Nobody Saw No One (10 page)

Third up: as if that wasn’t quite enough to make everybody hate him (apart from the pretty WhyPettes), he had his Birthday Tificate.

We’d all gone through our fair share of mothers. By the time you end up at a place like Tenderness House, you’ve somehow managed to misplace your birth mum – through consequence of death, drugs, beatings, crime or mental sickness – and a handful of foster mums too.

So there’s Alfi shoving his Birthday Tificate under everyone’s noseholes going on and on about how much she must have loved him and how she gave him his name and what a special name it was and she must have done it during her last breath, et cet et cet et cet. And he was sadness itself, really, because he never actually knew his mum. At least I’d got to spend time with mine, for a few years at least. A lot of us had. Didn’t stop him droning on about it though, did it?

He was pathetic. I felt sorry for him.

But, fourth up: he got given his own TV after only a couple of weeks. He hadn’t even been asked to provide any favourables to Call-Me Norman, which made all those that did green with it. And also a tad suspish.

See, Citizen Digit had been getting an idea or two about how comes Sniper and some of the other WhyPees and Pettes got rewards like TVs and whatnot, while the rest of us didn’t. Rumours were abounding.

Staff never took their peepers off Alfi Spar – he had that sort of face. It seemed like the Groans were watching, and waiting. For what, we’d know soon enough. And the Digit would know, ’cos the Good Citizen knew all.

Sniper, for your inf, had evening duties at Call-Me’s twice that first week and looked all the uglier for it. You could tell he wasn’t overmooned about it. Sniper was doing all the duty; Alfi Spar was getting all the reward.

You hardly had to be Brain of Britney to figure that Alfi was being prepared for something special, and Sniper couldn’t stand for it. Thought he was the special one, didn’t he? You could tell by the clench of his fists every time Alfi’s angel face was in the vicinity that Sniper wanted to bash the holiness out of it. Alfi required a bit of uglification.

Even by Tenderness standards Sniper was viperous. All WhyPees feared him. Hated him too, mainly because he’d pinch things out of spite. It’s not like he wanted the stuff for himself. If you was writing a letter and you got distracted, you’d turn round and find someone had pinched your pen. If you was having a shower, you’d get out and your towel was gone. Going to play football? Laces swiped from your boots.

You’d find the pen, floating in the soup cauldron at lunchtime. You’d find your towel in the sports changing room, covered in mud off of somebody’s boots. You’d find your laces cut into one-inch strips, stored in a tub of marg in the kitchen area.

Who the culprit? Swiper Sniper every single time.

Oh, that boy was the Devil Incarcerate. He thought it was hilarious. He was like a naughty five year old, in a fifteen-year-old psychopath’s body. Jackson Banks reminded me of him – a lost boy rummaging round in an old lag’s headcase.

I ain’t claiming I myself am Sainted, but just to be front-up: the Digit never ever pinched from other WhyPees, only from Groans and PLCs. I got principalities, ain’t I?

And Sniper would deny every single accusation until he was a blue-faced Smurf. Ain’t nothing you could do to make him fess up.

In partnership, this was due to his handiness with his fists. Sniper thought nothing of pounding the oomph out of those littler than him.

So, one day, Alfi Spar’s Birthday Certificate went walkies and we all of us got the shock of our lunchtimes. Tadpole Alfi marched right up to Sniper the Viper and demanded, “Give it back.”

Did I mention that Alfi Spar is as stringy as a piece of string?

“Ain’t got it,” Sniper sneered. Alfi hadn’t even said what
it
was. “Anyway, even if I
did
have it, what would you do about it?”

Alfi’s eyes literally changed shade, from grey-blue, to a righteous bright blue. “I’ll tell!” he said. He was shaking with indignancy.

Everybody laughed. We couldn’t help it. Stupid Squealer.

Sniper actually snorted.

He towered over Mumsy-Boy by a good ruler’s worth. But you know what they say about height not being the long and tall of it? Alfi’s heart was bigger than Sniper’s any day.

But Sniper doesn’t see that, does he? He gets that sneery, snidey-faced look when there’s going to be unpleasantries.

He sticks his chin out at Alfi Spar. “Don’t know why you’re so vexed, Spar. You leave your jacket lying around, means I’m entitled to go poking round in it.” (That’s Sniper’s kind of insane logistics and in Tenderness, it was true.) “Means I took it legitimate, don’t it? It’s you who’s the illegitimate one, ain’t you, Spar?”

