Stitch-Up (34 page)

I smiled. The control-freaks were losing control.

“Awesome.” Latif punched the air. “Cabbies kick ass. That's rad! Believe it!
Vamos, chicas
.” He was already by the
door. He grabbed three coats from a rack: a parka for me, a duffle for Decca, a military overcoat for himself. More layers. Another disguise. He slid the tablet into his pocket.

“What happens if someone recognises Decca's car?” I asked without moving.

“And we've got a choice?” Decca had already picked up the car keys from her desk and was heading for the door.

Footsteps on the stairs turned us into statues. The bathroom door slammed shut. Decca's eyes flashed with relief. “We've only got a few minutes before that geek's back at his computer.” She placed her finger to her lips. Latif raised an eyebrow, his expression said: “For Chrissakes, Decca, tell us something we don't know.”

We were just about to leave when the toilet flushed.

We exchanged an anxious look.

Decca pressed the keys into Latif's hand. “Go!” she hissed. “I'll watch
Tracker
with nerd-boy. Keep him distracted.” She pushed us out of the door.

We left as the prime minister was declaring a state of emergency. From what I could gather, soldiers had been drafted into London to guard sensitive government buildings, banks and global brands.

State of Emergency

OUTSIDE, the air was thick and hot, as if the city had been stuffed into a plastic bag. Latif set the pace. Casual. Eyes down. Slouching. I followed. In my head, every step we took was being freeze-framed by millions on a mission to identify us. After what seemed like a lifetime, we reached the car. Inside, cool turned to jittery panic. The key wouldn't go into the ignition. The car started, stalled. Then it spluttered into life.

We took for ever down Tachbrook Street, past Pimlico Tube station, all shuttered up for the night, and into Lupus Street. That was when I saw a guy in a leather blouson and trackie bottoms clock our registration number. Alarm bells started ringing in my head.

“He's onto us,” I screamed, before he'd even started running.

Latif accelerated, hitting fifty as the traffic lights on Vauxhall Bridge Road changed from green to red. Two vigilantes stepped out into the road, shining torches into our eyes. He floored the accelerator, jumped the lights and skidded across Vauxhall Bridge Road before steaming through another set, narrowly missing a bollard, as we swung hard left into a tree-lined road, which ran parallel to the Thames. The clapped-out piece of junk juddered and stuttered. Latif put
his foot down. “'Sakes, the engine's about to die,” he shouted. Trees with gnarled fists punched at the moon.

When we turned right into a road I saw the Embankment up ahead, Latif stamped down on the accelerator, as if crushing a cockroach underfoot. The car lurched forward.

“We're back in business, Dash!” he said, as the car picked up speed. Through the rear window, I saw bounty hunters wheel into view like ravenous birds following a plough. They were holding up their smartphones, arms stretched towards us like antennae, giving the impression that we were being chased by monstrous all-seeing bugs.

A tailskid onto the Embankment sent us spinning through a figure of eight. I crashed against the door. Meanwhile Latif's arms tied themselves in knots as he tried to handle the steering wheel. We were hurtling towards the Embankment wall.

“Latif!” I screamed, my guts liquid fear.

He pulled the steering wheel down hard left and we veered back into the centre of the road. My stomach slid back. Police lights strobed the petrol-blue sky. Sirens screeched. The Tate's taxicab rank was a sprint away.

Headlamps filled the wing mirrors. Turning round, I saw black cabs slowly approaching in double file. In fact, they were closing in from both directions. All had their
for hire
lights on. They stopped about fifty metres either side of Tate Britain, providing a ten-deep security cordon. Only a daredevil rider could have jumped over this barrier of bumper-to-bumper cabs.

“Bail!” Latif shouted, as the car spun to a halt.

We leapt out and raced over to Ren's cab. Yukiko held the door open and we tumbled in. She hugged us both.

“How you doing, bruv?” Ren said

“Decent,” Latif replied.

“'Sakes, I never thought we'd pull it off.” Yukiko's eyes flashed with excitement beneath her veil. “Let's go!” she shouted, banging the partition.

