Stitch-Up Page 8

  I kicked a stone into the gutter, hating his knack for making me feel small.

  Up ahead, two girls were rummaging through a clothes-recycling bin, every so often holding up items of clothing that caught their eye. A spiky-haired girl was checking a denim jacket out for size while a short blonde was squeezing herself into a pair of jeans, wriggling her hips as she pulled them up over a pair of leggings. I couldn’t take my eyes off them, finding it hard to believe that these girls were so poor that they had to scavenge through bins for clothes.

  “Watch out, Dasha,” Latif growled as I bumped into him.

  Latif had stopped at the junction of two roads. He gestured for me to move closer to the black railings.

  ‘What’s up?” I asked nervously.

  He didn’t answer for a minute or two. Instead, he stuck his mirror-and-stick contraption out into the road.

  “CCTV.” His eyes flicked skywards.

  “How come you didn’t use the mirror last night?”

  “I use it as a precaution when I’m sussing out new routes. Most places I’ve checked. Know which cameras are live and which aren’t. It’s a science.”

  He slowly rotated the mirror, so that – bit by bit – we glimpsed a smart stuccoed street with a church and a country-style pub. The leafy street was deserted apart from a magpie strutting down the central road markings. White houses rose up on either side like glaciers.

  Uh oh, one for sorrow, I thought, surreptitiously saluting the magpie.

  “See, there’s a camera above the pub, another on the offy and one on the church’s steeple.” Latif rotated the mirror slowly. “Most of the houses are rigged too.” He tsked. “Paranoids. This city is full of paranoids.”

  “Er, talking of paranoid.” I nodded towards his mirror-and-stick. “You’re a fine one to talk.”

  “Yeah, but I’m paranoid in a good way.” He gave me that crooked smile again.

  “Yeah. Right. Silly me. You channel good paranoia.” I rolled my eyes.

  He shrugged. “I hate the way there’s CCTV everywhere silently filming us going about our everyday lives. It’s nuts. That’s why I dodge the cameras. It’s an obsession.” He paused. “I know this’ll sound whack, but I believe that CCTV cameras steal stuff from you. Spontaneity. Freedom. Your right to be different.”

  A smile twitched the corner of my mouth. “They haven’t cramped your style yet!”

  He shrugged. “Yeah! But I’m ahead of the game.”

  For a moment, I thought about telling him that I was a bit obsessive about stuff, too, that I micromanaged my world by counting – stars, steps, cars and magpies; that I wore lucky clothes, chanted calming words, repeated phrases and had a zillion bizarre rituals to help me get through life. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell him. My stuff was small – superficial somehow, while his concerns were part of some bigger picture which I was only just starting to think about.

  “Guess how many cameras there are in the UK?” Latif asked.

  He changed direction, doubling back down the street that we’d just come up.

  “A million?”

  “Yeah right, and the rest.” He held the mirror up, twisting it back and forth until he snagged my image. He grinned when I looked away. “Eight million last count, but there’s probably more. We get caught on film at least three hundred times a day. We’re the most watched country in the world. But nobody gives a damn.”

  “So? What’s the big deal? You’re fine as long as you don’t break the law.”

  I liked the fact my parents’ houses and apartments were protected by CCTV and state-of-the-art security. It made me feel safe. I pictured our mansion in the Billionaires’ quarter: the watchtowers, the sentry box, the high walls and the cameras. It had better security than most prisons and, as my mother loved to boast, a better class of guard.

  Latif looked at me as if I were a signed-up member of a crackpot, right-wing loony party. “Get real, Dasha…” He trailed off, shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “What’s the point? You know nothing.” Then he stalked off, eyes skywards – searching for surveillance.

  But Latif’s words stayed with me, and got me thinking about how the paparazzi as well as civilians with mobiles were always trying to sneak photos of celebrities and globals to sell to newspapers or post on the Internet; how everything was filmed, photographed, documented and dissected; how nothing was private; how globals and celebrities were always watched, too.

  We walked in silence as we crisscrossed the white-stuccoed grid of Georgian houses in a maddening game of snakes and ladders – two streets forwards, three streets back, as if Latif were determining our route by the throw of a dice.

