Nobody Saw No One (6 page)

Jackson winks at Virus, all conspiratorial. “We know otherwise, don’t we, V? All about your special savings account, hey?”

“Don’t know what you mean,” Virus says, in a grump.

Mr Banks lets it drop. He smiles his fangful smile and pockets the cash. “Grace’ll come tomorrow. Don’t disappoint.”

Virus looks like he don’t know which is offended most, his scratched tabletop or his wallet.

And what is Citizen Digit doing during all this, you may well ask? I’m sitting quiet, ain’t I? In the shadows. If Jackson Banks don’t notice me, then Jackson Banks can’t share with me none of his playfulness.

Don’t be seen. Don’t get heard. That’s the way to Digit.

I reckon that’s why Crow ain’t big on the chattables – if he keeps quiet enough, Jackson might forget he’s there altogether. Invisible-ize himself like the Good Citizen.

Crow belongs to Jackson, see. He’s got all the authenticates, documents and unsurance cover on the kid, so it’s all legit. The Digit don’t know where JB got the docs. I reckon Virus hacked a few files and inputted the data. Like I say, once your story’s on the interweb, it’s God’s honour. So if Jackson and Crow ever get stopped in the street by the Sherlocks, online references confirm it all: Jackson Banks is Crow’s Foster Dad. Can you like it? The Digit never heard anything so ridic in his life.

JB uses the poor sap to squeeze through spaces too tiny for most burglars. And what the Digit does know, is that that’s how Crow got his scar – trying to squeeze through a smashed-in window that still had a shard of glass wedged in the frame. Ouch.

Jackson gives Grace a celebratory slap on the booty. “Come on, Gracie. The night is young. So are we.” She spares me a parting smile as he slides her towards the door. Leastways, her mouth is smiling. Her eyes are somewhere else all together. She catches my look, and her mouth goes into cheery overdo. She is not right, and it’s the one thing Digit can’t figure out – why’s she with Banks?

Crow-Boy limps along by his side, as ever. “Obnob,” Banks mutters, and the dog comes scurrying from his hiding place, sniffer slung low to the ground. He bares his fangs at me as he passes.

Banks doesn’t bother closing the door behind him.

“Always a pleasure doing business with you!” Virus calls, sliding the bolt shut, before capsizing into a chair and wiping his sweaty brow vehemously with a wad of tissues.

Best kip I’ve had in years. Now I’m set for the day. Always rise early. Get a head start on all the other lot. Advantage: Spar.

First up I put on me
Cash Counters
uniform, before having a look around. It’s a titchy room, not much more space than for this little bed and bedside table. Me room at the Barrowclough’s were much bigger, and had a window overlooking the garden. There ain’t no window here, but it is clean and it don’t smell. Not that the Barrowclough’s smelled – well, it did smell, o’ fresh air and cooking. After the cooped-up pongs o’ the residential unit, the Barrowclough’s were heaven.

Here, there’s not more than the whiff o’ disinfectant. I reckon Mr Virus likes to keep it nice for us all.

This room could be all right. I could pin up some posters, put a rug down over the lino. Maybe paint over the white walls – bright blue, or a mix! A different colour for each wall. Planets and stars on the ceiling.

A room. My room.

I open the door soft-like, so it won’t creak and wake t’others. At Tenderness House I were always up and at ’em well before Byron and the rest were awake. They’d get narky if I woke ’em too early. But I like dawn. I like the sun coming up, greeting the day.

Also, you get first dibs at any grub.

There’s a latch on the outside o’ the door.

Why din’t I notice that last night?

I were shattered, weren’t I?

I guess Mr Virus used it as storage before converting it into a bedroom for his lads.

I mean, even if there’s three floors, including the shop floor, and the dining room is huge, and the bathroom posh like a hotel, there’s still, what, seven of us kipping here, including Mr Virus. Maybe more, who knows? So you’d reckon the rooms ’ud have to be quite small. I don’t mind. It’s me own room. I wonder if Mr Virus’ll let us keep a dog. A small dog. He could sleep under me bed.

I’ll ask him later.

I creep downstairs, see what grub’s in the fridge. At Tenderness you made do wi’ what you were given, when you were given it. But I bet Mr Virus says
all for one and one for all.

