Nobody Saw No One

by Steve Tasane

  Tex is looking deadly pale.

  “Nah, blud,” he says, shortly before the stop for Cash Counters. “There’s contacts I might check with, get me? Have some knowledge to share. Find where your friend is hanging.”

  My friend, all of a sud.

  “You can let Virus know the Dictiv is on the case. He can rely on me, yeah?”

  I’m saying nothing.

  “I ain’t bailing,” he babbles. “You know it, yeah? I just – just got a lead or two I should pursue.”

  Bus starts slowing down for our stop. “Tex,” I say, “it’s better to risk a small zapping now, than have Virus save it all up for you. The Great Manager ain’t no idiot.”

  But he’s got his gaze fixed out the window. “I’m going to check out the Manor House crew. See if they’ve heard anything. Tell Virus – tell Virus: Tex is doin’ his duty. Yeah. Doin’ his duty. You got that?”

  I stay with Tex for two more stops, in case of Sherlocks tugging our tails. As I hop off the bus, loaded down with all our ill-gottens, I’m sad for him. I liked him. But I know we’ll never see Tex back at Operations again. Virus is a man of discipline.

  And yeah, if you want the God’s honest, Citizen Digit is sweating it. We’ve compromised the whole Cash Counters set-up. Virus is going to go zap-happy. Needless to say, the Digit will be on the receiving end of Dictiv’s share.

  But you got to screwtinize the bigger picture. The Manor House crew ain’t fools. Anybody running out of Virus’s Operations is contaminated goods. Ain’t nobody going to touch Tex now.

  He is even more on his lonesome than Alfi Spar.

  Nevertheless, Citizen Digit ain’t simply going to stroll into a major zapping, any more than he’s going to show his face to the Sherlocks or the SS. For certain, as I hover over the road opposite Operations, I’m spying for any sign of the Sherlocks. If Alfi has scattered them a trail of crumbs back to Cash Counters, no way am I walking back into custardy.

  What a mess. I should never have brought the Blabber back to Cash Counters. I should never have gone out of my way to film the Jim’llfixits to warn him of the danger.

  If they get me back to Tenderness, it’s my life over.

  As I scan the street, I wish I could tag Alfi Spar with the blame. Or Predictiv Tex. Wish I could blame Virus or even Jackson Banks.

  And talk of the demon, I see JB’s latest set of wheels mounted on the kerb outside Cash Counters. I can tell it’s Jackson’s ’cos it’s illegibly parked and the windows are blacked out. He likes it that way, so he can see out, but you can’t see in. JB’s got no licence to drive and he buys his motors cash in hand. When they get clamped, he just leaves ’em, like busted toys left at the end of a garden.

  Maybe I’ll give it a miss. Last thing I want is a throttling from Jackson Banks as well. I’ll spend the night on the buses. Face up to Virus in the morning.

  Not safe in Yorkshire, not safe in London. Caught between the Devil and a deep blue seizure. Wretched as Byron, yet suddenly in the doo-doo as Digit. I need to disappear altogether. I need—

  A shadowy figure is lurking dead suspish outside Cash Counters entrance. He’s got a hat pulled down and a collar pulled up, but there’s no disguising that fizzogful of hair perving out into the night air.

  My kneebones turn to custard and I topple against a wheelie bin, sliding down into its dog-wee shadows. I’m here in Seven Sisters Road. But I’m looking at Governor Norman Newton.

  I wedge myself deeper into the shadows. Suddenly desperate for the loo.

  Call-Me Norman. But how? And why?

  This is the worst development ever. Call-Me must have tracked us down. Someone must have blabbed.

  Alfi. Boy probably wrote down a forwarding address, right underneath WE’RE GOING TO TELL. Yeah. AND YOU CAN FIND US AT…

  No. No matter how football-stadium-sized Alfi’s mouth is, he didn’t even know Cash Counters existed, never mind where it is. If by any chance he blabbed everything to the Sherlocks, I suppose they might have contacted Tenderness, but even the Seven Sisters pavement-plodders wouldn’t just immediately tell all to Norman Newton. Not with Alfi-Boy yelling Jimmy This and Jimmy That all over the cop shop.

  What about the evidence? Alfi swore he had the evidence somewhere safe. But then he said he gave the iPod to his Case Worker.