You should have seen Alfi Spar’s fizzog. He had that look he always gets when anyone disses his dear dead mum. First time I ever seen it, and impressive too. Like he wants to strangulate your windpipes. Sniper was right though; Alfi’s middle name’s Bastardo.

“Shut up,” Alfi says.

But Sniper snipes on. “Hey, Alfi, ain’t it true your
whore of a mother
dropped you in the doorway of Lidl, and you should really be called Alfi Lidl?”

Alfi says nothing to this.

All the other WhyPees are watching keenly. It was about time Alfi Spar learned his place.

“Good job your mum didn’t snuff it outside of an Aldi. Imagine that. You’d be called Alfi Aldi. Harsh.”

Quack quack. Time to get ducking.

Alfi snaps. He grabs a chair and demolishes it against Sniper’s leg.

Despite his hugeness, Sniper’s instantly grounded. He reaches up to try and get his sledgehammer hands round Alfi’s throat, but Alfi smacks him back down with what’s left of the chair.
Carackajack
– the wood splinters zackly like Sniper’s shinbone.

Alfi’s hand darts through Sniper’s pockets and in two seconds flat he has his precious scrap of paper back in his grubbies.

Then Barry comes charging in and you think he’s going to bend Alfi into a position of restraint. But, no, we all sit jaw-dropped as Barry grabs a hold of Sniper’s collar and drags him away in the direction of the Relaxation Room. The Relaxation Room is where they lock you when you need to seriously relax.

None of us breathes a word. Then there’s the sharp tang of stale tobacco. I look round and I see Call-Me Norman standing in the doorway, with his arms folded, staring at Alfi Spar as if there’s nobody else in the room.

Alfi’s blushing, either from the exertion of biffing Sniper, or embarrassments. His blond mop’s all ruffled from the scuffle. Call-Me’s got a greedy glint in his eye like he’s anticipating a whole pack of Bourbons.

Alfi Spar smiles feebly back at him like a dumb donkey.

The rest of us don’t know where to look. It’s deeply disconcerting. Call-Me keeps on beaming all licky-licky at Alfi, and Alfi’s going redder and redder.

We can all tell. Call-Me loves that blush.

“Spar,” he says, “come to my office.”

Off his box or not, the Digit knows it’s time for Alfi Spar to do some wisening up.

Next day, the Governor gave us an iPod – all o’ me own. I was dead suspicious at first, after what happened wi’ the Barrowcloughs and the mobile phone, and I cudn’t understand why the Governor ’ud be giving us gifts, specially since we weren’t even supposed to have iPods.

He said, “It’s a reward for good behaviour.”

But I han’t been a good lad, had I? Everybody knew that Sniper were one o’ Call-Me Norman’s favourites, so how come I were getting rewarded for bashing him up?

“For maintaining order,” he went on. He reached out and stroked me chin between his finger and thumb, dead creepy. His fingers were yellow, from his smoking. Then he took me hand, placed the iPod in me palm and folded me fingers over it. His hand were twice the size o’ mine. It were like me fingers had been swallowed up by his fist.

He dismissed us and I went straight off to the washroom and scrubbed meself.

So I’m sitting in the Social Room later on, listening to the iPod, blocking out all the stupidity o’ the place, when another fight broke out. You cudn’t get away from it. Least this time it had nowt to do wi’ me. Two lasses, scrapping over some lad. So I turned up me volume and turned me back on it.

I see the Head Carer Barry come rushing out of his side office wi’ a face like thunder. He looked dead mad, but I’d seen the way he liked manhandling the YPs. He were well up for it.

As the scrapping in the Social Room got bigger, I happened to look towards Barry’s office, and there were Byron. All of a sudden, like. It were as if he just magicked hisself there. He were poking around Barry’s desk, which meant he were going to get sanctioned. I dunno why – he wun’t o’ done the same for us – but I went in to warn him.

“Byron!” I hissed.

“Citizen Digit,” he corrected us.

“What are you doing?”

He chuckled. “I been waiting for this moment,” he said. He had Barry’s laptop open and were going into the private files. I cudn’t believe it.

“Byron!” I hissed again, but he weren’t taking no notice. So I said, “What are you up to?”

