Nobody Saw No One

by Steve Tasane

  I’m despairing.

  *

  A ticket inspector gets on and I hold up me hand to check the ticket price, but he blanks us. It’s Byron, in’t it? He has this way of not being noticed. And I’m ignored too, on account o’ sitting next to him. Like I’ve caught his invisibility.

  But I’ll be the one who cops it if anyone points us out.

  Never ever stand next to Byron when he’s up to his tricks. It’ll be you gets fingered for it, every time. Just like he dragged us into all that business at Tenderness. I notice he han’t even mentioned Tenderness. Does it even bother him, what might have happened to us after he went flying off? That week after he left were the rottenest o’ me life.

  I don’t even like him. He’s trouble. Come to London he says, everything’s all right in London.

  “Look, I en’t comfy wi’ this. I’m going to get off.”

  I try sliding past him, but he drapes his arm round me shoulder, squeezes. “Alfi. Dude-boy. You made it, didn’t you? All this way. You must have a special Citizen Digit radar. Fateful, don’t you think?”

  Uh-oh. Me and Fate have never got on wi’ each other. Otherwise I wun’t have ended up in Tenderness in the first place. I’d still be wi’ me lovely foster family, the Barrowcloughs.

  I pull away, but Byron tightens his grip and gives us his goofy smile. “You looked pretty frost-bottomed sitting all Johnny No Mates on the pavement back there. How about you let me take you somewhere warm, get some hot potaters down your neck?”

  “Look, Byron—”

  “Citizen.”

  “Citizen. You were dead right about what were happening at Tenderness. But I en’t mad on getting mixed up wi’ no illegal stuff.”

  He throws us his look of mock surprise. “I’ve never been so insulted in all my life, upon my life.”

  That en’t true. Byron dun’t go round calling hisself Citizen Digit for his IT skills. His fingers are so sticky he can sneak keys from jailers, tills from counters – he could probably nick the toilet paper from the Houses of Parliament wi’ no one noticing. He’s dead proud of it. Allus covers his tracks too. He’s been fingered for countless crimes, but only convicted of one. He always comes out wi’ the same line. Upon his life.

  “Yes, indeedly. I’m engaged in legitimate busyness these days. It’s a proper shop, trust me. Up Seven Sisters. Trading licence, V-A-T, the whole caboodle. Sincerity itself.”

  “No way,” I say. “You’re not even old enough to have a proper job.”

  “Correctimundo!” He claps his hands together like the deal is sealed. “That’s why the Citizen don’t get no wages, yeah? He just helps out. Gets a soft bed. A warm bed. And hot nosh every day. Hot nosh, Alfi-Boy.”

  Hot nosh. I’m even more starving now that I’ve scarpered half the length of Oxford Street. Has any human ever been as hungry as me at this point in time? And knackered. I’m proper knackered.

  “Course,” he carries on, “if you really aren’t interested, you can jump off the bus right now, go find that bit of cardboard you call a mattress and forget you ever bumped into your old crewmate the Citizen.” He folds his arms.

  Last night, I slept in a skip. Had to find a place where I wun’t be seen. If the cops find you and you’re underage, they take you in, that’s what I heard. They take you in, then take you back. Back to Tenderness.

  I slept in a wheelie bin for a few nights once, before I struck lucky wi’ the Barrowcloughs. It en’t bad. But someone told me about a dosser who slept in a wheelie bin that got picked up by a crusher. Two seconds later he was pulp. So I stopped that.

  Last night’s skip were empty, a canvas tied over the top so no one ’ud fill it wi’ their own junk. If you know enough about knots, you can loosen ’em and squeeze in. I picked up a pile o’ free newspapers to line the bottom, cover the muck, and you wun’t believe, it were actually fairly comfy. After a while, a couple o’ men climbed in next to us. I were freaked, ’cos they might be a couple of … what was it Citizen Digit called ’em? Jim’llfixits. I lay there, trying to look tough, like I could kick ’em in the goolies. No one said owt. We all just nodded at each other, and they wormed down into their sleeping bags. They were just after warmth, same as me. To be honest, once I got used to the idea, the more the merrier. Body heat, en’t it?

  It were cold enough, though. Stinking an’ all.

