Stitch-Up Page 17

  I clicked onto Baby 9614, heart catapulting,

  A baby.

  ME.

  Pink arms grabbing at handfuls of air, plump legs kicking. There was no mistaking that scowling face. Underneath the photo, a sketchy description: Female. Dark hair. Green eyes. Seven pounds. That was all – as impersonal as a missing person’s bulletin. But there I was in glorious technicolour.

  I bit my lip.

  Typed above my baby photo was the name – Sadie Taylor.

  My real name, I thought, saying it under my breath as I ran my finger beneath the name like a child reading the words for the first time. “Sadie Taylor,” I whispered again, trying it out for size… It sounded strange – so un-ME.

  Okay, now I had to get my head round the science. My stomach churned as I swiped to my DNA profile. The science zizzed my head. I narrowed my eyes as I tried to decode the pages of data, complicated charts, multicoloured diagrams and graphs. Sheez! I had never imagined that I was this complex. It was like a unique barcode of my genetic building blocks. Although I found it difficult to decipher the data, from what I could work out, my DNA had been mapped, analysed and shown to prospective couples, and by some trick of fate, my data had matched the Golds’ creepy checklist.

  I slumped back in my seat and took a few minutes to stare into the darkness, trying to order the facts surrounding my adoption and make sense of them. One thing was clear; it was far from a straightforward adoption. It was darker, more sci-fi…

  I clicked on the last section – the contract. Pages and pages of legalese followed. Skimming through, I noted the terms of the adoption agreement were laid down here as well as a four-page confidentiality clause. I didn’t have to read the small print. I knew the deal already. The Golds had paid off Maxine – my real mother – so she’d never come looking for me. Cash for anonymity. I smiled. For once Dad’s attempt to buy someone had failed. She had come back to look for me. Fact.

  I swiped to the last page and took a few minutes to study Maxine’s signature. It was large and loopy like mine. Her address had been updated three times. My heart skittered. Finally I had her address. I started dancing around to the music. Opening the window, I stuck my head out into the cold night air and whooped at the stars. My whoops rushed away behind us.

  “Bad news, then?” Latif was smiling.

  “I’ve got her address.” I shouted over the music. “It’s been updated.”

  “So where we heading, Dash?” He turned the music down.

  “North London, Archway.”

  “Sassy. Is it up to date?”

  “I don’t know.” I swiped back to the change of dates. “She last updated her address…” I quickly did the calculations in my head, “four years ago. It looks like they update addresses every five years. She was due to update next year. Just before my eighteenth birthday.”

  He fixed his eyes on me. “So what’s the story?”

  “Okay, don’t laugh, the Golds chose me for my superior genes.” A smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “I said no laughing. Advanced genes, I believe is the technical term. They paid through the nose for my amazing physical attributes, talent and my razor-sharp brain.”

  “They were robbed.” He gave me one of his sideways looks. “I’ve seen no evidence of advanced genes so far, bubblehead.”

  “I do a great job of keeping my genius secret.” I smiled.

  “So how does it work? The science?” Unlike me, Latif was keen on facts.

  “Okay. From what I can work out, FuturePerfect mapped my DNA with a microchip. My genetic information was shown to prospective clients, couples wanting to adopt. And being born lucky, my DNA data matched the Golds’ creepy wish list.”

  “So this microchip reading gives couples an amazing preview?”

  “Exactly.” I said, slipping into a smooth PR pitch. “FuturePerfect unlocked the mystery of my personality.”

  “What mystery, bubblehead?”

  I stuck my tongue out at him. “It’s really weirding me out. They bought me like they would a luxury holiday. I’m a freakin’ barcode baby.”

  Latif shrugged. “If the technology is out there, it’s going to happen, whatever. That’s human nature. Bespoke babies for the super-rich; it’s a no-brainer. They’ve got the money, and they expect to get exactly what they want. No surprises. They want to control every part of their lives. Even the make-up of their children so they’ll rule the world, too.”

  I stared out into the darkness. Of course, it made perfect sense. A complete control freak like my dad was always looking for ways to lower the odds; to take chance out of the equation so he got exactly what he wanted. His child was the future of his beloved brand. He wasn’t going to gamble on that. I wiped away a tear.

