Stitch-Up (5 page)

As I ran after the boy, I realised that the world is a scary place when you know dib-dab-scritch about it.

The Nighter

“ARE you lost?” he shouted as we headed into the estate that I had avoided before. “It's not safe to jam round here. Get me?”

“Yes,” I shouted, but my reply came out like a big, blustery gasp.

“Keep tight,” he yelled, sprinting ahead.

A stitch was burning in my side and, as the distance between us lengthened, I concentrated on keeping up, eyes fixed on the bobbing, luminous Westminster logo on the back of his overalls.

The estate was a maze of dark streets and unlit walkways. Squares of light framed domestic scenes: a screaming fight, a house party and a muscle-man pumping iron. From open windows, a mash-up of music escaped into the night, pop ballads slugging it out with rap.

Terrified we might get jumped by gangs lurking in the shadows, I kept my eyes lowered, focusing on the pavement.
Don't tread on the cracks or the monsters will get you. Don't tread on the cracks…
I found myself clinging to this crackpot superstition, wanting to blank out the dangers that I imagined all around me.

After about five minutes, we headed out of the estate, past a parade of shops, a library and a school until we finally
stopped by a slab-grey church, squeezed between two rows of gleaming white Georgian town houses, like a rotten tooth in a bright cosmetic smile. The church towered above me, making me feel small and wrong. I don't know why, but churches always made me feel that way.

Bending over to catch my breath, the blood rushed to my head in a twist of dizziness. A pain stabbed deep into my guts. I gripped my sides and inhaled deeply.

I straightened up slowly.

The boy in the cowboy hat was standing on the church steps. His shadow loomed up behind him, like his deputy. Although the boy's eyes were shaded beneath the rim of his hat, I could feel his gaze lasering me. I found his stillness, his watchfulness unnerving. There was definitely an edge to him. I walked over uncertainly, eyes lowered, focusing on my glittery socks, which spangled in the lamplight.

As I approached, he knocked up the brim of his cowboy hat with spindly fingers and gave me his wide, crooked smile. “Latif, all-round good guy, night-haunt drifter and sometime saviour of dames in distress.
Salaam, chica
.”

“Dasha,” I whispered, shaking his outstretched hand, even though it seemed stupidly formal. “Thanks,” I added, wondering when my brain was going to stop rationing the words to my mouth. ONE. AT. A. TIME. I was rarely stuck for something to say so I wasn't enjoying feeling like a prize idiot one little bit.

I studied him in the lamplight, trying to work him out. I'd never met a civilian before. Of course, my parents' army of
staff – the maids, minders, stylists, TV people, chauffeurs, gurus and the rest – was always around, but they didn't count. I'd never been alone with a civilian socially before. I'd never hung out with a civilian.
Not like this
. Therefore, I had no idea how to behave. Lowering my eyes, I traced the letters on the lid of a manhole with a glittery toe: SELF-LOCKING.

Like my mouth
, I thought hopelessly.

“So, you okay?” That crooked smile again. Then, nodding at my shoes, he added, “Cute weapons of mass destruction. You shanked him good.”

I turned them over in my hands. One of the heels was speckled with blood. “Hopeless getaway shoes, though.” Then, shuddering at the memory of the creep, I placed my stilettos on the church wall, positioning them carefully side by side, like a bloody offering to the gods. It felt good, as if I'd just stepped out of chains.

“You said it. Crazy shoes for a night walk.”

“I guess,” I said, eyeing him with suspicion.

An awkward silence wrapped around us. A shiver of unease chilled me momentarily. Wanting a distraction, I took a pair of trainers from my croc bag and slipped them on. But when I went to do them up, my shaky fingers tied themselves in knots.

I sat down on the wall and, resting my elbows on my knees, cupped my face in my hands. From above, the shrill squawk of neon-crazed birds punctured the silence. Thinking they sounded about as strung-out as I felt, I stared up into the darkness, hoping to glimpse them in the branches. For a
moment the urge to scream into the night like one of those confused birds overpowered me. I closed my eyes, clenched my fists and pressed them to my temples.

“Don't fret,
chica
.” Latif squeezed my knee gently.

My eyes snapped open.

