Nobody Saw No One (16 page)

I can’t hack the wait. “Go on, then. Go on.” I close my eyes. Clench my teeth. In the scrunched starriness of my lids, I wait for the jolt.

“Open your eyes, little soldier.”

I can’t.

“Open your eyes.”

“Please,” I say, “just do it.”

I can take the pain. Not the waiting. In the dark.

“Open.”

I do. He’s not got his zapper aimed at my face. His hands are praying, on his lap. “Do you see the police around you? No. Do you see your Manager sitting in handcuffed indignity? No. If they were going to come, they’d have come by now. I’m prepared. We have nothing to hide here. Not now. What I’d like to know, Citizen, is what’s going on? What’s the story? Why is Alfi Spar so important?”

Ah. I get it. You can’t bleed no info out of a zapped-out zombie. Virus is the kind of gentleman who likes to know all the right angles. Ask questions first, shoot later.

“Well?” he prompts me.

“What do you know about Norman Newton?” I blurt.

“Aha, ha,” Virus muses, fidgeting with his phone. “What do
you
know about Norman Newton?”

Careful now. “According to Alfi,” (hah, see what I did there?) “he runs a Young Persons Secure Unit. Place where Alfi comes from. I think Alfi did a runner.”

“Oh, you do, do you? How bright. What a bright young man you are, Mr Digit. And why, why do you think it is that young Alfi felt the need to flee from this place?”

“Well, you know, we all hate those kind of places, don’t we?”

“Do you now? Why’s that then?” He’s trying to squish me into a corner, ain’t he?

“Do you think –” I play the game like a triple-crowned champ “– Alfi might have something
on
Norman Newton?”

“Something on him? Oh, that’s an interesting idea. Any thoughts as to what that might be? Any vague ideas?”

I shrug, like the sort of fool boy I’m not. Don’t overplay it, Didge. “Up to no goodness?”

“Mmmm. Maybe.”

What’s his game? I need to know his game, otherwise how am I able to play him?

Virus says, “So Alfi never told you then?”

I could spill. But if I overflow, the link to Jackson Banks is too severe. If Call-Me is passing on girls for Banks to pimp out, then Alfi (and me) can bring the Sherlocks directly to his door. And from JB’s door to Virus’s is an untidy litter trail of house-burgled goodies. Half of
Cash Counters
’ Tru Valu merchandise comes straight out of JB’s gym bag.

So I say, “I was trying to find out from Alfi. I think he dug up some sort of evidence. Some sort of wrong-doing.”

“What’s it to do with Jackson Banks, do you think?”

“Dunno.”

“And what about that other boy?”

My heart brakes. “Other boy?” I say.

“Other boy.” He leans in close. His eyes flick down to his phone, but he ain’t checking no text, is he? “This … Byron
Blank Space
.”

He’s setting the voltage.

I am cool. I am cool. But I’m sweating, ain’t I? I can feel beads of it building up on my forehead, squealer-sweat. “Don’t think I know him,” I say. “Byron… Byron what’s his name?”

“
Blank Space
.”

“
Blank Space
. Byron
Blank Space
. Nope. But I’ll let you know if I hear of him on the grapeline.”

“Thanks, Digit. I knew I could rely on you. Oh, here’s a funny thing.”

“Yes?”

“It’s Alfi Spar. The other night, when we were all having so much fun. I could have sworn – I might be wrong – but I thought for a minute I heard him call
you
Byron. Is that possible, do you think?”

That’s it. I’m getting zapped to smithers.

“No,” I say. “No, no. That’s crazy. Oh, I get it. It must have been when he called me by my other name. My birth name. Brian. I hate it when he does that.”

“Brian?”

“Yeah. Nasty, isn’t it? Now you know why I call myself Citizen Didge.”

“Not Byron?”

I hold out my hands, all nonshalonse. “Do I look like a Byron?”

He ain’t convinced. “Do you look like a Brian?” he counters.

“Exactly.”

This conversation’s on a fast train to Nowheresville. Better reset the Sat Nav. “Listen, Mr Virus, I know I messed up today – big time. I should never have let Alfi Spar fall into the Long Arms. If I can talk to him, I can get you all the answers you need. I’ll do the mission, make up for my misdeeds. It’s dangerous, I know, but if I go to the police station I can say I witnessed it all – I’ll even give them a description of Tex’s mug if it’ll help convince them. I’ll say I know Alfi from the street, and get the goodies from them about what’s going on. I’m hot. I got skill. The Digit’s the best. You know that.”

