by Steve Tasane
“What about the evidence then?” This being the billion-dollar question. “You still got it?”
“I gave it to me Senior Case Worker.”
“You what? Alfi, that’s not…” But I’m too jaw-dropped to finish the sentence. I’m utterly disgrunted. “Well, we’ve got no evidence then, have we? It’s pointless.”
Senior Case Worker, my stinky finger. He might as well have given it to Help The Aged. My heart is sinking as my head digests this disastrophy.
But he bounces up and down like he’s just busting with good news. “That’s just it, see. I went to the library, didn’t I? And it so happens that I—”
He stops, abrupt. Tex has bounded out of Tesco, reaching into his jacket and bringing packs of sandwiches out from his armpit. “Mission accomplished!”
Alfi’s peepers pop wide open. “Oooh! Second breakfast! I’m starved. Thanks.”
That boy would eat his own shoes if you smeared them with ketchup. That’s the end of this conversation. It’s just as well; this discussion ain’t for nobody else’s ears, in particular a Parrot-Face like Tex.
Alfi swore to me the evidence was safe. I put myself at great personal liberties for him at Tenderness House, and stuck out my limbs for him here in London. How’s he respond? He irresponds, is what. I’ve had it. Citizen Digit has got better things to do than babysit the brainless.
What if he brings Call-Me Norman to our door? We ain’t even got the evidence now.
Maybe it’d be better to drop him, like pickled chilli from a kebab. He got out of Tenderness; he’s safe and sound. Isn’t that enoughski? Isn’t the Citizen’s job done? I got a tidy situation going on here with Virus – why let Blabber-Boy mess it up?
It makes my brain go all bomb-like; like there’s a lit fuse sizzling through my earhole. And when my brain starts burning, my fingertips start twitching. Virus made me General Well-to-Do today in my role as Keeper-Out-of-Trouble for Alfi-Boy. But maybe it’s time for some insubordination. Alfi Spar needs to get real to the street. And if he don’t like it – well, he can always skulk off back to the cow pasture.
Predictiv Tex is catching my eye. He’s thinking what I’m thinking, as ever. We’ll let our fingers do the talking. When all else fails, get dipping. I’ve never known a situation not be improved by a little pickypock.
Yes, yes, and yes indeedly. My twitchy fingers are telling me true: it’s pinch o’clock.
8. THE QUICK ONE-TWO
It goes like so: you match the walking flow of your target, and when the crowd is thick and slow – particularly at road crossings, of which our lovely Seven Sisters has many, you gently unzip the target’s backpack, inch by inch. Everyone’s bunched up tight, so no one can see, and if the target feels it, well we’re all pushing and a-shovelling anyway. Take your time. Idealistically, it’s a three-man job. When it’s time for the dip, Man Number One is the diversion: ’Scuse me would you happen to have the time? Oh, thank you so. And you wouldn’t happen to have a light, would you? And do you know is this the right way to the tubeway? Et cet, et cet. During this time, Humpty Bumpty Man Number Two does a small shoulder collision with the target. Whoof! Quick as a flash, his hand’s in and out of the target’s bag. Got the wallet. On a perfect day, this is immediately slipped to Man Number Three, who strolls straight off in a different direction, powered by total invisibility. That way, if the target twigs his wallet’s been lifted, he immediately suspects Visible Man One, or Visible Man Two. But Men One and Two don’t have no lifted goods on them, do they?
Sorry, mate, don’t know what you’re talking about.
Foolproof.
We’d never plunder the local shops (Tesco Local ain’t local, by any meanness), but the mass of Groans milling around include the occasional wealthbag. Types dripping so much gold they don’t twig if their backpack is suddenly a couple of kilograms lighter.
Tex has spotted one, ain’t he? You can tell rich pickings from the shoe type up to the hair stylistics. Quality shows, and the Citizen knows.
Course, today Alfi Spar is our Invisible Man Three, and he’s away in Spar-La Land, fully engaged watching the street’s carnival of oddballs. He’d hardly notice the quick one-two, so well rehearsed by the Tex and the Didge that we could do it with our eyes blacked out. But this target is too irresistible. Dictiv gives me the look that says he reckons we can carry this one with just Men One and Two.
A bit of a laugh, ain’t it?
What could possibly go catastrophic?