He was crouching down at my feet with his face raised towards mine. It was the first time I'd seen him properly. His skin was a deep olive colour and his cheekbones were razor-sharp. He had long, curly eyelashes, which framed huge aquamarine eyes. And he had one of those smiles that blew you away. I guessed he was from the Middle East or perhaps North Africa.

“Thought you needed some assistance.”

“I guess,” I whispered, staring down at my trembling hands incredulously. “I'm not usually this much of a loser. I can dress myself and everything, honest.” I tried a joke, but a sob clogged my throat so the words came out strange.

Fixing me with his aquamarines, he smiled reassuringly. “Don't let negative stuff eat you up. Move on.'”

“I guess,” I repeated, even though I was thinking,
Easier said than done
.

When he started tying my laces he let out a low whistle. “Your creps are live.” He flicked his fingers as if they were too hot to handle. “You must've queued all night to get your hands on these.”

“What?” I blinked. “Queued?” I had never queued for anything in my life, and was about to tell him so, as well as explaining that Nike had biked them round for free and were
paying me a cool ten thousand pounds to wear them when he said, “All I'm saying is they're limited.”

Quickly swallowing my brags, I mumbled a lame, “Yeah, I know.”

His left eyebrow shot up. He looked as if he were about to say something, but then, deciding against it, carried on tying my laces. The top of his hat was scarred and battered. I folded my arms, feeling exposed. I was going to have to watch what I said around him. He was sharp. Nothing escaped him.

“Want a cuppa?” Latif nodded towards a small green hut, no bigger than a garden shed. Outside, a line of black cabs stood snout to tail like pot-bellied pigs. The hut had the look of a time machine about it, and for a moment, I let myself believe that Latif was some kind of time traveller – a space cowboy – who was going to whisk me off around the universe, away from all my problems.

“What is this place?” I asked. “Some kind of pop-up cafe?”

“A cabbies' hut.” His left eyebrow shot up again. “Nothing pop-up about it. It's been here for centuries. My mum eats here when she's on shift.” We waited for a car to pass. “Jeannie, she runs the gaff, used to babysit me years ago, so I'm always welcome – with or without Mum. I'm mates with Ren, her son.”

“So your mum's a cabbie?”

“Yeah. She's been doing the night shift for years. She gets all sorts in her cab after midnight: the trashed, the
spaced-out, the loved-up and the lonely. They all pile in and spill their secrets. Mum says she's a chronicler of the human condition, or some cod like that.” He took my elbow as we crossed the road. “She's got a book of short stories out of it, though. Beautiful, bleak, sad stories featuring losers. I swear she steals stories for a living. Ever heard of Harriet Hajjaj?”

I shook my head.

Latif pulled a slim, well-thumbed paperback from beneath his overalls. The cover featured a bird's-eye view of London at night. Its title was
The Nightingale and Other Stories
.

“Not bad for a story thief.” He polished the cover on his overalls. “They're about the city at night. Have the same vibe as Raymond Carver. You know, sad, sparse, depressing. I'm in one, too.” He flicked to the page; the title read ‘Words Disappear at Dawn'.

“I thought you said she only wrote about losers.” I smiled.

“Yeah, bubblehead. But every story needs a hero,” he shot back with a grin.

As we walked towards the hut, Latif gave a group of men a mock salute. “
Salaam
, bruvs.” They were huddled round the first cab in line, pulling on fags, chatting and fiddling with their smartphones. GoldRush Radio blabbed from the first cab. I recognised the voice of ‘The Rottweiler' – Dad's favourite shock-jock.

“All right, Lazio FC,” they said. Nobody bothered to look up.

“This bunch of professional blowhards worship the ground I walk on,” Latif said, swinging his arm around
the shoulder of a middle-aged guy in a biker's jacket.

“Yeah right, Lazio. Sure we do.” The cabbie gave him a soft punch on the arm. “Have you heard the news?”

“What news?” Latif leaned into the semi-circle, tilting his head towards the cab so he could hear the radio.

“There's been a crash. One of them chartered trains has come off the tracks. News is patchy. The police haven't released many details yet. Sounds like a hold-up.”

“What? A snatch job?” Latif asked.

I stepped back into the shadows.

