Nobody Saw No One

by Steve Tasane

  I stroke my fingers against my smarting cheek, back away.

  “Digit,” Virus says. He produces a clean tissue, dabs it over his frown lines, magicking back his smile. “Come here.”

  Smarting. Smarter now.

  “Here, son.”

  The Digit inches back towards where Virus is lounged on the sofa, all stately, like the Lady of the Manor. He pats the cushion next to him. “Sit.”

  I do as I’m told. The zapper was set on low voltage. I’ve seen him once zap a drunken fist-swinger with enough juice to BBQ his flesh. It’s Virus’s specially constructed gizmo. A micro-cattle prod, to keep his boys docile. Citizen Digit has just enjoyed a warning zap.

  I heed it.

  He puts his arm round my shoulder and eases me towards him. He knows the Digit’s impeccable hygiene ain’t going to get no crumbles on his holy suit. He strokes my head, soft. Sighs.

  “I wish you wouldn’t make me do that,” he whispers in my ear. “You’re the most talented of them all, Didge, you know that. You’ve done an excellent job with the new boy. Keep to the path you’re on, and you’ll do well in life. Very well.”

  I’m biting my lip. The shock’s made my eyes moist. I grit my teeth at him.

  He reaches inside his jacket pocket, slides out his smart leather wallet. Produces a twenty.

  The Digit knows enough not to snatch at it. Virus holds it in front of my face for a few seconds, crisp and clean, like it’s been spat straight out of a cash machine, Queen Elizabeth’s fizzog twinkling out at me. He tucks it into my pocket, pats my head again.

  “Go through his rags,” he repeats, full of kindliness this time. “Bring me what’s in them, then chuck them in the incinerator. And glue yourself to young Alfi Spar. Tight as you can. Do it well, Didgy-Boy, and you’ll see quite a few more of these.”

  He pats the note nestling in my jacket pocket. Smiles gently, strokes his thumb lightly against my still-sizzling cheek, letting me know to be on my way.

  Citizen Digit does as he’s told.

  Even the Barrowcloughs never had a bathroom as smart as this. The bath is so big that when I stretched out I could almost swim the backstroke. It’s got a big brick of purple soap that smells like rich ladies. A fluffy white rug under me feet.

  “Can I help you, sir?” I ask meself in the mirror. “Can I interest you in today’s special deal?”

  I smell the fry-up that’s been cooking while I had me bath. The smell of Life. Life as it’s meant to be.

  This bathroom is actually bigger than the Relaxation Room at Tenderness House.

  Call-Me Norman forces you to relax at Tenderness.

  Not that anyone ’ud ever believe it. And I tried to make them. Believe me, I tried.

  So I ran. Ran here! I’m a Cash Counter now. Me and Citizen Digit. “Might I recommend our Payday Loan, sir? It’s a deal I think you may find rather attractive?”

  I shampoo me hair. Scrub me fingernails. “Could I help you with that, madam?” Fresh undies. “No, please, madam, there’s no need to tip – Mr Virus looks after us here, exceedingly well indeed.”

  I put on me grey trousers and a yellow Cash Counters polo-shirt.

  Dead smart.

  I’m off to eat now. I’m off to eat and then I’m off to sleep like a king.

  Then I’m off to work.

  Then I’m off to eat again.

  Just watch us.

  Eat, work and sleep. Then eat again.

  Life.

  4. GOOD GRACE

  Alfi Spar is hoovertastic! He—

  “Disappears items swifter than you do, ain’t it, Didge?” Predictiv Tex speaks for us all. Six of us boys, gathered round Virus’s dining table. Virus at the head, as is his right. We’re all ever so slightly gobsmashed at the way little Alfi is suckering up sausages like a Dyson.

  Poor little Alfi-kins. If anyone was a born sucker it’s him. Literally.

  All the WhyPees at Tenderness knew about Alfi being a born sucker. He brought it on himself, always showing off the scrap of paper he reckoned was a Birthday Certificate. Without a shadow it wound the other WhyPees up. Having a mum of your own is a delicate point in any residential unit.

  The Digit fished that scrap out of Alfi’s secret pocket, while Alfi was drowning his fleas in the soapsuds.

  When I talk about scrap of paper, that is exactly what I mean. It ain’t no actual Birthday Certificate. Alfi’s mum had scrawled This little boy is called Alfi. Then she’d pinned it to his baby blanket just before waving her last goodbye to the human planet.

