by Steve Tasane
Grace’s mouth twists into an ugly line, and she wipes away a tear. “We have hope.”
What else is there to say? I shut the laptop, so there’s no light but the moonlight coming through the window, and I’ve got Grace’s warmth around me. I’m all plumped up like the pillows, and she’s wrapped around me, as soft as you could want, and that’s how we stay, with our thread of hope. And after a while, I guess I fall asleep, feeling safer, softer. It’s almost like in the olden days, when Byron still had some family.
Who knows how long I sleep like that. I’m awake soon enough, alone in the moonlit room.
Something woke me.
There’s a CRASH. Then there’s a load of THUDDING. I hear the living-room door slam open. I hear Jackson Banks through in Grace’s room. He’s yelling at her. He sounds like murder.
16. SHUT-EYE
“J!” Grace sounds as surprised as me. I imagine her sitting bolt up from the sofa, wrapping herself in her safety-net of sheets.
“Don’t sound so pleased,” he snorts, all sarky-snark. There’s a thud as he drops his gym bag where he stands, like it’s too heavy to hold for a second longer.
Obnob gives a whimper. “Shut it!” says Jackson. Then there’s a silence, like he’s looking around the room, sniffing the place. He’ll be wondering why Grace is a-kip on the sofa, and who’s occupying her bedroom. Grace’ll be trying to read his face. I can read it from here, through the wall – it’s a poison pen letter.
“Where’s Crow?” I hear her ask.
I hear the gym bag unzipping, then the clatter of the crowbar, clanging onto the table top. That ain’t right. That crowbar lives down the side of Crow’s trackies.
“Where is ’e?” Grace repeats.
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Gone!”
He’s opening the cupboard where Grace keeps her whiskey. Unscrews the cap and there’s more silence while he swigs.
“No,” she says. I guess he offered her the bottle. “What’s happened? What happened to your face?”
He wails. Sounds like a grieving hippo.
“There, there.” Stroking him. “There, there.” I think I can hear him sobbing. Because he’s hurt his face, or because of Crow?
This is the worst thing ever. If Jackson Banks clocks that the Digit’s heard him crying like a littl’un, he’ll bash the Good Citizen’s face in.
But then he speaks again, and starts chuckling. “They’ll never find him, young Crow. He’s down the river. Sunk without a trace. Weighed down by his worries, ain’t he?” He laughs out loud. “But you know what, Grace? You know what? Apart from weighting the body, I never touched him. I never. He fell, didn’t he, bashed his brains? Like a stupid amateur. Slipped off a window ledge, woke the household, panicked, tripped over Obnob. Smashed his own head in.”
Obnob gives another whine from wherever it is he’s skulking. Is he collaborating JB’s account – or protesting his own part in it?
“Crow. He’s really,” says Grace, “really dead?”
“Dead?” roars Banks. “Dead as a donkey! Dead as a zombie! Dead useless to me now, and stiffening with it!” He laughs like a Looney Tunes.
“It’s all right,” she soothes him. She’ll be putting a gentle arm round him, reassurance itself. That’s her job. I bet he’s resting his head against her chest. The Digit feels a pang of jealousy.
For a zillisecond.
“All right?” Banks booms over her soothing. “Course it’s all right! What am I, a Fairy Cake like Virus? Stupid boy should have watched his step.”
Oh, he’s a sensitive soul.
“What we goin’ to do?” says Grace.
“Do? Do? Lay low is what we’ll do. And get a replacement for the useless lump. Norman Newton can sort it. It’s about time he delivered something worthwhile. Poor old Crow was always too feeble. Newton should have toughened him up, shouldn’t he, before sending him my way.”
“It’s not Newton’s fault,” says Grace.
“It’s all Newton’s fault. Newton, and that Fairy Cakes Virus. They make their promises…”
“We could move,” says Grace, all in a hurry. “We could stop all this nonsense. Go abroad. Somewhere sunny. Open a bar, take it easy.”
Even the Digit knows how sad and pathetic that sounds. It makes Banks laugh again, guffawing like he’s fit to burst. Then he stops.
There’s a long silence. Uh-oh.
“Who’s in the bedroom?” he says.