Alfi’s got his beak stuck in a stallful of papaya. I reckon he thinks he’s landed on Mars – all he’s ever known is the village post office. He reckons eggplant is a bush where chickens get hatched. So, while he’s sniffing at the veggies we make our move.
Our target’s a youngish Groan, done up to the nineties in Gangsta gear, but he ain’t no Gangsta Boy. The Citizen can tell by his dweebling shuffle and his soft white neck like the Royal Fumbly’s. His iPod’s got those big earphones like earmuffs. His fingers look like a doll’s. Poshboy.
I’m Visible Man One, the diversion. Tex has already got the zip to the backpack caringly half opened, and he gives the signal: a flick of the right ear (not the target’s ear – obviously – ’cos that’d be a bit of a giveaway) and I move in.
I give him a little shove, don’t I? Get my elbow in his ribs, like I lost my balance. “Sorry, mate.” Put up my grubs, show it was all accidental, no army intended, et cet.
Out the cornea of my eye, I see the Dictiv make his move. His street talk may be more Dr Doolittle than Dr. Dre, but he has a surgeon’s delicacy when it comes to operations. His fingers slide in. One slip and it’s guts for garterdom. Out they come, slow and easy, with Poshboy’s wallet magnetized to the tips.
“Tex, no!” Alfi Spar decides to pay attention at zackly the wrong moment.
Two things happen stimulatiously: Poshboy turns around, and Tex tosses the wallet to Alfi, which he catches.
“My wallet!” wails Poshboy. “Thieves! Police!”
Suddenly we are all MAXIMALLY VISIBLE in all the WRONG ways.
Time for Citizen Digit to do his disappearing act.
Of course, Squealer-Boy just stands there like a great big Day-Glo MELON.
I should o’ known. Byron’ll never change. And Predictiv Tex is in on it too!
I hold out the wallet so the bloke can have it back.
But before he can take it, somebody from behind grabs me wrist.
“Got him! Call the police!”
“What? No!”
I look round for Byron, but he’s gone. Tex has gone too. How’d they do that?
Whoever’s grabbed us is twisting their other hand round me jacket collar, swearing at us.
A couple more seconds and I’ll be caught. Come on, Alfi – act!
I wiggle free and take off up the street.
“There he goes!”
A couple o’ cops on t’other side o’ the road stare in our direction. Moving in, in that slow and decisive way they have, holding their palms up to stop the lines o’ traffic, to get at us. Everyone is staring like I’m suddenly the centre o’ the universe. A zillion hands are grabbing at us as I dodge and dive.
“Over there!” Fingers point me out. It’s as well that I’ve allus been fast on me feet. I duck round a corner. No one took any notice of us begging in Oxford Street, when I were crying for attention. Now I cudn’t be more visible if I were made o’ neon.
Dun’t matter; I can outrun all of ’em. I spot an alley, which might as well have a big sign up above it with “hiding place” painted on it. That’ll be where the Digit’s disappeared hisself, in among the wheelie bins.
“Didge?”
He in’t here.
“Tex?”
Nor him.
I could hide in one o’ the bins, cudn’t I?
Out o’ the shadows, Citizen Digit leaps up at us, grabbing us by the jacket and giving us a proper shake around.
“What you up to?” I hiss.
“This
is a rubbish hiding place,” he says. “You need to vanish, Alfi! Vanish!”
Like he wants rid o’ me.
He lets go, spins round, and he’s gone. Just like that.
If it’s so rubbish, how come he were hiding here? He’s right though. Three of ’em come round the corner. “Here!” they yell, and I’m scarpering off up t’other end.
“I think he’s got a knife!” someone shouts.
I en’t! The only thing I’ve got is that bloke’s wallet in me hand.
Oh.
One o’ the cops grabs a hold o’ the hem o’ me jacket. I zigzag back round him, twisting, and tear away.
“I see him!” It’s t’other cop, blocking me path.
I sprint. Too fast to catch, en’t I? Coppers only have two speeds: slow and steady.
I’m back on Seven Sisters. Zipping past legs. Hands. Buggies.
Where’s Byron? Where is he? And what direction is Cash Counters? Now’s not the time to get lost.
I’m dashing over the traffic. Lines of buses and cabs roar along the road, all trying to run us down. Beeping. Honking.
“Over there!”
