by Steve Tasane
Who the culprit? Swiper Sniper every single time.
Oh, that boy was the Devil Incarcerate. He thought it was hilarious. He was like a naughty five year old, in a fifteen-year-old psychopath’s body. Jackson Banks reminded me of him – a lost boy rummaging round in an old lag’s headcase.
I ain’t claiming I myself am Sainted, but just to be front-up: the Digit never ever pinched from other WhyPees, only from Groans and PLCs. I got principalities, ain’t I?
And Sniper would deny every single accusation until he was a blue-faced Smurf. Ain’t nothing you could do to make him fess up.
In partnership, this was due to his handiness with his fists. Sniper thought nothing of pounding the oomph out of those littler than him.
So, one day, Alfi Spar’s Birthday Certificate went walkies and we all of us got the shock of our lunchtimes. Tadpole Alfi marched right up to Sniper the Viper and demanded, “Give it back.”
Did I mention that Alfi Spar is as stringy as a piece of string?
“Ain’t got it,” Sniper sneered. Alfi hadn’t even said what it was. “Anyway, even if I did have it, what would you do about it?”
Alfi’s eyes literally changed shade, from grey-blue, to a righteous bright blue. “I’ll tell!” he said. He was shaking with indignancy.
Everybody laughed. We couldn’t help it. Stupid Squealer.
Sniper actually snorted.
He towered over Mumsy-Boy by a good ruler’s worth. But you know what they say about height not being the long and tall of it? Alfi’s heart was bigger than Sniper’s any day.
But Sniper doesn’t see that, does he? He gets that sneery, snidey-faced look when there’s going to be unpleasantries.
He sticks his chin out at Alfi Spar. “Don’t know why you’re so vexed, Spar. You leave your jacket lying around, means I’m entitled to go poking round in it.” (That’s Sniper’s kind of insane logistics and in Tenderness, it was true.) “Means I took it legitimate, don’t it? It’s you who’s the illegitimate one, ain’t you, Spar?”
You should have seen Alfi Spar’s fizzog. He had that look he always gets when anyone disses his dear dead mum. First time I ever seen it, and impressive too. Like he wants to strangulate your windpipes. Sniper was right though; Alfi’s middle name’s Bastardo.
“Shut up,” Alfi says.
But Sniper snipes on. “Hey, Alfi, ain’t it true your whore of a mother dropped you in the doorway of Lidl, and you should really be called Alfi Lidl?”
Alfi says nothing to this.
All the other WhyPees are watching keenly. It was about time Alfi Spar learned his place.
“Good job your mum didn’t snuff it outside of an Aldi. Imagine that. You’d be called Alfi Aldi. Harsh.”
Quack quack. Time to get ducking.
Alfi snaps. He grabs a chair and demolishes it against Sniper’s leg.
Despite his hugeness, Sniper’s instantly grounded. He reaches up to try and get his sledgehammer hands round Alfi’s throat, but Alfi smacks him back down with what’s left of the chair. Carackajack – the wood splinters zackly like Sniper’s shinbone.
Alfi’s hand darts through Sniper’s pockets and in two seconds flat he has his precious scrap of paper back in his grubbies.
Then Barry comes charging in and you think he’s going to bend Alfi into a position of restraint. But, no, we all sit jaw-dropped as Barry grabs a hold of Sniper’s collar and drags him away in the direction of the Relaxation Room. The Relaxation Room is where they lock you when you need to seriously relax.
None of us breathes a word. Then there’s the sharp tang of stale tobacco. I look round and I see Call-Me Norman standing in the doorway, with his arms folded, staring at Alfi Spar as if there’s nobody else in the room.
Alfi’s blushing, either from the exertion of biffing Sniper, or embarrassments. His blond mop’s all ruffled from the scuffle. Call-Me’s got a greedy glint in his eye like he’s anticipating a whole pack of Bourbons.
Alfi Spar smiles feebly back at him like a dumb donkey.
The rest of us don’t know where to look. It’s deeply disconcerting. Call-Me keeps on beaming all licky-licky at Alfi, and Alfi’s going redder and redder.
We can all tell. Call-Me loves that blush.