  “The houses are rigged because gangs go safari round here,” he said, as we retraced our footsteps once again.

  “Safari?”

  “When gangs head out of the dead zones to crook the golden postcodes. Since the truce after the last lot of riots, the gangs stopped robbing their own. They hunt big game now. They’ve got a taste for it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The gangs hit the rich now. Their true enemy.”

  I knew all about the robbing of rich neighbourhoods. A few weeks ago, a kid in a balaclava had robbed one of my mother’s friends at knifepoint outside her house. They’d stolen a £50,000 Rolex, her £100,000 wedding ring and her £75,000 engagement ring. Combined haul – £225,000. Jackpot. I wanted to say how that sucked, but I bit my tongue. I was on a last warning. I had to be careful – or else I’d be history.

  We walked on in silence.

  After a while, we entered a street with a small parade of shops. Noticing a camera above a newsagent’s, I hesitated.

  “No film.” Latif saluted the steely eye. “Joe tipped me off. It’s a deterrent.”

  “Joe?”

  “He owns the cafe I was talking about. It’s at the end of the parade.”

  We’d only gone a few more paces when Latif stopped dead. I crashed into him.

  “What the— Dash! That’s you, isn’t it?” He was staring at an info-stop. A large LED screen was playing out ten different news channels.

  I gasped, hardly able to believe my eyes, merely whispered, “My God, that’s me!”

  A technicoloured patchwork of Dashas. My image repeated over and over like a series of Warhol paintings. And standing there in the street looking at my repeated selves, I had the strange sensation that I was more hologram than human.

  Latif turned towards me, eyes wide as flying saucers.

  Behind him, twenty Dashas smiled in unison.

  I touched the GoldRush Media channel and it flicked to full screen – or, more accurately, my smiling face expanded to fill the whole screen.

  Next up, photos of me as a little girl, opening Christmas presents, riding, blowing a kiss, swimming, skating and performing ballet. Fast forward. Recent clips showed me posing at a film premiere and a polo match. A montage of magazine covers came next, plotting out my life from a baby in a sequined romper-suit, right up to the last family photo shoot for Celebrity!

  Well that’s blown it, I thought, totally freaked-out by this impromptu slideshow, right in the middle of the street.

  Breaking news scrolled along the bottom of the screens: Dasha Gold Kidnapped. Okay. So now it was official. I crossed my fingers, praying my parents wouldn’t offer a reward. Fat chance! I tensed up when my worst fear slid across the screen: Tarquin and Tamara Gold, owners of the GoldRush Image Inc, have offered a million-pound reward for information leading to their daughter’s safe return.

  In a flash, my eyes were on Latif.

  His face hardened. He clenched his fists.

  I waited. My stomach fluttered with butterflies.

  All he said was: “Swear down! I’ve been lurking with a goddamn Gold.” A vein pulsed at his temple; apart from that his face was expressionless.

  “I’m not a Gold. Remember!” I said firmly, wanting to get a handle on the situation, sensing things were about to spiral out of control.


  His aquamarines fixed me for a few moments, as if he were skim-reading my genetic code, trying to work out how many of my parents’ crazy chromosomes I had inherited.

  “Your dad’s scum, Dash. He’s Mafioso. The ultimate predator.”

  “I know,” I said simply. “That’s why I’m running.”

  Latif stared at me with narrow-eyed scepticism. “Why should I believe you?” His eyes narrowed some more. “Go on, Miss Gold. Tell me. It’s not like you’ve been straight with me so far, is it?” His voice was like a slow, angry handclap.

  “I haven’t lied to you, though,” I said in a small, guilty voice.

  “Yeah! Right! But you’ve left out some big, ugly biog details. Like the fact your dad is the most powerful media mogul in the world. That your dad – not the government – runs this country. That he owns the prime minister and the police.” His voice crackled with anger. “That he’s screwed us.”

  “That’s not strictly true,” I mumbled unconvincingly.

  For a moment I stared at the LED screen, taken aback by his outburst. It was so out of character, so unlike the laid-back Latif that I had grown used to.

