Nobody Saw No One (13 page)

“You’re quiet,” he says, “for a change.” He leans forward and shoves a biscuit under me nose, but I can’t even smell it
’
cos of his stinky yellow tar fingers. “I like you quiet.” He munches the biscuit hisself. Then, while he’s still chewing, he says, “I wonder if that’s the way you’ll stay?”

This one-person conversation goes on for a half hour or so, and Call-Me Norman never gets bored of his own voice, and he gets happier and happier wi’ me having nowt to say, and he eats another six biscuits, one after t’other. Then he calls Barry in, and Barry’s got a look on his face like he wants to kick me in the stomach again, but he dun’t.

He takes us back to me own room. He drops us back onto me bed, and he says, “One word. Just one word, and you get everything you’ve had, all over again, only doubled. Understand?”

I open me mouth to say yes I understand, but he holds his finger up at me, like a warning. “One word,” he says. He glares at me until I have to look away and stare at the wall. Then he walks from the room and locks the door behind him.

I press me head against me pillow to stop meself from sobbing. Then I dig out me iPod from under the mattress.

Call-Me Norman dun’t know I’ve got this, does he?

This is all the evidence I need. It’s power, en’t it?

I click on the video camera, and there it is.

I glance at the peephole in the door. No one. Norman Newton reckons he’s scared us enough, hurt us enough, to make sure I never open me mouth about any o’ this.

I switch off the iPod and hide it back under me pillow.

I lie down, and think.

What’s the plan?

Think, Alfi. Think.

But I already know what I’m going to do.

I’m going to tell. Tell all.

But to start with, I never said a word.

Governor Newton and Barry and t’other Carers were watching me like hawks. There weren’t no sign o’ Byron, and they must’ve been dead worried that he’d gone to the authorities.

But nobody came. No police. No social services. No journalists. No one.

Meanwhile, Call-Me Norman kept paying visits to me room, leaving us little gifts, crisps and fruit and stuff. One day he left a whole packet of his favourite biscuits. It made us sick. I shoved the lot of it into me backpack. There’s no way were I touching it, even though I were starved.

And he kept
smiling
at us.

“How you doing, Alfi?” he’d say.

I’d shrug.

“Got no more nonsense up your sleeve?”

Shrug again.

“’Cos you know no one would ever believe any of it. All it does is make people annoyed, you know. People like Barry.”

I tell you, I weren’t saying owt.

“I know you were mates with Byron, but that lad’s gone now. He was trouble. Whatever tales he might have been telling you were a load of rubbish. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Good,” he said. “You’re a good boy, Alfi.”

I had no choice, did I? Another week went by and I knew any evening now, Barry ’ud come and drag us from me room and march us over to the Jimmy den and I cudn’t bear to think about it.

So I did it. I escaped.

I’d been thinking it through. All that time in the Relaxation Room and ever since, planning every detail. Byron weren’t the only one who could make plans.

I’d got some wire cutters from the caretaker’s storeroom, and I took me backpack full o’ snacks and put on as many layers as I could, for the cold. It were “Owntime” after breakfast, before lessons started. I sneaked out into the grounds. There were part of the fence that had a whole load o’ bushes in front of it, and I snipped a hole at the bottom and squeezed through.

I’d already figured that if I took the road to Bradford I wun’t get far before being dragged back, so I went the opposite way, across fields, up to Ilkley Moor. You’d have to be mad to go up Ilkley Moor this time o’ year. Or desperate.

I found an old stone hut and huddled down wi’ me crisps and biscuits and me six layers o’ clothes. I wrapped meself in a scabby old blanket I found, and waited.

Two days. Call-Me Norman ’ud have Barry and his mates scouring Bradford for us, but I bet they wun’t tell Social Services that I’d gone missing. I bet they han’t told ’em about Byron either. They wun’t want the attention. Too many awkward questions.

Nice thinking, Alfi. Using your brains.

I had a bit o’ money, and after two days waiting it out, I got a bus into Bradford. I bought some chips and went straight to where I knew I’d be safe for a while, to stop and think.