Ren was hunched over the radio, listening to the Taxi Wire, a digital radio station for cabbies. “We've smashed it, seven thousand cabbies have turned out tonight, and we've disabled bare loads of CCTV.” He slid the perspex partition back. “The police are telling cabbies to go home. They're threatening to arrest us. I'd like to see them try. There'll be a riot.”

“Join the club, fam.”

They bumped fists. “Believe it!”

The cabs were on the move again, a steady stream of black to our right, jockeying for position, like racing cars on the grid. Ren stuck his arm out of the window and made a slow circular motion. A cabbie gave way and Ren pulled out. At once we were camouflaged, becoming one more black cab in a carefully choreographed citywide invasion. Jeannie slotted into the stream of cabs two vehicles behind. Moments later, a gang of bounty hunters rushed from a side street onto the Embankment. They stopped in their tracks, completely bewildered by the queues of cabs jamming this stretch of road. A few started running alongside the cabs, faces pushed
up against the windows, trying to see if we –
the hunted
– were inside.

The slow procession of cabs reminded me of state funerals. I tried to shut down my gloomy thoughts. But Yukiko wasn't exactly helping; sitting there in her widow's weeds, like an angel of death.

She reached into her bag and took out Latif's cowboy hat.

He put it on, setting it low on his head. “Thanks, Yuks.” His eyes glinted as he tipped up the brim.

A gunshot rang out.

“Are they shooting at us?” I shouted in a panic.

Latif craned his neck to get a better view as he scoured the skyline. “Keep close to the kerb, Ren. They've got snipers up on the roof of MI5.” He opened the window, and poked his head out a fraction. “Relax! They're firing warning shots.”

His words did nothing to ease my nerves. “Yeah, right!”

Another shot rang out, followed by the squeal of brakes. A cab on the other side of the road crashed into the river wall; the bonnet concertinaed.

“See! I told you,” I screamed, ducking down. “It's like the Wild West out there.”

“Be easy, Dash. He's firing into the air.” His gaze remained fixed on MI5. “The cabbie must've taken his eyes off the road.”

The cabs closed ranks, slotting seamlessly into the empty space, and then we all continued to glide into the night, as if we were part of a slick, synchronised dance routine. I allowed myself to relax. We were well concealed. I
imagined the TV screens back in the studio showing streets chock-a-block with black cabs. It crossed my mind that we had a real chance of escaping. If only we had a plan…

Latif was hunched over his tablet.

“What now? Are we heading out of London?” I asked, trying to keep the anxiety from my voice.

“No way,” Latif said, eyes glued to the screen. “Not with this craziness.”

“Agreed, fam. We'd never get out. The M25 is locked down. Road blocks and that.” Ren said.

“What about Crunch Town? No cameras, and bare loads of junk spaces to hide out in.”

“Feds have sealed it off. It's a military operation.”

Latif sucked air through his teeth. “The way over could get heavy. There's live CCTV on the most direct route. But I'll check roads on
Tracker
as we go. Is that a plan?”

“One of your dad's lawyer friends said we should take you to the Lebanese embassy. Make it a diplomatic issue, that way they can't do a cover-up. The embassy will give you immunity. They can do deals, bruv. Get you out the country and that.”

“Wanna bet?” Latif said bleakly. “Suppose it's closer.” He didn't look convinced.

“Come on. Come on!” Ren drummed his fingers on the steering wheel when he had to give way to cabs filtering off Lambeth Bridge.

The same bridge, I suddenly realised, that I'd followed the skater kids across only two days earlier. I let out a slow
exhalation of breath. It felt like an age ago – a different time almost, a more reasonable time, when the streets weren't full of bounty hunters, when snipers were something you heard about on the news, when a state of emergency was something that only happened in far-flung, military dictatorships.

When London wasn't on lockdown
.

