Nobody Saw No One (7 page)

I saw Jacob sniggering as the SS took me away. I should o’ smashed his stupid face in when I had the chance. I knew Doug and Jenny ’ud be stuck with him for allus now. The Barrowcloughs deserved better than that.

One day, I’ll find a way to let ’em know the truth.

But then it got worse. Because I’d been thieving, they din’t take us back into the usual children’s home. It were Tenderness House for me; the beginning of everything bad.

Yeah, I remember.

Mr Virus is still staring at me, but no way am I picking up that phone.

Search for
Alfi Spar
on the database – any database, they all cross-reference, don’t they – and it’ll say he has, what’s the phrase?
A tendency to steal.
It’ll say
Has a history of theft.

I en’t taking it. I’m shaking me head.

Mr Virus sighs. “It’s not a gift,” he says. “It’s to go with your uniform. All
Cash Counters
employees have one, so we can keep in touch. If you’re required for duty, young Alfi, we need to know that you are … obtainable.”

Is it a good idea? I en’t sure. It’ll be handy though. Go on then, take it. No. Wait.

“Thanks,” I say. “Shall I take it when it’s time for me to start work?”

He’s chuckling at me. “No, no, no.” He shakes his head. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it? When we need you to begin, that’s when we need to contact you. Meanwhile, it’s yours.” He pushes it at us. “It’s got games. Movies too. Are you turning it down?” He frowns.

Bad manners. I’ve upset him. I pick it up and shove it in me pocket. “Thanks,” I say. “It’s great. Thanks.”

“That’s my poppet,” he says. Pats me hand. “You and I are going to get on marvellously.” Then he leans in close and says, “Where did you say you were living before you came down to London?”

“I din’t,” I say. He waits for me to say more, but I en’t such a numpty, am I? Not any more. So I say nowt.

“Wherever you’ve come from,” he says, after a bit, “you did right to come here, to
Cash Counters.
We’ll treat you well, you know that, don’t you? The Digit would have told you that, wouldn’t he?”

I nod, but I’m still saying nowt. Mr Virus seems all right with that. “Good,” he says. Then he yells, “Tex!”

Suddenly, Tex appears alongside us. Was he there all along? “Threads for the youth?” says Tex.

“Threads for the youth,” Mr Virus mimics him. “Let’s get young Alfi out of this uniform, see if we can’t get him done up as trendily as you and the Citizen, hey?”

“Yo, boy,” Tex says, like the lads at Tenderness, trying to come on all tough. “Let’s play.”

So here we is, Citizen Digit, the Textually Predictiv, and young Alfi Spar, formation-strutting along Seven Sisters Road. Alfi’s pleased as vodka punch, ’cos he’s tarted out in the Citizen’s finest threads. “What’s yours is ours,” Virus reminded me before I handed over my Topman combo. Only Alfi don’t look like much of a Top Man on account of the threads being too big for him. He’s a sheep in wolf’s clothing. The Digit always gets a perfect fit, ’cos I try them on in the shop, don’t I? Leave ’em on, then walk out.

“I like the
Cash Counters
uniform,” Alfi says to me, “but your stuff’s dead smart, Byron.”

“Citizen.”

“Yeah, Citizen.” I can see his braincogs whirring. He says, “What about an AKA for me?”

“Already got one, ain’t you?”

Squealer-Boy.

Tex interjex: “Threads.”

“Threads?” Alfi likes it, I can tell. What he doesn’t even realize, is that the only reason he’s anywhere near the Citizen’s threads is because Virus ain’t going to have him parading round wearing a
Cash Counters
advert. Any trubs, and that’d lead the Sherlocks straight to HQ.

But Virus has banned any operations this sunny day. He’s made it clear there’s to be no risk of trubs. The Citizen is under strictest structions to keep his digits out of the local establishments. Virus reckons young Alfi ain’t ready. Too right. I’m not convincible he ever will be. Obsessed with honesty is young Alfi. Thinks he’s Peter Parkey Spidey-Man, without any of the Spidey-Sense.

Can’t think what use Virus’ll get out of him. He’s less use than an iMac without a hard drive.

But Alfi’s doubly chuffed, showing off all the Apps on his Smartphone. He can’t leave it alone. Penny ain’t plummeted yet, that a Dumbphone is what he’s actually carrying round. He’ll work it out eventually.

“Hey, Byron—” he says.

“Citizen.”

“Citizen.” He’s desperate to get it right. He turns to Tex. “Predictiv,” he says, “Citizen – how about you put me number in your phones.
Threads
. Threads’s number. And I can put yours in mine,
favourites
.”