The library.

I like to hang around libraries. They’re warm and have soft seats, and newspapers and computers, and no one gives you hassle, even if you’re there for hours.

The library were the one place where grown-ups ’ud look at us but not take any notice. They’d just think, “Aww, ain’t it sweet, young lad coming here and reading books and learning stuff for hisself.”

So I rested, made me plans.

At first, I were going to go to the village where Mr and Mrs Barrowclough live, tell them everything. They were solid, Jenny and Doug. Then me brain told me not to be a muppet. As far as they were concerned, I were just some low-life thief. They’d never believe us.

So after I left the library, I went to Social Services. I had a Senior Case Worker there who were a good bloke. He were a professional. He wouldn’t have the wool pulled over his eyes like Jenny and Doug. He’d know if someone were telling the truth, or if someone were lying.

You can see the truth, can’t you? In people’s eyes.

I were going to show him.

I went right up to the desk and asked to see him, and then I went into his office and sat down and he looked at us dead calm, and he said to us in a slow, soft voice, “So, Alfi, shouldn’t you be in Tenderness House right now?”

I told him everything – about the Jim’llfixits and Barry beating us up and the Relaxation Room and the pervert policeman and Byron – the whole lot. I even give him the iPod.

“It’s all on here,” I said. This were it. The Jimmys had had it now. Me Case Worker would send for the police, and before any time at all, it’d be Call-Me Norman and Barry locked up in Relaxation Rooms o’ their own.

“Alfi,” he said, “you know as well as I do that young people in secure units are not allowed to have iPods and mobile phones and the like. Remember how you ended up with Mr Barrowclough’s mobile phone, before you went to Tenderness? What am I supposed to think?” He gave a sigh.

“It’s true!” I yelled. Then I took a breath, made meself quieten down. “Honest. It’s true. Go on. Have a look at the video.”

He looked at us dead grave-like. “All right. Wait here.”

And he stood up and he left the office. I’d done it!

He’d go and play the film, and see the truth and tell his managers and Call-Me ’ud go to prison, and as a reward for my breaking up the Jimmy Ring they’d let us go back and live in the village wi’ the Barrowcloughs.

So I sat there, and waited.

Then I heard a voice buzzing in me ear like a gnat:
There’s a paw in the flan, there’s a paw in the flan, there’s a paw in the flan!

Citizen Digit – in me head. Wittering on, his usual nonsense.
A paw in the flan, a paw in the flan!
Irritating.

And still I sat there, waiting.

After ages passed by, I stood up, shook me head to get rid of his buzzing. “Raaagh!” I said, but his Smart-Alec voice just kept going on at us.

I looked at the clock on the wall. Half an hour had gone by.

And that voice:
The Digit knows, the Digit knows…

So I flung open the door and stamped down the corridor.

And round the corner, I heard me Case Worker, talking to Call-Me Norman.

At first, I thought he were just on his phone.

“Call the Youth Discipline Team,” he said. “We’ve got a situation with young Spar.”

A flaw in the plan.

Then I heard Call-Me answer him, and he were right there, in the room with me Case Worker.

“I’m sorry the boy’s been up to his old tricks,” says Call-Me. “I’ll see this iPod goes back to its rightful owner. Sticky fingers.”

“I’d wondered what had happened to that,” said another voice. Barry. And in the pause I could picture him sticking the iPod in his jacket pocket.

My evidence.

Whatever happened to “Listen to the Victims”
?

“Look,” says Call-Me, “it was very good of you to get straight on to us. It’s a serious breach of the rules, what’s happened here. But Alfi is going through a challenging time at the moment. I’m not sure how helpful it’ll be, bringing in the Youth Discipline Team. Unless, I mean – Barry, would you want to press charges?”

“Good Lord, no,” said Barry. “That would be a terrible backwards step for him. I thought he’d been making good progress.”

“Well, what do you propose?” said the Case Worker.

On your marks
said the Citizen.

“Why not have Barry here go have a quiet word with Alfi, and we’ll take him back to Tenderness and leave it at that.”