“Spar,” he says, “come to my office.”
Off his box or not, the Digit knows it’s time for Alfi Spar to do some wisening up.
10. ANGEL TEARS
Next day, the Governor gave us an iPod – all o’ me own. I was dead suspicious at first, after what happened wi’ the Barrowcloughs and the mobile phone, and I cudn’t understand why the Governor ’ud be giving us gifts, specially since we weren’t even supposed to have iPods.
He said, “It’s a reward for good behaviour.”
But I han’t been a good lad, had I? Everybody knew that Sniper were one o’ Call-Me Norman’s favourites, so how come I were getting rewarded for bashing him up?
“For maintaining order,” he went on. He reached out and stroked me chin between his finger and thumb, dead creepy. His fingers were yellow, from his smoking. Then he took me hand, placed the iPod in me palm and folded me fingers over it. His hand were twice the size o’ mine. It were like me fingers had been swallowed up by his fist.
He dismissed us and I went straight off to the washroom and scrubbed meself.
So I’m sitting in the Social Room later on, listening to the iPod, blocking out all the stupidity o’ the place, when another fight broke out. You cudn’t get away from it. Least this time it had nowt to do wi’ me. Two lasses, scrapping over some lad. So I turned up me volume and turned me back on it.
I see the Head Carer Barry come rushing out of his side office wi’ a face like thunder. He looked dead mad, but I’d seen the way he liked manhandling the YPs. He were well up for it.
As the scrapping in the Social Room got bigger, I happened to look towards Barry’s office, and there were Byron. All of a sudden, like. It were as if he just magicked hisself there. He were poking around Barry’s desk, which meant he were going to get sanctioned. I dunno why – he wun’t o’ done the same for us – but I went in to warn him.
“Byron!” I hissed.
“Citizen Digit,” he corrected us.
“What are you doing?”
He chuckled. “I been waiting for this moment,” he said. He had Barry’s laptop open and were going into the private files. I cudn’t believe it.
“Byron!” I hissed again, but he weren’t taking no notice. So I said, “What are you up to?”
“It’s everyone’s files, ain’t it? I’m looking for someone. For when I get out. Someone who can help.”
“They’re letting you out?” This were news to me.
He gave a snort. “Yeah,” he said, “they got bored with me and said I could go. Here she is,” he said. I looked at the screen and there were a picture of a girl, the type of picture they take of you when you first arrive at Tenderness. The Usual Suspect.
“She’s nice,” I said. I looked at the date. It were taken about five years back.
“She’s in London now,” he went on. “Some of the WhyPettes reckon if you can find her, she’ll help look after you.”
“How do you mean?”
“When I escape.”
“What!”
“She knows places where you can stay. Safe places.”
And he’s printing out her picture on the office printer. It were making a right noise. I’m getting panicked, ’cos if Barry found us, he’d kill us. Somehow though, I cudn’t tear meself away.
“Print one for me,” I say. She really were dead pretty.
But he shook his head. “What,” he said, “and have you waving it all over the shop for Call-Me Norman to see? No way.”
“Aww, go on.” But he’s squinting at the screen. He’s looking at a bit that says Present Location. It says Seven Sisters and I wonder if she’s got family. Maybe she’s got sisters same age as me.
“What’s her name?” I say, as he’s shoving her picture in his pocket.
He gives a big grin. “Grace,” he says.
The murderous kick-off in the Social Room was showing no signs of diminimising. Barry Gorilla-Hands enjoyed that particular perk of the job.
So even though the Digit’s no technical geek, the file dealing with the case histories of the Prisoners of Tenderness was simply unmissably opportunistic. Further fun was to be had.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” wimped Alfi-Boy, “we’ll get into trouble.”
But I’d already opened up the Byron file. All of his horrible case history was there, mocking me in bold black and white. My younger, pathetic mug frowning up at me. Goodbye, loser. I pressed delete.
“What you doing?” Squealer-Boy was so shocked.
“Byron Blank Space is no more.” I looked at Alfi Spar with deadly earnestness. “From now on, you must only address me by the name Citizen Digit.”
Alfi looked less than impressed. Sure, it was only one file of hundreds. But it was Call-Me Norman’s file. The one that counted. I went on, “And soon, Citizen Digit will be free!”