I slide noiseless into the dining room and then I freeze. He’s at the table. Like me, Mr Virus is rise and shine, up and at ’em, work to be done. He’s got his back to me, poring over his computer.

So I stand there. I lean against the wall, soaking it all up. The first light o’ the sun is beaming over Mr Virus’s shoulders. He’s sitting straight, good posture like grown-ups allus drum into you so you don’t grow crooked. He’s got a clean white shirt on, ironed an’ all. It wun’t be surprising to see he’s wearing a tie.

Feel smart, be smart,
that’s what Mr Barrowclough allus reckoned.

But I don’t want to think about Mr Barrowclough. It makes us sad. Today is a new day.

Then Mr Virus stands up and goes over to the wall, where there’s a picture hanging. He lifts the picture off, and there’s a metal square against the wall. He fiddles wi’ it, and it opens up, like a cupboard. It must be a safe. He stands there, staring into it, and brings out a big metal box, about the size of a shoebox, which he starts caressing, like it’s a pet cat or summat.

“You don’t deserve it,” he says, to hisself, I suppose. “You can’t be worth any of this, when you’re so … bad.” I wonder what he’s going on about. “You’re no better than the naughtiest of the boys. Don’t be a disappointment.”

But he dun’t turn round. It en’t me he’s slagging. He puts the box back into the hole in the wall and stands there, staring at it. Starts tusking at himself. He puts his phone to his cheek, like he’s listening to a message, sighs, and shrieks. He falls sideways, like he’s been zapped.

Is it a migraine? They come out o’ nowhere.

He straightens himself. “See if you can’t set a better example in future,” he says. To himself.

I go over and tap his shoulder.

He slams his safe shut and spins round, his phone gripped in his hand like it’s a knife.

It ain’t Mr Virus. I step back.

Composure.

It
is
Mr Virus.

“Alfi,” he says. He reaches forward and touches me cheek wi’ the phone. I feel the cool casing against me skin.

Me heart is thumping. I don’t know what to say. He used the phone to hurt himself.

“Alf.” He smiles, putting the phone down. “You gave me a shock. I didn’t know boys of your age rose at such an hour. I thought you must be a burglar, forced your way in.”

“I’m sorry.”

I
am
sorry. Don’t I allus find a way to mess things up? I’ve only been at
Cash Counters
five minutes.

“I thought you were hurt,” I say.

“Hurt?” He puts his hand to his cheek. “I … no. No, I just startle easily. Were you standing there long?”

“I suppose you were busy at your work. I’m really sorry.” I need to let him know.

“It’s all right.” He repeats, “Were you there long?”

“No. I – I were just watching you work, was all.”

He gives us a smile. “Learn anything?”

“You put on a clean shirt,” I say, more brightly. Change the subject, Alfi.

“You’re a very observant young man,” he says. “You’ll go a long way, I’m sure.”

I gesture at me uniform. “I’m all ready.”

He shakes his head, kindly. “Oh, dear me, no. I’m sorry, my sweet. We just gave you those clothes because the ones you were wearing weren’t really … hygienic. No, no, you couldn’t possibly work on the shop floor. You’re too young. It’s against the law. Why, imagine the trouble we’d all get into. Don’t worry, my boy, we’ll find ways for you to be useful. You’ll pay your way. But you’re our guest for now. I’d like you to enjoy yourself, relax. Today, for instance, you’re just going to hang around, have some fun with Citizen Digit. He can show you how things are, give you a tour of the local area. He’s your pal, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” I say. I suppose he is.

“What a laugh we all had last night!”

“Yes,” I say.

“Are you good at secrets?” he says.

“Only if they don’t hurt anyone.”

“Ahh, Alfi,” he says. “You’re wise all right. Honest too. Well, look, what you just saw behind that picture there, that’s my little secret, isn’t it? And it’s a good secret, because it doesn’t hurt anybody. It’s just my personal items. Sentimental things, you know. And if anybody were to know about them, well, it would hurt me, wouldn’t it? That’s why it’s a good secret for you to keep. Am I right?”

“Yes, Mr Virus,” I say.

He puts a hand on me shoulder and smiles. “You’re a good boy. We’ll find ways to keep you busy. We’ll have plenty of errands for you.”