“Yeah. Sounds like it,” a bearded man in an anorak chipped in. “The train was full of stuck-up global girls from the Star Academy, heading home for Easter.” He rubbed his thumb against his fingers. “Rich pickings.”

Feeling Latif's eyes on me, I lowered my gaze, pretending to examine a splodge of chewing gum stamped into the shape of a four-leafed clover on the pavement. I hoped nobody had been kidnapped, I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy – not even Coco.

“Trouble in Westminster, too. Our wire says it's a bomb scare,” a cabbie with a pinched face said through a veil of cigarette smoke that did nothing to soften his skull-like features. “No offence, Latif, but it sounds like your mob are up to no good again.”

“Offence taken, Dave,” Latif muttered.

Although Latif's tone was cold, Dave treated his reply as a joke. His laughter rang out behind us as we walked towards the cafe.

Inside, the hut was tiny – a sandwich box of a room. Benches and Formica tables ran down three walls. A kitchenette filled the fourth. On the counter an old-fashioned tea urn stood huffing steam. Chelsea kit, posters and memorabilia covered the walls. In one corner a bearded man sat hunched over a plate of chips, shovelling in massive mouthfuls while flicking through
The Mirror
. A middle-aged woman with mashed-potato skin and ketchup-red hair was standing behind the counter reading a magazine.

“Hey, Lats. Help us with this, love. There's a holiday up for grabs. I've got to answer a few questions and think up a witty ending.” She shoved a magazine under Latif's nose and pointed to the relevant bit. “Finish that.
All the world's…
”

“Going to hell in a handbag?” He tilted his head and scrutinised her, rubbing his chin with spindly fingers, as if assessing her ideal holiday destination. “I reckon hell's your kind of place, Jeannie. It's hot and full of bad boys.”

Jeannie flicked at him with a grubby J-cloth. “No joking around, Lats. This is serious business.” She shook her head. “No wonder your mum despairs. Everything's a joke to you, innit?” She handed him a pen with a chewed end. “Go on, have a go. There's a love.”

Latif looked at the quiz while helping himself to a Kit Kat from a display on the counter. I hung behind him like a shadow.

“Same as usual?” Jeannie was already placing a chipped mug beneath the urn.

“Yeah. Make that two, Jeannie.” A winning smile
guaranteed he'd get everything for free. “Has Mum been in tonight?”

“Not yet. She's late. The boys say there's all sorts of trouble out there tonight. Suppose the traffic's snarled up all over.” She waved at the shaggy-haired bloke as he left and shouted, “See you, Geoff. Take care.” He gave her a Border-terrier smile.

While they chatted and joked, I studied Latif: the street overalls, the keffiyeh, the cowboy hat and the book sticking out of his overalls pocket. Nothing about him added up to a nice neat whole. I desperately wanted to stick a label on him –
Civilian, Outcast, Geek, Goth, Skater, Street cleaner, Poet
– but I couldn't make him out at all.

“Jeannie, news if you want it,” one of the cabbies shouted.

When Jeannie and Latif trooped out, I remained inside, moving closer to the door, straining my ears, desperate to hear the headlines. Despite missing the first half of the lead news item, I heard enough to catch the gist. Two girls had been kidnapped, as yet unnamed. This news shocked me. Assuming they were counting me as the other, the kidnap crew had actually taken a girl from my school. That was bad. Terrifying. Steadying myself against the wall, I let the news sink in, and tried to work out how it affected my situation. For now my parents must believe me kidnapped, which would buy me some time. A couple of deep breaths calmed my jittery nerves. At least they hadn't released my name.

First up, my appearance needed attention. Nipping behind the counter and over to the sink, I waited for the
water to run hot before washing the smell of the horrible pervert from my skin. Then I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and wiped every trace of make-up from my face with a paper napkin. Taking a compact mirror from my bag, I flicked it open and assessed the results. Yeah. That was a definite improvement. I looked younger, less plastic, more like a civilian, which had to be a good thing. Pleased with my new look, I sat down at the table facing the door. Salt scattered the yellow Formica tabletop.

So what now?

Under the harsh light of the fluorescent strips, my plan to track down my birth mother seemed about as attainable as a dream. The incident down by the river had put me off night adventures, and my cluelessness about the real world was tragic. For a moment I thought about going back to my parents and resigning myself to my future.