  Latif looked over. His eyes were pooled with light from the oncoming traffic. “You can’t change what’s done, Dash. You’ve gotta move on. All you can do is change yourself. Be the best you can. That’s what being human is. And you’re doing that.”

  “I guess,” I whispered, swiping back to the photos of my birth parents, my fingers leaving damp prints on the screen. Maxine looked so young and lost. As I stared at the info-screen I couldn’t help thinking how crazy it was to be reading such personal information from a stolen document, in a stolen car, driven by a cool stranger, who I’d met little more than twenty-four hours ago under a bridge. Things couldn’t get much crazier than that.

  Beams from the approaching cars swept across Latif’s face; gliding over his features, smoothing out his skin. He looked so serene, so handsome, so composed. I punched his arm lightly. “Thanks, Latif. I could never have done this without you.”

  “Truth!

  “Do you know what the worst thing is? With these genes I’m going to live for ever.”

  “Now that’s real dread.”

  He switched stations, just as a news bulletin announced: “Terrorist steals diplomat’s car for audacious getaway. Dasha Gold on board.”

  “’Sakes, they’re onto us already.” He sucked air through his teeth. “It’s too risky to park up near your mum’s so we’ll have to ditch the car in the Edgelands. Feds shouldn’t find it in that broke barrio for time. And we can grab a few hours sleep in…” He trailed off and turned the radio up. His face became hard. “No way! They’re interviewing Baba.”

  His dad’s voice filled the car. “This media circus is absurd. A witch-hunt. My boy is an A-grade student. An exceptional artist. He lives for his graffiti. Perhaps some of his work is provocative. But that doesn’t make him a terrorist. In fact, he hates extremism of any kind. He uses his work to comment on society. Other graffiti artists are seen as celebrities and sell their work to Hollywood superstars. What’s the difference? My boy speaks out, since when has that been a crime?”

  “What about the abducted girl?” a reporter asked.

  “Abducted? Do you believe she’s with him against her will? He is a charming boy. I imagine she is enjoying his company…”

  Boos from the assembled crowd drowned out his last words.

  I smiled at Latif and mouthed, “Are they out of their minds?”

  “Mrs Hajjaj, have you got anything to add?” the reporter asked.

  “I would like to read a poem by Martin Niemöller.” Latif’s mother cleared her throat and waited for the crowd to simmer down.

  “First they came for the communists,

  and I did not speak out because I was not a communist.

  Then they came for the socialists,

  and I did not speak out because I was not a socialist;

  Then they came for the trade unionists,

  and I did not speak out because I was not a trade unionist:

  Then they came for me,

  and there was no one left to speak for me.”

  Latif’s parents’ voices flew from the radio like starbursts of hope in a mad world.

  “Your dad’ll get you off,” I whispered.

  “Inshallah.” Latif smiled.

  As Good As Dead
<
br />   WHEN the bulb blinked on in the motel room, a cockroach scuttled under a dark-stained wardrobe. I hesitated in the dooway. The room was gloomy as a funeral parlour. Two single beds with moth-eaten blankets were lined up like coffins. I pictured my epitaph scratched across one of the headboards.

  GREW UP PLASTIC.

  Melted in the heat of the chase.

  Latif crossed the room and drew the frayed brown curtains, shutting out the pink neon lights, which wiggled and shimmied with the promise of GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS! I turned on theTV and started flicking through the channels. Most stations were running repeats on us, even though it was the middle of the night.

  “We’re rolling on every channel.” I stopped on GoldRush TV, sucked into watching another package featuring my perfect life. “Don’t look now, Latif. It’s the return of the zombie.” I sat down on one of the beds as hundreds of shiny, happy, attention-seeking Dashas smiled from the screen, trying their best to tempt me back to the ranks of the glamorous undead. I couldn’t take my eyes off them – totally transfixed by my other saccharine self. “It’s weird.” I searched for a way to describe the experience. “A total brainsnap. Like I’m watching a tacky tribute to myself.”