Fair enough. I used to run errands for Mr and Mrs Barrowclough. I just need a chance to prove meself again. Get in wi’ good grown-ups, make it stick.

He peers at us, dead close. “Alfi Spar you say your name is?”

I nod at him.

“Interesting,” he said. “And how would that be spelled exactly?”

So I tell him. “S – P – A – R.”

“No, no,” he says. “Not
Spar. Alfi.
How do you spell
Alfi
?”

Funny question. But I tell him, about the missing E an’ all. He seems pleased.

“Well, Alfi, why don’t you pop into the kitchen? Make yourself some tea and toast. I’ll finish off here and then I’ll come and join you.”

I walk past a side room on the way to the kitchen, and see three lads, around my age. I din’t see ’em last night. They’re all sitting hunched over computers. Playing games, I suppose, or on Facebook. It’s only seven in the morning though. They must be even earlier risers than me.

But no one gets up early as me. It’s definitely a bit funny.

I make some toast and sit at the kitchen table for a while, thinking about how hard it is, getting things right. Perhaps Mr Virus dun’t have enough space for us here, and might want to send us somewhere else. I look round at the kitchen, with its shiny surfaces and pots and pans all sparkling clean and stacked tidily on shelves. Everything spick and span.

I’m no fool though, am I? If Citizen Digit loves this place so much, it can’t be completely legit, can it? But it is a proper shop, with all the official documents and that. Some of the gear’s bound to be knock-off. I bet Mr Virus dun’t approve. You can tell he tries to run a straight ship. I bet he has his hands full trying to keep troublemakers like that Predictiv Tex on the straight and narrow. I’ve met enough lads like Tex in me time. I en’t no mug. But it’s got to be better than the streets. And it’s defo better than Tenderness House.

I have six slices of toast, dripping wi’ jam. Din’t realize how hungry I still was. I try to make sure I don’t make any sticky mess. I put away the jam jar and rinse the knife clean straight away.

Then I hear a voice and I turn around. Mr Virus is standing in the hallway, sending them lads away from their computer games, off upstairs. In his white shirt, he looks a bit like a doctor, in a hospital. He comes in and sits across from us, giving us his deepest gaze. Then he slides his hand across the breakfast top.

“A little gift,” he says.

I don’t like little gifts. They remind me o’ Tenderness. You never get owt for nowt.

Can you believe it? It’s a proper smartphone. I reckon it’s the same one we were playing with last night, when he had us try and take it from his pocket without him seeing us. Looks like it’s got an app for everything. Music and games an’ all. I don’t dare touch it.

“Go on,” he nods. “It’s yours.”

But, remember – it were a Smartphone got me in trouble at the Barrowclough’s. The other lad who lived there – Jacob, who they’d already adopted – he planted it in me coat pocket, din’t he? They’d given it him for his birthday, and he told ’em it had gone missing. Kept on and on about it, until I had to empty all me pockets, and there it was. And next to it were a hundred quid that he’d taken from Mr Barrowclough’s wallet.

When Mr Barrowclough – Doug – saw his wad o’ money and Jacob’s Smartphone, he sort o’ slumped, like the life had slid out of him. He gave me one look: stern, disappointed. Like I were a stray dog taken in despite everyone’s warnings, and I’d bitten his hand when he bent down to stroke us. I’ll allus remember that look. He turned away from us, wun’t meet me eyes any more, not even when Social Services came and took us away.

He called the police an’ all. He told Mrs Barrowclough he wun’t have us in their house a moment longer. He and Mrs Barrowclough – Jenny – had had trouble before and he wun’t stand for it again. Jenny kept looking at us, and looking at Mr Barrowclough, and at Jacob (trying to act dead innocent) like she just cudn’t make sense of it. How could I do all that baking with her, and make the cookbook an’ all, and then just nick from ’em? Like they meant nowt to us. How could I?

I hated seeing Jenny looking like that. It would have been better if she’d refused to look at us, like Doug.

I cudn’t stand it. “It’s him!” I jabbed me finger at t’other lad. “Jacob stole your money! And he planted the phone in me pocket. Jacob’s the bad ’un!”

Cudn’t they see?

Doug held the palm of his hand up at me face to cut us off. He were disgusted.

T’other lad proper framed us.

So not only din’t I get adopted, but they stopped fostering us too. Sent us back into Care.