Helicopters were zipping over central London, their lights shaping crosses in the darkness. But I knew the helicopters were merely the visible bits of spy craft – that drones and satellites were up there, too. All of which were searching the streets for the slightest sign of us. An invisible, high-tech network that was perpetually monitoring London, which tonight – I couldn't stop myself from smiling – had been completely outclassed by the cabbies' very low-tech revolt. From above, I reckoned, the cabs must look like moving targets in a video game, thousands of black blips, each one indistinguishable from the next. Even better, we'd outwitted
Tracker
, for now…

On the streets, people were flagging down cabs: a smartly dressed couple, a Muslim family, the mother in a hijab, and a group of teenagers who looked as if they were about to go out clubbing. Unlike the bounty hunters, they weren't walking along with their heads down, eyes glued to their phones. They didn't appear to be playing
Tracker
.

“What's going on?” I asked.

“The cabbies've been broadcasting messages on Freedom Radio. They're asking people to show solidarity with the Hajjajs, by taking to the streets and hailing a cab. We billed it as a free ride for justice, liberty and freedom of speech and
that. We tweeted details too. Hashtagged the hell out of it: #justice, #freedom, #fasciststate.”

“#Latifheartthrob,” Yukiko said with a wink.

“That's how it started, anyway. It's probably trending on Twitter by now, and the networks must've picked it up,” Ren said. “The wire's saying Trafalgar Square and Whitehall are rammed with cabs. A flash mob has formed around Eros in Piccadilly Circus demanding justice for Latif. They're holding candles and singing: ‘All You Need is Love'.”

“Spare me.” Latif rolled his eyes.

I began to feel calmer. The world hadn't gone mad. Well, not completely. I crossed my fingers. Perhaps things weren't so bad after all.

Another shot rang out.

We searched the darkness.

“Up there!” I heard someone scream from outside.

“There are snipers on rooftops all over,” Latif said, squinting up at the skyline. “Not just government buildings and that.”

“Squaddie alert,” Ren growled.

A convoy of army vehicles was rolling slowly towards us in double file. A water cannon brought up the rear.

The cabs in front were turning to the right and to the left, red brake lights flaring up. Ren banged a left and followed the cabs down a residential road.

We hadn't been driving for long when Ren started cursing. “Police checkpoint ahead.” He was slowing down. “Must've been a trap.”

Two police vans blocked the road. I saw a look of panic cross Latif's face. My blood froze. The police had flagged down three cabs already and were forcing the drivers out at gunpoint. My heart rate spiked. The cabs behind started reversing at speed.

Ren swore under his breath. His gaze flicked from the police in front to the cabs behind. There was a look of grim determination on his face as he grasped the back of the passenger seat, hit the accelerator and put the cab into reverse.

Flak-jacketed police with guns were running down the road. An officer was shouting commands into his walkie-talkie. A helicopter hovered overhead. Two soldiers were leaning out. They were pointing automatic guns down into the street. I desperately searched for an escape route, but the police had closed off all exits. I exchanged a bleak look with Latif. We were as good as captured. He stretched over and squeezed my hand. We had run out of luck.

“Time for plan B,” Yukiko said.

She gestured for us to lift our feet. Consumed by panic, I watched her pull up the matting.

“A smuggle-hole? Nice work, Ren,” Latif said.

He crouched down to help Yukiko pull back a trap door.

“Told you my folks are only good for one thing,” Ren said. His eyes were focused on the road behind, his arm hooked around the back of the passenger seat. “And that's smuggling hookie goods. They customised my cab. Neat, huh?”

I half-scrambled, half-tumbled into our hiding place as
the cab tore backwards. He braked violently, and I nearly shot out again.

“Move it. An ugly's heading our way and he's got a gun.”

Latif handed Yukiko his tablet and his hat. She slipped them into her bag. Latif slid in beside me. There was barely room for both of us. Yukiko swiftly replaced the trapdoor and the matting. Ren brought the cab to a halt.

We corpsed it.

The judder of the engine swayed our shallow grave.

Ren cut the engine.

The silence was even more unbearable.

Darkness shrouded us.

Smothered us.

Petrol fumes burned my nose and throat.

I heard a policeman order Ren out of the cab. His tone wasn't friendly.

Another barked, “Spread them.”

A patting sound followed as one of the policeman frisked Ren while a second searched the front of the cab: “So you think you're the King?” The policeman sneered. An image of Ren's quiff flashed into my head. My mind placed a gun at his temple.

“Think again. You're not fit to kiss Elvis's feet, hear me?”