Nobody Saw No One

by Steve Tasane

  Uhh. What Byron put up with depresses the Good Citizen even now. Dad got worse and worse, until that final day when he got truly, deeply, Famously Drunk.

  Even then, Mum never came back.

  The Digit’s got her to thank for teaching him the original great disappearing trick.

  So Citizen Digit shoved Byron’s tragic head right down the toilet bowl. Drownded him right out. Danced out of the loo with springs on his heels and quips on his lips. With a song and a dance, and a laugh and a joke for all the Misters and Misses. Don’t look at the Byron File, ignore the Mirror – watch the Good Citizen dance!

  All them psychiatricks wanted me to talk about it. The carers, the fosters too. I preferred to dance to a merrier tune, tell fairer fairy tales. So I taught myself gobbledegook off the gogglebox. I learned to speak Trotterese, from repeated viewing of Only Fools and Horses, the language of Loadsamoney and Dad’s Army. Spending hours glued to TV Gold, soaking up the oldies’ shows – Morecombe and Wise and Happy Days and The Two Ronnies, et cet, et cet.

  Once you’ve learned how to wear all those masks, it’s a doddle to pick up other things. Pilfer voices first, then learn to pinch other bits and bobs. One bit and one bob at a time. Mask up and become the master thief.

  You can get away with blue murder if you’ve got an honest fizzognomy. I did too. Well, not murder, but pilferation. Citizen Digit’s tricky fingers danced their dexterous dance, his marvellous mask and magical powers putting clear water between him and Byron’s Tragic Life Story. After all, who wants to play the Victim all the time? Citizen Digit saves the day, over and over again.

  “Oh, little Byron,” they’d whimper, “you must be so sad. What can we do for you?”

  Lock that saddo in the cupboard – out leaps Super-Didge. “What can I do for you?”

  Here’s a scarf I picked up from Peacocks. Suits you, Mrs Foster-Lady.

  Here’s a chess set I came across in Smiths. I know you love a game, Mr Daddio.

  Here’s a kettle. Fast-boil. Just for you, Sharon-Mum.

  Try this hat, Uncle Eric. A friend got it for me from BHS.

  Oh, look! China pigs. Please don’t thank me. It was nothing.

  But they never wanted any of it, did they? They wanted to rip off the Citizen’s mask and find Byron and his tragedy and grievousness.

  But Byron was well hidden, so the foster fams passed by, then the care homes. And Digit never got caught, he was too criminally masterful, except for that once, and that’s when Tenderness and Reliance Plus PLC and Call-Me Norman hit the house party and it all went upsie-downsie.

  Byron’s file with his sisters and dad, one Secure Unit, one locked room, one bleached and sterile bed, one boy’s head filled with memories of a different life.

  Calm down, Didge.

  Stick to the story for the good peeps. This is Alfi’s story, not Byron’s.

  Tell it. One word at a time.

  All me life, I’d been in kids’ homes or foster families o’ one sort or another. It weren’t too bad. The kids’ homes you’d make a few mates and the staff were almost allus all right. But soon as you’d make one friend they’d get farmed out to a foster family, or you’d get farmed out yourself. You’d allus be the New Kid, allus finding your feet, or sticking your foot in it. Never be nowhere long enough to have any stuff of your own. No pets o’ course – most o’ the foster families din’t have pets ’cos some lads and lasses are freaked out by dogs. Or are cruel to cats. Or allergic to hamsters. Or whatever. Pets don’t like having to meet new kids all the time either, so serious foster families ’ud just avoid the problem. So, no pet dogs. How come I were never permanently fostered, like Social Services allus promised us? A Kid Is For Life, Not Just For Christmas. I reckon there were too much wrong wi’ me. Once, I maybe even gave a foster mum cancer. They said she were the finest picture of health, and she’d fostered other kids before and had nowt wrong. The foster dad reckoned she’d hugged us too often, that I sent her soft in the head. When she got diagnosed he reckoned she must o’ got it from me ’cos I had summat bad radiating through us like a … exactly: like a cancer. ’Cos me own mum died, and that. I dunno about that, ’cos my mum died from giving birth to me, which I suppose were my fault, defo. But that’s not summat you can pass on to other mums, is it? Din’t really matter, ’cos once me foster mum went into hospital, the dad said he cudn’t cope wi’ me as well as wi’ visiting her, and I had to go.

