Nobody Saw No One (15 page)

“Don’t know of him,” says Virus, carefully. “Spar, you say? I’ll put the word out.”

“He’s not to be hurt though,” Call-Me insists. “He’s to be brought back. Back to Tenderness.” He looks at Jackson Banks. “In full working order. You understand?”

“What’s the prize?” says Banks.

“Keeping out of jail.” He waits for this to sink in. “He’s a lovely-looking boy. Mop of blond hair. Blushes at the drop of a hat. Eyes like summertime. Make sure he stays that way.”

JB snorts, but Call-Me professes not to hear it. He goes on. “Alfi Spar got hold of some incriminating material. Got as far as handing it to Social Services. We got it back, just in time, but it was a tricky job persuading them we’d caught the boy, after the runaround he gave us. Now we need to make it true, before they become suspicious. That boy
must
not fall into the hands of the police or the Social. We need him back where he belongs.”

As if.

“And the second boy,” Call-Me continues. Then he says it. My real name. “He’s been gone for over a month now. Mouthy. You might know him.”

“Byron
Blank Space
? No, don’t think we’ve come across him.”

“If we get him,” says Jackson Banks, “return to sender?”

“No.” Call-Me Norman goes all adamantium. “Dispose of him. He deleted his entire file – makes it easier for us. He’s no one. And no good to anyone.”

“Price on his head?” All Banks thinks about is profit.

Call-Me sighs. “He’s trouble for you as much as Alfi Spar. But I tell you what. You make Byron
Blank Space
disappear permanently, we’ll owe you a girl. Gratis.”

“Deal,” says Banks. “The game is on.” He rubs his hands together, gleeful.

I can hear Call-Me rummaging around in a bag. “And you know what? Here’s an added incentive to help you along a little bit. To do the job properly.”

“Ooooh,” says Jackson Banks, like an over-excited kid. “It’s lovely this.”

What is?

“It’s a Glock,” says Call-Me. “A gift, from a policeman friend. Use it wisely.”

A gun. He’s handed a gun to
Jackson Banks
? Citizen Digit is sick to his stomach. Luckily, Byron
Blank Space
was killed off a long, long time ago.

I’m already dead.

A gunshot blasts my eardrums and a sulphur smell trickles through the doorway. My hands immediately crawl all over my body, search for a bullet wound. Inside the room, Obnob is whimpering in terror.

“Banks!” yells Virus, forgetting himself. “Are you insane?”

“Use it when you need it, Jackson!” snaps Norman Newton. “It’s not a toy.”

Another deafening blast.

“Ooops,” says Jackson Banks. “Twitchy finger. How many bullets, you say? I’ll need plenty.”

“That’s enough,” says Call-Me, in his sternest Governor Voice.

BANG!

Each time, I feel a bullet blasting through my heart.

“What are you doing to my wall?” I’ve never heard Virus so angry. “Please, just get out of here. Go on! Leave!”

There’s a silence. I picture Jackson Banks raising the gun, aiming it, slow and steady, at Virus’s sweating face.

“That’s enough, Banksy,” says Call-Me, again. This time soft, gentle-like.

“All right, all right, keep your hair on. I’m going for a slash.”

Jackson Banks strides out of the room and walks right past where I’m huddled. If he looks up, I’m dead. But he’s too busy admiring his new weapon.

In the room, Virus and Norman Newton are whispering together. My double-plus lugholes pick it all up:

Virus: “Are you insane? You’d be as well giving a grenade to a five year old.”

Newton: “Nonsense. You’re too mistrusting of Jackson. He needs his outlets.”

Virus: “Outlets? I’ve seen the state of some of the boys who’ve come away from Tenderness House. You and your
outlets.
”

A pause.

Newton: “Banksy always had a liking for weaponry. It’s part of his nature. And we fulfil our remit. We satisfy the Reliance Plus shareholders – no thanks to
certain persons
syphoning off company funds. It might have been ten years ago, but I still know the name of that person, Mr
Virus.
Don’t forget it.”

“I retired my post.”

“Nobody retires from Tenderness. It’s a post for life.”

“My role was only administrative. I didn’t do what you did.”

Another pause.

“I thought you were wiser than this. It’s as well that I have Jackson Banks on hand.”

“Banks doesn’t obey
you
.”

“What? Banks obeys
you
?”

Grace: “Stop it, both of you. ’E’s comin’ back.”

