by Steve Tasane
But it’s Grace who turns. Half a mo, she winks at me, then glides onwards behind these beasts. Her head held high, noble, her long locks prettying up the murk she’s gliding through. Her chin trembles as she passes. I imagine her, going to lie on her back now, to make easy cash for Jackson Banks.
Crow, last of all, limping behind them, staring straight through me. His dead eyes meeting mine. Saying nothing, trailing past.
Nobody saw no one.
Down they go, creatures of the night. The door clunks behind them. I stay hunched, my face sunk behind my knees, thinking about the price on my head.
“Digit!” Virus’s voice snaps me out of it. “I know you’re out there. In here! Now!”
14. SERIOUS SHARPENING UP
First up, the Seven Sisters cops lock us in a cell. It en’t much different to the Relaxation Room at Tenderness House.
“Been in one of these before, have you, ‘Fred’?” says the copper, sarky. They’ve already taken me fingerprints, which were dead messy, and me hands are covered in smudge that won’t wash off proper. And they put a swab in me mouth so they could test me spit. The copper put on rubber gloves when he did it, like he thought he were going to catch summat off us, like I were some sort of mangy dog they’d picked up from the gutter. I suppose I am really. And they took me picture too.
“Don’t smile,” said the copper. As if. I had a big bump on me head an’ all, from when I landed on the pavement.
Because I were under fourteen, the police cudn’t take me fingerprints when Jacob got us arrested for stealing from Doug’s wallet. But ’cos I told this lot that I’m sixteen, they reckon they’re allowed. But me prints aren’t on the system, so they don’t know that I’m really Alfi Spar, so the joke’s on them.
I told ’em that I were just trying to give the bloke his wallet back, and I had nowt to do wi’ taking it, but they kept asking us a zillion questions. Who were I with? What were their names? Where do I live? But I can’t tell ’em owt, can I? If I tell ’em the truth, I’m dead. They’ll take me and Byron back to Tenderness House, and that’s it, everything’s up.
I hate it. I hate not telling the truth.
Me head hurts where I bumped it.
Think, Alfi, think. Got to get yourself out of here. They han’t even given you no food, just some water. It’s got to be illegal to lock you up this long wi’ no food. If they knew you were only fourteen they wun’t dare.
Always tell ’em sixteen, whatever happens.
I ought to stop doing what Byron tells us. He en’t that bright, is he? He’s always pretending everything. Trying not to be who he really is.
Not me. I know who I really am. Me mam is called Katariina.
KATARIINA.
Me head’s on fire and I’ve had enough. I’m going to tell ’em.
I’ll tell ’em about that Predictiv Tex lad stealing the wallet, and I’ll tell ’em about Cash Counters too – I bet they’d be dead interested in what’s going on there. I’ll tell them about Mr Virus – I bet that en’t even his real name. But I don’t need to tell them about Tenderness House ’cos they’ll never believe us. And I don’t need to tell ’em I’m Alfi Spar.
When I’m free, when I’m safe, when it’s right, I’ll tell all about the Jimmys.
Me cell’s got a buzzer. I think it buzzes for the desk sergeant. I’m going to lean on it, just keep on pressing it till somebody comes.
That’s it, Alfi. Use your brains.
At last, someone comes.
“I’m only fourteen!” I yell. “I’m only fourteen! I shun’t be here. I’m just a kid. I’m fourteen!”
The copper escorting us down the corridor looks really grumpy.
“Fourteen! Do you hear me? Fourteen!”
They lead us to an interview room, and there’s a sergeant sitting at a desk, and I sit down opposite, and the copper who brung us in says, “Apparently, he’s only fourteen.”
“Is that so?” the sergeant says.
“Aye, and I’m only just turned fourteen too. I en’t much more than thirteen.”
“Well, I’d never have guessed.” They love doing sarcasm, the police, don’t they?
“And I din’t pinch the stupid wallet either. I were trying to hand it back. I en’t a thief.”
“Well, we know that now,” says the sergeant. “The man who owns the wallet has made a statement, saying that you were trying to hand it back. Someone else stole it, apparently.”
“You can’t keep us then! You have to let us go! And give us me phone back!” I jump up.