“Thief!”
I’m running. Hiding. Hide. Hide.
Faster.
I spot ’em. Citizen Digit is sitting at a bus stop, wi’ Predictiv Tex. What are they up to? Waiting for a bus? Why aren’t they scarpering?
They’re visible for anybody to see. They’ve got their arms crossed and their legs stuck out, chatting to each other like they own the place. An old lady is sat next to them with her shopping trolley.
Oh, yeah, I get it: visibly invisible. That old trick.
Fair enough. I stop in front of ’em, huffing, puffing.
But Predictiv Tex is shaking his head at us. Subtle-like, but defo shaking his head. The Digit won’t even catch me eye.
“What…?” I say.
And the old lady looks at us like I’m scum. She tightens her grip on her trolley, like she reckons I’m after snatching it off her. She looks like Jenny, me foster mum. I stand and gawp at her. She looks just like Jenny looked, on that rotten day. She jabs a finger at me. “Here he is!”
I glare at the Digit. He looks back at me and shrugs. Tex is looking at his iPod. They ignore me. The Jenny lady looks at Digit, shakes her head, sadly. He shakes his head back, sadly. Then the Jenny lady, Digit and Tex, all three of ’em stare at me, all three shaking their heads. Sadly.
See? He’s just a lad called Byron, with another lad, waiting for a bus. Citizen Digit and Predictiv Tex have vanished off the face o’ the earth.
It’s a superpower I don’t have. Never did have it, did I?
Superfool Spar. That’s why he wants rid of us, the Digit, in’t it?
“Stop! Thief!” The two cops have spotted me. I puff, pant and run. Keep on running. Running works. Running always works.
Everyone is staring and trying to trip me. All of Seven Sisters Road is after me, in their bright shirts and bandanas and tunics and bling and hijabs. “Thief!” They’re jabbing their fingers at me. “Thief!”
Thief.
Not again. It en’t fair.
I look behind me. Byron and Tex are stepping onto a bus. They let the Jenny lady climb on first.
One o’ the cops is almost at me.
So? Leap. Zig. Zag.
I’m doing me best, but somebody trips me. Up I go, up in the air, like I got flying power…
…down I come. No power at all. Hello, concrete. The pavement hammers up and smacks us in the fa—
Oucherooni! That didn’t go quite as planned.
We nab the back seats on the top deck and watch as a mob gathers round Alfi’s knocked-out oddbod.
That boy couldn’t disappear if you gave him a one-way ticket to Narnia and shoved him in a wardrobe.
“’E’s enough showoff, ain’t ’e?” says Tex. “An’ ’e’s wearin’ your threads. You can kiss them off, Didge.”
The Citizen can live with that. Topman. I’ve catwalked more stylish. But I’m not too conf how Virus’ll react to us letting New Boy get long-armed on his very first day. This is carelessness itself. Least my fingers got the chance to frisk him clean in that alley. If he can keep his squealer-slot shut, he can at least pretend that he isn’t anybody.
Of course, if he does blab that he’s Alfi Spar, they’ll drag him back to Tenderness House. Call-Me Norman will be waiting for him. He’ll be wanting to know what’s happened to the evidence the Digit gathered on Alfi’s behalf. The evidence that Squealer-Boy gave to his Senior Case Worker.
So what happens to a whistleblower who’s lost his whistle?
In Call-Me Norman’s case, the Digit guesses it will involve stitching together Alfi’s squealer-slot, throttling his windpipe and punctuating his lungs.
Once they get Alfi back to Tenderness, he’s carcass.
But before they make him carcass, they’ll make him blab. Shouldn’t be hard, as blabbing is his hobby. He’ll lead them all back to Seven Sisters Road. Back to Virus.
And to me.
That means I’m carcass too.
I come round in the back seat of a police car. Handcuffed. Thanks a lot, Digit. Me head hurts like I’ve been hit with a concrete block. Oh, yeah. I have been.
I wun’t mind, but I never even did owt. It were that Tex lad. How come I allus get blamed?
It hurts so much, it makes me eyes water. Through the tears, I can see a policeman peering at me forehead. “He’ll live,” he says, like I just bashed me elbow against a cupboard. I need a hospital, a nurse to rub on some anti-bump cream. But that en’t going to happen – it’ll be the cells for me, and then—
No. Don’t even think it. Don’t tell ’em owt, and maybe they’ll let you go. Whatever you do, don’t tell ’em –
“What’s your name, son?”
