Free Stitch-Up by Sophie Hamilton Page A

intensified my anxiety. Fred must be on the pagoda’s walkway by now. I strained to hear some small sound of him. My breath was a full stop in my throat. A few more seconds passed, then I heard the flick of a lighter, followed by a deep inhalation. The tang of cigarette smoke tickled my nostrils. He began to walk around the temple, his footfalls sharp as pistol cracks. Time stretched taut, almost quivered. I found myself counting his footsteps. Thirty-seven gunshots later, he ran back down the steps.
    I crumpled.
    After one last tour of the park, the helicopter flew off up river. The van left at speed, red tail lights gleaming. Finally the hunter mounted his bike, revved the engine and shot out of the car park. His Harley gobbled up the walkway in one long wheelie.

Below the Radar
    WE waited until the roar of the chopper had receded. Then we slid out from behind the Buddha. Standing on the platform, I stamped my feet, trying to get some feeling back into them. I took deep breaths, enjoying the fresh air – crisp and cold in my throat.
    With the helicopter gone, I’d expected the park to be silent, but the undergrowth was alive with the rustle of spooked-out creatures. I peered into the darkness, scoping the shadows, half-expecting The Hunter’s Return . The sequel.
    â€œWhat was that about?” I asked. “Who were those guys?”
    â€œUndercover feds. The clean-up squad. They pull in drunks, the homeless, taggers, outcasts. Anyone this government describes as scum.” Latif rotated his neck until it clicked. “Unofficially, of course.”
    â€œWhat?” My mouth dropped open. “The government is okay with that?” I stamped my feet out more vigorously. “Those poor kids! They hadn’t done anything wrong, had they?”
    â€œWrong time. Wrong place.”
    â€œThat’s it?” I was struggling to get a handle on things. “What do you mean?”
    â€œThe feds are after me , bubblehead.” Latif shrugged. But I thought I heard fear catch in his throat. “My graffititriggered the mayhem. Railway Control didn’t relish the tease and called the feds.”
    â€œWhat? Really? That’s how they go after taggers?” I asked, eyes wide as dinner plates.
    â€œTruth, bubblehead! Two police cars stopped by the depot when we were crossing the bridge.” Then, seeing my incredulous look, he added, “Believe it!”
    â€œIt was insane, though,” I persisted, shaking my head, still stunned by what I’d just witnessed. “It was…” I searched for the word. “Disproportionate.”
    â€œWhere have you been for the last decade, bubblehead? Another planet? These days, Dash, the feds pull you in for taking photos on the streets. Anything goes. Trust me! It’s called zero tolerance.” He tipped up the brim of his hat, setting his eyes on me for a few seconds, and then he jumped off the platform.
    My gaze travelled to Millbank Tower, and the city’s lights behind. It wasn’t news to me, not really. I knew the government came down hard on civilian kids or the hood-rats, as Dad called them. His TV channels were always calling for zero tolerance. I guessed that was what zero tolerance looked like. I shivered. I had never really given it a shape. But now I’d seen it, I would never forget it. And I never wanted to see it again.
    The Buddha’s tranquil face gleamed in the moonlight, radiating peaceful vibes. I placed my fingertips on his hand, hoping to suck up good karma. But the chill was creeping up from my stomach again, seeping into every cell of my body,invading every particle of my being – a kind of sixth sense – irrational, maybe, suggesting that my parents were somehow involved. I started whispering a single mantra: “Please don’t let Mum and Dad have anything to do with this. Please don’t let…” I rubbed the top of my arms and shooed this crazy thought