  Most other WhyPees reckoned Alfi’s ma died before she even managed to finish spelling his name, and he should have been named Alfie. But the Citizen’s got keener peepers, ain’t he? Alfi’s mum wanted no mistake about it. No way had she meant to write Alfie, on account of her putting a full stop to it after the i, and then giving it an underlining truth – Alfi.

  Everyone at Tenderness knew about his mum’s mortal coil uncurling ten minutes after birthing Alfi in a shop doorway.

  As if that wasn’t sad enough, he wasn’t even blessed with a second name. Nobody knew who Baby Spar’s da was – least of all Alfi’s ma. According to some of the more ignoramus WhyPees, not only was Alfi’s ma too thick to spell her own baby’s name, she was also a Sex Labourer.

  As if they’d know. It used to drive Alfi absonutly loopy, and who can blame him?

  But it was the other rumour that always pushed him over the ledge. The one about how he came by his conveniently local second name.

  Tenderness rumour-mongrels had it that Alfi’s mum was an Illegal, over from Eastern Europe, toiling for a gang from someplace like Letsbeavinya. No passport, no name, first or second, to speak of. So what were peeps expected to give little Alfi for a second name? The law says we all got to have a second name.

  I know says some Bright Spark. We ought to name him after where he was found.

  Oh yeah agrees his mate, Light Bulb. Well, where was he found then?

  Doorway of a supermarket, wasn’t it?

  Better call him Alfi Spar.

  Ha ha ha. Not.

  Told you, the boy was a loser before he was even a day old. You gotta feel sorry for him, yeah?

  Nevertheless and allthemore, while Alfi was drowning his fleas, the Digit dipped into his pockets and dug out that scrap of paper.

  And as for the Tenderness evidence that I’d deposited into his safe-keeping? Not there. I guess Alfi Spar has a brain cell or two after all.

  Let’s just hope Call-Me Norman never gets his smokey-stained fingers on it – or us. Believe me, a low-watt zap from Virus once in a blue moose is leisurelike compared to what Call-Me Norman will do if he catches us.

  Actually, the Digit hated taking Alfi’s Birthday Certificate. Alfi ain’t got nothing much to start with. Mother-memory means everything to those of us who have nothing. I wished I could have held it in safety for him, but I had to hand it over to Mr Electric Eel, didn’t I?

  So now Alfi Spar is hoovering up Virus’s bacon and eggs, and Virus has Alfi’s Birthday Certificate. Cash Counters would consider that a fair and just exchange. That Birthday Certificate is Alfi’s personal precious, ain’t it, and there shouldn’t be any real reason why Virus would want to keep it, besides his magpie tendencies.

  Except that bit of paper is Alfi Spar’s very identity.

  And that’s one of Virus’s recreationals, ain’t it – stealing peeps’ identities.

  I give it two minutes from Alfi’s last gulp of grubbings before he says to the Great Manager, “Oh, Mr Virus, sir, I wonder if I might possibly please retrieve an item of personal value from my mucky old pockets, sir?”

  And Mr Virus Sir is going to go, “Oh, I’m so sorry, dear Alf, I’m afraid we burned all your old clothings on account of them being nuclear toxical.”

  And then Alfi Spar – as the Good Citizen has seen for himself with first-eye experience – will lose all sense of reasonability. In fact, I reckon Alfi is going to go a little Ape Poo.

 
And Virus is still fidgeting with his Smartphone’s Zap App. He always has it to hand when he’s in the company of his henchboys.

  The Digit’s trying to shovel the last of his sausages down, before it all goes Armageddish.

  Food, glorious food. Me stomach’s gone to heaven. Mr Virus seems even kinder than Mr and Mrs Barrowclough.

  I wonder if he’s fostering all them other lads? Maybe he’ll foster me. Or adopt me!

  I bet he could. He runs his own business – Cash Counters is almost a bank in a way. So Mr Virus must be almost as respectable as a bank manager. He’d be sure to score highly on a Suitability Questionnaire. He must be used to filling in them kind o’ forms. There’s six of us lads sitting round stuffing our faces. A couple of ’em look younger than me. We’ve got big shiny plates like a posh restaurant, and proper napkins an ’all. Look at these knives and forks. Matching. Never seen owt like it. Not even the Barrowcloughs had matching cutlery.

