by Steve Tasane
Digit ’ud be rolling his eyes. He never had no fear. I’ve got to. I’ve got to do it, for him, and for Grace.
So I stick me head through to the seats. Instead o’ biting me ears off like Jackson planned, Obnob starts licking me face.
I look through the window and see Jackson Banks walking towards the service-station shop. I slump again, wi’ relief.
Rouse yourself, Blabber-Boy!
Split-second decision. Take Obnob with us. He shun’t be with an animal like Jackson Banks. I put the seat back, open the door and the two of us go for it.
We run, fast as we can, to the back part o’ the services. Push on. Sorry, Didge, I en’t stopping for no bragging about me skills or displays of invisibility. I en’t an entertainer like you was. I’m running for me life. Me and Obnob, straight round the back, away from that killer before he gets back and finds me and his dog gone.
Back road at the services turns into a country lane, dunno where to, dunno how long, but we run and we run, as fast and as far away as possible. Lane is going up a hill, and it’s good, is that. Me and Obnob stretch our legs, fill our lungs, leaving the car fumes behind. We run and we puff and our blood pumps. Up and up, and when we get to the top, we stop, and I turn round and I look back down.
No one after us. Obnob lies down, getting back his breath. Me too, great lungfuls of it. I can taste the countryside.
Obnob spots summat and gives a bark. A humming noise gets louder and I see it’s a helicopter, and another helicopter, and they’re hovering low, over the services. Were they there all the time? Squinting me eyes, I think I can spot Jackson Banks’s car, speeding off, and I watch as it all unfolds.
It en’t real. It’s a proper high-speed chase, wi’ the motorway shut down and flashing lights and sirens blaring. Somehow or other, they’ve cottoned on to the psycho-man, and they’re after him, a zillion police cars. Me and Obnob have a bird’s-eye view.
It should be peaceful up here, but there’s nowt but sirens and helicopters and beeping horns, and all of a sudden there’s a giant bang, and a great fireball and a whole load o’ smoke. It’s Jackson Banks’s car, flipped, exploded.
Everything stops still and it’s quiet again, just smoke rising up into the clouds, and a load o’ police, standing and watching.
He can’t hurt us any more, can he? He can’t, can he?
It’s all so dumb.
But I’m glad me and Obnob got out o’ that car. We’ve got stuff to do with our lives. I have, leastways. I put me hand down, tickle the back o’ the dog’s neck. He were watching the fireball down below, like he were trying to figure out what it meant to him. When me fingers touch his fur, it’s like me fingertips are passing on the understanding to him. He knows. His old master is dead. He’s a free dog.
Listen. Birdsong. A cow mooing somewhere near by. A breeze rustling through the trees. It’s the countryside, in’t it? So we turn our backs on the deadly motorway, me and me dog, and we start walking.
Walking. Away from the cars and the people and the buildings and the noise and the nastiness. Walking, into the lanes wi’ the hedges and trees and sheep and birds and the good times.
It’s grand, strolling round, just me and the dog, all peaceful and free, till I realize where I am. I know these roads. I were right, weren’t I? Banks were taking me back to Tenderness House.
What should I do?
Before I can figure it out, a bloke in a milk float stops and offers us a lift. He says he shouldn’t really give a lift to a dog, ’cos o’ food regulations, but he’s on his way home for the afternoon, and he’s got a dog just like Obnob, so he can’t drive by and leave us hiking.
“It’s a lovely dog you’ve got there, lad,” he says. “You’re dead lucky.”
Is he a Jimmy?
He surprises the life out o’ me, wi’ what he says next.
“It en’t safe for lads like you round here, anyway.”
He sees the look on me face, and goes on. “Have you not heard the news? Never known owt like it. Pervert central. It’ll not be long before these little roads’ll be jammed wi’ police and TV folk. It’s all over t’internet.”
I dunno what me face must look like. Amazed, I suppose.
“They’re going mad over it on Twitter.” He looks at me, wide-eyed. “Ee lad, you need to keep up.”
I can’t believe it. Did Citizen Digit do it? Did he really beat them? Beat the Jimmys, just like he promised? I wish he were around to enjoy it.