Get set
said the Digit.

“If you think that’s best,” said the Case Worker.

Run for your life!

And I ran back along the corridor quick as I could. But all the rooms were locked, wi’ nowhere to go but the room I’d been in. I shut the door and looked round for an escape. There were a window, but I were three floors up. Barry was coming along the corridor, and if he got his hands on us I’d be in for the beating o’ me life. I’d be locked in the Relaxation Room for ever. If I were Citizen Digit I’d be able to invisibilize meself, escape that way. But I weren’t. I were Alfi Spar.

Son of Katariina.

You can’t trust none of ’em, can you? Even me Case Worker trusted a creep like Norman Newton more than me.

I were going to have to take a page out of the Digit’s book. Find me own skills; use ’em for me own sake.

I opened the window. I climbed out. The winter wind were blowing a gale. I looked down, into the alley alongside the building, like a great pit, waiting to swallow us. I shut the window behind us. I jumped.

I landed on the ledge of the building opposite – just. I had to roll forward, so’s I din’t fall back down the alley. I clambered over the tiles, round to t’other side. I were up high, but there were a drainpipe and I shimmied down it.

I were doing well, until the drainpipe started to give way from the wall. Horrible backwards falling. Nowt I could do, but cling on as the whole pipe came off and took us with it.

I crashed through a tree, a load o’ spikey branches, and I were lucky I were wearing all them layers, but I still got scratched and cut. I were a right mess, torn and bloody, wi’ flaps o’ skin hanging off me hands.

Citizen Digit were right. I’d never trust the authorities again.

It were us, and them.

I staggered to me feet.

I’d never stop. And I’d never shut up.

I thought about the message I’d left for Call-Me Norman back at Tenderness. I’d borrowed a marker pen from art class – indelible, right? – and scrawled a great big farewell message on me room wall:

That were just for starters.

“Predictiv Tex takes total responsibility for this catastrophic turn of events,” says Tex, snarkastically.

Our bus has long since left behind the view of Alfi Spar getting bundled off into the back of the local Sherlockmobile, siren blaring.

“If the hoodie fits…” says I.

“It’ll be me gettin’ zapped then.”

“Tex.” I’m reassurance itself. “Virus ain’t going to zap no one.”

My boy has a faceful of doubt. He reckons Virus is going to go through several ceilings when he finds out we lost Alfi Spar to the Sherlocks. It’s true, we were only supposed to show Alfi the ropes, not tie him up with them. It’s tricksy, finding that fine line between accustomizing a boy to the ways of the street, and handing him a one-way ticket to Tottenham Nick.

Citizen Digit Esquire should have been more conscious of the consequentials, shouldn’t he?

“Listen,” I say. “He ain’t got nothing on him that can link him to Operations—”

“The only stress might be if he blabs to the Sherlocks that he’s part of Virus’s crew and leads them straight to base.”

“Zackly.” Durrr. “Oh! No, listen, that wouldn’t happen. Alfi would never blab.”

“’Cos Squealer-Face never blabs, right?”

Right now, Tex is being more irritating than an eyeful of Vindaloo. I lean in close. “It’s like this, yeah? Alfi’s going to claim total innocence, correct? Correct. And, having had Mr Dictiv Tex throw a freshly picked wallet at his angel face, he’s twigged that
Cash Counters
is actually a den of dishonesty. Correct? Correct. So what good is it going to do him, how’s it going to serve his plea of innocence, directing the local Sherlocks to a store full of liberated goods? Hmm? Predict
that
, Tex-Head.”

In actual fact, I cannot even convince myself, Mr Citizen Digit, that Alfi ain’t such a fart brain as to point the Finger of Accusation in our direction. As I said, the boy’s a blabbermouth. And he lives under the insane illusion that if you only Tell the Honest Truth, all will be well in the end. What a div.

And me and Tex have put him straight into the hands of the Law. It’s a right royal disastrophy. Virus is going to have our guts for pudding. I’m seriously thinking of doing a total vanishing act.