  Mrs Barrowclough – “Call me Jenny,” she said, but not in a creepy Call-Me Norman way – taught us how to make apple crumble and trifle. She spent half her life in that kitchen, said it were good for us to learn to cook, ’cos it were a life skill that ’ud allus come in handy. I’d allus be helping her out. Mr Barrowclough – Doug – said that I were turning into a proper Jamie Oliver. He had his own business, making furniture, and he used to make miniature carvings for me and t’other lad they fostered. He tried teaching us how to do carvings ourselves, but I cudn’t get the hang of it. I learned to make a killer soufflé though, and he helped us design me own cookery book, ’cos he were good at calligraphy. He said it were – what? A related skill to woodcarving, and between the three of us – me, him and Jenny – we’d make a cookery book that ’ud make us famous, in our village at least.

  T’other lad used to get right narky when we worked on that cookery book. We never did finish it.

  Then at Tenderness, there were nowt nice like that going on. Only the bad stuff.

  So, yeah, this’ll do. Cash Counters’ll do us, even if Mr Virus in’t no Jenny. The trick is to not get sent back to Tenderness. Maybe if I could convince Mr Virus about the truth at Tenderness House he could speak to the authorities on our behalf. Get Tenderness House shut down and Governor Newton sacked – or maybe even arrested! What a result that’d be.

  I’m just about to ask Mr Virus what happened to me old clothes when there’s a buzzing on the wall. An intercom. All the lads freeze wi’ their forks half way to their mouths.

  That lad called Predictiv Tex – funny names they’ve all got – drops his knife and shoots a look at Mr Virus. “What if it’s the—”

  Mr Virus picks up his Smartphone and points it at Tex. “What if some of us have over-extended vocabularies?” He looks narked. He wipes his mouth with his napkin and nods at Byron. “See who it is.”

  But Byron’s frozen to his seat.

  Mr Virus waggles the phone, like a teacher making a point. “I said see who it is.”

  Byron gets up, dead nervous, and Mr Virus is gesticulating at the two younger lads. “Get those boxes up to the top office. Then stay there. Lock the door behind you. iTunes.” He looks at another boy. iTunes must be his name. “Take their plates. They were never here.”

  Everyone moves dead fast. Mr Virus shifts his attention to me. Looks like he’s thinking, but I can’t tell what.

  “It’s all right,” Byron shouts from the entry-phone. “It’s Grace. Everything’s rinky-dink.”

  Rinky-dink.

  But is it? Everyone looks like at Tenderness when one o’ the big lads has a bag o’ dope out on the table and somebody rushes in and yells Call-Me Norman’s coming!

  But there en’t no contraband here. Just egg and bacon. What’s the panic?

  “Ahhh, Grace.” Mr Virus closes his eyes, and relaxes. “Grace,” he repeats. “Digit – buzz her up. Boys!” he calls out. “Back to your seats. It’s only Grace, honouring us with a visit.”

  Mr Virus looks at me and smiles. “Alfi,” he says, “you’re in luck tonight. Grace is a dear friend of ours. It’ll be a pleasure for you to meet her.”

  All dead peculiar. Half a mo later, there’s a knock on the door. The same funny rhythm Byron used.

  “Tex.” Mr Virus clicks his fingers and Predictiv Tex leaps up and unlatches the door.

  There’s this girl standing there. She’s tall and thin – but shapely too, like the dummies you see in the window displays of lasses’ clothes shops. She’s got eyelashes long as shoelaces and earrings big as Hula Hoops. Big glossy smile an’ all, all under a big hat wi’ feathers in it. She whips it off and shakes her head, so her hair’s flying everywhere – thick long locks. The most amazing hair ever.

  “Grace,” Mr Virus smiles. “Do come in. You’ve missed dinner, I’m afraid.”

  “Ain’t ’ungry, am I?” She steps in, unbuttoning a long black leather coat. “All right boys? Safe?”

  En’t I seen her before somewhere?

  Everyone starts jabbering at the same time. Grace this and Grace that. Leaping from their seats, offering her bits o’ sausage.

  Mr Virus lifts his hand. He holds it still in the air. Dead still. Looks like he’s getting a headache.

  “Oi!” Citizen Digit snaps. Everyone shuts it, sits back down. Mr Virus casts his eyes across the table at us, making sure we’re all quiet and still, then he nods at Grace.

  She grins back at him. “Yer tribe’s growin’ more critical every day. ’Ow many nephews you actually got, Vi?”