I duck my head under the duvet. Shut my eyes, tight as I can. Hold my breath.
“It’s the Digit,” says Grace. “’E’s coppin’ a couple hours’ shut-eye. Virus give him a zappin’.”
Jackson Banks makes an electrifying bzzzz bzzzz noise, dead sympathetic. “Best say hello then, hadn’t we?”
All of a sud, I’m aware of the weight of the laptop, still sitting on top of the duvet, frozen on the page with the Jimmy footage. I scramble to get it tucked under the bed, just before JB comes a-barging in.
He flicks on the light. “Didgi-Boy!” His arms open in greeting. I’ve never seen him so deranged.
Before I can blink, he’s got my head between his hands, ruffling my hair and rubbing my ears in rough’n’tumble greeting. I can feel his nails digging into my scalp. He’s shaking me like a rag.
“Stop it, J, stop it!” I’m hearing Grace’s voice through the roar of air inside my head. He stops, pushing his palm into my face, flipping me back against the pillow.
I open my eyes. He’s got his fists raised in front of me, like a boxer and we’re going to spar. I reckon he’s given himself a triple-strength steroid jab. “Having a laugh, ain’t we, Didgy? That’s all. Just having a laugh.”
I fake a smile.
“Drag in my bag,” he orders Grace. He leans in towards my face. “Lucky for us, Crow had the good timing to wait till we bagged the loot before going and bashing his brains in. How you doing, Didgy?”
He’s sizing me up, ain’t he?
“I thought I’d come here, get a bit of shut-eye,” I say.
Is the Good Citizen still small enough to fit through the kind of spaces Crow does? Did, I mean.
I puff myself up, trying to be bigger.
Grace comes in, lugging the gym bag. Obnob limps behind her, stopping at the rug, where he rolls onto his side and lies there looking sorryful.
“Unzip it,” he tells her, without taking his eyes off me.
He leans his face into mine. He’s all eyeball. I’m discomfy.
“Go on then,” he says, beaming.
He looks like he’s going to nut me. If I wet myself twice in one night, I’m going to have to move towns. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. It’s one of those awkward moments you laugh about later. I can’t get up, ’cos he’s leaning in too close.
“Go on then,” he says, again.
“Go on what?” I ask.
“Shut-eye.”
I close my eyes. I hear him chuckling satisfaction, feel him turning towards Grace. I hear him upending the gym bag, then the clatter of liberated goodies on the floorboards. If I open my eyes, he’ll kill me. I try and shuffle further under the duvet.
“We need to be calm.” Grace tries to sound calm.
“Dead calm?” Banks jokes back at her.
He starts moving about, depositing his ill-gottens around the bedroom. Grace is following him, like she’s his other dog. I’m not even invisible any more; I just don’t count. It’s a relief.
“Where’s Alfi Spar?” I hear him suddenly demand, from behind my shaded eyeballs.
She’s taken aback. There’s a pause. “Ah, you’re askin’ me?”
His hand jolts out and seizes her throat. I know because I hear her gasp, then her voice sounds all strangled. I could open my eyes, just a slit, take a peek. But I’m not going to.
“No,” he says, “I’m asking Obnob.”
“I don’t know, J.”
“Virus knows. So you know.”
“Plea
se, J…”
He’s crushing her throat.
I say, “He got arrested.” But I keep my eyes closed.
He slams his fist down on the bedroom table. Everything clatters. He stromps towards me. His hand comes round my throat. But gently, oh so gently.
“Open your eyes.” His fingers tickle me beneath my chin. Eyeballing again. “Speak.”
I try my best. “He was out with me and the Dictiv. He got fingered. Then long-armed. He’s at Tottenham Nick. Virus has him GPS’d. That’s all I know.”
“Shut your eyes.” I do. “Tomorrow, we get him.” There’s a pause. “That’ll be a laugh, won’t it?” I dunno if he’s talking to Grace or me. Both of us mumble in the infirmative.
I keep my eyes closed. I hear him moving back towards Grace. I can sense her, trying to stop herself from backing away from him. He stinks of brute.
“Where’s Byron Blank Space?” His hand is back round her throat.