  “Isn’t it?”

  I met his gaze. His eyes glittered dark like anthracite. And I couldn’t help wondering why he hated the Golds so much. But, of course, I knew, really. He saw my dad as some kind of Godfather figure who got whatever he wanted through bribes, threats and his control of the media. And he wasn’t far wrong.

  “Yeah right, Dash. Anyone with half a brain knows that this muppet prime minister and his millionaire Cabinet wouldn’t be in power without your dad’s support. That’s why politicians suck up to him. My dad says he’s the power behind the throne. The kingmaker.” He glared at me. “I can’t believe you’re the Dark Lord’s daughter. ’Sakes, Dash, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m not his daughter.” I repeated even more firmly. “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m adopted.”

  “That’s not the point. You’re still family.” Latif raised his hand when I tried to cut in. “Not by blood, maybe. But the Golds raised you. You grew up a Gold. No denying that. You’ve lived the deluxe life for time. You’re a global, for God’s sake. You’re so damn privileged; I couldn’t even begin to imagine your lifestyle. Wouldn’t want to.” The vein at his temple throbbed angrily.

  “They hijacked my life,” I whispered.

  “Whatever.” His eyes slid toward the info wall. “Your dad’s hijacked this country. That’s all I care about.” He turned back to face me and fixed me with a cold stare. “Not you. Not your life. Not your dramas.”

  Boom! Boom! Boom! I recoiled three times, as if he’d struck me. Then I leaned against the iron shutters of the Food and Wine store, all punched out. The cold seeped through my jacket. I shivered.

  On screen, footage showed me with my parents at home in our art deco hallway with its truck-sized chandelier, Tamara de Lempicka paintings, and Jeff Koons’ shiny, supersized red heart. We were greeting guests at GoldRush’s annual New Year’s Eve party. I cringed on the inside as I watched myself shaking hands with a pop star, the PM, an oligarch, a prince and a hot, hot, hot Hollywood star. Great! That was all I needed. Guilty, your Honour. On all counts.

  “It’s all about you, Dasha Gold, isn’t it?” His eyes remained fixed on the screens.

  “What is?” I frowned.

  He turned towards me. His eyes looked flinty grey in the lamplight. “The shock and awe routine in the park – the helis, the guy on the Harley, the heavies – the whole lot of it was all about you. Not me.” All the warmth had drained from his voice. “Those kids were hauled in because your parents were looking for you.”

  “You don’t know that for sure,” I mumbled without conviction.

  “Don’t I?” His face was more serious than I’d ever seen it.

  I couldn’t meet his eye, dreading what he was about to say next.

  “The police must’ve pinged your smartphone when you switched it on, bubblehead. That’s why they were onto us so quickly.” He stared into the middle distance for a few seconds. “I should’ve guessed there was something up and dumped you down by the river.” His eyes fixed on me. “You should’ve told me the truth.”

  I stared down at the pavement. He was right. I should have put him in the picture. I’d wanted to, but I’d been too scared of losing him. But I couldn’t have told him that. And it was too late now.

  “Sorry,” I whispered.

  When he didn’t say anything, I glanced up. His face was steely, apart from the popping vein. He was never going to forgive me. I propped myself up against the metal shutters of Food and Wine.

  “I’m sorry.” I repeated louder this time.

  His eyes flashed with anger. “Didn’t it cross your mind that your parents would get every cop in London – good or bad – involved?” He tapped his index finger to his temple. “That they just might call in favours from everyone who owes them. ’Sakes, Dasha! You don’t have to be Einstein to work out what happened back there in the park. It was all about your parents trying to get their precious daughter back. They think you’ve been kidnapped, dim-bulb. Remember!” He spoke in a slow sarcastic voice, as if talking to the stupidest person alive.

  “Yeah. I knew they’d search for me.” I couldn’t look him in the eye. “But not like that. With the guy on the Harley, thugs and stuff.” I shivered. Thinking back, I remembered how I had wondered whether my parents might be involved, and how I’d pushed this terrifying thought to the back of my mind.

