Stitch-Up (25 page)

Two vans drew up. One parked up on the street and the second reversed into the alleyway. The logo on the van read
THAMES WATER
. Four men got out, went round to the back of the vans and started unloading pneumatic drills. We exchanged a look. Now I looked closer, I could see there were pools of water on the road. The pipes must have burst. The
stram-stram-stram
of the drills set my teeth on edge. Latif shouted something about Victorian water systems, I wasn't exactly sure what, because his words were lost in the drilling.

The front door opened and a woman came out. My gut jumped an affirmative, although it was impossible to get a positive identification from this distance as she was wearing an anorak with the hood up. A little girl skipped alongside, her hands clamped over her ears. Jealousy overwhelmed me. That girl had my life. I started to climb down.

Latif placed his hand on my shoulder. “The workmen might recognise you, Dash. Don't blow it.”

I shook his hand from my arm as I watched Maxine drive off in a bashed-up old Renault.

Furious with him, I picked at ivy tendrils; the larger stems were thick and strong, they gripped the trunk like claws. My nails were broken and my neon varnish chipped. Latif sat silently, thinking, I guessed. I imagined this is what he did when he was staking out his graffiti spots.

The track was a dog-walking superhighway; two Border terriers, a sheepdog, a Labrador, a Jack Russell, a King Charles and a sausage dog. Counting the dogs calmed me down. Occasionally a breeze got up, sending flurries of blossom to the ground like confetti. A mother with two small children came down the rail track in a bright bubble of chatter. Watching this happy family scene set a slideshow whirring in my head, flashing up vivid snapshots of a life that never was: trips to the seaside, Christmases and my first, tottering steps towards my mother's open arms.

I shut my eyes, closed the album.

It was nearly time for everything to be resolved.

My mother returned. She took armfuls of bags from the boot and then she shepherded my half-sister inside.

Latif rolled his eyes. “Typical. Your mum's been popping tags.”

I ignored him. The door slammed behind them. The shuttered windows gave nothing away.

About ten minutes later, Thames Water drove off.

Bang! An explosive cocktail of emotions was fizzing through my veins with such intensity that I felt as if I might
spontaneously combust. I clenched and unclenched my fists, as if they were valves with which I could release the pressure building up inside me. But the waves of excitement and fear kept on colliding.

“Can I go in?” I mouthed. As far as I could see there was nothing suspicious in the street – no cops parked up, no goons on the prowl, no surveillance. Fingers crossed, we were in the clear.

He nodded. “I'll whistle if I see anything out of sync.” He whistled, the sound of a nightingale, sharp and shrill. “If you hear that sound, it's time to leave.”

I nodded, but didn't move. The woman with all the answers lived right over there. And that scared the hell out of me.

“Go on then! Roll.”

Still, I didn't move.

Latif squeezed my arm. “Dash, she's going to love you.”

“But…”

He put a finger to his lips. “You'll never know if you don't get over there right now and find out.” He gave me a gentle push. “Go. Get out of here, bubblehead. I haven't become public enemy number one so you can hang out in trees looking tragic. Truth!”

“But what if…”

“Cut the ‘what ifs', Dash,” he hissed. “You were sure about everything until now. She's your mother. And you're right, she's the only person in the world right now who can save you from those comedians. She looks cool. Kind. Like you.”

“Yeah. I know.” I smiled half-heartedly. “It's going to be awesome.”

“And if you don't get out of here, I'm gone. Believe it!” He winked. That crooked smile again. “Now go.”

I slid down from the tree and crept through the undergrowth. When I drew level with my mother's house, I took a few seconds to collect my thoughts, before scooting across the road – heart pounding. My stomach jack-in-a-boxed as the latch on the little green gate squeaked open. Then I started up the path, hesitantly, as if I were playing grandmother's footsteps.

The bell ding-donged around the house, sad and portentous.

Nothing.

I rang again. The shuttered house remained silent.

Third time lucky
, I thought, pressing the bell again, long and hard this time, belligerent even – overcompensating for how anxious I was feeling inside.

The skip of footsteps – light and breezy.