  Citizen Whatever-He’s-Calling-Himself-These-Days interrupts me thinking. “Look, Alfi, I ain’t even bothered with you that much. You cramp my stylishness. Let’s quit while we’re behind, yeah? Why not hop off at this next stop? Give the Citizen’s regards to the old dosspots, yeah?”

  But what if he were right the first time? Maybe I were meant to bump into him. This could be me turning point.

  Hot nosh. I am so hungry.

  Go for it, Alfi.

  “You sure it’s legit?”

  “Crime doesn’t pay, bruv, does it? Ain’t that what you always said? I’m wisdom itself these days. Citizen Digit’s flying straight as an arrow. I’ll show you the shop, if you like? Get my manager to serve you some hot grubbings.”

  “All right.” I shrug.

  He raises his hand, clenched, and we bump fists.

  Hot grub.

  I’ve a bad feeling about this.

  Then he says, dead casual, like he’s asking about the weather or summat, “You still got that evidence?”

  I can hardly bring meself to think about it. I don’t answer.

  “From Tenderness?” he goes on. “Is it safe?”

  I close me eyes. “It’s safe,” I say.

  I wish I’d never even seen it. Wun’t be here now if I hadn’t, would I?

  We hop off two stops before Operations. Virus insists upon it, in case of any Sherlocks on our tails.

  “Lead them a merry dance, my little soldier,” he’d say. “They like a dance, our boys in blue. Always give them what they want.”

  Alfi Spar almost blows away in the wind when his feet hit the street. He was always the skinniest WhyPee at Tenderness. Ain’t he only gone and achieved the impossible? Made himself skinnier.

  He goes all feak and weeble and reaches out to take my hand like a toddler-boy. I’m tolerating it, for the sake of keeping him standing. At Tenderness, this kind of thing would get us a gonad-kicking, but not here. That’s the beauty of Seven Sisters, you get all types. See African boys walking down the street hand in hand, it’s just culturality, ain’t it? See hairy old winos who smell of poo-poo, with their bottom hanging out of their pants, quoting Star Wars, nobody going to blink twice. This is North London. Vietnamese, Jamaican, student, Muslim, Jew, Cockney, gangsta, pigeon-eater – anything goes. That’s why Virus runs his operations here. It’s what drew the Citizen here in the firstness.

  You ever want to disappear? Get yourself a one-way ticket to Seven Sisters.

  Course, on his ownsome, a peanut brain like Alfi Spar ain’t going to last five and a half minutes. He’s got no idea what’s a whatness. In actual factness, I must be a peanut brain myself, bringing the boy back here. I’ve been safe here, under the radar. Supposing Governor Newton – Call-Me Norman – is on his tail? If Alfi brings Call-Me to our door, Citizen Digit is headed for the cemetery. But what am I going to do – leave Alfi to the vultures and wolves that prowl the streets looking for poor-boy pickings just like him? Without Citizen Digit watching his back, Alfi Spar is dead meat.

  We reach the shop. Cash Counters. Its bright yellow sign is the only bit of sunniness along this stretch of road. Virus has one of his henchies clean the sign and sparkle the windows each morning. “Let the punters see what we’ve got,” he says, “right through into the shop. Dazzle them, Citizen, dazzle them before they even know they’re looking.”

  I tighten my grip on Alfi’s hand, paste a grin across my VDU, and we step inside.

  3. CASH COUNTERS

  Unbelievable.

  It is a real business, a proper shop wi’ shop assistants wearing matching yellow shirts with a Cash Counters logo
and nametags and all. Customers browsing what’s on offer.

  All kinds of electrical stuff, laptops, mobile phones, digital cameras.

  Byron won’t let go o’ me hand. Them light fingers of his have a cage fighter’s grip.

  He drags us further in, points at the wall, at a sign:

  Cash Counters cashes cheques and gives loans at affordable rates.

  They buy things as well as sell ’em, but only from people wi’ proof of ID and address.

  And look:

  Cash Counters is a member of the Consumer Finance Association and is regulated by the Office of Fair Trading.

  And there’s more signs all over the walls o’ the shop. Cash Counters is the First Choice for a Fair Deal.

  Another sign on the wall says SMILE, YOU’RE ON TV.

  I smile. And Byron loosens his grip on me hand.

  We wander through towards the back. The shop assistants are watching us from the corners o’ their eyes. I spot Byron making eye contact with ’em, but none of ’em greets us or even shows that they’ve seen us. But the customers all stare, probably ’cos I brought me pong in with us. I’d love a bath. A hot bath, after some hot food. Oh, this is all right. Defo the thing to do.