The Mad Dog almost stands on my fingers, he stomps so close. He’s still waving the gun about like he’s Billy the Kid.

“Well,” Banks says to the assembled, “that’s me a couple of pints lighter. Don’t worry, Fairy Cakes, I washed me hands. Come on, Grace, we got a couple of boys to hunt down. Happy days.”

“Have a nice evening, Mr Virus,” says Newton, all gloatful.

For once, Citizen Digit is at a loss. I sink into the wallpaper as they make their way out. I smell ’em coming, Call-Me first with his stale tobacco clinging to him like rot; Obnob, like stewed meat; and Jackson, ripe gym sweat. Grace is the only one of them who smells good.

I’m cowering in the shadows. I’m a dead boy. The only reason I’m so invisible is because I’m the Ghost of Myself.

They trail past. If Norman Newton turns and sees me, Jackson will have me full of holes and gym-bagged within the minute.

But it’s Grace who turns. Half a mo, she winks at me, then glides onwards behind these beasts. Her head held high, noble, her long locks prettying up the murk she’s gliding through. Her chin trembles as she passes. I imagine her, going to lie on her back now, to make easy cash for Jackson Banks.

Crow, last of all, limping behind them, staring straight through me. His dead eyes meeting mine. Saying nothing, trailing past.

Nobody saw no one.

Down they go, creatures of the night. The door clunks behind them. I stay hunched, my face sunk behind my knees, thinking about the price on my head.

“Digit!” Virus’s voice snaps me out of it. “I know you’re out there. In here! Now!”

First up, the Seven Sisters cops lock us in a cell. It en’t much different to the Relaxation Room at Tenderness House.

“Been in one of these before, have you, ‘Fred’?” says the copper, sarky. They’ve already taken me fingerprints, which were dead messy, and me hands are covered in smudge that won’t wash off proper. And they put a swab in me mouth so they could test me spit. The copper put on rubber gloves when he did it, like he thought he were going to catch summat off us, like I were some sort of mangy dog they’d picked up from the gutter. I suppose I am really. And they took me picture too.

“Don’t smile,” said the copper. As if. I had a big bump on me head an’ all, from when I landed on the pavement.

Because I were under fourteen, the police cudn’t take me fingerprints when Jacob got us arrested for stealing from Doug’s wallet. But ’cos I told this lot that I’m sixteen, they reckon they’re allowed. But me prints aren’t on the system, so they don’t know that I’m really Alfi Spar, so the joke’s on them.

I told ’em that I were just trying to give the bloke his wallet back, and I had nowt to do wi’ taking it, but they kept asking us a zillion questions. Who were I with? What were their names? Where do I live? But I can’t tell ’em owt, can I? If I tell ’em the truth, I’m dead. They’ll take me and Byron back to Tenderness House, and that’s it, everything’s up.

I hate it. I hate not telling the truth.

Me head hurts where I bumped it.

Think, Alfi, think. Got to get yourself out of here. They han’t even given you no food, just some water. It’s got to be illegal to lock you up this long wi’ no food. If they knew you were only fourteen they wun’t dare.

Always tell ’em sixteen, whatever happens.

I ought to stop doing what Byron tells us. He en’t
that
bright, is he? He’s always pretending everything. Trying not to be who he really is.

Not me. I know who I really am. Me mam is called Katariina.

KATARIINA.

Me head’s on fire and I’ve had enough. I’m going to tell ’em.

I’ll tell ’em about that Predictiv Tex lad stealing the wallet, and I’ll tell ’em about
Cash Counters
too – I bet they’d be dead interested in what’s going on there. I’ll tell them about Mr Virus – I bet that en’t even his real name. But I don’t need to tell them about Tenderness House ’cos they’ll never believe us. And I don’t need to tell ’em I’m Alfi Spar.

When I’m free, when I’m safe, when it’s right, I’ll tell all about the Jimmys.

Me cell’s got a buzzer. I think it buzzes for the desk sergeant. I’m going to lean on it, just keep on pressing it till somebody comes.

That’s it, Alfi. Use your brains.

At last, someone comes.

“I’m only fourteen!” I yell. “I’m only fourteen! I shun’t be here. I’m just a kid. I’m fourteen!”

The copper escorting us down the corridor looks really grumpy.

“Fourteen! Do you hear me? Fourteen!”

