Stitch-Up (16 page)

He picked out a purple and gold tracksuit top and, holding it up, gave Yukiko one of his narrow-eyed stares, and said, “Looks like you're trying to pimp me up, Yuks.” He slipped the trackie top over his orange T-shirt. Next up, he swapped his black and white keffiyeh for a length of dark blue cloth decorated with loud yellow, orange and red African print. He wrapped this flashy fabric around his hair and neck, concealing most of his face in the process. He pushed it
down so he could speak. As an afterthought, he tied a bright red length of parachute silk around his shoulders. “In case of an emergency landing.” He flashed a smile.

His transformation was dramatic. Nothing matched, but as soon as he'd shrugged himself into the ensemble, it looked cool, and made me wonder why I'd ever doubted his choices in the first place.

“I'm done,” he said. “What do you reckon, Style Queen?”

Yukiko narrowed her eyes. “That you've taken it to the max.” She pinned the corners of his makeshift red cloak together with a star-shaped Che Guevara badge, somehow fashioning a hood from the fabric.

Latif grabbed an England shirt and shoved it into his rucksack. “In case the going gets
real tough
.” He winked at Yukiko. “The feds would never expect to see me in a footy shirt.”

I remained silent, wondering if his outfit was an elaborate hoax. Everything about his look was seriously at odds with any ideas I had about going undercover. There was nothing covert or discreet about it. Perhaps his plan was to dazzle our enemies into submission.

“You're gonna need a pay-as-you-go.” Yukiko produced a cheap throwaway phone from the sports bag and handed it to Latif. “It's brand new. I've put twenty on it.”

“Safe, Yuks.” Latif pocketed it.

“Don't call me again, yeah?” Ren shouted from up front. “There's a chance the feds'll slam my phone.”

“Yeah. I know.” Latif swivelled round and started chatting
to Ren. This time I caught very little of what was said. They were speaking fast and low so their words ran into one another, punctuated every so often by my name. From what I could work out, they were discussing events since I'd crashed into Latif's life. I strained to hear, desperate to know his thoughts, but I could only pick out about one word in five.

I stared down at the heap of clothes on the floor, looking for inspiration. Nothing really grabbed me. Everything was so bright, so look-at-me. I picked out an oversized green hoodie. On the front
Counterculture
was spelled out in the style of the Coca-Cola logo. It swamped me when I slipped it on, but I liked the way the hood swallowed up my face. Then I took a length of orange silk and wrapped it over my jeans sarong-style. I wanted to make a bold statement. This, after all, was the new me!

Yukiko took a few minutes to size up my new look. Then she took a blond wig from her bag and asked, “Fancy wigging out? I'll cut it short. You know, like Jean Seberg in the classic on-the-run movie,
Breathless
. Blond, boyish, gamine.” Clocking my face, she laughed. “No need to worry, golden girl. I style pop promos and magazine shoots when I'm not disguising runaways.”

“Go for it!” I said, sensing that Yukiko's makeover was going to be a whole deal cooler and a whole lot less painful than the one my parents had been planning.

Yukiko placed the wig on my head, expertly tucking up my real hair as she did so. Then she took a pair of scissors from her apron and started cutting into the wig. She worked
quickly and deftly, unfazed by the bumpiness of the ride. I shut my eyes, terrified the scissors were going to stab into one of my eyes at any moment.

Her questions came as fast as the snip of her scissors, so fast, in fact, I hardly had time to answer.

“Do you have stylists?”

“Yeah.”

“How many?”

“Oh, you know, a few. A team.”

“Wow! And they choose your style?”

“Yeah, mostly. But recently I'd been trying to do things my way. Express myself. That's when the trouble started. The clashes. My parents want me to look a certain way for the brand, and I was getting more, like, ‘No thanks.' Things started getting real testy.”

“'Sakes, I'd rather die than let those clowns dress me.”

I laughed. “Yeah. Tell me about it. I lived the shame.”

“No offence. But I'd love to be a stylist to someone rich, famous and clueless. They could become my project. I could mould them.”

I opened my eyes. “What? Like me?”

She smiled and carried on snipping.

I found Yukiko's obsession with my global life unnerving. As she grilled me, I could feel myself shrinking away from her, my replies becoming softer and softer until finally I was merely nodding, as if she'd cut my tongue out by mistake. A flush rose up my neck, inflaming my face.

