Read Online Stitch-Up by Sophie Hamilton - Free Book Online Page A

freedom fighter’s fist. I tensed up, hoping nobody at Railway Control was watching. Latif enjoyed taking risks; I guessed that was all part of the buzz. Next minute, he was charging up the road yelling for me to keep up.
    When we reached Chelsea Bridge I collapsed against its side, gasping for breath and giggling. This was all so new to me – so exciting. I shook my head, finding it hard to believe that I was out at night with a stranger, without guards or minders, just being carried along by adrenalin.
    â€œThat was trill,” Latif said, hardly out of breath.
    â€œWhat?” I spluttered. The sprint had blown my lungs to smithereens.
    â€œMental. A riot. Real!” His blue-green eyes shone in the moonlight.
    â€œSo that’s what you do?” I straightened up.
    â€œYeah. Most nights.”
    â€œThat’s bombing nighter-style?” I smiled, picturing his paint bombs of words.
    â€œSure is, bubblehead… I bomb the city’s furniture – trains, statues, walls and stuff. Have done for years.That’s what nighters do: we run, we tag, we outwit the police.”
    â€œDo you always tag at night?”
    â€œYeah. It’s safer. These days you’ve gotta be quick, though. I’ve been busted a few times when I was a kid. That’s why I take precautions.” He pointed to the logo on his overalls. “Like I said, these garms make me look official.” He shoved his hands into the pockets. “Appropriate the look of the state to do it over. Get me?”
    â€œOfficial anarchy.” I smiled.
    â€œTruth!”
    â€œBut don’t you get bored hanging around?”
    â€œNah. Adrenalin’s addictive. Believe it!” He nodded in the direction of the train yard. “That’ll be buffed by morning. It’s crazed how quickly tags disappear. That’s why Mum called my story ‘Words Disappear at Dawn’.”
    The moonlight spangled the water into silvery rounds, like the ghostly lips of mermaids, coming up for air.
    I shivered.
    â€œDon’t your parents mind…” I tailed off, seeing Latif’s left eyebrow shoot upwards once again, and finished lamely, “you know, that you’re out all night?”
    â€œNah. Mum’s driving most nights and Dad…” He stopped mid-sentence.
    A siren wailed – close by, heading our way.
    Latif sucked air through his teeth. “Fed alert.” He started unwinding his keffiyeh from around his face. Then, glancing over at me, he said, “Pull up your mask.”
    The mask smelled of peppermints.
    I sped up. He grabbed my arm. “Slow it down. We’re night workers, yeah? Pissed off. We don’t hurry for nothin’. Check it!” He shoved his hat into his rucksack, followed by his keffiyeh. Then he pulled up his hoodie.
    Blue neon flashed along the embankment. I counted two police cars. Latif glanced back towards the train depot.
    â€œWe’ve got fed action. Mirror me, Dash!” He slipped into a slow, loose-limbed, who-cares stride. “The train driver or security must’ve spied us.”
    Fear stiffened my limbs. I struggled to mimic his laidback look. More sirens wailed in the distance. Unease infected me. The police were all over the city like a rash. I glanced over at Latif. He shot me a grin. He didn’t seem the least bit perturbed. In fact, he appeared to be relishing the buzz.
    â€œAll in a night’s work,” he said with a wink.
    There was a hot-dog caravan on the south side of the bridge where a few cabbies were chatting, hands cupped around steaming cups of coffee. I kept my eyes lowered, praying they wouldn’t think we looked suspicious. But they didn’t give us a second glance, merely seeing night workers like themselves. Besides, they were too busy checking out the police action on the other side of the river. As we passed, I caught the word ‘murder’, in a strong Glaswegian accent.
    We walked