  Citizen Digit, you need to get your brain in gear.

  Think. You need more inf. How do you get it? You do what you always do. Do what you do best.

  Citizen Digit Esquire’s Incredible Disappearing Act.

  Oh, I’m impressive. I’d applaud myself if my middle name wasn’t Humility.

  So, I watch while Call-Me Norman stands by the Cash Counters side door, waiting to be buzzed up. I navigate four lines of traffic jam while Call-Me pushes the door open and steps inside. I glide over the pavement and wedge my Nikes into the doorframe just before the door clunks back into its latch. Softly softly.

  Newton’s stagnant smokiness creeps into my nostrils as I stand there, torn in two. I could disappear, for real this time. Go off after Predictiv Tex, never step foot in Cash Counters again. Or I can step up, refresh my vicinity with Call-Me Norman and let what must be, be.

  I step up, and in.

  It’s late. Most of Virus’s young henchies’ll be beddybyes, aside from his overnight hacking team, busily tap-tapping in the Techno Room.

  Stair creak. The Digit is convinced Virus has no stair carpet in order to assistificate his earflaps with intruder-detecting. But Air-Max got extra bounce, ain’t it? Don’t the shoebox claim these trainers are like walking on air? Speshly when inched along each step-edge by Twinkletoes Digit himself. Hah, invisibility ain’t a power any fool can develop. It takes dedicated Olympics-style training.

  I’m hearing voices as I inch my way up, figuring how many, who, where.

  Virus: tetchy.

  Call-Me: blunt, businesslike.

  And Jackson Banks: bonkers.

  Busyness as usual then. They’re gathered round Virus’s precious dinner table. I gently lay down my ill-gottens and drift towards the open door.

  I look through.

  Oooh, this bit gives even the Digit the willies. It’s like my eyeballs have floated out of their sockets and are roaming freely round the room, taking the closest peek-a-boo at the assembled. My gaze is right in Jackson Banks’s chortling mush, but he can’t see me. All he can see is whatever opportunity for gain is in front of his face. In this instance, Governor Norman Newton. Virus. If he clocked I was there he’d be instantly zippitty-zapping away. But his focus is on Call-Me’s filthy fingers and the cigarette burning a long line of ash, threatening to fall on his luvverly varnish. He keeps shifting the ashtray from spot to spot, try and have it in position for when the ash drops.

  Obnob, leaning against the wall, would chew my face off if he got the slightest sniff of me. But Invisible Digit don’t smell, does he? Odourless boy. And poor old Crow, slumped next to Obnob, hoping he’s not going to get nipped by the dog or thrashed by Banks.

  Lastly, Grace. How come Call-Me knows where to find Grace? I thought she was one of the runaways. Cash Counters is supposed to be a safe house. Has the Digit been played for a fool all along?

  Then me and Alfi are doomed.

  Ain’t nothing to do but sink into a cooler space. Go all tranceydental.

  And like this, in this state of coma-ness, sliding gently into listening position outside the door, Citizen Digit becomes all ears. And this is what he earwigs:

  “How much?” Jackson.

  “Three hundred.” Call-Me Norman.

  There’s an awkward pause. Call-Me’s taking a long toke on his cigarette.

  “In total?”

  “Per girl.” You can hear Call-Me Norman’s irritation. I picture him, reaching for a biscuit. Smoke and munch.

  “I’m not particularly happy about these negotiations taking place on my premises,” says Virus, wiggling uncomfy.

  “Mute it,” says Banks.

  “Shall I remi
nd you,” says Call-Me, “of how you obtained the funds to set up this business of yours, Mr Virus?”

  Virus says nothing to that. But it gets the Digit wondering. Virus and Call-Me have history?

  “Once you have the girls,” Call-Me continues, to Banks, “the profit is in perpetuity.”

  “In English,” Banks demands.

  “They’ll keep earning for ever.”

  Call-Me’s munching and crunching. Nervousness, ain’t it? He likes to bite, snap and swallow, sharklike. None of this sogginess. How come he’s so nervy?

  Banks, ain’t it. Obnob gives a whine.

  “Hungry doggie,” says JB.

  There’s a snaffling sound as Norman Newton tosses the beast a Bourbon. Gone in one gulp.

  “Hungry, not peckish. Starving doggie.”