Outside, the affluence of Islington ebbed away to stale
suburban streets, which in turn gave way to crumbling houses with boarded-up windows and shrugging timbers – grim, sour, forgotten places.

The rundown streets were worlds away from the secure billion-pound neighbourhood where my parents and their friends lived. Instead of trim, tree-lined avenues, high gates and state-of-the-art security systems, there were filthy streets, haphazard houses and shuttered shop-fronts blasted with graffiti. Instead of mown lawns, mini-golf and swimming pools, there were scrubby gardens sprouting tents and improvised sheds. Tower blocks cast long, gloomy shadows over the neighbourhood.

Yukiko clicked her fingers to attract Latif's attention. “Hand over your magic mirror, Lats, so Dasha can check out her new style.”

I took the mirror and stared into it.

A stranger looked back.

Yukiko had cut the wig into a boyish blond crop.

My freedom haircut.

I checked it out from various angles. It was going to take some getting used to, but it worked.

“Now you look the part,” Yukiko said, casting a critical eye over her masterpiece. “Just don't go getting Latif shot, okay?” Then seeing my blank look, she added, “You know like in the movie.”

“As if…” I joked, half-heartedly.

“Hey Lats, check out your new-look runaway,” Yukiko said. “She's hot!”

“Good girl gone bad!” he said with a grin. “Looks like you're ready for Crunch Town, Dash.”

My eyes widened. So we
were
going there. It wasn't a wind-up. I gulped. As far as I knew, the only time a global ended up in Crunch Town was if they'd been kidnapped. It was where the kidnap crews, drug-dealers and murderers lived. It was a seriously scary place. Coco was already there, probably imprisoned in a dismal tower block. I shivered.

“Do we have to go there?” I asked, chewing my lip.

“We need money. I told you, we don't have a choice.”

Latif took an aerosol can from his rucksack and started shaking it. Then he sprayed paint onto the little finger of his right hand, followed by his index finger. The paint was the same colour red as the parachute silk. I guessed he was putting the finishing touches to his outfit.

“What's that for?” I asked.

“It's a gang thing,” was all he said as he blew on his fingers.

When they were dry, he handed me a blue scarf decorated with skulls and crossbones, which he'd extracted from the bottom of the heap. I looked at it uncertainly.

“Cover your face with it,” he said. “Because, where we're heading, it's
faceless
.”

I wrapped the scarf over the wig and around the bottom half of my face, then I pulled up my hood and put on my D&G shades. They masked my fear.

“Aaaw! You've only gone and ruined the look,” Yukiko grouched.

“Tough!” Latif put on his reflector Aviators. Then he
adjusted the African print scarf. “We won't attract trouble if we're bundled.” He handed Yukiko his cowboy hat. “Keep this safe for me, Yuks. Don't go selling it on eBay or I'll be after you.” He was a cooler version of the guy in his graffiti. Yukiko and I were reflected in his Aviators. We looked like extras in a pop video. Behind his mirrors, he must have been scanning my outfit because he said, “Your bracelet's got to go.”

“But…” I trailed off. Resistance was hopeless.

Looking down at my identity bracelet, I traced my middle finger over my name, which was engraved on the silver tag. It had been a sixteenth birthday present. Each charm represented something individual to me: a stiletto shoe, a D for Dasha, a four-leaf clover, a lipstick, a camera… I slowly undid the clasp. The charms clanked when I took it off. For a couple of seconds, I jiggled it in the palm of my hand. Removing my identity bracelet felt final somehow. I opened the window.

“Goodbye, Dasha Gold,” I whispered as I flung it into the road.

“You okay for money?” Ren asked.

“Not for cash. We need to shift this on the grey.” Latif dug deep into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out my ring and held it up. “I don't want to risk an ATM. Most likely the feds will have frozen Dasha's account.”

“Ice, ice baby!” Ren whistled when Latif handed him the ring. “Talk to Zayan. He'll set up a trade tonight with Chuka, one of my dad's lieutenants.”

“Where?”

“At Café des Espices. Be tough with Chuka, yeah? He tries to beat everyone down but he ain't gonna see jewels like that unless he goes crookin' Bond Street.”

He pulled over. “This is as far as I can take you. Luck, fam.”