And down. Summat’s the matter.
Sergeant looks at us all clever-dick. “Definitely not. You can have your phone back – but that’s all. You’ve just confirmed that you’re only fourteen. As we thought. We have a duty of care. We can’t put you out onto the streets. You’re only a kid.”
“What?”
They’re going to stick us back in that cell. That can’t be right.
“Listen, ‘Fred’. You need to understand, we’re on your side here. We’ve only held you for this amount of time a) because you had a knock on the head, and it’s our duty to watch you for a while and make sure you don’t go fainting or anything. And b) we’ve been trying to establish who you actually are. Up to the present moment, we’ve failed to achieve b. Perhaps you’d like to tell us now?”
“I’m – I’m…”
And I want to. I do; I really do. But I’m remembering me Case Worker in Bradford; how he got straight on to Call-Me Norman.
Me head hurts. Throbbing. “I’m nobody.”
The sergeant sighs. I can tell he’s getting tired. Dead tired. “We know you’re not called Fred,” he says. “What kind of kid is called Fred?”
He looks at the copper who came in wi’ me. “Did the Council get back to you?”
The Council?
“Yes,” says the copper. “They’re sending the Welfare Team over now.”
Welfare Team?
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Well, ‘Fred’. Obviously we can’t keep a young kid like you in the cells overnight, and neither can we turn you out onto the street. As – at the moment – we aren’t able to establish who you are, and who you belong to, we’re going to have to set you up in short-term emergency foster care. Do you understand what that means?”
I blink. “A foster family?”
“Short-term,” says the sergeant.
“When?” I say.
A family.
“Soon as they get here,” he answers, closing his file.
Yes!!!
I’ll have a family again.
That’s the way, Katariina’s son. Played a blinder. And I managed all this without having to drop the Digit in it, after all.
Result.
The Good Citizen is in for the zapping of a lifetime.
I think about running, here and now. Get to street level and do a Mo Farah. But in my chest I know Virus would have his henchies track me down in no time flat. And if any of them find out I used to be Byron Blank Space, I’m dog meat. Literally, if JB has anything to do with it.
“Digit!” Virus yells. “You’re trying my patience now!”
Okily-doke. This is it then. In I go. Take a deep breath.
I won’t bite my tongue off when I’m zapped, lose my brightest attribute. I won’t.
“Come,” he says. He’s lounged on his sofa as I inch in. “Make yourself comfy. This is your home, Didge.” His eyes widen in joke surprise. “No Tex? Surely our faithful friend wouldn’t be so unpredictable as to … lose his way?” He mock tuts. “Not when we need his talents so much –” he snatches my wrist and pulls me next to him “– to get back Alfi Spar!”
The Digit figures it’s prudish to stay shtum at this point.
Virus has enough vocab for the two of us. “That’s Alfi Spar, who as you have just eavesdropped, is even as we speak conspiring to bring everything tumbling down around our heads!”
“I think he’s—”
“I know where he is,
Digit. I have him tracked, don’t I? Have a guess. Go on, I’m sure you’d make a highly informed go of it. Well, boy, where do you think Mr Alfred Spar is residing at this point in time? Where?”
“Err…”
“I’ll tell you. Tottenham police station. The police station, Digit. Which is most peculiar, because I distinctly remember the last time I set eyes on him he was in the safe and reliable hands of one Citizen Digit.”
“See, what happened is—”
“Save it. I can guess only too well. Trouble at our door, boy, trouble at our door. Look around. What do you see? Nothing! No one! Where are our friends, our little playmates? All gone. Shipped out to safe houses around the borough. And half our electronic items bagged up and shipped out to trusted associates. Because of you, boy, because of you!”
I can’t hack the wait. “Go on, then. Go on.” I close my eyes. Clench my teeth. In the scrunched starriness of my lids, I wait for the jolt.
“Open your eyes, little soldier.”
I can’t.
“Open your eyes.”
“Please,” I say, “just do it.”
I can take the pain. Not the waiting. In the dark.
“Open.”
