Nobody Saw No One (21 page)

We email Call-Me Norman. It’s a cracker. ’Cos of course it’s not us sending him an email, which would be simplicity itself. No, we play with his nerves. Virus hacks into the account of Chief Constable Wedderburn, and wha-lahh, it’s Bent Sherlock who sends this message:

Rinky dink.

I wanted to get Virus to add:
LAY OFF ALFI SPAR
but he thought it was buttering it a bit thick.

And then, Virus cooks us steak. With onion gravy, roast potatoes and steamed broccoli. He must be trying to convince himself, as well as me, that Alfi is in no danger. Alfi: if the human Monster Munch known as Alfi Spar was with us now, he would die of culinary overload. The steak is perfecto, but it all feels a bit Last Supper. There’s none of the racket of the other WhyPees; Jackson Banks still hasn’t made an appearance; we’ve no idea where Grace is. Virus lights a candle over the dining table and puts out napkins. One point, the Digit swears he’s even about to say
grace
. Talk about sacrifistic.

Maybe Jackson Banks has done a runner. And maybe Alfi is just away someplace, living a life. Yeah, that’d work. Banks gone. Grace could come back, move in here with me and Virus and any other stray WhyPees, and we’d eat steak and play picky-pock and whatnot.

I pester Virus to check Alfi’s whereabout one more time.

“If Banks is off the case,” I say, “what are we going to do about Alfi? I could get him, bring him back home. He must be worried shirtless.”

“Please!” Virus snip-snaps. “Don’t fret about young Alfi. We’ll reel him in. You Facebook-friended him earlier.”

“I did?”

“Well, City Zen did.”

What the Hull? Virus created a false Facebook ID for me? What an intrusion on my personal liberties. “So,” I snap, “what did you do, post an ID pic of Byron
Blank Space
with it? Call-Me and the Jim’llfixits will be round any minute!”

He reaches into his jacket pocket. “I told you. You must stop fretting about your online presence. Earlier today, you mislaid this. You ought to be more careful, Didge. I used it as the ID pic.”

Alfi Spar’s Birthday Tificate. I snatch it back. Throw Virus the evils. “You know what he’s like about who his mum was. He’s obsessed.”

“Exactly. Who can blame him?” Virus replies. “If I was him, I’d be searching everywhere.”

“He deserves some answers, and soon.” I wish I was hopeful of it. I disappear the Birthday Tiff into the folds of my threads.

“He needs to look in the right place, doesn’t he,” says Virus, enigmastically, “young Alfi?”

“Meaning what?”

He pauses. Looks at me, deep. “Sometimes,” he says, slow like a numb-tongue, “we have to go back to where we’re running from. To find where we’re going.”

“Oh, yeah,” says me, all sarko. “Like Tenderness House?”

But V gives the slightest of nods.

“You’re nutkins!” Virus really
is
nuts. “Alfi would have to be insane to go back to Tenderness now.”

“Perhaps. Either way, Alfi knows you’re watching out for him,” says Virus. “He may feel he’s better off where he is now, but he’ll come back to us soon enough.”

“How d’you reckon that?”

“For starters, he hasn’t blabbed to the Sherlocks, has he? And he’ll want his Birthday Certificate back. If Jackson Banks really is off the scene, I expect we’ll be hearing from Alfi pretty soon.”

I’ll certainly be happier once his squealer-slot’s safely back in front of us. And I hope he’s getting as good grub as the Digit is. But what Virus says about Alfi needing to return to Tenderness House is so bonkers, the Digit almost puts it right out of his mind. Almost.

Virus gives me a room with a big double bed. “You need a proper rest,” he says. He goes back down to his living space, to check the networks and plan the next day.

Then there’s a knock at the front door, and it ain’t the safe, secret rhythm. It’s the Sherlocks again. I’m all Agent Lightfoot in my socks, tippytoeing through the upper rooms, until I’m close enough to eardrop.

They’re
still
seeking Mr Popularity himself. They had a bluebottle parked twenty-four hours outside JB’s house, and he never returned. I suppose you wouldn’t, if you had guts on your hands and the Sherlocks parked at your front door.

Virus is as politely unhelpful as ever, and the Sherlock leaves, happy that Mr Virus is As Good a Citizen As It Gets, and full of surety that he’ll let them know in the immediate, if he hears of Mr Banks’s roundabouts.