  My gaze remained fixed on the screen. And as I studied my former self, everything else melted away. I couldn’t relate to that person. She had nothing to do with me. She was an alien, a sparkle-fairy. Since the train crash, I felt as if I’d shed that glossy skin and a tougher one had grown back. I had outgrown that girl and her world. That was why I could never return.

  After the montage, the programme went back to the studio. “That’s all I need.” I pulled a face. “Screen time with the Dark Lord and his apprentice.”

  “What the hell are those two comedians up to now?” Latif tsked, sucking air through his teeth.

  My parents were sitting on a red velvet sofa in a studio lit by thousands of candles. Girls from the Star Academy wearing T-shirts with We Want Dasha Home! slogans emblazoned across the front were holding candles with my name stencilled onto the side.

  “Practising the dark arts?” I exchanged a baffled look with Latif. “Search me!”

  My parents were perfectly turned out for the roles of high priest and priestess of doom. They were both immaculately dressed in black. My mother’s dress was Chanel, this season’s haute couture, of course. It had cost close to £100,000. Her diamond necklace rocked in at £500,000. The candlelight softened my mother’s taut face. Her freshly curled hair extensions shone and slithered like a nest of serpents. Ultra-bright white teeth glittered when she spoke. She adopted her tragic face. “This has been a tough and tearful time. But thanks to your support we are finding a way through these desperate days. Going through the photos and footage, talking to friends and family, and reading all your wonderful messages has given us immense strength. Tonight we want to share our favourite moments.”

  “Sick bucket, please.” I ignored the amused glint in Latif’s eye.

  “We are counting on your positive energy to help us bring Dasha back.” She trailed off. My dad squeezed her hand encouragingly. “We ask you to offer up your thoughts, prayers and positive vibes. Let’s feel your good vibrations.”

  “So that’s their game.” Latif clacked his worry beads across his knuckles. “Suck up everything good and positive in the world and turn it into black magic.”

  “I told you they were vampires.” A shiver crept up my spine.

  The show was called ‘A Vigil for Dasha Gold’, and promised a mishmash of celebrity tributes, interviews with my friends, my parents’ favourite Dasha stories, clips and, weirdest of all, prayers. The prayers took me by surprise.

  “Let us pray,” my father said.

  I rolled my eyes. Dad famously claimed that he didn’t ‘do’ God. As far as I knew he thought he was God.

  The studio audience chanted the prayers in a mesmerising murmur. For those at home, the words rolled along the bottom of the screen like a karaoke machine. I imagined hundreds and thousands of viewers whispering the prayers in their sitting rooms. I shifted uneasily. The effect was more seance than prayer meeting; as if my parents were trying to conjure up my spirit live on TV.

  “I’m not dead.” I shook my fist at the TV.

  Another clip montage started rolling. Prayers and thoughts texted in by viewers whizzed across the screen.

  A loud heartbeat boomed. Up came a scan image of a baby in the womb. My mother cradled her stomach.

  My mouth fell open. “Oh no. That’s too much.”

  The heartbeat boomed out from the sound system. It was hypnotic.

  She waited for the beats to subside, before saying as an introduction to a montage: “From the very beginning Dasha was loved…”

  The opening shots showed me crawling around in a gold lamé romper-suit. The song was Robbie Williams’ ‘Angels’. Not one of my favourites.

  “Basta!” Latif made a zapping gesture with his thumb. “I want to see if there are any visuals on my parents’ interview. Eyeball something that matters,” he added with that lopsided smile.

  I stuck my tongue out at him.

  But before I had time to switch channels, breaking news flashed up on screen. His face darkened. My eyes locked onto the TV. A presenter was reporting live from a leafy suburban street. “I’m standing outside Latif Hajjaj’s parents’ home in Kensal Rise, west London. Minutes ago, armed police stormed the building on a warrant issued from the Home Office. Mr and Mrs Hajajj will be held under the Prevention of Terrorism Act. Mr Hajjaj is a lawyer who has made it his life’s work to defend terrorists and terrorist activity. A police spokeswoman has informed the press that the police are investigating claims that Latif Hajjaj and his parents are part of a coordinated network of cells, planning a series of outrages in London. Dasha Gold and Coco York’s kidnappings are thought to be the first of many attacks on London and Londoners.”