He said Mr Virus thought I should go back, din’t he, to Tenderness? Banks were taking me back there too, like Tenderness House is where I really belong. I were running as far from that place as I could get. But wi’ Digit and Mr Virus exploding the evidence in all sorts of places on the internet, Call-Me Norman’s got nowhere to hide now.
So I know what I’ve got to do. I’m dead close; it en’t far. I’m going to get back to Tenderness. Now. Before the police take Norman Newton away. I’m going to get to him first.
It’s time I had some answers.
The milkman drops us off at the village nearest to Tenderness, so we walk it from here, me and me dog. It’s so different to London. Instead of the roar of traffic and the stink of rot from all the rubbish, there’s the sound of silence – just a twittering o’ birdsong in the background – and the smell o’ good, honest, fresh air. It reminds me o’ when I used to go walking wi’ Doug. He had a pair o’ binoculars and one day he bought me a pair an’ all. In the springtime we used to go birdwatching. We’d spot the nests up in the trees, and see if we could see the chicks, their heads poking up when the mummy birds returned wi’ worms. They had fluffy hair and great big mouths. Doug said they reminded him o’ me. We’d walk for hours, just like now. Obnob’s zigging and zagging all along the little roads, catching a million scents and making mad dashes at the sparrows and bluetits. I bet he’s never seen the countryside before.
The air is crisper here, fresh and clean. I could spend all day wandering through the fields. Me and Doug saw a dead mole once. It must have had a little heart attack or summat, ’cos there wan’t a mark on it, and its fur were all shiny like velvet. It had little legs wi’ huge claws for digging, and a long snout for snuffling worms. I seen an owl once an’ all; flew right past me head. And bats, fluttering after midges at dusk. I love animals; they just get on with it, don’t have to go making a mess o’ things like folk do.
Funny, in’t it, the way they stuck Tenderness House smack bang in the middle of all this peace and quiet?
At the perimeter fence I find the old escape hole, and squeeze meself through it. It’s a tight fit. I’m growing.
I’m going to confront Call-Me Norman. He knows who me mam was. He knows, but he never told.
I’m going to have the truth.
Obnob gives a bark and I stop. Dog is looking back behind us, gives another bark. I turn round, look back towards the fence.
Citizen Digit!
Alfi Spar!
“Blabber-Boy! You’re supposed to be dead!”
He looks as gobsmacked as I feel, but he gives a little shrug, trying to pretend escaping from fiery doom is as piffly a deal as it would have been for the Citizen.
I unhook the wire from my trousers and scramble up onto my dignity.
Alfi Spar. It ain’t usually in the Digit’s Comfy Zone, but I find myself in a hug. He smells of dog fur and petrol cans. The dog is dancing round our legs. And the two of us are laughing, giggling, shoulder-punching, trying to lift each other off our feet.
“How did you…?” he says.
“I was feigning, wasn’t I? Give the boy an Oscar!”
He rolls his eyes at that and points at my face. “You’ve still got a proper black eye, though.”
“Yeah, well –” full of humbliness “– I suppose his fist was real enough.” Then I’m throwing Alfi over-excited how-did-you? hands.
He tries that casual shrug again and says, “Harry Houdini, Escapologist Extraordinaire.”
What a dingbat.
>
Then his eyes brighten even more and he throws me a look, of sparkle and hope. But the bright blue hope darkens half a mo later, and he looks down at his feet.
I know what he was going to ask. If I’m alive, if he’s alive, maybe Grace is good too? What a ridiculous hope.
I put my hands on his shoulders. “We’re all good,” I say. “All of us.”
I thought I’d lost them all. After losing me mam, and Doug and Jenny, and Scarlett and Danny – Citizen Digit and Grace were the only family I had left.
All of a sudden I’ve got me life back. Digit tells me everything, all in mad, scatter-dash Digit speak. Me ears are taking it in, but all I really know is that he’s in front o’ me, throwing his silly poses as he tells us his story.
We look like a couple o’ loonies, leaping about like we’ve escaped from a prisoner of war camp, when we’ve actually broken back in. We’re cut and bruised and half killed and we stink of Jackson Banks’s hands. It’s so horrible, we can’t stop laughing.
