “You're obviously not kidnapped, so what's your game?”

“Game?” I blinked.

“Is this some kind of publicity stunt?” She got straight to the point. Her tone was no-nonsense
“I want to know what you're up to.”
She emphasised each word, treating me like some kind of moron. “We don't want you doing Lats over, that's all.”

My jaw dropped open. I glanced over at Latif, wanting backup.

“Straight-up, guys, she's running,” he said. “She's got personal reasons, so back off. I know what I'm doing. It's cool.”

Ren and Yukiko shot each other a doubtful look.

“No really… It's the truth. I want out. I promise,” I flustered. The knot in my stomach had shifted to my chest and I was finding it difficult to breathe.

“Don't blame you. But why?” Ren's tone was sceptical.

I exchanged another look with Latif.

“Tell them.” He shrugged. “Ren's adopted. He'll understand.”

“What?” Ren and Yukiko chorused in unison. “
You're adopted?
” Yukiko's eyes popped wide.

“Yes. I'm adopted.” I fidgeted in my seat, reluctant to discuss something so private with strangers, and not very friendly strangers at that. “Latif is going to help me find my birth mother. The Golds aren't my real parents. Strictly no blood ties.” I enjoyed using my parents' surname. It gave
me distance, almost made me believe that I'd finally escaped their world. “That's why I'm on the run.”

“You're joking me? You ain't a twenty-four-carat Gold.” Ren swivelled round in his seat so he could get a better look at me. “You're skin and bone, like the rest of us.”

Yukiko's eyes looked as if they might explode out of her head. “You ain't real Gold,” she repeated, as if she'd lost the power to think for herself.

“That's a twist I wasn't expecting.” Ren shook his head in disbelief. “So you ain't got their rotten blood in your veins.”

“Not a drop.”

“Totally unreal.” He checked me out in the rear-view mirror again.

“She's bona fide, fam. Trust me!” Latif said.

“That's crazed.” His eyes flicked to the mirror once more.

Yukiko kept on staring at me, eyes wide.

“So you're adopted?” I asked Ren cautiously.

A balloon was expanding in my chest.

“Yeah, Jeannie's my adoptive mum. I was in care for years until I was shipped out to her. I lucked in – Jeannie's seriously cool.” His eyes fixed me. “She couldn't effing believe she had a Gold in her cafe drinking tea right under her nose. She's pissed off she didn't recognise you.” He laughed. “Especially as she reads every celeb site going and thinks she's an expert. Up until last night, she claimed she could spot a celebrity at fifty metres.”

“Poor old Jeannie. She'll never forgive me for that.” Latif chuckled.

“Yeah. You'd better watch out, bruv. You're never too old to get a beat-down from your auntie. She's banned you from the caff!”

I waited for the laughter to die down before asking: “Have you met your real parents, Ren?”

“Yeah! First time a few years back. But it was a real so-what moment. No chemistry. No connection. All that junk people spout. I guess making small talk with complete strangers ain't really my thing. Get me?”

I didn't. But I didn't say so. Instead I asked, “What are they like?”

“They're okay. Just didn't click, that's all. Trouble was my expectations were sky high.” He gestured up to the heavens. “You know what they say about meeting your heroes. Meeting your birth parents is a bit like that. A let-down. That's how it rolled for me.”

My disappointment must have shown because he added, “Everyone's scenario is different. Dad's a crim, not exactly father-figure material. But he's pretty handy if you want something on the grey.”

“Grey?”

“Hookie. Stolen goods…”

“What about your mum?”

“She makes great sushi and is mad about Japanese tradition.” He opened the glove compartment. A dozen red balls with bearded faces fell out. “Mum gives me a Daruma doll most times I see her. They're meant to be lucky. She's really into them.”

I flinched as I watched his good luck tumble to the floor. “Do you see them much?”

“You bet. If I want a new plasma.” Then, seeing my horrified look, he added, “No seriously, I see them quite a bit these days. Now I've got to know them better they crack me up. I'm getting pretty good at Japanese as well. I feel like I've inherited a whole new story, culture and that. Dad might be real hard, but they both respect old-time Japanese traditions. I like that about them. It's… what's that word? Quaint, innit? And the sushi round there is awesome.”

“Why were you adopted?”

He shrugged. “Life was bad back then.”

“And you never wanted to live with them? You know, after you'd got to know them better?”

“I couldn't have done that to Jeannie. She was there for me. It would've broken her heart.”

“Ren, the heartbreaker. Give it a rest.” Latif rolled his eyes.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the killer question. Then I let the air out of my nose slowly and asked, “Are you glad you found them?”

“You make it sound like I was lost before.” His eyes fixed me in the mirror.

“You know what I mean…” I held my breath.

“Yeah, of course. They make me who I am. The hookie video games, the knock-off Adidas trainers, the Nike trackies and that. Without all that I'd be nothing.” He winked. “Seriously, though, anyone's gotta be better than those two clowns who raised you.”

Rattled, I turned and looked out of the window – a million questions spinning through my head. What if my real mother turned out to be dodgy? What if meeting her was a complete let-down? Never in a million years had I considered
that
.

But Ren and his parents had worked things out. I traced the lifeline on my left palm. At least Dad had searched out and paid for the best, I reassured myself. That much I knew. Dad was a control freak. He never left anything to chance – a characteristic that I usually detested, but which, in this instance, might work in my favour. I doubted Dad would have adopted a baby, especially one he was going to groom to be the face of his beloved brand, without doing extensive research into the parents' background.

“I guess we better get you disguised,” Yukiko said. She scooped a bundle of hoodies, hats, T-shirts and long, swishy swathes of brightly-coloured fabric from her bag and dumped them in a heap on the floor. “Take your pick. I'm thinking renegade refusenik. Edgy.”

“Don't use that word, Yuks.” Latif shuddered. “You sound like a middle-aged TV exec.”