I do. He’s not got his zapper aimed at my face. His hands are praying, on his lap. “Do you see the police around you? No. Do you see your Manager sitting in handcuffed indignity? No. If they were going to come, they’d have come by now. I’m prepared. We have nothing to hide here. Not now. What I’d like to know, Citizen, is what’s going on? What’s the story? Why is Alfi Spar so important?”
Ah. I get it. You can’t bleed no info out of a zapped-out zombie. Virus is the kind of gentleman who likes to know all the right angles. Ask questions first, shoot later.
“Well?” he prompts me.
“What do you know about Norman Newton?” I blurt.
“Aha, ha,” Virus muses, fidgeting with his phone. “What do you know about Norman Newton?”
Careful now. “According to Alfi,” (hah, see what I did there?) “he runs a Young Persons Secure Unit. Place where Alfi comes from. I think Alfi did a runner.”
“Oh, you do, do you? How bright. What a bright young man you are, Mr Digit. And why, why do you think it is that young Alfi felt the need to flee from this place?”
“Well, you know, we all hate those kind of places, don’t we?”
“Do you now? Why’s that then?” He’s trying to squish me into a corner, ain’t he?
“Do you think –” I play the game like a triple-crowned champ “– Alfi might have something on Norman Newton?”
“Something on him? Oh, that’s an interesting idea. Any thoughts as to what that might be? Any vague ideas?”
I shrug, like the sort of fool boy I’m not. Don’t overplay it, Didge. “Up to no goodness?”
“Mmmm. Maybe.”
What’s his game? I need to know his game, otherwise how am I able to play him?
Virus says, “So Alfi never told you then?”
I could spill. But if I overflow, the link to Jackson Banks is too severe. If Call-Me is passing on girls for Banks to pimp out, then Alfi (and me) can bring the Sherlocks directly to his door. And from JB’s door to Virus’s is an untidy litter trail of house-burgled goodies. Half of Cash Counters’ Tru Valu merchandise comes straight out of JB’s gym bag.
So I say, “I was trying to find out from Alfi. I think he dug up some sort of evidence. Some sort of wrong-doing.”
“What’s it to do with Jackson Banks, do you think?”
“Dunno.”
“And what about that other boy?”
My heart brakes. “Other boy?” I say.
“Other boy.” He leans in close. His eyes flick down to his phone, but he ain’t checking no text, is he? “This … Byron Blank Space.”
He’s setting the voltage.
I am cool. I am cool. But I’m sweating, ain’t I? I can feel beads of it building up on my forehead, squealer-sweat. “Don’t think I know him,” I say. “Byron… Byron what’s his name?”
“Blank Space.”
“Blank Space. Byron Blank Space. Nope. But I’ll let you know if I hear of him on the grapeline.”
“Thanks, Digit. I knew I could rely on you. Oh, here’s a funny thing.”
“Yes?”
“It’s Alfi Spar. The other night, when we were all having so much fun. I could have sworn – I might be wrong – but I thought for a minute I heard him call you Byron. Is that possible, do you think?”
That’s it. I’m getting zapped to smithers.
“No,” I say. “No, no. That’s crazy. Oh, I get it. It must have been when he called me by my other name. My birth name. Brian. I hate it when he does that.”
“Brian?”
“Yeah. Nasty, isn’t it? Now you know why I call myself Citizen Didge.”
“Not Byron?”
I hold out my hands, all nonshalonse. “Do I look like a Byron?”
He ain’t convinced. “Do you look like a Brian?” he counters.
“Exactly.”
This conversation’s on a fast train to Nowheresville. Better reset the Sat Nav. “Listen, Mr Virus, I know I messed up today – big time. I should never have let Alfi Spar fall into the Long Arms. If I can talk to him, I can get you all the answers you need. I’ll do the mission, make up for my misdeeds. It’s dangerous, I know, but if I go to the police station I can say I witnessed it all – I’ll even give them a description of Tex’s mug if it’ll help convince them. I’ll say I know Alfi from the street, and get the goodies from them about what’s going on. I’m hot. I got skill. The Digit’s the best. You know that.”
“What good will any of that do?” he snaps.
“See, I get to Alfi, one way or another he needs our help, yeah? He can let us know what’s the score with this geez who runs the Secure Unit. Norman…?”