But we do stop. There’s a silence. An eerie stillness. We turn and stare at the back of Norman Newton’s block, the room where they have their parties, and our eyes meet, and he puts his hand on me shoulder again, and it’s time.
I force the window and we climb into the Jimmys’ stinking den. It’s empty, but the door leading to Call-Me’s office is ajar. The widescreen TV is switched on. But it’s not screening filth, like before. It’s me, Visible Didge, and the fireball on the motorway. It’s News24. It’s Primrose’s face, and Wedderburn, and the rest of the Jimmymen. We’re all famous now. We stand for a moment, watching, as the reports shift to the earlier scene at the service station. JB’s pimpmobile, the car door opening and a boy and a dog emerging and running off over the verge. The bird’s-eye view, tracking Jackson, me making road angels on the forecourt, and the chase, and the fireball…
And there’s Call-Me’s face. In all its widescreen gory.
Alfi’s face twists into an ugly sneer. He ain’t an Angel-Face no more.
Through the end of the corridor we can hear shuffling and slamming, like somebody’s opening drawers and cabinets and dropping boxes and rummaging, insaniac rummaging.
Obnob starts growling like a disgruntled lion. Alfi is stomping forwards into the corridor. The Citizen marches after them.
We stop outside Call-Me’s door, take our breath, and then I kick that door wide open.
Door bursts open with a loud crack, slamming against its hinges and bouncing back at us. Alfi gives it a final shove, punching at it with his fist, and Obnob pounces in, blood-hungry. Me and Alfi lock eyes, and follow.
Call-Me cowers against his desk.
Obnob’s ripping and tearing at his trouser leg.
Alfi Spar jabs his finger at Norman Newton’s face, as self-righteous as ever. Call-Me whimpers and pleads with us to call off the dog.
Alfi roars over the top of him. “Who’s my mother? Who is she? You tell us. You tell us, or I’ll set the dog on you good and proper!”
Oooh. The Digit’s going to enjoy this.
“All right! All right! Call off the dog. Call it off!” Not taking his eyes off the crazy canine making rags of his strides.
I glance around. There’s paperwork everywhere. The shredder’s gone into overdrive. And it looks like he’s taken a hammer to his Mac and his laptop. There’s burning paper in the waste bin. The man’s been busy.
Alfi clicks his fingers. “Heel, boy.”
Obnob only goes and sits a-peaceful next to Alfi’s leg. It’s a doggie miracle.
“Hello, Byron,” says Newton, trying to gather himself together. “Hello, Alfi. You know that entering without knocking is a breach of the rules.” He shakes his leg. “As is keeping pets on the premises.”
He’s sweating it, ain’t he? Struggling to appear calm, trying to regain control. “Can’t say it’s a pleasure to see you again, Byron.”
Citizen Digit takes a seat, trying to figure out the situation. Alfi stays standing, watching as Obnob growls and drools at Call-Me’s tasty limbs.
“The Sherlocks are on their way,” I comment, endeavouring to be all nonshalonse.
“Well, I think that’s pretty obvious,” says Call-Me, “following your and Mr Virus’s media news storm bursting overhead. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have a good deal more back-up than that bloody animal. But do you know what?”
“What?”
“Alfi wouldn’t order it to attack. Would you, Alfi?”
Alfi says nothing. I’m of the personal belief that, yes, indeedly, he would.
Newton snarls. “And do you know why?”
I think he’s off his rocker.
“Alfi.” He turns to my friend. “Do you know why? Why you wouldn’t hurt poor old Norman?”
For once, Alfi Spar’s keeping his squealer-slot zipped. Call-Me looks back in my direction. “You came storming in here like you own the place.” Then he snaps his eyes back to Alfi. “Look at me, boy. You see, Alfi, in a way, you do own the place, don’t you?”
Alfi’s got a look on his fizzog like I never seen before. His baby blues have a steely glint.
Call-Me gestures around the ruin of a room. “Go on. Feel free. Explore. Consider it all yours.”
I’m at a bit of an oddness as to what to do. How come Newton is suddenly so calm? How come he’s making like he still holds the final cardie? Alfi looks livid, like he’d give Obnob the “kill” instruction at the drop of a hat.
