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

“Keep lookout. Whistle if anyone shows up.”
    He edged along a wheezy branch until he could grasp the railway yard’s spiky railings, and then, with one fluid movement, he vaulted down, landing panther-slick in the yard below. I heard the zip of his rucksack, followed by rustling. Peering into the darkness, I fleetingly thought Latif had grown translucent wings. But as my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I saw he was holding sheetsof plastic. Next he took five aerosol cans from his rucksack and lined them up on the ground.
    He switched the torch on.
    Action stations.
    With a can in each hand, Latif started shaking up the paint, waving his arms around, as if he were dancing to hardcore techno. The metal aerosol balls bashed out a minimal beat. The hiss of paint punctuated the night. He worked fast and efficiently, swapping stencils, juggling spray cans. The beam from his torch was a choppy disco ball.
    When he had finished, Latif stood back to admire his work, and as his torch swung back and forth across the side of the train, I saw his graffiti in jump cuts. It featured a guy wearing a black and white keffiyeh and a pair of mirrored Aviators. He was some kind of freedom fighter, maybe. The image of a rioter throwing a homemade petrol bomb was reflected twice – once in each shade. Below the image, bright red lettering spelled something out in Arabic.
    I had no idea what the words meant. I imagined it was some kind of call to arms, but I didn’t care – it was totally cool. Switching on my smartphone, I took a photo. My mailbox was full of texts from my parents. I itched to open a few, but the control-freaks were history. I turned it off again.
    A metallic crash made me jump and I nearly toppled from my perch, but it was only Latif rushing the fence. Hugging the tree trunk more tightly, I watched him scale the mesh quick and easy as Spider-Man.
    â€œWhat do you think?” he asked, as we stood squashedtogether in the fork of the tree. “I throw a piece up every day. I paint what’s going on in the world as I see it. Good and bad. My moniker is Radical Witness.”
    â€œIt’s amazing. That writing’s Arabic, right?” I whispered. “What does it say?”
    â€œBrainpower not firepower.” He made a freedom fighter’s fist.
    â€œOh, my days, I’m a complete dim-bulb.” I reddened. “So you’re anti-violence?”
    He shrugged. “I don’t judge. I paint what I see.”
    â€œThe petrol bomb made me think it was jihad or some kind of call to arms,” I mumbled, hating the way I was coming across all hairspray and lipgloss.
    â€œYeah! You and every other doughnut. But that’s my point. When people see Arabic graffiti they think the words must be inciting violence. I mean, give me a break… Sometimes I quote Sufi poetry, so beautiful it makes you want to cry. I use Arabic to mess with people’s heads. The freedom fighter is my tag, but I change the words and what’s reflected in his shades daily.” He grabbed hold of a branch. “Don’t get me started, coz we’ll be here all night and we gotta ghost.”
    I could hardly watch as he swung out into the darkness and jumped soundlessly to the ground.
    The birch tree glowed silver in the moonlight, its branches surrounding me like protective arms. I looked down; my legs tingled and my stomach leapt.
    â€œMove it,” Latif said, pointing out knotholes to support my feet.
    I counted to three before scrambling down after him, glad of the thick work overalls. Then I scurried across the road and waited under the railway bridge once again. This dank place was getting a bit too familiar for my liking. With laserpoint precision Latif ran at the CCTV camera, strides lengthening as he grew closer until he finally leapt into the air and snatched back his hat. The steely eye stared down unblinking. Latif stood defiantly in its gaze and punched the air with a