  Citizen Digit dun’t say a word, but when he gets to the bank counter at the back, he nods at the bloke behind the glass, who bends down and clicks a button. Then the Citizen pushes at the big door next to it, and we’re through into the storeroom. Surely we en’t allowed? I step back, certain a Tenderness Care Assistant is going to dash out and yank me arm up behind me back, make me shoulder pop, march me off to a room with a door that locks. Then everything carries on right where it left off…

  “Chill,” Byron whispers.

  The bloke behind the counter steps out and smiles at him. Byron smiles back.

  “Found us a new recruit?” the bloke says.

  Byron shrugs. “Up to Virus, ain’t it?”

  “Go on up.”

  We make our way over piled-up boxes, gear that must be worth a bomb. I try not to brush against ’em ’cos me hoodie is so grimy. Byron – sorry, Citizen Digit – is kitted out in shiny new clothes. I’ve seen them shoes he’s wearing, through shop windows. They cost a packet. I look at his smart top with serious envy. I look like a dosser. Me heart jumps up against me chest. I’m feeling faint – again? – and I stick out a hand so I don’t lose balance.

  But Byron has his arms under me pits, guiding us up the stairs, over soft carpet. A lad with his hoodie pulled down low so you can’t see his face is skulking at the top.

  Byron says, “Oi! Dictiv—”

  “Helpin’ hand with the fresh meat?” A voice comes from under the hood. Next thing, his hands are all over us. He en’t bearing me weight at all. He’s tickling us, all over, light like a feather.

  “Knock it off—” says Byron.

  “He’s needin’ help stayin’ upright. True?” The tickler cuts Byron short.

  “Too right. Practise your dipping another time. Meet Predictiv Tex,” Byron mutters to us. “So called—”

  “’Cos he states it straight. So?” His voice is weedy, but his tone is all Rough Kid. “Instant messagin’. No wasteman Digit time.” I can’t understand what he’s going on about. He tugs at me arms, rotten breath in me face. He’s all shadow, determined I don’t see his features.

  There’s a door at the top. I can hardly lift me eyelids. I’m done in. Byron kicks at it, a musical rhythm, his hands not free to knock. The door swings open and we tumble in.

  “Play nice,” says Predictiv Tex, slamming the door behind us.

  “Well, well.” I hear a voice, all lah-di-dah, like a Senior Case Worker. “Citizen Digit himself. And what luxury items have you brought back home this time?”

  “A friend. He’s malnutritious, ain’t he?” Digit drops us into a big, soft sofa.

  “Is he indeed?” says the voice, all treacly. “Then he’s come to the right place.”

  I look up, see a white face, soft and smooth like an advert for soap, wi’ smiling, pearly teeth. Big green eyes, twinkling down, like a cat’s. A hand reaches towards us, whiffing of air freshener, fingernails clipped, neat.

  He’s wearing a suit. And a tie!

  Byron has set us up. He’s Social Services, in’t he? The shop is a front for the SS!

  The hand hovers in front of us.

  I look to Byron. How could he? But he’s nodding at us, dead keen.

  He expects me to shake it. Don’t I know better than that?

  “Hello, little soldier.” The tip o’ this bloke’s tongue flicks against his lips, looking for a fly to catch. “My name is Virus. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  Suddenly he don’t look like the SS no more.

  To be brutally truthful, Alfi looks like he’s going to poop his panties, which going by the smell of him will be the second time in twenty-four hours. Virus hates getting his hands dirty. I most definitely should have left Squealer-Boy where I found him.

  But then Virus goes on to say the magic words. “The Citizen informs me you’re feeling a tad peckish. What say I have one of my boys cook you a Full English? I gather that’s what you young people have a taste for.”

  He sees me dribbling too, like I’m Captain of the Salivation Army, and says, “And you, Digit, and you.” He leans in. “You’ve done well,” he whispers, for my ears only.

  Have I though? Alfi’s fixing me with his fiercest stare. “It dun’t matter what – I won’t go back to Tenderness. I won’t let ’em take us.”

  So that’s his beef and gravy. He thinks Virus is an Authoritariac, on account of the sharpness of his suit. He’s learned over the years to distrust any Groan in a suit. It’s understandable really.