My heart skipped too. Don't peek. Don't peek. But the anticipation was too much. I pushed the letterbox open a fraction with my fingertips and was about to peep when I heard bolts being drawn back one by one. The door opened a crack. A girl peered out; her eyes level with the security chain. My hopes crashed down into my trainers.

“Yes?” Brattish.

“Is your mother in?” I could hardly form the words as I scanned the girl's pouty face for family resemblances.
Jealousy ripped through me. How come she got to live with our mum?

“What do you want?” She didn't draw back the chain.

“I'd like to speak to your mother if she's in.” A heartbeat hesitation. “I'm Sadie. I need to talk to your mother urgently. She'll know what it's about.” I thought I saw a glimmer of recognition in my half-sister's eyes. “
I'm Sadie
,” I repeated so she wouldn't forget.

She drew back the chain, the door edged open.

A rush of stale air.

“This way.”

So much for the tearful reunion on the doorstep
, I thought bitterly, as I followed the little stranger through a dingy hallway and into the sitting room.

“Wait here while I go and get her. She's upstairs.” The girl disappeared.

I heard my half-sister shouting, “
Mum
,” as she climbed the stairs. Again I felt a twist of jealousy in my stomach.

A sitting room of sorts.

A dump.

Dustsheets covered the furniture as if my mother were redecorating, except there was no smell of paint. Cardboard boxes were stacked at the far end of the room while an oriental screen dotted with turquoise hummingbirds blocked a closed door leading to another room. The windows were shuttered with wooden doors and the walls were bare.

Without natural light the gloomy room felt claustrophobic.

Sheez
, I thought,
is my mother some kind of vampire?

I wanted to open the shutters, but decided against it. I was a guest, after all.

There was stuff all over the floor – plastic bottles, rolls of masking tape and cable wire. A mess.

A smoke alarm blinked an evil red eye.

There were framed photos in one of the boxes. I walked over and studied a Polaroid of my mother, posing in sunglasses, a cigarette balanced between her fingers, like a movie star from the 1960s. She was wearing a little black dress and she looked so sophisticated. I picked up the frame and looked more closely, searching out similarities. We had the same heart-shaped face, pale complexion, green eyes and black hair. The features worked better on my mother, though. I sighed. One day I might look like her, if the Golds quit controlling me.

My gaze strayed to a wedding photo. My mother was standing arm in arm with an ordinary-looking man, my stepdad, I guessed, outside a scruffy urban church. He looked uncomfortable in his cheap, ill-fitting suit, while she was stunning in a sequined flapper dress. She had a faraway look in her eyes, as if troubled by secret thoughts.

The rest were family shots: a whole life in photos – Halloween, Christmas and happy holiday snaps – the life I should have had.

All of a sudden the room felt hot, oppressive, threatening even. I steadied myself against the mantelpiece and took a few deep breaths, trying to space out the butterflies in my stomach. A scraping sound from the next room startled me.
I straightened up slowly and crept towards the screen.

The lights went out.

I froze.

For a few moments, I stood there, rooted to the spot, my eyes wide as saucers, seaching the darkness while my ears, like antennae, scanned the house for the slightest sound.

Whispers.

A heavy tread, followed by the tick-tack-tack of high heels.

Then a light went on in the hall. Immediately I started groping my way towards the strip of light beneath the door. In seconds I was turning the handle, but it wouldn't budge. My first instinct was to shout for help, but not wanting to appear rude at best and insane at worst, I took a deep breath instead.

Hold it together, Dash. Stay cool
.

“Hello? Hello? Is there anyone out there?” In the pitch black, my voice came out lispy and spectral. A slither of fear.

“Keep calm. It's okay,” a man shouted.

The doorknob jagged in my hand as the handle turned from the other side.

The clack of heels from down the hallway kick-started my heart.

“Stand back.” The male voice came again. “We're going to force the door.” The orders were delivered with clipped authority. It calmed my nerves.

I backed away, taking refuge behind the sofa, eyes wide, peeping over the top like a cartoon character in a fix. I jumped when the guy rammed his shoulder against the door. The impact shuddered the glass in the window frames.
With the second thud, the door swung open and a man came crashing into the room.