  “What did you think it’d be like? A frickin’ murder mystery? This is the real world, Dasha.” He looked as if he wanted to throttle me. “’Sakes! I could’ve been banged up in that van. Swear down! You’re one selfish girl. Self-obsessed.” He kicked the tyre of a parked car. “Like your parents.”

  “What? No way!” My mouth gaped open. “Like how?”

  “Like, you’ll stop at nothing to get what you want.” His words were blunt as a mallet. “Lie. Tell half-truths. Manipulate.” Each word was like a blow to my skull.

  “And what do I want?” I whispered.

  “Some effing muppet to escort you round London. Your own personal walking, talking satnav, because, Dasha Gold, you can’t survive without your army of slaves, guards, maids and servants.” His clenched and unclenched his fists. “But you can count me out. I won’t be anyone’s slave. Especially not yours.”

  His words stung. I lowered my eyes. Still I could feel his gaze lasering me.

  “I got you out of trouble, Dasha. I saved your miserable skin, and when you were feeling scared, I looked after you. I took you tagging to stop you dwelling on stuff.” He shook his head. “You used me, Dasha, even though you knew the dangers. Admit it.”

  “It wasn’t like that. I was frightened. I wasn’t thinking straight. I wasn’t thinking at all.” My words came out in a guilty rush.

  “Admit it! My safety never figured in your scheming, did it?”

  I stared at the info-screen. Latif was right on all counts. I hadn’t got the energy to pretend otherwise. I let out a small sigh, slumped a little more inside.

  He turned to leave.

  Although I knew it was hopeless, I grabbed his arm, and said, “Please, Latif, don’t go! You promised to listen to my side of the story. We had a deal, remember?”

  “That was then.” He stood stock-still, hunched and angry.

  “You’ve got to hear me out.”

  “Really?” He spun round. His face was furious. “Go on. It better be good.”

  The severity of his tone made me stumble over my words. “I… I… you’re not being fair. I was going to tell you everything. All about this.” I gestured at the LED screen. “Over breakfast. That was the deal we made on the boat.”

  “You should’ve told me direct.” He was still looking at me, as if he’d like to throttle me. “Back at Jeannie’s.”

  I stumbled on. “I didn’t tell you earlier because I thought you’d dump me if you knew who my
parents were or…” My eyes flicked towards the screen. The word reward was crawling along the bottom.

  He saw it too. “Or what?” He must’ve seen guilt register in my face. “No way? You thought I’d hand you in for cash?” His laugh was bitter as a Siberian wind. “I’ll tell you something for free. I wouldn’t take your dad’s money even if I was down and out and living on the streets.”

  I slid down the shutters onto my haunches and put my head in my hands.

  It was over. I’d blown my only chance.

  “That’s the problem with you globals. All you care about is money and power. I despise your lot.”

  “So do I,” I whispered.

  He towered over me, angry and unforgiving.

  Stillness surrounded us, pressing in on me, crushing my heart.

  “Don’t you get it?” I looked up. “I hate them too.”

  His eyes bored into me. He didn’t speak.

  I continued, tripping over my words as I spoke. “That’s why I’m running. If I hadn’t escaped, I’d be on my parents’ Caribbean island right now having an extreme makeover. GoldRush has state-of-the-art operating theatres on the island. It’s where globals go to get fixed secretly, away from the press.” I was struggling to hold back my tears. “Dad was going to operate on me. He was going to make me picture perfect.” I could barely say the words. “Enhance me.”

  “What? Change you completely? Knife you?”

  “Yes. Knife me!”

  “Why?” He was visibly shocked.

  “I was going to become the new face of GoldRush on my seventeenth birthday, my next birthday, but for that he said he had to…” I bit my lip, remembering Dad’s words. “Refashion me. Remodel me. He has developed all these procedures to transform me into his beauty ideal.” I shook my head wearily. “That’s why I had to escape.”

  “I don’t get it.” Latif’s eyes scanned me. “You’re beautiful just the way you are.” And the way he said it, in such an unschmaltzy way, so matter-of-fact – it almost took my breath away.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled. “My parents think my face isn’t luxe enough for a global brand.”