I opened up the Alfi Spar file. Least he could do was a bit of tampering of his own. “Let’s see what we can do about your case history, while we’re here.”
But he started trying to tug my hand away, fully panic-attacked. He’d be terrified of his own bad breath, that boy. “No!” he was going. “No! We can’t!”
“Oh, indeedly?” says me, clicking away like a fury. “But ain’t you, Mr Innocence, always proclaiming yourself a victim of framing? This is your history, Alfi. One version at least. Don’tcha want the opp to rewrite it?”
I flipped the laptop so he could see the screen, and there was his file in all its gory.
“Dun’t matter,” said Alfi-Boy. “I am the victim of a Great Miscarriage of Justice.” He pointed at the screen, where it boasted: Reason For Relocation to Tenderness House. In the little box was typed up one word: THEFT. “But even so,” he went on, “you can’t mess wi’ this. It’s against the rules.”
At the bottom of the page, to prove the truth of all this, was one electronic autograph:
Approved by: Governor Norman A. Newton.
“You could just delete that one word,” I tempted him. “Replace THEFT with something more suitable. Like Needs constant supervision due to lack of life skills.”
“That en’t funny,” he sulked.
“Aww, go on. Just delete it. Then you can type what you like.”
I could tell he was tempted. “Should I?” he said.
“Shouldn’t you?” said the Digit.
“No, it en’t right,” said Alfi.
“Thief,” says I, all cruelsome. “Stinky thief.” If this boy was going to default the document, he was going to have to do it himself. It was his life, not mine.
“Errr,” fumbled Alfi, “ahh.”
“Forget it then,” I teased.
But he just stood over it like Chief Ditherer. I took a quick glance down the corridor. Down in the Social Room, Barry was rolling on the floor, WWE-ing them rough girls.
“What could I replace it with?” said Alfi. “I can’t leave it blank, can I?”
“Run away!” I yelled, all of a sud.
“Ahh!” Alfi yelled back, and scowled as I laughed at my little joke.
“Type: runaway,” I rectified. Alfi always hates it when I pull those kind of crackers on him.
But suddenly he seemed to blank out. Just stood there, squitzing at the screen.
“What?” says I, but he don’t say nothing back, just keeps on squitzing like he’s seen Jesus or Michael Jackson or whatnot. I follow his eyes and I see a box that says: Name of Mother. And in it is typed: KATARIINA UNKNOWN.
“Katariina,” he purrs, taking his time over the two i’s, enjoying the sound good and proper. “Katariina,” he repeats. “Katariina.”
From Alfi’s rants, I always assumed they’d told him his mother’s name wasn’t known.
“Katariina,” he purred again, like a hypnotic kitty.
“I guess Alfi’s a letter down, but your mum’s got one extra, so that balances out.”
He didn’t answer, and then I saw he had a tear trickling down his cheek. I suppose it probably must have been a bit moving, suddenly finding out what your mum was called, after all that time. Then I saw he had tears trickling down both cheeks. The Digit’s a bit emotionally embarrassed. I looked back down the corridor, hoping Barry might be on his way back, but he was still rolling round with the Psycho Girls.
“Come on.” I start to hint we maybe should get out of there, and I see Squealer’s chin all trembling, and the tears are getting worse. I’m reaching into my pockets, seeing if I ain’t got a tissue for him, and he only starts moaning, doesn’t he?
Then he starts wailing, good and proper. Next thing I know, he’s got snot coming out of his nostrils, and his shoulders are shaking too.
The Good Citizen’s never seen anyone sob as much as this before. It’s a veritable tsunami of tears. I lay my hand on his back, dead gentle, try and help him through it.
Through the tears and sobbing, he says again, “Katariina,” only it’s all in a gurgle and he sounds like he’s drowning. In his own tears.
“Come on,” I say, even more gentle and kindly than the first time. But he can’t stop crying, can he? He’s all choked up.
What he needs is a surname, added on to Katariina. A proper one instead of a supermarket chain. I wish I could do the opposite of delete – add his real, lost name to his file. But I can’t. So I stand there, don’t I, like a dingbat, and make there there noises of reassurance, and keep patting his back, gentle as I can.