“What good will any of that do?” he snaps.

“See, I get to Alfi, one way or another he needs our help, yeah? He can let us know what’s the score with this geez who runs the Secure Unit. Norman…?”

“Newton.”

“Norman Newton. And once you know what’s a whatness, well, you hold all the cardies, don’t you? You can figure out what works out best for us here, can’t you?”

Virus is silent for a long time. He’s thinking it all through. “You think I don’t already know?” he says. My heart goes boom. “Norman Newton is a nasty piece of work. He’s bad news for everybody.” My heart goes phe-ew. “He needs to learn a lesson or two. Let’s put it this way, Didge. Alfi might not just be a liability to Norman Newton. He might be of
value
to him. And if he’s of value to Newton, then he can be of value to us. Always follow the money, young prince. Always follow the money.”

Virus is nutkins. He surely realizes the extent of the nastiness that takes place at Tenderness. He reckons everything boils down to
blackmail this
or
bribe that
. Alfi
of value
to Call-Me Norman? Hah! Like a one-pound note.

So I ask Virus the million-yen question. “What I don’t get,” I say, “is what’s the connection between you and Norman Newton. How come he seems to know you?”

He clenches his fist. I’ve overmarked the step. I brace myself.

Then his shoulders go all saggy, like he’s as tired as me. “It’s true. Norman Newton and I go way back. You didn’t think I was christened
Mr Virus
did you?” He pauses, and makes his confession. “Norman Newton knows my real name.”

Then it’s worse than I feared. We’re all in it, up to our throats.

I try to hide my surprise. “So what’s the plan then?”

He doesn’t answer for ages, like he’s lost in the annuals of time. “We’ll see,” he says, right when I think he’s not going to answer at all. “Tomorrow. If Alfi’s still in custody, seeing him might be an appropriate plan. But for tonight, Digit, I’m afraid you can’t stay here. It’s possible the law might still come a-knocking.”

“Comprende.” I stand up. Surely I’m not going to get away with it? “I’ll make myself rare for the night. I’ll pop back in the morno. I can take your directives then.”

“Very good.”

I turn to go.

“Oh, Byron?”

“Yes?”

“You need to do some serious sharpening up, Digit, some serious sharpening up.”

Byron.

A bolt of pain sears through my arm. The bolt knocks me off my feet. I’m on the floor, jerking.

“Won’t we ever learn?” I hear him through a squeal in my brain.

He zaps me again.

The desk sergeant gives us back me mobile phone. The only thing active on it is the clock. It’s well gone midnight. No wonder I’m famished.

The Welfare Team ask us a zillion more questions – twice as many as the police did. But I’m saying nowt, for now. Tell ’em I’m Fred, and no more. Katariina’s son is keeping his options open. No one need know about Alfi Spar or Call-Me Norman or any of it. Not yet. Not if I’m to stay with a proper family again.

It takes for ever before they finally let us see ’em. They lead us through into the Victim Support Lounge. I en’t a suspect any more, am I?

I go in and there’s a couple o’ sneaky-looking crooks sitting there, and I’m wondering where me emergency foster family are, when this dodgy pair stand up and smile at us.

Oh, what? You’re pulling me leg.

“Hello, Fred,” says the bloke. “I’m Danny.”

He’s got a big, bald head like Phil Mitchell in
Eastenders,
and he’s wearing razor-blade earrings. He’s got a T-shirt with
the damned
on it, and a bunch of blokes dressed up as vampires and in maid outfits and stuff, and below them the words
smash it up.

“Hiya,” says the woman. “I’m Scarlett.” And they both stand up to shake me hand.

This en’t right. Scarlett’s got a big mop of unwashed hair that looks like a giant Brillo pad. Black and silver, wi’ flecks o’ colour like it’s been used to paint a few walls. She’s wearing
charity clothes.
She pongs like skanky socks.

They en’t exactly Mr and Mrs Barrowclough. But I say hello and shake their hands ’cos it’s right to be polite.

Everyone puts their signatures over twenty sheets of paper. The Welfare Team and coppers watch very closely to see whether I sign me own name, but I en’t that thick, and I put down Fred X. I like that. Fred X. Citizen Digit ’ud like that. I’ll have to tell him. Or, I would, if me and him weren’t done wi’ each other.