I ought to leap up, leap through the window. But if I make a move, he’ll know.
I won’t see another day. I ought to run.
He’s waiting for his answer.
“I dunno no Byron Blank Space,” she gasps. “Jackson, please, you’re scarin’ me.”
Silence.
Don’t open your eyes. Don’t run. Just breathe.
Silence. He’s scrutinizing her. Obnob whines. Jackson knows when Grace is lying.
Through the silence, we’re all breathing, me and her and him and the dog. Living breath, in an empty space.
Finally, he lets her go. “You find him,” he tells her. “Then I’ll do the fun stuff.”
She’s nodding. She’s trying not to let her eyes flick in my direction. I’m trembling. Byron Blank Space isn’t any good for Citizen Digit. Like I said, that Walking Dead Boy is a shuffling liability.
“Breakfast!” he barks at her. “Yum yum. Hop to it!”
It ain’t even three in the morning. I hear them heading for the kitchen. Jackson saying, “Shame the Digit ain’t small enough to squeeze through windows. Smart lad like him ’ud make a good replacement for poor old Crow.”
There’s a silence, then he carries on muttering. “Poor Crow. He was my one and only. Poor old Crow. Who’ll look after me now, hey, Grace? When we get old. We’ll always need a Crow…”
I could open my eyes now. I could get to my feet and grab my threads from the radiator, run for the door, get out of London, flee the country. I could.
But I don’t. I keep them closed. I slow my breathing. I calm my shaking. In my darkness, I reach around in my head, calling for the Citizen, seeking him out. Citizen Digit must use his good-given talent to get through this coming day. He’s there, in the dark, and he says Don’t you worry. If anyone can pull us through this, the Digit can do it, the Digit can do it… Over and over again. The Digit can do it, the Digit can do it, the Digit can…
Over and over and over. The Digit… Eventually, he lures me into sleep.
17. GOLD DUST
The Digit awakes!
I cry out in terror. My eyes are convinced they’re going to be greeting the face of Jackson Banks, twisted in hilarity.
I sigh in relief, breathe in the silence. The house feels peaceful. Don’t know how long I slept, don’t even know how I slept. Exhaustion, I guess. But it’s a new day now, and my fuggy mind is reminding me that there’s chores to be done.
First up, I remember how me and Grace dug up the evidence. What a clever legs Alfi Spar turned out to be, thinking of putting it on a Facebook page that doesn’t have any friends. Intellectualism itself.
All we need now is a plan. Sunlight streaming through the window inspires hope and hippiness to all and sundry. It’s basic. Citizen Digit is going to get killed to death if nobody calls off Mad Dog Jackson. Call-Me Norman is the man for that job, as he set the psychonut on Digit in the firstness. There is, of course, a crumb of hope that Call-Me might do that, if we threaten to expose him. Give him no alternative. Then we can all shake hands and go have a picnic.
On the other hand, he might just have JB take me by the throat and shake me to death before I even reach the end of my threat. I ain’t got no authority, have I?
A softer option might involve going to the Sherlocks and having Call-Me locked away for what’s left of his calendars. We like that one. The only paw in the flan is that in the meantime JB might kill me anyway. He hates time-wasting, and the due process of the law is slowpoke central. Jackson would have me throttled faster than it takes to say You’re nicked.
And JB would fall into a murderous rage the nanosecond he hears we’ve blabbed to the Sherlocks, your honour. He’s got his little fingers wrapped up in this, up to his knuckle joints.
And yes-but-no-but-yes-but, we need a mediator.
I wander into the kitchen, see if I can’t find Grace, borrow her opinion. She ain’t there. Neither, I’m massively relieved to see, is Jackson Banks. Guess they’ve made starters of the day.
Rewind: threaten Call-Me to call off the Mad Dog; dial 999, Emergency Sherlocks, please; or find a mediator. Somebody who has some degree of influence over JB.
I can’t believe what I’m actually thinking.
My ears are still buzzing from the shock of it. We need a sane mediator, not Electro Supervillain with the Power to Shock.
Is this it? Is the Man To Go To In A Crisis – really, truly, deeply – the lunatic with the Zap App? Can’t Citizen Digit think of one single other Responsible Adult to foil the evil conspiracy?