“We ain’t got no phoneys,” I tell him.

He puzzles it. “Wh—”

“Some fool pinched ’em.” Tex predicts his question. “Yeah, dem got taxed, ain’t it.”

Tex thinks that’s funny. The Digit ranks it semi-smirkable.

In fact, Alfi’s got his phoney so he’s never out of Virus’s range. Not just callable or textable, but
traceable
too. Virus has a GPS embedded in it. Wherever Alfi Spar goes, the Great Manager knows. Though why Virus has such an interest in Alfi is beyond my imaginings. I’m of the personal opinion that he’s a liability. Virus should have figured this pronto – what’s happened to his famous brains?

Additionally, Alfi’s phoney’s got no numbers in it, has it? Alfi ain’t twigged yet that
Cash Counters
don’t even have no phoney number. Alfi-Boy can’t twig anything unless the whole branch comes down and bonks him on the bonce. You should have seen his face when he found one of the nightshift kids sleeping in his bed.

“I thought I were going to have a room o’ me own,” he whinged.

“Space, isn’t it?” I explained.

“So those lads were playing computer games all through the night?” he asked, boggle-eyed. “Then they sleep in our beds during the day?”

“Something like that.” He needs to wake up and smell the doggie-doo.

Now Alfi looks at me deadly serious. “What about Facebook, Didge? You could be me first Face—”

“We ain’t on Facebook,” says Tex.

Alfi rolls his puppy-dog eyes in my direction.

“Forget about it, Blabber-Boy.” Alfi is so tragic, he don’t even have no Facebook friends.

We’re strolling our bones up towards Finsbury Park, to show
Threads
the sights. Village simpleton, ain’t he? He’s agog at the prolickeration of food shops and whatnot, from Turkish supermarks to Afro barbershops, the Shish Shack to Nag’s Head Market – where you can pick up chilli peppers hot enough to melt your eyeballs. To be Uncle Frank, the Digit never dips his fingers into any of these places anyway. They’re just local stores and stalls, run by local Groans. All a bit downmarket. The talent is better utilized a couple of bus rides away – up Highgate or down Upper Street.

Even so, Predictiv Tex can’t help himself from popping into Tesco Local, to see if he can’t liberate some snackeroos. He gives me a look that says it all, and dives in without saying a word. Boy’s gotta do what a boy’s gotta do…

At the same time, me and Alfi realize this is a chance to update ourselves as to where we’re at. Delicate, but crucial. Alfi-Boy turns to me and says, “Tell me, really, Byron, is Mr Virus on the straight and narrow?”

“Course he is,” I fib with one hundred per cent integrity. “Anyway, Alfi, surely even a goody-two-boots like you had to liberate an item or two to get all the way from Tenderness to Londinium?”

“No!” He looks offended to the max.

“What are you?” says me, equally offended. “Are you just dumb, or super dumb?”

“I’m smart! I’m just honest. Don’t you get it? It’s because they reckoned I were a thief that I got chucked out o’ the Barrowcloughs’. I wun’t have ended up in Tenderness otherwise. You wun’t’ve either, if you din’t have to pinch everything you fixed your eyes on.”

Enough nonsense. I ask what’s been on my mind all along. I lean in close and whisper, “So what happened at Tenderness after I left? With Call-Me and the others?” I try and make myself sound all nonshalonse, like I don’t really give a monkey’s tuppence.

“I left ’em a message, din’t I?” he says, all sly.

“What? You mean you texted them?”

“No. I wrote it in big letters on the wall. That I was off to tell the world all about ’em.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says me. “What really happened?”

He looks at me straight as a lace. “Big letters,” he says, dead proud, “on my room wall. Thought I’d let them be the worried ones for a change.”

“
What?
Alfi, that’s not nesser-celery wisdom itself.” My eyes can’t believe what my ears are hearing. If it wasn’t Alfi Spar I was talking to, I’d assume he was being sarky.

He looks at me looking at him looking at me. “Wun’t that the plan?”

All of a sud, my pacifistic fingers want to take up strangulation. I shove ’em deep into my pockets. I need more answers yet.

“What about the evidence then?” This being the billion-dollar question. “You still got it?”

“I gave it to me Senior Case Worker.”

“
You what?
Alfi, that’s not…” But I’m too jaw-dropped to finish the sentence. I’m utterly disgrunted. “Well, we’ve got no evidence then, have we? It’s pointless.”

Senior Case Worker, my stinky finger. He might as well have given it to Help The Aged. My heart is sinking as my head digests this disastrophy.