  “Virus ain’t like that.” I offer reassurance. Last thing I need is Alfi getting in a flap and blabbing about everything. “He’s like us. Only big. Don’t be fooled by the stylishness of his threads, Virus is—”

  “Virus is a believer in free enterprise.” The Great Manager cuts over the top of me. “He believes that if you have fine things to offer, then the world has fine things to offer back. And you look like the kind of young man who has plenty to offer.” He sits on the sofa next to Alfi, not too close, so as not to brush against his grimes. “What’s your name, young fellow?”

  Alfi throws me a disconcertified look. He’s recollecting all my watchful words about never naming names, certainly never naming your own name. It’s as bad as handing yourself in. It’s why we use falsies – me, Virus, my good companion Predictiv Tex, all the rest of us. You give them your name, you’re signing yourself over.

  Put it this way. Rev up your Search Engine and tap in the words Citizen Digit. What’s going to flash up at you? Nothing about my good self, that’s for sure. Because Citizen Digit don’t have no online presence, does he? Therefore, no visibility. On the other hand, tap in the words Byron …….. (hah-ha! Didn’t think I was going to give myself away that easily, did you?) and you’ll get my whole Horrible History. Byron’s history, leastways. All fed into hard drives and weaved round the World Wide Web by Authoritariacs everywhere. Once you’re online, they’ve collared you.

  Which is why Citizen Digit is officially offline.

  So why Alfi Spar is looking to me to guide him in his answer is beyond me. Even so, I endeavour a favour – another one – by not saying Don’t tell him it’s Alfi Spar! Insteadily, I give him a hint. “Go on, new boy, show some mannerisms. Give the gentleman a name.”

  Behind his eyes, I can picture Alfi’s peanut brain cracking open its shell in an effort to think.

  I think he’s thinking of Full English: egg, bacon, beans, sausage, et cetera, et cet.

  He stretches out his arm and shakes Virus by the hand. “My name is Alfi Spar,” he says.

  Sucker.

  For a millisec, Virus’s eyes widen a little, as if he’s surprised. Then he gives a little clap. “Charming,” he smiles. He wipes his fingers clean with a tissue and clicks his fingers. “Predictiv! You
r presence, please.”

  In strolls Tex.

  Wherever you are, whatever your doings, Tex is always just the other side of the door.

  “Mr Dictiv,” says Virus, “have a word with Bones, and—”

  “Mass fry-up for the crew, yo?” says Predictiv Tex. “I’m on it.”

  Virus fixes his gaze on Alfi, like he’s trying to read him. Which ain’t hard, ’cos if Alfi Spar was a book he’d be Nursery Rhymes For Numpties. Put it this way: his thoughts come in LARGE PRINT, don’t they? Virus can see Alfi’s starvatious and zausted, which is exactly how he likes it.

  “While we’re waiting for the food, young man,” he suggests, “how about a hot bath and some clean clothes?”

  Smart. Virus knows Tex will have had his fiddly fingers in and out of Alfi’s pockets, rummaging for tiddlebits. But Virus wants a closer look. Alfi’s already surrendered his name, free of charge; let’s see what else he has on offer.

  Alfi’s directed to our luxury bathroom and dumps his toxicated threads in a pile outside the door. It’s the Digit himself who’s instructed to retrieve them, which ain’t nice, on account of Squealer-Boy’s old flakey poo, and who knows what. These fingers ain’t for dipping into that kind of dirt.

  “Get Tex to do it,” I say.

  Mistakenly stated, ain’t it? Virus’s fizzog twists and cracks like that flat screen did when I bumped into Alfi Spar. He jabs his Smartphone up at my cheek before I have time to back off, and he zaps me.

  It catches me unawares. Lightning streaks across my cheekbone and knocks me to the floor. I’m spotting stars.

  “I do apologize.” Virus’s lips sneer at me through the dazzlespots. My cheek is still burning. He fidgets with his phone, switching off its power. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear.”

  No one knows how he’s done it, but Virus has added a special app to his smartphone, that gives a nasty surprise. A Zap App. He wipes the phone clean with his hankychief, cleaning off the Digit sweat.

  He’s clear all right. The Digit ain’t had a zap from old Virus for quite a while now. The Good Citizen was forgetting himself. Answering back, like he was an equal, when he’s still only blessed with skinny kid muscles.