  Mr Virus gestures to one o’ the boys, who straight away stands, so Grace can take his seat. Grace gives the boy her coat to take. She’s wearing a pink jumpsuit and when she sits down her perfume floats over us. She smells like the soap in Mr Virus’s bathroom. Like flowers.

  “Grace,” says Mr Virus, “meet Alfi Spar. He’s Cash Counters’ latest employee. Alfi?”

  He looks at me. Grace looks at me. They’re all looking at me.

  Don’t muck it up.

  “Hello, miss,” I say, sounding like a Year Three girl. Feel me cheeks going all red. Tex and the others start sniggering.

  “You can call me Grace, sweetheart.” She beams at me. “Whole postcode does.” She shakes me hand. Me whole face is bright red now. She turns back to Mr Virus.

  “’E’s a darlin’ this one, ain’t he?”

  “Well,” says Mr Virus, “a friend of the Citizen’s is a friend of ours.”

  “Ain’t it,” she says. “Wot’s ’is talent, then?”

  Mr Virus sort o’ twinkles at me. “His face, Grace. Just look at that face. Did you ever see such an honest angel face in your life?”

  She nods quietly, biting her lower lip like she’s thinking it over. “You wouldn’t suss it, then,” she says, “that ’e’s a little finger-dipper.”

  What? It’s Byron who’s always nicking stuff, not me.

  She grabs me arm and reaches up inside the sleeve o’ me Cash Counters shirt. Her nails tickle. I squirm away.

  “Sensitive, ain’t yer?” She pulls her hand out, holding a gold cigarette lighter. “Mus’ be the cool metal against yer skin.”

  How’d that get there?

  “Yo!” yells iTunes. “My lighter! You gettin’ crashed, New Boy!”

  He comes charging at us like he’s going to bash us up, but Grace steps between us and somehow gets iTune’s hands in hers and dances him away from us. “What’s your beef, iTunes? Yer lighter’s still in your pocket, like for ever.”

  iTunes reaches into his pocket and brings out the gold lighter. He laughs.

  Neat. How did she make it disappear and then reappear? She’s a magician.

  “Where’s your brains?” Citizen Digit says to iTunes, putting a hand round his shoulder, and giving him a friendly pat. “You know Grace’s tricksies well enough by now.”

  iTunes grins at Citizen Digit and goes back to his seat.

  “Digit,” says Mr Virus, “give iTunes his lighter back.”

  Grace pulls open the Digit’s jack
et and wags her finger at him, like he’s a naughty boy. He looks all shame-faced – though I can tell he’s just playing – and puts his hand in his pocket and bring out the gold lighter. “Apologetics, iTunes.” He shrugs.

  “iTunes!” Mr Virus snaps his fingers. “You need to sharpen your wits. A blind man could have seen that one coming.”

  I can’t help but laugh.

  “Good times?” Grace ruffles me hair and it feels like she’s sprinkling stardust on me head.

  Mr Virus gives a long, loud sigh, like he’s playing a character in Eastenders. “Digit.” He shakes his head. “You’re a little slow tonight also.”

  Citizen Digit pats his pockets. Looks like he’s missing summat of his own! “What a liberty!” he laughs, turning towards Grace.

  “Uh-huh.” She holds up her palm. “Young Alfi needs that crinkle much more than you.”

  What? Me?

  Oh. There’s twenty quid sticking out me pocket.

  I’m rich!

  “Betcha can’t pull the same stunt with me, Angel-Face,” Grace taunts us. She turns round and wiggles her bottom at us. There’s a wallet sticking out her back pocket. “Come and ’ave a go – if you think you’re soft enough.”

  I dunno what happens, really. We’re all dancing around playing Pick the Pocket, dipping our fingers in and out, having a proper tickle, falling about in hysterics. Even Mr Virus is joining in.

  I en’t much cop at it, get me fingers slapped a couple o’ times. But twice I manage to get a hanky from Mr Virus wi’out him noticing, and once from Grace. Unless she’s letting us win deliberate? And I manage to smuggle a slice o’ bacon down Tex’s sock. He never predicted that, did he? I snatch a plastic crocodile from one o’ the younger lads and run round the table, and under it, and over the top of a chair and he still can’t catch us – until Byron jumps on me head and flicks cold baked beans down me ear.

  After a while, I start to conk out. I’m flat on me back while everyone’s still mucking about. Me eyes need a bit of a rest. Next thing, Byron is leaning over us and he’s waving the twenty in front o’ me. But … that’s impossible! I stuffed it deep inside me trouser pockets.