“Newton.”
“Norman Newton. And once you know what’s a whatness, well, you hold all the cardies, don’t you? You can figure out what works out best for us here, can’t you?”
Virus is silent for a long time. He’s thinking it all through. “You think I don’t already know?” he says. My heart goes boom. “Norman Newton is a nasty piece of work. He’s bad news for everybody.” My heart goes phe-ew. “He needs to learn a lesson or two. Let’s put it this way, Didge. Alfi might not just be a liability to Norman Newton. He might be of value to him. And if he’s of value to Newton, then he can be of value to us. Always follow the money, young prince. Always follow the money.”
Virus is nutkins. He surely realizes the extent of the nastiness that takes place at Tenderness. He reckons everything boils down to blackmail this or bribe that. Alfi of value to Call-Me Norman? Hah! Like a one-pound note.
So I ask Virus the million-yen question. “What I don’t get,” I say, “is what’s the connection between you and Norman Newton. How come he seems to know you?”
He clenches his fist. I’ve overmarked the step. I brace myself.
Then his shoulders go all saggy, like he’s as tired as me. “It’s true. Norman Newton and I go way back. You didn’t think I was christened Mr Virus did you?” He pauses, and makes his confession. “Norman Newton knows my real name.”
Then it’s worse than I feared. We’re all in it, up to our throats.
I try to hide my surprise. “So what’s the plan then?”
He doesn’t answer for ages, like he’s lost in the annuals of time. “We’ll see,” he says, right when I think he’s not going to answer at all. “Tomorrow. If Alfi’s still in custody, seeing him might be an appropriate plan. But for tonight, Digit, I’m afraid you can’t stay here. It’s possible the law might still come a-knocking.”
“Comprende.” I stand up. Surely I’m not going to get away with it? “I’ll make myself rare for the night. I’ll pop back in the morno. I can take your directives then.”
“Very good.”
I turn to go.
“Oh, Byron?”
“Yes?”
“You need to do some serious sharpening up, Digit, some serious sharpening up.”
Byron.
A bolt of pain sears through my arm. The bolt knocks me off my feet. I’m on the floor, jerking.
“Won’t we ever learn?” I hear him through a squeal in my brain.
He zaps me again.
15. HOMELINESS
The desk sergeant gives us back me mobile phone. The only thing active on it is the clock. It’s well gone midnight. No wonder I’m famished.
The Welfare Team ask us a zillion more questions – twice as many as the police did. But I’m saying nowt, for now. Tell ’em I’m Fred, and no more. Katariina’s son is keeping his options open. No one need know about Alfi Spar or Call-Me Norman or any of it. Not yet. Not if I’m to stay with a proper family again.
It takes for ever before they finally let us see ’em. They lead us through into the Victim Support Lounge. I en’t a suspect any more, am I?
I go in and there’s a couple o’ sneaky-looking crooks sitting there, and I’m wondering where me emergency foster family are, when this dodgy pair stand up and smile at us.
Oh, what? You’re pulling me leg.
“Hello, Fred,” says the bloke. “I’m Danny.”
He’s got a big, bald head like Phil Mitchell in Eastenders, and he’s wearing razor-blade earrings. He’s got a T-shirt with the damned on it, and a bunch of blokes dressed up as vampires and in maid outfits and stuff, and below them the words smash it up.
“Hiya,” says the woman. “I’m Scarlett.” And they both stand up to shake me hand.
This en’t right. Scarlett’s got a big mop of unwashed hair that looks like a giant Brillo pad. Black and silver, wi’ flecks o’ colour like it’s been used to paint a few walls. She’s wearing charity clothes. She pongs like skanky socks.
They en’t exactly Mr and Mrs Barrowclough. But I say hello and shake their hands ’cos it’s right to be polite.
Everyone puts their signatures over twenty sheets of paper. The Welfare Team and coppers watch very closely to see whether I sign me own name, but I en’t that thick, and I put down Fred X. I like that. Fred X. Citizen Digit ’ud like that. I’ll have to tell him. Or, I would, if me and him weren’t done wi’ each other.
