Nobody Saw No One (23 page)

It’s time to employ me dog-whispering skills.

But this dog’s mental, in’t it?

What’s its name? Obnob. Obnob killed Patti, probably Iggy an’ all.

“Hey, little fella.”

Dog stops snarling. See? Dog-whisperer.

“Hey there.”

“RRAFFF!” Lunges again. Fixes them bloodshot eyes on me throat.

I en’t got no choice, have I? I bend down. I get me head lower down than its head, me face looking up at it. All I can see is teeth, hungry eyes.

I look down, take me eyes off it. I make a pathetic, whimpering noise, into the floor.

And I wait.

“Grrrrrrrrrrrr…”

Is that a friendlier growl? I en’t sure. Whimper again. It din’t bite me face off the first time.

“Grrrrrrrrrr?” goes the dog. Ah-hah. Now we’re in conversation.

From down on the floor, I raise me eyes. Look at him direct. “Cht-cht-cht,” I go, “Ob … nob… Who’s a cute little fella then?”

He barks. Not a bad sign. He stamps a paw. A good sign. Reckon he wants to play.

“Who’s a good boy!” Barks again. “Is it you? Is it? It is! Obnob what a good doggie, what a hero doggie. En’t yer! En’t yer! Yes, you are! Ohh, Obnob, en’t yer the best? Good boy! Good boy!”

He starts dancing his paws up and down in excitement. In anticipation – of boy food, or a belly rub?

Let’s find out. I waggle me fingers in front of his snout. “Yes, yes! Obbynobby good doggy! Time to play! Oh, yes! It’s me! Yer old mate Alfi?”

He sniffs me fingers and gives ’em a lick. “Obnob! My friend. Awwwww, en’t you the cutest?”

The beast lunges at me face and begins to lick me cheek. Cool. I say more nice things and he rolls on his back for a belly tickle. He loves it. His leg gets that happy twitch dogs get when you do their bellies. No dog in the world can resist a good old belly rub.

See? Citizen Digit in’t the only lad wi’ special powers. Just see if he in’t.

But that in’t going to get us out of here, is it? Where am I? This dun’t look like Tenderness House, and I can hear too many traffic sounds.

“Help!” I call out. “Help!”

If I can hear traffic, maybe the traffic can hear me.

“Help!” I yell at the top o’ me voice. “Help!”

I’ve actually got quite a loud voice. “Help me! I’m chained up! Help! Help!”

I listen for a moment. Nowt. “Help!” I yell. “Help! Help me! Help me! Pleeeaaase! HELP!”

Obnob starts joining in wi’ us, barking and yapping in excitement.

But still no sign of anyone responding. I’m going to try screaming. Good idea.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGH!”

That were dead loud.

“Help!” I call. “HELP! HELP! HELP!

WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! goes Obnob.

Listen again. I hear summat. Movement at the bottom of the stairs. Don’t be the psycho giant. Please don’t let it be the psycho giant.

“Help!” I call. If it’s someone coming to help, that’s great. But if it’s that giant bloke he needs to know that I’ve already let all the world know he’s got us here. “I’m being held prisoner! I’m chained up! HELP! HELP!”

Sound o’ footsteps running up the stairs.

WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!

“HELP ME! MURDER! TORTURE! HELP! HELP! HELP! I’M A PRISONER! AAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGH!”

The door of the room smashes open. A giant shape. Blink, try and focus. A giant
duvet?
The duvet dives on top of Obnob, so the dog’s covered with it, wrestling with it.

“Shoot me dead, Squealer-Boy, what a fu-roary. You cut? Need the parametics? Show us the wounds.”

Citizen Digit. I’m saved.

JB’s palace, up the Arsenal, at the end of a dead-end street. Any other crim wouldn’t settle there for more than five mins. No back exit, no way out. But JB thrives here. Face your enemies, see. Come out punching.

Mounted halfway up the pavement is a beat-up old pimpmobile. Windows blackened. Personalized number plate:
SH4NK1
. This is a different set of wheels to the one Jackson Banks had two days previous. His old car is vanished, just like poor boy Crow.

But Alfi’s here right enough. The Digit can hear him yelling from all the way down the street. It’s fair to say that Banks isn’t with him at present, or Alfi’s screams wouldn’t be lasting more than a second and a half. It seems the Good Citizen is in luck, and in time.

Then I hear the dog, and Alfi’s screaming gets worse. It’s horribleness. I bankcard the lock double quick. I dash into a bedroom, grab a duvet and fly up the stairs, to the room at the top. I’m not thinking of my personal health and safety. I’m not even thinking. In factuality, I’ve gone a bit thick. ’Cos somewhere at the back of my head there’s a memory that if you throw a duvet over a dog and wrap it tight enough, you can subchew them. That might be fair enough with any normal dog, but with a Hound of the Basketcase like Obnob, it’s more a matter of poor choice for suicidals.

So I’m rolling round with the hound and calling for help and everything, and Alfi stretches out the hand that ain’t cuffed and gives me the flat-palmed
stop
signal. Then he grabs hold of the edge of the duvet, throws it back and says, “Good boy!”

The Digit is struck double-dumb. Beast is licking Alfi all over. At the same time, I’m taking in the chain cuffing Alfi’s wrist to the wall, the
size
of it, and I realize we’ve had it. These ain’t the sort of locks even a picky-pock like the Digit can undo.

“Well, howdy doo-doo,” I greet my old pal.

“Howdy doo-doo yourself,” he grumps, ruffling the psycho-dog’s head.