  I’m hearing the entire packet unrustling, followed by grizzling, snarfling sounds like when peeps get eaten down in a zombie movie. Bourbons demolished by Obnob.

  “All over my floor!” whimpers Virus, but no one takes any notice.

  “It’s three girls,” Call-Me goes on. “That’ll be nine hundred pounds, plus transportation fee. Call it a straight grand. They’re all sixteen, still children, but legal.” He pauses for effect. “That means legally they are adults. Once they officially leave Tenderness House, they’re off the system. Social Services don’t need to bother with them any more. Effectively, they won’t exist. Nobodies. Gorgeous nobodies with no home, no family, no job. They need you, Banksy, as much as you want them.”

  Banksy.

  “Eight hundred then. All in.”

  “I won’t take less than a grand. They won’t need any training. They’re already good at what they do.”

  I feel sick.

  “Well, Banksy?” Call-Me wheedles on. “The poor girls are going to be homeless. They need a – a Responsible Adult.”

  “Hah,” go Virus and Grace, in synch.

  There’s a thunderous silence. I picture Jackson’s eyes burning into Grace’s face; Obnob’s glaring at Virus. An awkward moment.

  “As I say: one grand. Non-negotiable.”

  “If we’re done,” says Virus, taking JB’s further silence to mean an agreement’s been reached, “perhaps you could take yourselves back to where you belong. I have tidying up to do.” There’s a shiveriness to his voice when he says the word tidying. It ain’t just his varnish that’s tarnished. He’s got a mucky stomach.

  I always knew the kind of nastiness JB had Grace up to. Now Banks is expanding the business. How can they do it, those girls?

  But the Digit’s seen the look in Grace’s eyes when Jackson Banks’s horseyplay gets a little too rough – she’s been on the rough end of his tumbles. I dunno why she never just disappears.

  “That’s just it, Mr Virus,” Call-Me goes on, emphasizing V’s name like he’s mocking it, like he knows what Virus is really called. What he used to be called. “I didn’t arrange my business meet with Jackson to be here just for the convenience. I need to talk to you too. About boys.”

  “No.” Virus is getting riled now. “That’s not my type of business. Go elsewhere. I’ve told you.”

  “I need to talk to you about missing boys,” Call-Me clarifies. “Absconders. Trouble-causers.”

  The Digit’s burning ears start flaming. Virus gives an embarrassed little cough.

  “We’re all well aware of your, your kindness towards young runaways. There’s one runaway in particular who wants to stir things up. Stir things up for me, and for Banksy here. And what’s trouble for us, is trouble for you.”

  Another pause. My heart’s thumping through my chest, loud as a heavy bass through paper-thin walls. What’s he bringing Banks into it for? We’ve not crossed Banks. I’m not suicidal. Obnob gives another whine. His fight-tattered ears have picked up my heart-thump. And I imagine Grace, through the wall, her own heart speeding up to match mine.

  Virus leans in towards Call-Me Norman. “Names?” he asks.

  “First boy: Spar,” says Norman. “Alfi. Alfi Spar. He wants to bring us all down.”

  I picture Virus casting the tiniest glance in Grace’s direction. They say nothing, but Jackson catches it. He clocks it. He giggles. “Then we’ll bring him down. Hidey seeky. Catchy monkey.”

  “Don’t know of him,” says Virus, carefully. “Spar, you say? I’ll put the word out.”

  “He’s not to be hurt though,” Call-Me insists. “He’s to be brought back. Back to Tenderness.” He looks at Jackson Banks. “In full working order. You understand?”

  “What’s the prize?” says Banks.

  “Keeping out of jail.” He waits for this to sink in. “He’s a lovely-looking boy. Mop of blond hair. Blushes at the drop of a hat. Eyes like summertime. Make sure he stays that way.”

  JB snorts, but Call-Me professes not to hear it. He goes on. “Alfi Spar got hold of some incriminating material. Got as far as handing it to Social Services. We got it back, just in time, but it was a tricky job persuading them we’d caught the boy, after the runaround he gave us. Now we need to make it true, before they become suspicious. That boy must not fall into the hands of the police or the Social. We need him back where he belongs.”

  As if.

  “And the second boy,” Call-Me continues. Then he says it. My real name. “He’s been gone for over a month now. Mouthy. You might know him.”