“We’ve got files on Tenderness that go all the way back to its early days,” Call-Me continues. He points to a filing cabinet tucked in the corner of the office. “Files on all the residents, going way back. We’ve even got the details of kids that were with us, say, fifteen years ago, when we were based down south. In London.”
“What’s this got to do with Alfi?” The Good Citizen has lost his fine articularity.
“Everything. So, Alfi, you want to find your mama. Go on, boy. Open that bottom drawer.”
I get it. The answer was here all along. “Her file,” I say. “Katariina.”
I look over. The bottom drawer of the cabinet is the only bit of office that hasn’t been ransacked. Like Call-Me was keeping it, just for us. Or for himself.
“Katariina,” repeats Norman Newton, with a sigh, like he’s remembering a particularly fine meal. “Look under K, for Kasparek. You always wanted to know your mother’s last name, didn’t you, Alfi?”
Alfi looks like he’s been zapped to the max.
“Alfi,” he says. “Alfi … Kasparek.”
He’s frozen in time. The Digit coughs sharply, brings him back to the here and now. “Go on,” I prompt him. “Go look.”
But Alfi won’t take his peepers off Norman Newton.
Obnob is on constant snarl. Besides that, no one moves, or speaks.
There they both are, eyeballing at each other like cats building up to a fight. I feel like I’m an intruder.
“All right,” says I, “I’ll go look, shall I?”
So I go to the filing cabinet, and I find the file – well, it’s more of a single sheet, really, and I put it on top of the desk in front of Alfi. There’s a photo of her. It’s uncanny. Alfi looks just like her, except for the eyes.
“Katariina Kasparek,” mutters Alfi, still trapped in his trance.
In the distance, I can hear the sound of approaching choppers. Call-Me is almost out of time.
“You kept it from us. All these years.” Alfi’s trembling now, as he picks up his mother’s photo.
“Well,” says Call-Me, “if you’d used the brains you were born with, maybe you’d have figured it all out. She did tell you, after all. Alfi.”
Call-Me’s eyes shift down to the point on his desk where his brass nameplate sits so proudly.
Governor Norman A. Newton.
I don’t understand.
“Ever wondered what the A stood for? Your mother always intended you to know who your father was. Alfi.”
“You?” says Alfi.
I think it’s what you call a dawning horror. It’s been a woeful week for Citizen Digit and I’m fumbling with the last pieces of the puzzle. Of course. Norman Newton hasn’t just set up the Jimmy ring in recent times. He’s always been at it. And Virus knew – from the moment I first dragged Alfi, pongy and famished, up the Cash Counters stairs.
In my head, I’m putting it all together.
Norman Newton abused Alfi’s mother, like he did with all his favourites.
That explains why he was always so creepy towards Alfi. Because Call-Me knew all along. That Alfi is his son. It makes you wonder what she was feeling, when she underlined his name and dotted the i…
“You’ll understand why the baby – you – had to be taken straight into care. Katie – your mum – she was very unwell. Some colleagues took her away, as far as was sensible. There were problems then with … some administrative staff, and I had to move, up to the north. I – I don’t know if she survived.” Alfi’s hand holding the photo is trembling all the more. I look at his eyes. A rage is building. Call-Me goes on. “She was a lovely girl, your mum.”
I’m sick. Alfi’s mum was never a prostitute at all. She was just another kid, like us.
“So now you know,” he continues. “I hope you’re happy.” He shoots a look at me. “You’ve ruined me. The pair of you.”
The choppers, louder now, and sirens. Alfi’s face, twisting in pain.
“You had to know it all, Alfi, didn’t you? Well, now you do. Son.”
*
I look like her. In the picture, she’s the same age as I am now. She’s got long blonde hair, round clear eyes. She looks dead young and scared. A kid. They must o’ taken this photo when she arrived at the care home. Before Norman Newton…
All this time, he hid her from us.
I look at him. Me father. I see it now. It’s his eyes. My eyes.
I don’t get it. Me mam were just another kid. Just like all them other kids, lads and lasses, in the film Digit made. That lad Sniper, all of ’em. And me mam. Just nowt. Worthless. Nothing to him. All these years, and he’s still doing it.