“It’s everyone’s files, ain’t it? I’m looking for someone. For when I get out. Someone who can help.”

“They’re letting you out?” This were news to me.

He gave a snort. “Yeah,” he said, “they got bored with me and said I could go. Here she is,” he said. I looked at the screen and there were a picture of a girl, the type of picture they take of you when you first arrive at Tenderness. The Usual Suspect.

“She’s nice,” I said. I looked at the date. It were taken about five years back.

“She’s in London now,” he went on. “Some of the WhyPettes reckon if you can find her, she’ll help look after you.”

“How do you mean?”

“When I escape.”

“What!”

“She knows places where you can stay. Safe places.”

And he’s printing out her picture on the office printer. It were making a right noise. I’m getting panicked,
’
cos if Barry found us, he’d kill us. Somehow though, I cudn’t tear meself away.

“Print one for me,” I say. She really were dead pretty.

But he shook his head. “What,” he said, “and have you waving it all over the shop for Call-Me Norman to see? No way.”

“Aww, go on.” But he’s squinting at the screen. He’s looking at a bit that says
Present Location.
It says
Seven Sisters
and I wonder if she’s got family. Maybe she’s got sisters same age as me.

“What’s her name?” I say, as he’s shoving her picture in his pocket.

He gives a big grin. “Grace,” he says.

The murderous kick-off in the Social Room was showing no signs of diminimising. Barry Gorilla-Hands enjoyed that particular perk of the job.

So even though the Digit’s no technical geek, the file dealing with the case histories of the Prisoners of Tenderness was simply unmissably opportunistic. Further fun was to be had.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” wimped Alfi-Boy, “we’ll get into trouble.”

But I’d already opened up the Byron file. All of his horrible case history was there, mocking me in bold black and white. My younger, pathetic mug frowning up at me. Goodbye, loser. I pressed delete.

“What you doing?” Squealer-Boy was so shocked.

“Byron
Blank Space
is no more.” I looked at Alfi Spar with deadly earnestness. “From now on, you must only address me by the name Citizen Digit.”

Alfi looked less than impressed. Sure, it was only one file of hundreds. But it was
Call-Me Norman’s
file. The one that counted. I went on, “And soon, Citizen Digit will be free!”

I opened up the Alfi Spar file. Least he could do was a bit of tampering of his own. “Let’s see what we can do about your case history, while we’re here.”

But he started trying to tug my hand away, fully panic-attacked. He’d be terrified of his own bad breath, that boy. “No!” he was going. “No! We can’t!”

“Oh, indeedly?” says me, clicking away like a fury. “But ain’t you, Mr Innocence, always proclaiming yourself a victim of framing? This is your history, Alfi. One version at least. Don’tcha want the opp to rewrite it?”

I flipped the laptop so he could see the screen, and there was his file in all its gory.

“Dun’t matter,” said Alfi-Boy. “I
am
the victim of a Great Miscarriage of Justice.” He pointed at the screen, where it boasted:
Reason For Relocation to Tenderness House
. In the little box was typed up one word:
THEFT
. “But even so,” he went on, “you can’t mess wi’ this. It’s against the rules.”

At the bottom of the page, to prove the truth of all this, was one electronic autograph:

Approved by: Governor Norman A. Newton.

“You could just delete that one word,” I tempted him. “Replace
THEFT
with something more suitable. Like
Needs constant supervision due to lack of life skills.
”

“That en’t funny,” he sulked.

“Aww, go on. Just delete it. Then you can type what you like.”

I could tell he was tempted. “Should I?” he said.

“Shouldn’t you?” said the Digit.

“No, it en’t right,” said Alfi.

“Thief,” says I, all cruelsome. “Stinky thief.” If this boy was going to default the document, he was going to have to do it himself. It was his life, not mine.

“Errr,” fumbled Alfi, “ahh.”

“Forget it then,” I teased.

But he just stood over it like Chief Ditherer. I took a quick glance down the corridor. Down in the Social Room, Barry was rolling on the floor, WWE-ing them rough girls.

“What could I replace it with?” said Alfi. “I can’t leave it blank, can I?”

“Run away!” I yelled, all of a sud.

“Ahh!” Alfi yelled back, and scowled as I laughed at my little joke.

“Type:
runaway
,” I rectified. Alfi always hates it when I pull those kind of crackers on him.