  I had one foster family were dead nice to us. I thought I’d struck gold at last. They were always giving us sweets and presents and hugging us and it were perfect. Then the police and the SS came and took us away again. I were asked loads o’ questions about how they used to hug us, and whether or not I always slept in me own bed. When I settled in the care home after that, one of the carers told us I’d had a lucky escape, how one o’ their previous kids had made a complaint.

  Another family – after a few months, they found themselves pregnant, and it turned out they’d rather have a new baby o’ their own, not an old second-hand one like me.

  Other ones were just rotten. One lot I were with actually used to sell bags o’ cannabis – from their own kitchen – and when I let the SS know about it there were all Hell let loose. Another lot were claiming for foster kids that din’t actually exist. I had to go to court and be a witness.

  I’d allus live me life by the book – the rule book – and I’d allus let them in charge know about it if rules were getting broken – even if it were them in charge who were breaking the rules.

  They say you can’t do right for doing wrong, but wi’ me it were more: you can’t do right for doing right.

  It en’t as easy as you’d think, finding a family for yourself.

  The family before the Barrowcloughs, I were determined to get right. I tried to help out with all the housework and shopping and stuff, and I’d make sure I’d always be right there for ’em. Wherever they went I made sure I were right beside ’em. Hung as close as I could. They said I drove ’em mad. They cudn’t cope wi’ me. Clingy, they said. They wanted a boy who were more independent.

  I tried to be independent wi’ the Barrowcloughs, but after t’other lad set us up as a thief, they told us I were allus distant and untrustworthy. All that baking cakes and biscuits were just me trying to hoodwink ’em.

  It weren’t fair. All me life I’ve done right by folk, never nicked or nowt, and I allus do as I’m asked, and what happens? I get logged down as a thief.

  Me!

  So: a Secure Unit it is. I looked it up in a dictionary before I got there. Secure. It means Safe.

  The Good Citizen had always managed to avoid Secure Units – by not getting caught. But I’d earwigged the rumours. They weren’t no palaces, for sure. And Tenderness House was no exception.

  During the drive there, my guardiman handed me this list of rules:

  1. No mobiles, iPods or other small electronic equipment allowed.

  2. No TVs or radios in rooms, unless earned as an allocated privilege.

  3. No alcohol, tobacco or illegal drugs.

  4. No chocolate allowed, as chocolate is a stimulant.

  5. No sweets, snacks or other food types allowed in from outside.

  6. No swearing.

  7. No spitting.

  8. No fighting.

  9. No jewellery (rings, necklaces, bracelets, ear-rings).

  10. No inappropriate clothing (“inappropriate” as defined by on-duty Carers)

  11. No hugging or any other physical interaction.

  12. No borrowing or lending.

  13. No guests in rooms after 9 p.m.

  14. Lights out by 10 p.m.

  15. No leaving the premises, unless accompanied by allocated Carers.

  16. Daily shower compulsory.

  17. School lessons compulsory.

  18. Physical fitness lessons compulsory.

  19. Weekly psychiatric assessment compulsory.

  20. All Carers’ instructions must be followed without question.


  21. Windows will NOT open. Any attempt to force windows will result in sanctions.

  22. Any breach of the above rules will result in sanctions. Sanctions to be decided by Carers and not open to appeal.

  I looked at the guardiman and said, “All this must be harsh for you guys. But what about us guests – any rules we should know about?”

  He laughed till his helmet fell off. Not.

  We were buzzed through the securigates. The Citizen pondered the high fences and wondered if they taught pole-vaulting in Fizzical Fitness.

  Call-Me Norman liked to meet’n’greet all the new WhyPees personally, so we’d all know what’s a whatness straight away. The guardiman scruff-walked me straight from the police van to Call-Me’s office.

