by Steve Tasane
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 befor
e 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.
I saw Jacob sniggering as the SS took me away. I should o’ smashed his stupid face in when I had the chance. I knew Doug and Jenny ’ud be stuck with him for allus now. The Barrowcloughs deserved better than that.
One day, I’ll find a way to let ’em know the truth.
But then it got worse. Because I’d been thieving, they din’t take us back into the usual children’s home. It were Tenderness House for me; the beginning of everything bad.
Yeah, I remember.
Mr Virus is still staring at me, but no way am I picking up that phone.
Search for Alfi Spar on the database – any database, they all cross-reference, don’t they – and it’ll say he has, what’s the phrase? A tendency to steal. It’ll say Has a history of theft.
I en’t taking it. I’m shaking me head.
Mr Virus sighs. “It’s not a gift,” he says. “It’s to go with your uniform. All Cash Counters employees have one, so we can keep in touch. If you’re required for duty, young Alfi, we need to know that you are … obtainable.”
Is it a good idea? I en’t sure. It’ll be handy though. Go on then, take it. No. Wait.
“Thanks,” I say. “Shall I take it when it’s time for me to start work?”
He’s chuckling at me. “No, no, no.” He shakes his head. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it? When we need you to begin, that’s when we need to contact you. Meanwhile, it’s yours.” He pushes it at us. “It’s got games. Movies too. Are you turning it down?” He frowns.
Bad manners. I’ve upset him. I pick it up and shove it in me pocket. “Thanks,” I say. “It’s great. Thanks.”
“That’s my poppet,” he says. Pats me hand. “You and I are going to get on marvellously.” Then he leans in close and says, “Where did you say you were living before you came down to London?”
“I din’t,” I say. He waits for me to say more, but I en’t such a numpty, am I? Not any more. So I say nowt.
“Wherever you’ve come from,” he says, after a bit, “you did right to come here, to Cash Counters. We’ll treat you well, you know that, don’t you? The Digit would have told you that, wouldn’t he?”
I nod, but I’m still saying nowt. Mr Virus seems all right with that. “Good,” he says. Then he yells, “Tex!”
Suddenly, Tex appears alongside us. Was he there all along? “Threads for the youth?” says Tex.
“Threads for the youth,” Mr Virus mimics him. “Let’s get young Alfi out of this uniform, see if we can’t get him done up as trendily as you and the Citizen, hey?”
“Yo, boy,” Tex says, like the lads at Tenderness, trying to come on all tough. “Let’s play.”
7. DISASTROPHY
So here we is, Citizen Digit, the Textually Predictiv, and young Alfi Spar, formation-strutting along Seven Sisters Road. Alfi’s pleased as vodka punch, ’cos he’s tarted out in the Citizen’s finest threads. “What’s yours is ours,” Virus reminded me before I handed over my Topman combo. Only Alfi don’t look like much of a Top Man on account of the threads being too big for him. He’s a sheep in wolf’s clothing. The Digit always gets a perfect fit, ’cos I try them on in the shop, don’t I? Leave ’em on, then walk out.
“I like the Cash Counters uniform,” Alfi says to me, “but your stuff’s dead smart, Byron.”
“Citizen.”
“Yeah, Citizen.” I can see his braincogs whirring. He says, “What about an AKA for me?”
“Already got one, ain’t you?”
Squealer-Boy.
Tex interjex: “Threads.”
“Threads?” Alfi likes it, I can tell. What he doesn’t even realize, is that the only reason he’s anywhere near the Citizen’s threads is because Virus ain’t going to have him parading round wearing a Cash Counters advert. Any trubs, and that’d lead the Sherlocks straight to HQ.
But Virus has banned any operations this sunny day. He’s made it clear there’s to be no risk of trubs. The Citizen is under strictest structions to keep his digits out of the local establishments. Virus reckons young Alfi ain’t ready. Too right. I’m not convincible he ever will be. Obsessed with honesty is young Alfi. Thinks he’s Peter Parkey Spidey-Man, without any of the Spidey-Sense.
Can’t think what use Virus’ll get out of him. He’s less use than an iMac without a hard drive.
But Alfi’s doubly chuffed, showing off all the Apps on his Smartphone. He can’t leave it alone. Penny ain’t plummeted yet, that a Dumbphone is what he’s actually carrying round. He’ll work it out eventually.