  Live footage showed police in riot gear leading Latif’s parents from their house in handcuffs. His father was wearing striped pyjamas while his mother was in jogging pants and a faded T-shirt with the slogan PEACE & LOVE. Men in white forensic suits, carrying computers sealed in plastic bags, brought up the rear.

  “Tell me this isn’t happening,” Latif groaned, flicking his worry beads. “This is totally insane.”

  The police van’s doors slammed shut and then it screeched off in a blur of blue strobe.

  Then my parents were on screen again.

  “Beats me how you’ve put up with those clowns for so long. My parents are worth a million of them.” Latif slumped forwards. All the defiance and finger-to-the-world cockiness had disappeared. I wanted to put my arms around him and tell him that everything would be okay. But I kept quiet. Anything I said would sound hollow. My chest was constricting. Everything was my fault. If Latif hadn’t rescued me from that creep, he’d still be a nighter, a tagger and a free spirit. Instead the world believed he was a monster. I placed the heel of my hand against my forehead. How had that happened?

  On screen Latif punched a freedom fighter’s fist at the CCTV camera down by the train depot. His grainy image punched again and again, sometimes in slo-mo, sometimes in real time. Meanwhile a reporter went hard on the terrorist angle.

  Minutes passed, the only sound my parents blabbing big, vivid lies that would stick in people’s minds. Propping myself up on my elbow, I studied Latif – or, more precisely, the two Latifs in the room: the on-screen Latif, fired up with rebellion, and, in contrast, the real-life Latif, who looked smaller somehow, crushed.

  I slid down onto the floor beside him. “Don’t let their lies get to you, Latif.”

  “The world believes this crap.” He flicked his worry beads angrily. “Get real, Dash. I’m as good as dead.” He jumped to his feet, walked over to the window and peered out from behind the curtains. “They’ve arrested my parents, for Chrissakes.”

  “But none of this is real.” I flapped my hands in the direction of the TV. “It’s make-believe. We’ve got to do somet
hing.” But my mind was blank. I tapped my fingertips against my temples, desperately trying to crank it back to life. “We could go to a rival TV channel. Explain this terrorist blab is all lies.” I didn’t say it with any conviction.

  “Yeah right. Like that’s really going to work. The Golds have created a slamming story. That’s what people want, Dash.” His voice was emotionless, resigned. “Even if you held a press conference saying it was all bollocks, your dad would pay an expert to explain that I’d brainwashed you. That this is a classic case of Stockholm syndrome and you’d fallen in love with your kidnapper. That you’re the twenty-first-century Patty Hearst – posh girl gone bad. Dash, you know how it works. Your parents will undermine you as a credible witness.” He paused. “But thanks, anyway.”

  I gave a weak smile. And as I stared at the television screen, I struggled to straighten stuff out in my head. The trouble was everything seemed so unreal. I looked around. Even reality, the two of us hiding out in a fleapit motel on the run, felt unreal! Bonkers! As for the stuff on television, which was shaping up like a Hollywood blockbuster; that was beyond bonkers. Yet, that was the story people believed. It was as if our television personas had lives of their own, like avatars – dreamed up by my parents to act out their crazy game of cat and mouse. I watched the TV miserably; I was beginning to lose my grip on reality.

  My finger hovered over the off button on the remote. I wanted everything to stop. I wanted to turn the Golds’ world off. But their lies were out there. They’d been pumping their version of the truth into thousands of homes for the last twenty-four hours, poisoning everyone’s minds against Latif. We couldn’t counter the untruths or press rewind. I felt as if we were in a video game which we couldn’t exit, and the levels kept on getting harder. That was our problem – well, one of them.

  “What are we going to do now?” I asked.

  “The plan remains the same.” He took the tablet out of his rucksack and hunched over it as he logged onto the wi-fi.

  “I’m so sorry for…

  He put his hand up. “Forget it. Dad’ll be out in no time. He’ll smash it. But right now we’ve gotta get our swagger back. Boom, I’m connected. What’s your mum’s name? Address?”