I’m back in the room. Virus is practically rubbing his fingerprints off in glee. “He’s gone,” he sings out. “Done a runner! Jackson knows he can’t avoid being long-armed for Crow’s death if he stays around – even if, as he claims, it was a genuine mishap – so he’s gone!”

The Digit pretends to be not
too
delighted, but can’t resist a skip and a jump and an eensie
whoop whoop!
or three.

Let’s wishful-think that he’s gone and left Grace behind too. Imagine.

Virus goes all misty-eyed. “What a lovely way to finish the day,” he says. “Digit, you must get your rest. Tomorrow, we’ll plan our next step against Norman Newton.”

“Yes,” I say, “yes. But what about Alfi? We’ve got to bring him back. Tomorrow. We have to!”

Virus sighs. “All right. Tomorrow. First thing. But now, you need a proper sleep, young man.”

Indeed the Digit does, and he tries to sleep, he really does. Animals like Banks are never gone – they’re just lurking round different corners. But who cares? He’s off Alfi’s back, on the run from the Sherlocks, and V and me have got Call-Me Norman cornered in a cyber-trap.

Tomorrow, perhaps, will bring us all our heart’s delight. Just like it always happens in the Grim Feary Tales.

Me second morning waking up at Scarlett and Danny’s. It’s a sunny day and Scarlett says she’s going to take us ice-skating up at the Alexandra Palace. It sounds posh. She says you get a view o’ the whole o’ London. I like that, being able to look down at a city, when the city can’t look back up at you. I don’t care if nobody ever sees us again, apart from these two – and Patti and Iggy, o’ course. Patti slept on me bed again, and she’s lying on me chest with her paws resting against me chin. I think she’s trying to hypnotize me:
feed me breakfast, human boy, feed me breakfast and tickle my chin.

While Scarlett makes us scrambled eggs for me breakfast (hah, I don’t need to hypnotize her) I soak up more o’ their space. They’ve got a zillion books for starters, a whole load o’ boring ones about politics and philosophy, but also a huge pile o’ graphic novels, and a whole wall full o’ children’s books. A big pile of old-fashioned board games too, like
Buckaroo
and
Monopoly
and
Cluedo.

“How come you have so much stuff for kids, but you don’t have any computer games?” I ask Scarlett.

She laughs. “Are we grumpy, out-of-date losers who don’t think computers are fun?”

“No.” I suppose not.

“The thing is,” she laughs, “our young guests usually only stay with us for a few days, tops. And because we’re Emergency they’ve had quite a few things going on that they’ve got to think over. We like to offer space, and time to think. What about you, Fred? Would you rather be playing
Grand Theft Auto
or chasing Iggy and exploring the area?”

Durrr.
Grand Theft Auto,
obviously.

“If you had kids stay for longer – more permanently – would you let them play computers?”

She laughs again. “Sure.” Then she frowns. “But our kids always move on, to someplace else.”

“Don’t you ever—”

“Here it comes! Get it while it’s hot!”

Oh my God, what a fantastic breakfast! Can this woman cook, or what?

Toast. You can’t beat it. I’m about to enjoy my first chomp when morning is broken by the intercom buzzing its coded rhythm. V and me look at each other – both for a mere nanosec hoping it’s Alfi, back to collect his Birthday Tiff. I leap up, happy as a fizz-crack firework.

But it’s Grace.

She is on her own, and by the look on her face she’s not a funny bunny.

“You seen ’im?” she says by way of greeting.

“’Im?” queries Virus.

“Alfi?” asks me.

“Jackson.”

“
’Im
,” says Virus. “Laying low. Many miles from here.”

“
Was
laying low,” she corrects. “Like a hunted beast. And much nearer than you’d hope. ’Cos now ’e’s flipped, ain’t ’e? Proper bad, this time.”

This time? Does JB make a habit of flipping? Personally, myself, I’m of the belief he’s permaflipped.

“It’s your doin’ too,” she says to Virus. “You and your fancy forgeries.”

The Digit’s right out of the loop. “What forgeries?” I say to Virus, and to Grace, “What’s Jackson done?”

“’Opefully nothin’ yet. But what with the Sherlocks crawlin’ all over the postcode, and ’im bein’ so terrified of gettin’ nabbed for Crow’s death, I’m worried, Vi, I reckon ’e’s got an insane plan. ’E reckons if ’e can show that ’e ain’t missin’ ’is young assistant, the Sherlocks won’t be able to make any connection between Crow and ’im. So ’e’s after a new Crow.”