“Hey, Byron—” he says.
“Citizen.”
“Citizen.” He’s desperate to get it right. He turns to Tex. “Predictiv,” he says, “Citizen – how about you put me number in your phones. Threads. Threads’s number. And I can put yours in mine, favourites.”
“We ain’t got no phoneys,” I tell him.
He puzzles it. “Wh—”
“Some fool pinched ’em.” Tex predicts his question. “Yeah, dem got taxed, ain’t it.”
Tex thinks that’s funny. The Digit ranks it semi-smirkable.
In fact, Alfi’s got his phoney so he’s never out of Virus’s range. Not just callable or textable, but traceable too. Virus has a GPS embedded in it. Wherever Alfi Spar goes, the Great Manager knows. Though why Virus has such an interest in Alfi is beyond my imaginings. I’m of the personal opinion that he’s a liability. Virus should have figured this pronto – what’s happened to his famous brains?
Additionally, Alfi’s phoney’s got no numbers in it, has it? Alfi ain’t twigged yet that Cash Counters don’t even have no phoney number. Alfi-Boy can’t twig anything unless the whole branch comes down and bonks him on the bonce. You should have seen his face when he found one of the nightshift kids sleeping in his bed.
“I thought I were going to have a room o’ me own,” he whinged.
“Space, isn’t it?” I explained.
“So those lads were playing computer games all through the night?” he asked, boggle-eyed. “Then they sleep in our beds during the day?”
“Something like that.” He needs to wake up and smell the doggie-doo.
Now Alfi looks at me deadly serious. “What about Facebook, Didge? You could be me first Face—”
“We ain’t on Facebook,” says Tex.
Alfi rolls his puppy-dog eyes in my direction.
“Forget about it, Blabber-Boy.” Alfi is so tragic, he don’t even have no Facebook friends.
We’re strolling our bones up towards Finsbury Park, to show Threads the sights. Village simpleton, ain’t he? He’s agog at the prolickeration of food shops and whatnot, from Turkish supermarks to Afro barbershops, the Shish Shack to Nag’s Head Market – where you can pick up chilli peppers hot enough to melt your eyeballs. To be Uncle Frank, the Digit never dips his fingers into any of these places anyway. They’re just local stores and stalls, run by local Groans. All a bit downmarket. The talent is better utilized a couple of bus rides away – up Highgate or down Upper Street.
Even so, Predictiv Tex can’t help himself from popping into Tesco Local, to see if he can’t liberate some snackeroos. He gives me a look that says it all, and di
ves in without saying a word. Boy’s gotta do what a boy’s gotta do…
At the same time, me and Alfi realize this is a chance to update ourselves as to where we’re at. Delicate, but crucial. Alfi-Boy turns to me and says, “Tell me, really, Byron, is Mr Virus on the straight and narrow?”
“Course he is,” I fib with one hundred per cent integrity. “Anyway, Alfi, surely even a goody-two-boots like you had to liberate an item or two to get all the way from Tenderness to Londinium?”
“No!” He looks offended to the max.
“What are you?” says me, equally offended. “Are you just dumb, or super dumb?”
“I’m smart! I’m just honest. Don’t you get it? It’s because they reckoned I were a thief that I got chucked out o’ the Barrowcloughs’. I wun’t have ended up in Tenderness otherwise. You wun’t’ve either, if you din’t have to pinch everything you fixed your eyes on.”
Enough nonsense. I ask what’s been on my mind all along. I lean in close and whisper, “So what happened at Tenderness after I left? With Call-Me and the others?” I try and make myself sound all nonshalonse, like I don’t really give a monkey’s tuppence.
“I left ’em a message, din’t I?” he says, all sly.
“What? You mean you texted them?”
“No. I wrote it in big letters on the wall. That I was off to tell the world all about ’em.”
“Yeah, yeah,” says me. “What really happened?”
He looks at me straight as a lace. “Big letters,” he says, dead proud, “on my room wall. Thought I’d let them be the worried ones for a change.”
“What? Alfi, that’s not nesser-celery wisdom itself.” My eyes can’t believe what my ears are hearing. If it wasn’t Alfi Spar I was talking to, I’d assume he was being sarky.
He looks at me looking at him looking at me. “Wun’t that the plan?”
All of a sud, my pacifistic fingers want to take up strangulation. I shove ’em deep into my pockets. I need more answers yet.