*
I know who I am. I am the son of Katariina. I know me mother’s name. I am Alfi Spar, son of Katariina.
If she has a first name, I can find her second name. She’s no longer Unknown Unknown. She’s Katariina. And when I get out of here, when I can live me life for meself, I can find who she was.
Katariina Somebody. My mother is Somebody.
When I find her name, I’ll know mine. Nobody’ll make jokes any more about us having a shop sign for a name.
I’m only Alfi Spar for now. Tomorrow – sometime – I’ll be Somebody.
11. THE JIMMYS
Alfi Spar was doomed.
The Digit has seen many a WhyPee in a dreadful state. I’ve seen acts of violence and destruction, the head-buttering of Carers, the smashing of fists, the slashing of wrists, rainbows of bruises and overdoses of booze. Life is hard. I walked away from Alfi that afternoon knowing that the boy didn’t have the strength in him to survive what was hanging round his next corner.
The Digit kept his nose to the ground. Sniffed what was afoot and heard the furtives. That night was going to be another party night.
The Jimmys. Alfi Spar was perfect fodder for them – without family, friends or respectabilities. Their big party was going to freak him out, sure enough, and then they’d put him down. Right down.
The Digit was outta there anyway, but Alfi had to get himself out of Tenderness House too, or he was going to end up such a damage case that he’d never be allowed back on the outside.
The Digit knew, because Byron himself hadn’t been in much of a better state. Only the Incredible Citizen Digit knew how to survive.
So, even though he didn’t deserve it, on account of being a misery-guts goody-two-boots cry-baby snob, I decided – at great risk to my good self – to give Alfi a bit of a hand.
There was only one option. I had to invite him to join Citizen Digit in his Greatest of Escapes.
“You’re nuts,” I said. “How’re you gonna escape anyway? Do you reckon it’s really any better – out there?”
Byron had snuck up to us in the yard during afternoon break. He cudn’t leave us alone, could he?
“Listen up,” he said. “You remember in the newspapers, all that stuff about that freak Jimmy Savile?”
I had nowt to say to that. All of us had heard that horrible stuff. Byron knew that well
enough. So he went on. “In all of them children’s homes, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I said. So what was he getting at?
“Well, it’s like that here.”
And he told us, all about it. How he reckoned that Call-Me Norman were grooming us, setting us up. He told us what Sniper and some o’ them other WhyPees had been having to do to get all their so-called rewards. How Call-Me would have “parties” in his lounge at night, with all his posh friends coming round. How the WhyPees and WhyPettes would provide the entertainment.
I’d never heard such a load o’ rubbish. I stood there, shaking me head at him. “It’s against the law, in’t it. They can’t make you do owt if you don’t want to. Anyway, even if you did want to, for rewards or whatever, it’s still against the law. We’re only kids.”
“Doesn’t make any difference,” he said. “They make you do it.”
Like he knew all about it. Byron reckoned if he went round calling himself Citizen Digit he could come out with any nonsense and it made it true. But he din’t know. How could he? He were just trying to freak us out.
“No,” I said. “I wun’t let ’em. Not for an iPod. Not for owt.”
He laughed at us, din’t he? Like I were a stupid littl’un.
“Anyway –” I weren’t having it “– if they tried any o’ that stuff, they’d get in massive trouble wi’ the police, wun’t they?”
He laughed louder. Right in me face.
“I don’t believe you,” I said. “You’re just saying it ’cos you’re jealous, ’cos I got given an iPod.”
The trouble were, he had a funny look in his eye, dead serious, like. And he grabbed me arm. “I’ll prove it, if you like,” he said. “I’ll show you. Tonight. You can see with your own eyeballs.”
Din’t I have enough to worry about? Why wun’t folk just leave us alone?
“No. Forget it,” I said. “This conversation is over. Right?”
He gave us a dirty look. Like he thought I were dead pathetic. Not worth the effort. And he let it drop.
*
You know what? I was outta there anyway. Tenderness House was horrible enough even without taking the Jimmys into consideration. But the mood around the place the day after one of their parties was too miserable to bear. The place stank.