I shrank back into the seat. Crunch Town was the last place on earth I wanted to go right now. Even though the sun was out, the street looked squalid and wretched. A gust of wind whisked a crisp packet up into the air. A chocolate wrapper whirled up, up, up to join it. They flashed blue and red, like two dragonflies in a courtship dance.

“Wait up, Dash.” Yukiko had picked out a length of turquoise parachute silk, which she fashioned into a hooded cape. “I want to ramp up your disguise.”

Yukiko kissed Latif on the cheek. Then, she gave my cape one last tweak. She squeezed my shoulders. “Latif will look after you. Act as if you own the place. Stay blessed.”

Ren and Latif bumped fists.

“Come on, Dash!” Latif took my hand.

Again, an electric pulse shot up my arm, almost stopped my heart. The synapses in my brain exploded with a dizzying swoop of happy chemicals. Endorphins rushed my bloodstream. I was floating on air. I held Latif's hand tightly; scared I might drift away.

Latif pulled his face covering up over his mouth and nose.

As I was getting out, Ren banged on the partition. He smiled encouragingly and shouted, “Luck! Remember, Dasha, blood's thicker than botox.”

Crunch Town

THE streets were empty apart from gangs of kids bundled up in hoodies, padded coats, balaclavas and shades. Most drifted back and forth as purposeless as tumbleweed while others propped up corners selling drugs. Everyone was wearing masks. Latif was right. Crunch Town was faceless. It gave me the creeps.

“This place is scary,” I said.

“It's camera-free so it's the safest place right now.” Latif flicked his worry beads across his knuckles.

Nothing about this place looked safe to me – not the hooded figures, not the boarded-up houses, not the burned-out cars.

Also, the way Latif kept looking over his shoulder cranked up my fear. My panicky thoughts chimed with the clack of his worry beads.

Please let things be okay. Please let things be okay
.

I walked in the road, avoiding the cracked paving stones; there were too many possibilities for bad luck.

“Step up, Dasha,” he hissed.

He was walking briskly, his red cape billowing out behind him – the only splash of colour in this washed-out, gutted grimespace.

Terrific
, I thought.
Nothing like blending in
. Catching up with him, I asked, “Aren't we a bit flash?”

“Stop fretting,” he said. “Creatives dress like this.”

“Creatives?”

“Art crews. That's what the gangs call us. They suck up graffiti. So they leave us alone most times. Trust me.”

“Gangs?” I asked, checking out the kids on the corners.

“Yeah. The Headhunters, the Asset Strippers and the Rogue Traders. And I don't mean the city scum who come round your dad's for dinner. These guys are hardcore. The Headhunters kidnap. The Asset Strippers rob. The Rogue Traders deal drugs and sell swag on the grey. After the last crash the gangs renamed themselves. That's when the game changed. It became all about kidnapping, ransoms and sorties into the golden postcodes. They turned their beef on the rich. You lot.”

“How can I tell who's in a gang? Who's a Headhunter?” My voice was barely more than a squeak. I tried to mimic Latif's rolling stride, suddenly terrified that my walk or posture might mark me out as a global.

He shrugged. “You can't.”

“Fabulous,” I muttered.

To avoid looking at the hoodies mooching around, I focused on the graffiti scrawled across the shutters of long-since abandoned shops. On one shutter a fat cat in a business suit was curled up on a bed of cash smoking a cigar. On another a policeman was arresting a teddy bear. Another piece read:
Capitalism Screwed the 99%!

We entered a street that was busier than the rest. The focus was a makeshift checkpoint on a traffic island. Sentries sat in armchairs, chatting. Masked kids whizzed around on bikes with child-sized wheels. In nearby houses people watched the road from upstairs windows. Metal flashed.

Guns
, I thought, averting my eyes. I pulled the swathe of blue parachute silk a little tighter around my face. It felt like a shroud.

“Those kids are so young,” I said, watching the kids on the bikes.

“The tinies? They run messages for the commanders, keep lookout and smuggle the swag into Crunch Town through the mall's foundations.”

He nodded towards a six-foot security fence. Beyond it, I glimpsed the grid of a half-finished shopping mall. Hooded figures manned the scaffolding. They were keeping watch, like soldiers up in the ramparts. They communicated with gang members on ground level with a complex system of whistles, trills and whoops.