Maybe I’ll be able to get rid of Alfi Spar for good. That boy were nowt but a loser. But me
mam
named us Alfi, so I better stick wi’ that. I could be Alfi X. Dun’t sound as good as Fred X. Wait on – Citizen Digit’s still got me birth certificate, han’t he? I’ll have to find him, get it back. Nobody gets away wi’ taking me birth certificate.

“…must be pretty hungry, hey, Fred?”

Grub!

Scarlett is smiling down at us. She’s got silver-plated teeth. In’t it illegal to let people with silver-plated teeth foster kids? I reckon the Welfare Team have placed me wi’ these two ’cos they think I’m a villain, ’cos I won’t give ’em me proper name. Still, got to be better than Tenderness.

Grub. I realize I’m nodding like one o’ them nodding dogs folk put in the back o’ cars, and they’re all laughing at us. But it’s friendly laughter, and I smile back, and we’re walking out the cop shop into the night air. Danny’s got his hand on me back. It’s physical contact, that is, which is against regulations. But I don’t mind. Funny, in’t it, how you can tell the difference? Between bad hands and good, I mean.

Scarlett drives us to their house in Finsbury Park. She drives fast, like she’s in a bumper car at a fair, and keeps saying “Oops” and “Go! Go! Go!” The Digit ’ud like her. They should foster him. They’re just his type.

Danny keeps asking questions, like, “Have you been in North London long?” and “What do you make of Finsbury Park, then? It can be a bit scabby, but we like it”, and “Have you ever been to Hampstead Heath? It’s like the countryside, only in the middle of London.”

I en’t really answering, just
hmm
ing and
ahh
ing and nodding me head, and Scarlett says, “Don’t mind Danny Boy. He’s a right nosy sod.”

Swearing’s against the rules too. Then she says, “Hold tight: sharp left!” and almost crashes us into a wall. Then she’s tooting her horn like a psycho and saying, “They all drive like lunatics round here, Fred. You’ll get used to it.”

Get used to it. Maybe, once I’ve settled in, I’ll let ’em know I’m really called Alfi.

We get to their house. “It’s no palace,” says Danny, “but it’s got to be better than Tottenham Nick.”

They push open the door and there’s a
yipyipyip
and Scarlett switches on the light, and there’s what looks like a wig zooming across the floor. It skids to a halt against Scarlett’s boots, and starts to jump up and down, scrambling at her knees, a big pink tongue licking at her kneecaps.

“Iggy!” she says. “Hello, darling, did you miss us then? Did you miss us?”

“I hope you don’t mind dogs,” says Danny.

Iggy starts jumping up around us, and I bend down to pet him and he’s licking me fingers like I’m his oldest pal from years back.

“Shall we show him round then, Scar?”

They lead us into the kitchen. It’s got an old wooden dining table and in the middle of it is perched a black cat, on a place mat, totally still, like a catty vase.

“Evening, Patti.” Danny ruffles the cat’s head. Patti narrows her eyes and smiles at us, purring like a phone set on vibrate.

“Go on, Fred,” says Scarlett. “Have a poke around. It’s a free country.”

So I do. First up, I look in the fridge, which is a bit of a letdown, if I’m honest. It’s got a couple o’ cans of beer, a tub o’ margarine, some crusty-looking cheese and an onion. Where’s the scran they were going on about?

I look in the cupboards. Only one of ’em has any food in, and that’s a tin o’ kidney beans, a packet o’ lentils and a bag o’ flour.

“Oh, yeah,” says Danny, “we’re not much cop at cooking.”

What?

He tosses us a takeaway menu.

“It’s a late-night one. Indian grub. Is that all right? We can do a chips and kebab shop if you like?”

“No. No, that’s great. I love curry.”

“Go on then,” says Scarlett. “Pick what you like, and we’ll make the order.”

Just hold it right there, Alfi. Don’t let ’em think you’re greedy. You mustn’t mess this one up, on top of all t’others. “Err,” I say, “I’ll just have whatever you two are having. I don’t mind.”

But I’ve got me fingers crossed that they’ll order plenty of good stuff.

And they do. Scarlett orders three pilau rices, a stuffed naan, chicken tikka, lamb curry, aloo ghobi, channa masala, two dhals and four samosas.

“We have to get enough for Iggy. He’s a complete curry hound.”

So am I.

Citizen Digit manages to stagger himself onto the street, out from
Cash Counters
, his legs warm and damp, head screeching. Traffic roars. Headlights like light-sabres. Tumbles off the kerb. Angry horns and squealing breaks. Keep it together, Didge.