  If only the WhyPees’ rooms were equal to the Governor’s we’d have been in the lap of lux. He had big windys that were opened wide, letting in the sun and not quite excavating the cigarette smoke which (I sussed later) clung to Call-Me Norman wherever he went. He had a big leather chair with panels on the arms, probably doubling as electric cigarette lighters – or a switch to electrify the perimeter fence. Speakers on the wall crackled out classical music. Mindless violins. And through an open door behind him I could see a big comfy sofa in front of a Widescreen TV. His own private lounge.

  The guardiman plonked me centre-stage in front of the Governor’s desk and stood to attention.

  Governor Norman Newton was one ugly bug, made all the more so by a fizzog-ful of hair, not unlike rolling tobacco. The hairs were scattered unevenly across his bonce, like he’d previously gone bald but been given a bad tobacco transplant. Pubey brown hairs were sticking out of his ears and chin and cheeks, and protruding like spiders’ legs out of both nostrils. He looked like if you stuck a lighter under it, he could have smoked his own nose. He was munching biscuits, Bourbons, but didn’t offer me any. To my deepest relief.

  Insteadily, he looked me up and down, like he was thinking of making a purchase of me. He said, “Byron Blank Space,” (still not giving it away, am I?) “I’m the Governor here. Governor Newton. But you can call me Norman. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t get on well at Tenderness House. It’s tough here, but fair. Any issues you have, you just come straight to me and I’ll sort things. You’ve read the guidelines? In a minute I’ll have one of the staff show you to your quarters, give you the tour and so forth. But first, if you wouldn’t mind giving me your signature here.”

  He thrust forward a sheet of paper crammed with big words in tiny print. It was covered in spit-soggy Bourbon crumbs.

  “What is it?” says I.

  “It’s our Agreement,” he smiled, dribbling more crumbs into his chin fluff. “Our contract. It just means: you be good to us, and we be good to you.”

  “Hmmm.” I looked him in his hairily scary face. “I’ll have to have my legal representatives go over it first.”

  “Barry.”

  Barry?

  Next thing I know, my arm is wrenched right up my back, so my shoulder feels like it’s going to pop its clogs. I’m screeching – can’t help it – and tears are dribbling out of my peepers.

  “Byron,” he says, all sad. “I think you became slightly over-excited for a moment, in need of mild restraint.”

  Barry yanked my arm even higher. I screeched louder, like a littl’un.

  “Barry is our Head Carer. He is using one of the legally authorized forms of restraint. Applied when any of our young people are in need of calming down. Please, Byron, calm down.”

  He dug out another biscuit and munched away while Barry yanked my arm higher still.

  Welcome to Tenderness.

  Governor Newton – Norman – insisted I share some of his chocolate biscuits, and I thought I should, even though I could see they were covered wi’ crumbs from the ones he were already munching.

  While I forced the biscuit down he stared at us, all quiet, with a funny smile on his face, like he were imagining us, sort of elsewhere.

  Apart from his general creepiness, I thought Tenderness House might not be so bad.

  Me room weren’t too nice though. It were all stuffy ’cos the heat were switched up too high, but you cudn’t open the window. And it had a peephole in the door, so the Carers could spy on you while you were in bed. First night I were there I saw movement through the peephole. Someone were watching us … for ages.

  The next day when I were getting to know the place, I saw cameras up on most o’ the corridors, so they could see what everyone were up to. Which were mostly skulking about looking bored. There wun’t no TV in me room, but Tenderness had a common room with a big TV, so I went there. It were there I first met the Digit – Byron, as was – and he gi’ me the rundown o’ the place. Then one o’ the Carers – Barry – yelled at us ’cos we were sitting too close to each other and that were against the Agreement. Byron went and sat away from us ’cos he din’t want to get sanctions, and that were OK. But after a while Barry left the room and this big lad came in, called Sniper. Plonked hisself next to us and put his arm round us, and when I tried to pull away he put his hand round me neck and squeezed it so it hurt. So I thought I’d better stay where I was. Then he put his other hand in me pocket and started rummaging round. Byron sat and watched, but din’t say owt. I had nowt in me pockets apart from a snotty tissue – I’d had enough sense to keep me personal stuff locked in me room.

  “Stuff this,” said Sniper, “I’m off to watch telly.”

  “What’s he mean?” I said to Byron. “The telly’s right in front of us.”

