Nobody Saw No One (2 page)

Just as mad as everybody made out it is.

I found some card and borrowed a pen to make a sign, cupped me hands, raised me eyes. Looked for a friendly face, but all I saw was legs. Hours of them.

So I hung out by bins. If you pull the grub out quick enough, it’s hardly touched the rotten stuff at the bottom. It’s winter too, so stuff won’t go off soon as it’s dumped. You could call it
dining out.

Pizza slices. Bags o’ chips. Noodles. All sorts of scraps. I did half an afternoon round one bin. It really in’t nicking. But a copper give us dirty looks, started strolling over, so I were out of there.

If they catch us, they’ll send us back. And if I end up back at Tenderness, I’m a dead lad. Governor Newton’ll get his hands on us.

Call me Norman
he used to say. So t’other kids used to call him Call-Me Norman. But not to his face.

Never mess with Norman. Never.

I’m sticking wi’ begging. Begging’s all right, even if no one gives you owt. It makes you … not exactly invisible – just not worth bothering with.

I will eat. I will. I’ll get another hot dog, a fresh ’un.

I’m going to get a proper dog too, with thick fur like a woolly blanket and hot doggie breath like the hand-driers in public loos. A hot tongue, to lick me face clean.

I’m going to get a little hairy terrier, like the dog in
The Wizard of Oz.
I’ll fight the monkeys. Kill the witches. I’m going to— “Byron?”

He clatters over the top of us. Summat massive shatters all over the pavement and I duck me head under me arms. A flat-screen TV?
Really?
Two hundred miles from Tenderness House and the most insane of all the YPs bumps into us on Oxford Street, with a security bloke right after him, shaking his fist. Just great.

He starts pulling us up.

Should I go with him?

No. Yes.

Yes, I should. No, don’t.

The security guy pulls us an’ all. They grab an arm each. I’m torn. How come I always get seen by people I
don’t
want seeing us?

Byron were the only mate I had at Tenderness. At least, when he weren’t looking out for Number One.

I twist me wrist free of the security guy’s sweaty grip, and before me brain knows it, me legs are running again, alongside me so-called friend.

Byron catches me eye as we run, winks at us.

I wish he wun’t do that. Whenever he does that winking business, it means a bad moment is going to take a sharp turn for the worse.

Back in my pre-Digit days, Byron was always Genius Number One at Chase-Me. Me and my sisters, Tricia and Dee, playing all afternoon long, round the car park behind Sainsbury’s. Sun beating on the tarmac. Tacky heat, drippy summer smell. Hiding under parked cars. Breathing petrol fumes. Blissfulness.

So Sweatpant Sherlock’s got no chance keeping the pace with Citizen Digit. I can zig and zag round his shiny boots till I’m seventy-nine years old. They’ll call me Zimmer-Frame Bolt.

But the trouble with running down the muddle of Oxford Street is every Sherlock in the vicinity is pulling out his beating-stick and handycuffs and yelling descriptives in his phoney to all the other Sherlocks. Next thing, every Sherlock around is carrying the Citizen’s description and it’s not tolerable.

I refuse to be ID’d.

In actuality, I orchestrate the perfect plan. Each day, the Digit decks himself out in finest high-street threads. One day, I’ll be H&M’d up, the next, American Apparelled. Day after, Burtoned to the max. Always changing the look; always keeping it smart. Citizen Digit travels incogneatly – unlike them foolish kids in hoodies, thinking they can pull the polyester over their eyes so nobody’s going to see their faces. What happens instead is every hoodligan in the vicinity gets snapped on CCTV, the camera zooms in, not on their pimples, but their feet, their
trainer
types. Identifies them by logo. They’re lurching round with their bottoms hanging out their low-strung strides, so the Sherlocks can match the trainer type to the colour of their UnderKleins. Not only do they get ID’d but when they try and run for it their strides fall round their ankles and they trip up over their undone laces. Losers.

But the Good Citizen? See me on CCTV any time of the day, but don’t notice me. I’m dressed in my Marks & Sparks best, from my sensible shirt to my goody-two-shoes.

All my threads liberated fresh from the shop floor, of course.

And on this brisk and sunny winter morn, as we flashdance down Oxford Street, how are me and the Squealer kitted up? Citizen Didge: smartness and casuality; Squealer-Boy: crimful and grot-hoodied.

’Cept now he can’t see where he’s blundering on account of his hoodie blocking out all his view. Alfi Spar’s feet are chicken-dancing in aimless panic. The Sherlocks are snatching and grabbing behind us. I ain’t even got the flat screen that kicked off this tedious Chase-Me business. When I get back to Operations empty-handed Virus will give me proper verbal meanies. He hates it when his boys don’t bring home a decent day’s liberatings.

On the other hand, I’ll be bringing him Alfi Spar. A New Boy’s gotta be worth six flat screens at least. Virus is going to adore Alfi Spar, because Alfi’s got the face of an angel. A WhyPee with a VDU as innocent-looking as Alfi Spar’s is worth many a penny to an entrepreneur like old Virus.

All the Digit’s got to do is make sure he gets there in one piece.

A Sherlock snatches at Alfi’s hoodie, almost gets a grip on him. It’s up to Super-Didge to rescue the innocent. I dive between them, stop dead, curl into a ball. Fat Sherlock topples right over the top, goes sliding across Oxford Street gravement, unpeeling most of his cheek.

Alfi’s standing there, jaw wide open like he dislocated his brain. I swear, he puts out a hand, offering to help the stupid Sherlock back to his feet.

I tug Alfi’s hood back up, grab him by his waistband and chuck the both of us onto the deck of a passing bus. Off we speed. Clean getaway.

Three seconds later, Alfi’s holding out his palm, offering up his 20 tragic p. He gives me that old pathetic look of his, and says, “Do you reckon this’ll do for the fare?”

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.”