But he bounces up and down like he’s just busting with good news. “That’s just it, see. I went to the library, didn’t I? And it so happens that I—”

He stops, abrupt. Tex has bounded out of Tesco, reaching into his jacket and bringing packs of sandwiches out from his armpit. “Mission accomplished!”

Alfi’s peepers pop wide open. “Oooh! Second breakfast! I’m starved. Thanks.”

That boy would eat his own shoes if you smeared them with ketchup. That’s the end of this conversation. It’s just as well; this discussion ain’t for nobody else’s ears, in particular a Parrot-Face like Tex.

Alfi swore to me the evidence was safe. I put myself at great personal liberties for him at Tenderness House, and stuck out my limbs for him here in London. How’s he respond? He irresponds, is what. I’ve had it. Citizen Digit has got better things to do than babysit the brainless.

What if he brings Call-Me Norman to our door? We ain’t even got the evidence now.

Maybe it’d be better to drop him, like pickled chilli from a kebab. He got out of Tenderness; he’s safe and sound. Isn’t that enoughski? Isn’t the Citizen’s job done? I got a tidy situation going on here with Virus – why let Blabber-Boy mess it up?

It makes my brain go all bomb-like; like there’s a lit fuse sizzling through my earhole. And when my brain starts burning, my fingertips start twitching. Virus made me General Well-to-Do today in my role as Keeper-Out-of-Trouble for Alfi-Boy. But maybe it’s time for some insubordination. Alfi Spar needs to get real to the street. And if he don’t like it – well, he can always skulk off back to the cow pasture.

Predictiv Tex is catching my eye. He’s thinking what I’m thinking, as ever. We’ll let our fingers do the talking. When all else fails, get dipping. I’ve never known a situation not be improved by a little pickypock.

Yes, yes, and yes indeedly. My twitchy fingers are telling me true: it’s pinch o’clock.

It goes like so: you match the walking flow of your target, and when the crowd is thick and slow – particularly at road crossings, of which our lovely Seven Sisters has many, you gently unzip the target’s backpack, inch by inch. Everyone’s bunched up tight, so no one can see, and if the target feels it, well we’re all pushing and a-shovelling anyway. Take your time. Idealistically, it’s a three-man job. When it’s time for the dip, Man Number One is the diversion: ’
Scuse me would you happen to have the time? Oh, thank you so. And you wouldn’t happen to have a light, would you? And do you know is this the right way to the tubeway? Et cet, et cet.
During this time, Humpty Bumpty Man Number Two does a small shoulder collision with the target.
Whoof!
Quick as a flash, his hand’s in and out of the target’s bag. Got the wallet. On a perfect day, this is immediately slipped to Man Number Three, who strolls straight off in a different direction, powered by total invisibility. That way, if the target twigs his wallet’s been lifted, he immediately suspects Visible Man One, or Visible Man Two. But Men One and Two don’t have no lifted goods on them, do they?

Sorry, mate, don’t know what you’re talking about.

Foolproof.

We’d never plunder the local shops (Tesco Local ain’t local, by any meanness), but the mass of Groans milling around include the occasional wealthbag. Types dripping so much gold they don’t twig if their backpack is suddenly a couple of kilograms lighter.

Tex has spotted one, ain’t he? You can tell rich pickings from the shoe type up to the hair stylistics. Quality shows, and the Citizen knows.

Course, today Alfi Spar is our Invisible Man Three, and he’s away in Spar-La Land, fully engaged watching the street’s carnival of oddballs. He’d hardly notice the quick one-two, so well rehearsed by the Tex and the Didge that we could do it with our eyes blacked out. But this target is too irresistible. Dictiv gives me the look that says he reckons we can carry this one with just Men One and Two.

A bit of a laugh, ain’t it?

What could possibly go catastrophic?

Alfi’s got his beak stuck in a stallful of papaya. I reckon he thinks he’s landed on Mars – all he’s ever known is the village post office. He reckons eggplant is a bush where chickens get hatched. So, while he’s sniffing at the veggies we make our move.

Our target’s a youngish Groan, done up to the nineties in Gangsta gear, but he ain’t no Gangsta Boy. The Citizen can tell by his dweebling shuffle and his soft white neck like the Royal Fumbly’s. His iPod’s got those big earphones like earmuffs. His fingers look like a doll’s. Poshboy.

I’m Visible Man One, the diversion. Tex has already got the zip to the backpack caringly half opened, and he gives the signal: a flick of the right ear (not the target’s ear –
obviously
– ’cos that’d be a bit of a giveaway) and I move in.