  Byron were quiet for a moment, then he explained that some o’ the lads and lasses did jobs for Call-Me Norman, and got rewarded wi’ their own TVs and stuff.

  “What sort o’ jobs?” I said.

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” he said. But he looked at us in a funny way, like he knew summat really bad, which I were gonna have to find out about meself. Which reminded me o’ the way Call-Me Norman looked at us, and I wished I were back wi’ the Barrowcloughs.

  To be truthfully brutal, Alfi Spar was easy to dislike.

  First up, he was rubbish at pretty much everything, but because he was so pathetically quote-sweet-looking-endquote, most of the girls at Tenderness House would be all cooey-cooey over him. The WhyPettes were always trying to help him out and do him favourables. Like he had a host of big sisters tending his every need, which went down a storm with all us other boys. I mean, I didn’t have – Byron didn’t have – Tri and Dee hanging with me any more, did I? Some of the WhyPees were keen as custody to make some of those WhyPettes their own luvverly girlfriends, so when they saw them drooling over a little squitz like Alfi Spar it sent them into deepest jealousies.

  Second up, none of us were angels, were we? Do the crime, serve the time, yeah? The Good Citizen was sincerely miffed with himself for having got caught with his fingertips where they oughtn’t be, so only had himself to blame. But rather than gnash my fangs at them that caught me, tried me, and locked me up, I was busy planning an escape of great spectacularity. The rest of the WhyPees kept their heads down and made the best of their time. But Squealer-Face was all I’m an innocent man! I shouldn’t be here! Why have they put me in amongst thieves and hooligans? I’m better than this! Boy knew exactly how to come last in a Popularity Conquest.

  Third up: as if that wasn’t quite enough to make everybody hate him (apart from the pretty WhyPettes), he had his Birthday Tificate.

  We’d all gone through our fair share of mothers. By the time you end up at a place like Tenderness House, you’ve somehow managed to misplace your birth mum – through consequence of death, drugs, beatings, crime or mental sickness – and a handful of foster mums too.

  So there’s Alfi shoving his Birthday Tificate under everyone’s noseholes going on and on about how much she must have loved him and how she gave him his name and what a special name it was and she must have done it during her last breath, et cet et cet et cet. And he was sadness itself, really, because he
never actually knew his mum. At least I’d got to spend time with mine, for a few years at least. A lot of us had. Didn’t stop him droning on about it though, did it?

  He was pathetic. I felt sorry for him.

  But, fourth up: he got given his own TV after only a couple of weeks. He hadn’t even been asked to provide any favourables to Call-Me Norman, which made all those that did green with it. And also a tad suspish.

  See, Citizen Digit had been getting an idea or two about how comes Sniper and some of the other WhyPees and Pettes got rewards like TVs and whatnot, while the rest of us didn’t. Rumours were abounding.

  Staff never took their peepers off Alfi Spar – he had that sort of face. It seemed like the Groans were watching, and waiting. For what, we’d know soon enough. And the Digit would know, ’cos the Good Citizen knew all.

  Sniper, for your inf, had evening duties at Call-Me’s twice that first week and looked all the uglier for it. You could tell he wasn’t overmooned about it. Sniper was doing all the duty; Alfi Spar was getting all the reward.

  You hardly had to be Brain of Britney to figure that Alfi was being prepared for something special, and Sniper couldn’t stand for it. Thought he was the special one, didn’t he? You could tell by the clench of his fists every time Alfi’s angel face was in the vicinity that Sniper wanted to bash the holiness out of it. Alfi required a bit of uglification.

  Even by Tenderness standards Sniper was viperous. All WhyPees feared him. Hated him too, mainly because he’d pinch things out of spite. It’s not like he wanted the stuff for himself. If you was writing a letter and you got distracted, you’d turn round and find someone had pinched your pen. If you was having a shower, you’d get out and your towel was gone. Going to play football? Laces swiped from your boots.

  You’d find the pen, floating in the soup cauldron at lunchtime. You’d find your towel in the sports changing room, covered in mud off of somebody’s boots. You’d find your laces cut into one-inch strips, stored in a tub of marg in the kitchen area.