“Well, how’s he going to manage that?” The Digit is well and truly slow on the take-off.

“Alfi.”

I ain’t getting it. The Digit turns into Citizen Blank Face.

“If Crow ain’t missin’,” Grace explains, “then Crow ain’t the dead boy. Know what I mean?”

“But, Grace,” says Virus, his face all deadly pale, “Alfi isn’t Crow…”

He trails off, as Grace chuckles, horribly, like she’s caught JB’s insanities.

“Crow had a great, ugly scar running down his face,” I put in. “Alfi’s face is smooth, no marks.”

She gives us a withery look. “And Jackson’s got a cut-throat razor. Solves both problems.” She pauses, for it to sink in.

“No!” grumps Virus. “This is all wrong. Alfi Spar is not Crow Bar. They will never swallow it.”

“They will,” says Grace. “Didn’t you drum up the documentation for Jackson yourself? ’E only ’as to swap the official photo on record for one of Alfi. Maybe you’ll be doin’ that for ’im later, V.”

Virus goes bright red. I’ve never seen him look so guilty before. “That was quite some time ago. Crow was in need. And back then, Jackson wasn’t as … edgy as he is now. It doesn’t entitle him—”

“’E says it does,” Grace cries.

“It doesn’t!”

This all sounds like a horrible mess.

Grace crosses her arms. Virus is fidgeting with his Zap App. He feeds me the most pathetic look, like he’s a messed-up toddler, and I’m the responsible adult. But I won’t return it with any softness. Instead I look to Grace. “Can you lead me to where Alfi is?”

She nods. “Jackson had me stake out the place.”

I take her hand and out we bolt, heading straight for Finsbury Park, leaving the Great Manager behind in his HQ, to survey the ruins of his fur-pecked plaster man.

Suddenly, I feel all panicky. Short of breath and sweaty. Scarlett has her coat on and car keys in her hands.

“Let me come wi’ you,” I say.

“I’m sorry, Fred, on the way back from the supermarket, I have to pop in for a private meeting at Social Services. You wouldn’t be allowed. But you’ll be all right here. There’s loads to do. I’ll be back before you know it, then this afternoon we’ll do the skating rink. Deal?”

I don’t like it.

“You han’t told me the rules,” I say. “The House Rules.”

She pauses lacing up her boots. “There are no rules,” she says.

“What about what I can touch and do, and what I can’t touch or do?”

“Well, keep out of our room, and we’ll keep out of yours. The rest of the house is shared territory. Don’t tread on Iggy.”

She grabs her keys and turns to the door. Pauses. “Don’t answer the door.” Pauses again. “Oh, if you want to spin some tracks, feel free.”

Spin?

She gestures to a wall stacked wi’ records. I’ve seen this kind o’ thing before. One twelve-inch disc gives you twenty minutes o’ music a side. Neat idea, but they’ve used up all their wall space.

She’s out the door while I’m looking at the records.

I pull a few out, grubby old cardboard covers wi’ bands called
Toots
and
Jam
and
Upsetters
and
Dead Kennedys
and
Skinhead Moonstomp
and
Stiff Little Fingers.
Is this music? Scarlett and Danny have one o’ them record-player machines, so I pick a disc and put the needle on it and it sounds horrible, like blokes having a scrap next to a road-drill. But Patti likes it, and purrs even louder.

Iggy gets jealous of Patti looking so chuffed and leaps up at us, clambering over me face. He has a zip-zap sticky tongue which he zip-zaps all over me face, tickly and cold. “Gerroff!” But he won’t gerroff. He sticks it down me ear. Uurgh. I like him. Patti is sitting there, staring at us with a look on her face like everything’s totally cool, front paws pressed tidily together like she’s the happiest cat on the planet. She’s defo trying to hypnotize us.

Iggy finally curls up. This noise must be relaxing for animals. Iggy looks so chilled I don’t want to disturb him by getting up to stop the noise, so I sit through twenty minutes of it. When it’s done, he gives a little yap and points his button nose in my direction. Does he have eyes? I can’t tell. He yaps again, like he’s asking for more noise, so I choose another –
Deep Bass Space Dub Ape Mash.
It’s mental. Iggy and Patti love it. Makes me sleepy…