– your name.
Uhh, wake up Alfi. If they find out who you are, they’ll send you back.
Think. Think!
Ah-hah! I know. I say, “Threads…”
“What?” The copper leans in.
“He said his name’s Fred,” says the other voice.
“All right,” says the mouth filling me vision, “You’ve just given your head a bit of a knock, Fred. Can you tell us how old you are?”
Remember the Digit. Always tell ’em sixteen, whatever. Works for him, dun’t it? So I say it.
“You must be older than me then,” says the copper who’s driving. “’Cos I must have been born yesterday.”
Oh. Ha ha.
And the other copper says, all doubtful, “Any ID?”
No ID, no idea, as the Digit ’ud say.
Oh no. There’s me birth certificate. I shoved it in me jeans pocket before leaving Cash Counters. It’s got me name on it in big letters. I move me hand to feel for it, like a muppet.
“Let’s have a look then,” says the copper, and he digs his big copper hands in. Comes out empty. Me birth certificate is gone.
Gone?
Byron! He must o’ took it when he bumped into us in the alley, to give us a chance to keep me name to meself.
More likely to give hisself a chance. That’ll be why Tex threw the nicked wallet for me to catch. So’s I’d become a thief like them. And a liar.
Then the copper is going through me other pockets and he finds the phone. I’d forgotten about that. “This yours?” he says. I say nowt. He starts pushing the buttons, frowning at the screen. Turns to his mate. “Empty,” he says. “Not a thing on it. No numbers. No history. No last call.” He looks back at me. “This brand new then, is it, Fred?”
I don’t get it. How come it dun’t have Mr Virus’s Cash Counters number in it? Me head hurts. Throbbing.
Mr Virus. Hah. I suppose Cash Counters is just the same old story.
That’s it, in’t it? They want us to give up Alfi Spar, be a little Freddy Pickpocket like them. Well I won’t. I won’t do it. I’m Alfi Spar, and I en’t no thief, nor no liar.
Then I hear the cop in the front, on his r
adio. “Yeah. Attempted robbery, Seven Sisters Road. Young pickpocket. Bringing him in.”
The copper next to us smiles, dead sarcastic. “Looks like you’re nicked, young Fred. I don’t know. You young ’uns must enjoy being locked away.”
So that’s it. I’m a thief again.
9. TENDERNESS ITSELF
Imagine the horrors that must have been scrawled all over Alfi’s fizzog when he first arrived at Tenderness House. The Good Citizen was used to the place by then, having advantaged his self of its leisure activities since six months previous.
Tenderness House is a Secure Unit. Locks and keys and windows that won’t open – windon’ts. Rules and regularities, rewards and sanctions. For WhyPees that have fallen off the Googlemap and don’t know the way back. Protecting society from us, and protecting us from ourselves.
The Unit is run by a private enterprise corporation called Reliance Plus. They’re in charge of a dozen other Houses around the UK. The more of us young hoodligans crammed into these places, the bigger the profit for Reliance Plus. Crime does pay.
The Good Citizen himself was an expert at dodging these places. Since I lost Trisha and Dee and Dad, I’d gone through a right royal succession of foster families and care homes. Lovely families, some of ’em, but substitutes alwaystheless; substandard subletting sorrowgates, ain’t no denying it. Poor tragic Byron – no matter how hard he tried to please, to fit himself in, smile and play and help with the chores, those Mr and Mrs Sorrowgates always had the well-thumbed Byron File nestling on their kneecaps: Sherlock statements, hospital notes, psychiatricks’ reports. That clipping from the Daily Mirror. Byron could never avoid seeing himself, his sisters and Dad in the Mirror. And neither could the Sorrowgates.
Famous, yeah? Once seen, never forgotten.
At first, Byron was mad at his mum. Certainly, Dad’s drinking was out of hand before Mum upped and left us. Even at boy Byron’s toddling age, dear Dad managed to out-toddle me, staggering back from his sessions with the booze. Instead of building blocks, little Byron had empty cans of lager to build up and bulldoze down.
So how could Mum leave me and Tri and Dee to that? How come she never took us with her? Why’d she leave us – with him?