“Dasha?” His SUV-sized silhouette filled the doorway. “You okay?”

I stood up hesitantly. Who was this man? My stepfather? My mother's boyfriend? From my first impression he seemed much bigger than the guy in the photo, but before I could get a better look at him, he backed out.

It was then I saw her.

My mother.

She looked so beautiful standing there, pooled in light.

An emotional fusebox blew in my head.

Although her face was in shadow, I recognised her instantly. She was dressed from head to toe in black – skirt, jumper and T-bar heels – apart from a white shirt with a round collar. The effect was stunning, but subdued – almost nun-like. Around her neck was a chain with a silver cross. Raising it to her lips, she kissed it, and murmured something, which I didn't catch. She appeared to be praying. Instantly my thoughts went back to the candlelit vigil on TV, and I started to feel uneasy. Had the whole world gone nuts for praying?

My mother lifted her head. The spookiness of our likeness made my stomach jump. Something shifted inside me. A shiver of recognition shot up my spine. A crackle of connection tingled every millimetre of my skin. Her emerald eyes flashed in the light as she searched me out in the gloom. Then they fixed me.

“Dasha?”

“Mum?” My voice was tiny, as if I were speaking from the bottom of the world.

Then she was rushing towards me with a click, click of shoes, and next second she was scooping me up in her arms. I enjoyed the sensation of letting go – of being swept up in the moment. I sank into her arms as they closed around me. She pressed my head to her chest. Our hearts were beating in time. For a moment it was as if two had become one. I felt as if I'd found the missing part of the jigsaw. My blood fizzed. As she stroked my hair, she said: “Dasha. Thank God. We've been out of our minds with worry. It's over. We're here now, angel. You're safe. Everything is going to be okay.”

We?
Why was she using the royal we? I looked around the room. It was empty. The bald guy had disappeared. Who was he, anyway? Something was niggling. Something didn't feel right.

“Thank God, you're safe. Alive. We were terrified. We thought you were dead.”

Alive? Terrified? Dead? Nothing was playing out how I'd imagined it would. Over the last month, I had conjured up thousands of reunion scenarios, but none were anywhere near as bizarre as the one unfolding right now. The power cut, the jammed door, the strange man, my half-sister, and now my mother acting weirdly. I felt wrong-footed, unbalanced. In the rush of it all I had lost my bearings. I wriggled free and was about to say: “What do you mean
we
thought you were
dead
?” when I realised my mum had probably been watching
the wall-to-wall news coverage of my kidnap. My heart sank. I didn't want to go into all that now. The lies. The kidnap. That was going to take some explaining. I stepped away, wanting space to breathe. I was suffocating.

“Dasha? Are you okay?'

“Yeah, sort of,” I said, massaging my temples with my fingertips, trying to unscramble my thoughts.

“You're all over the news, Dasha. The whole of Britain is obsessed by your story. To be honest, I can't believe my own eyes. You! Here!” She pressed her earlobe nervously as she spoke. “One minute I'm watching a news item on TV about your kidnap. The next you're here. It's too much! It's amazing.
You – here like this
.”

“I guess,” I said, desperately wanting to bring it back to the things that mattered. “I mean, yes, it's amazing…”

“A miracle.” Her words gushed over mine. “I've been glued to the news ever since you went missing. I was petrified something awful was going to happen to you. And then the doorbell goes and Lily comes upstairs and says someone called Sadie's here to see me. But she's looking at me strangely, and then she comes right out with it: ‘Mum, it's the girl from the news. The missing girl.' That's when I knew for sure that my beautiful baby Sadie is Dasha Gold. I'd always had my suspicions, but now it was fact. I almost fainted on the spot. I couldn't believe my baby girl was here. Out of the blue. Like some kind of angel.”

I took a deep breath, pressing my fingertips against my temples, trying to work out a way to manage the situation. I
had come here for the truth, for answers. The lies could wait. The media storm, the kidnap and the chase weren't important. They weren't even real. They'd been invented by the Golds.