They lead us to an interview room, and there’s a sergeant sitting at a desk, and I sit down opposite, and the copper who brung us in says, “Apparently, he’s only fourteen.”

“Is that so?” the sergeant says.

“Aye, and I’m only just turned fourteen too. I en’t much more than thirteen.”

“Well, I’d never have guessed.” They love doing sarcasm, the police, don’t they?

“And I din’t pinch the stupid wallet either. I were trying to hand it back. I en’t a thief.”

“Well, we know that now,” says the sergeant. “The man who owns the wallet has made a statement, saying that you were trying to hand it back. Someone else stole it, apparently.”

“You can’t keep us then! You have to let us go! And give us me phone back!” I jump up.

And down. Summat’s the matter.

Sergeant looks at us all clever-dick. “Definitely not. You can have your phone back – but that’s all. You’ve just confirmed that you’re only fourteen. As we thought. We have a duty of care. We can’t put you out onto the streets. You’re only a kid.”

“What?”

They’re going to stick us back in that cell. That can’t be right.

“Listen, ‘Fred’. You need to understand, we’re on your side here. We’ve only held you for this amount of time a) because you had a knock on the head, and it’s our duty to watch you for a while and make sure you don’t go fainting or anything. And b) we’ve been trying to establish who you actually are. Up to the present moment, we’ve failed to achieve b. Perhaps you’d like to tell us now?”

“I’m – I’m…”

And I want to. I do; I really do. But I’m remembering me Case Worker in Bradford; how he got straight on to Call-Me Norman.

Me head hurts. Throbbing. “I’m nobody.”

The sergeant sighs. I can tell he’s getting tired. Dead tired. “We know you’re not called Fred,” he says. “What kind of kid is called Fred?”

He looks at the copper who came in wi’ me. “Did the Council get back to you?”

The Council?

“Yes,” says the copper. “They’re sending the Welfare Team over now.”

Welfare Team?

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Well, ‘Fred’. Obviously we can’t keep a young kid like you in the cells overnight, and neither can we turn you out onto the street. As – at the moment – we aren’t able to establish who you are, and who you belong to, we’re going to have to set you up in short-term emergency foster care. Do you understand what that means?”

I blink. “A foster family?”

“Short-term,” says the sergeant.

“When?” I say.

A family.

“Soon as they get here,” he answers, closing his file.

Yes!!!

I’ll have a family again.

That’s the way, Katariina’s son. Played a blinder. And I managed all this without having to drop the Digit in it, after all.

Result.

The Good Citizen is in for the zapping of a lifetime.

I think about running, here and now. Get to street level and do a Mo Farah. But in my chest I know Virus would have his henchies track me down in no time flat. And if any of them find out I used to be Byron
Blank Space
, I’m dog meat. Literally, if JB has anything to do with it.

“Digit!” Virus yells. “You’re trying my patience now!”

Okily-doke. This is it then. In I go. Take a deep breath.

I won’t bite my tongue off when I’m zapped, lose my brightest attribute. I won’t.

“Come,” he says. He’s lounged on his sofa as I inch in. “Make yourself comfy. This is your home, Didge.” His eyes widen in joke surprise. “No Tex? Surely our faithful friend wouldn’t be so unpredictable as to … lose his way?” He mock tuts. “Not when we need his talents so much –” he snatches my wrist and pulls me next to him “– to get back Alfi Spar!”

The Digit figures it’s prudish to stay shtum at this point.

Virus has enough vocab for the two of us. “That’s Alfi Spar, who as you have just eavesdropped, is even as we speak conspiring to bring everything tumbling down around our heads!”

“I think he’s—”

“I
know
where he is, Digit. I have him tracked, don’t I? Have a guess. Go on, I’m sure you’d make a highly informed go of it. Well, boy, where do you think Mr Alfred Spar is residing at this point in time? Where?”

“Err…”

“I’ll tell you. Tottenham police station. The police station, Digit. Which is most peculiar, because I distinctly remember the last time I set eyes on him he was in the safe and reliable hands of one Citizen Digit.”

“See, what happened is—”

“Save it. I can guess only too well. Trouble at our door, boy, trouble at our door. Look around. What do you see? Nothing! No one! Where are our friends, our little playmates? All gone. Shipped out to safe houses around the borough. And half our electronic items bagged up and shipped out to trusted associates. Because of you, boy, because of you!”