Oh, you should just go back to bed if this is the best you can do, Didge. Surely, somebody, somewhere, somehow, can help us out?
The thing is, there is not a single trustabubble Groan out there. Either me and Grace and Alfi Spar defeat the gang of Psychopaths and Jimmymen ourselves or—
Or we work with one of them. The only one we can half trust. The only one not so utterly depraved or violent that it’s a danger to share the same room with him. And, even then, he’s an itsy bitsy depraved, and a tiny-weeny bit violently tended.
How can I even think about going back to him?
Because I’m desperate.
Grace’s fridge is empty and there’s no bread. Jackson’s wolfed it all. So I make my way back up towards Seven Sisters Road, to Cash Counters, to pop some toast with the Devil’s not-quite-so-evil half-bro.
Virus himself.
He seems to be expecting me. “Ahh, Citizen,” he says, rubbing his palms together, warmlike, as if last night’s incidentals hadn’t happened at all. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
His eyes flick feather-light over my features, see if he left any burns or marks with his zaps.
“Perhaps the Digit would like some tea. Toast?”
He’s guilt-rid, ain’t he? The iron knee of it is that Virus is always most approachable after a zapping episode. Like he wants to set things right again, after making everything skew-whiff. After some bad boy made things skew-whiff first, of course.
“The Good Citizen’s found something of keen human interest, ain’t he?” says me, all swaggerlike.
I’m not going to waste precious tick-tock by mollycoddling round the matter. We both of us want to put the zapcident behind us, and the Citizen’s got urgent matters at hand. So I go straight to one of his screens, sign into Facebook, and show him the vid.
He watches it and says nothing. Then he presses play and watches it again. Still he says nothing. Then he plays it a third time, turns to me and says, “It’s worse than I feared.”
Worse. How’s that then?
“What? You eyeballed this before then?”
He closes his eyes. It’s what he does when he’s run out of patience. Has the Digit been impertinent again? In for another zapping? I close my eyes. Brace myself.
But nothing happens. Instead he says, “I let you all down.”
“You can’t have,” I say. “You’re Mr Virus, the Great Manager. You’re here, at Cash Counters.”
But he’s shaking his head. “If I’d known it
was going to end like this, I’d have … intervened.”
“What are you talking about, V?” I say.
He lets out a long sigh. “Oh, we go back, Norman Newton and I. Many, many years. Long before Cash Counters. I used to be on the board of an organization – you might have heard of them – they’re called Reliance Plus. Of course, they’ve expanded a lot since then. The first children’s home they ran was up Enfield way. Mr Newton was the manager.”
“You knew!”
He closes his eyes again. Like he doesn’t want to see what’s right in front of them.
“No, no. I didn’t. But … I suspected. I always suspected. I mean, none of it was on the straight and narrow exactly. There’s a lot of money to be made from the care system, you know.”
“Oh, is there?” says me, all snarkastic.
“But it does a lot of good too!” he puts in. “That was what drew me to it. I never simply wanted to make money – I wanted to help the young people.”
“Instead, you made your money and you left the young people to the hands of Norman Newton. You fiddled the books, and he – just fiddled.” I can barely conceal my disgust.
“No. I promise you, no. Well, I admit, I was syphoning funds, but not to the detriment of the home; it was all government money. But there was an incident. A serious incident. And a nasty rumour, regarding Newton’s involvement. It was enough for me.”
“Enough? So what? You had him long-armed? Got the Sherlocks on the case?”
I’m pushing my luck, I know.
“I challenged him, Digit. I promise you, I challenged him.”
“Excellent,” says me. “And that stopped him there and then.”
“Well, of course, he denied it all,” Virus stutters on, “and then he showed me copies of documentation he had that would have brought me down.”
What’s he expect me to say? He’s squirming, like he’s sat on his zapper. “I’d have gone to prison,” he pleads. “I’d never have bought the building, this building, that eventually became Cash Counters, and I wouldn’t be able to give you and all the other boys the support you have. Don’t you see?”
The Digit doesn’t know about seeing Virus’s support. I’ve certainly felt it. My skin is still sensitive from last night’s punishment.