  “Byron Blank Space? No, don’t think we’ve come across him.”

  “If we get him,” says Jackson Banks, “return to sender?”

  “No.” Call-Me Norman goes all adamantium. “Dispose of him. He deleted his entire file – makes it easier for us. He’s no one. And no good to anyone.”

  “Price on his head?” All Banks thinks about is profit.

  Call-Me sighs. “He’s trouble for you as much as Alfi Spar. But I tell you what. You make Byron Blank Space disappear permanently, we’ll owe you a girl. Gratis.”

  “Deal,” says Banks. “The game is on.” He rubs his hands together, gleeful.

  I can hear Call-Me rummaging around in a bag. “And you know what? Here’s an added incentive to help you along a little bit. To do the job properly.”

  “Ooooh,” says Jackson Banks, like an over-excited kid. “It’s lovely this.”

  What is?

  “It’s a Glock,” says Call-Me. “A gift, from a policeman friend. Use it wisely.”

  A gun. He’s handed a gun to Jackson Banks? Citizen Digit is sick to his stomach. Luckily, Byron Blank Space was killed off a long, long time ago.

  I’m already dead.

  A gunshot blasts my eardrums and a sulphur smell trickles through the doorway. My hands immediately crawl all over my body, search for a bullet wound. Inside the room, Obnob is whimpering in terror.

  “Banks!” yells Virus, forgetting himself. “Are you insane?”

  “Use it when you need it, Jackson!” snaps Norman Newton. “It’s not a toy.”

  Another deafening blast.

  “Ooops,” says Jackson Banks. “Twitchy finger. How many bullets, you say? I’ll need plenty.”

  “That’s enough,” says Call-Me, in his sternest Governor Voice.

  BANG!

  Each time, I feel a bullet blasting through my heart.

  “What are you doing to my wall?” I’ve never heard Virus so angry. “Please, just get out of here. Go on! Leave!”

  There’s a silence. I picture Jackson Banks raising the gun, aiming it, slow and steady, at Virus’s sweating face.

  “That’s enough, Banksy,” says Call-Me, again. This time soft, gentle-like.

  “All right, all right, keep your hair on. I’m going for a slash.”

  Jackson Banks strides out of the room and walks right past where I’m huddled. If he looks up, I’m dead. But he’s too busy admiring his new weapon.

  In the room, Virus and Norman Newton are whispering together. My double-plus lugholes pick it all up:

  Virus: “Are you insane? You’d be as well giving a grenade to a five year old.”<
br />
  Newton: “Nonsense. You’re too mistrusting of Jackson. He needs his outlets.”

  Virus: “Outlets? I’ve seen the state of some of the boys who’ve come away from Tenderness House. You and your outlets.”

  A pause.

  Newton: “Banksy always had a liking for weaponry. It’s part of his nature. And we fulfil our remit. We satisfy the Reliance Plus shareholders – no thanks to certain persons syphoning off company funds. It might have been ten years ago, but I still know the name of that person, Mr Virus. Don’t forget it.”

  “I retired my post.”

  “Nobody retires from Tenderness. It’s a post for life.”

  “My role was only administrative. I didn’t do what you did.”

  Another pause.

  “I thought you were wiser than this. It’s as well that I have Jackson Banks on hand.”

  “Banks doesn’t obey you.”

  “What? Banks obeys you?”

  Grace: “Stop it, both of you. ’E’s comin’ back.”

  The Mad Dog almost stands on my fingers, he stomps so close. He’s still waving the gun about like he’s Billy the Kid.

  “Well,” Banks says to the assembled, “that’s me a couple of pints lighter. Don’t worry, Fairy Cakes, I washed me hands. Come on, Grace, we got a couple of boys to hunt down. Happy days.”

  “Have a nice evening, Mr Virus,” says Newton, all gloatful.

  For once, Citizen Digit is at a loss. I sink into the wallpaper as they make their way out. I smell ’em coming, Call-Me first with his stale tobacco clinging to him like rot; Obnob, like stewed meat; and Jackson, ripe gym sweat. Grace is the only one of them who smells good.

  I’m cowering in the shadows. I’m a dead boy. The only reason I’m so invisible is because I’m the Ghost of Myself.

  They trail past. If Norman Newton turns and sees me, Jackson will have me full of holes and gym-bagged within the minute.