“Whoah. Ain’t I the cavalry, come to rescue you from the bad boys?”

“You’re the bad ’un, Byron. A thief and a traitor.”

“Digit,” I correct him.

“Byron,” he insists. “Me and you, we’re finished with each other.” He looks all earnest at Obnob’s face. “Don’t trust him, Obnob. You don’t know what he’s like. He’s a backstabber.”

You’ve got to laugh. Alfi’s still whinging on about the little scene with that Groan’s wallet. I reach into my pocket and bring out his Birthday Tiff. “You gotta stop losing this,” I say. “One day, you’ll have no one to find it for you.”

He snatches if off me, with a complete lack of gratis.

“That’s all right,” says me. “No problemo. I s’pose I shouldn’t have looked after it for you, then the cops would’ve thrown you back to Tenderness.”

He doesn’t hear me. He’s reading it, word for word, like he ain’t even memoried it a million times already. Once he’s satisfied it’s still the same wordies in the same order, he looks up and glares at me.

I glare back.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

I shrug. Suppose that’s us best pals again.

Defo. ’Cos he grabs my arm and gives me the most pathetic look I’ve ever seen in my entire lifelihood. “What are we going to do? Where are we going to go?”

“Haven’t the foggiest doggie. Anywhere away from here. Away from Jackson Banks. You wouldn’t want to hear Virus’s plaster man. Reckons it’s foolproof.”

“What’s that then?”

“Only for us to go back to Tenderness House.”

“What?”

I throw him my
What-can-I-say?-Groans-are-insane
face. “Chillax. We won’t do that. How about Ibiza? Tenerife?”

He ignores my sarkiness and rattles his chain at me. Like I’m supposed to solve everything for him.

“Don’t worry,” I say, “the Digit’ll sort it. But listen up, Alfi, this is serious, big time. Jackson has you tagged as his new boy. You’re going to be Crow. You get me?”

But he’s confucious, ain’t he? I forgot, Alfi never met Crow. But he’s met Jackson all right.

“Is he that great big headcase?”

“That’s the one. Listen, he’ll have the key for this lock on his bones. We need cutting gear. A hacksaw. Bolt-cutters. I’ll go look.”

“No!” Alfi cries. The Digit lifts a hypoquizzical eyebrow. Alfi throws me a pleading look. “Don’t leave me!”

“Well, I know how much you love the Digit’s company,” I smile, “but we don’t have the time to be hanging out together. Work to be done!”

And before he can objectify further, I’m out of the room and working my way to the cupboard where JB must keep his tools.

I start rummaging round for some cutting gear. JB must have something that’ll do these chains – he’s a burglar, ain’t he? They’re the tools of his trade. We’ve got to be quick – if his pimpmobile’s outside and his dog’s up here, then he can’t be too far away. If he catches us, we’ll both be dog meat – even if Alfi is Obnob’s new BFF. Come on, Didge, shake a leg.

At last, bolt-cutters. Big heavy ones like Sherlocks use when tree-huggers chain themselves to local greenery. Perfecto.

Dash back. Flash the cutters at Squealer-Boy soon as I’m in the doorway. Then I hear the front door creak open. And slam shut.

Quick – vanish!

But it’s Grace’s voice. Relief. But who’s she talking to? Virus? All rightiho, then let’s go.
Go go go!
It’s all good.

Then I hear what she’s actually saying:

“No, Jackson, you can’t. Please, Jackson, don’t do it to him. Don’t hurt him. Jackson, please.”

Ah.

It en’t often you see the colour drain from Citizen Digit’s face. But right now, he looks white as a cloud. And he’s looking round, in a panic. He never panics. Citizen Digit dun’t do panic.

“Are you going to use the bolt-cutters?” I say. “You’ve got to cut me free!”

He’s ignoring us. He’s looking round, for somewhere to hide.

He ducks under a table, sinks hisself into its shadows. I’m staring right at him, but you’d never know he were there.

What about me?

Jackson Banks is stomping up the stairs. There en’t no time. Back to Plan A. I open me mouth and yell.

“HELP! HELP! THERE’S A MANIAC! I’M CHAINED UP! HE’S GOING TO TORTURE ME! HELP! HELP! HELP!”

Nice one, Blabber-Boy. Jackson bursts into the room and gives Alfi a slap. Knocks him right over, so he’s hanging by the chain. Alfi gives a sob, then zips it.

There’s only Grace with him. She must have had the misfortune to bump into Jackson on the way here. Drawn to him like a magnet.

He’s red-eyed and phlegmy. I reckon he’s been out and scored himself more testosterone. Prepare himself for what he’s about to do.

Jackson produces his razor. The Digit’s never seen one like this in real life. It looks like it’s from the Museum of Murder Weapons.

“How’d you like a haircut?” Jackson says to Alfi. “And a shave?”

Alfi looks all confucious. I guess he doesn’t know about Crow’s shaved head. Or his scar. But Grace does, and her face betrays it. Alfi clocks her clocking it, and then I can see it on
his
face too. The realization. Alfi sort of groans and looks like he’s going to lose his lunch, outta both exits.

The Digit curls himself in as small as possible. An insignificance.

Grace says, “No, Jackson. No.”

“No?” he booms. Enough velocity to knock a Full Groan off their feet.

“No,” says Grace. The Citizen can’t hardly believe his eavesdroppers.

“No?” Banks whispers, softlike, amused. “No?”

“Please…” pleads Alfi, cowering in the corner.

JB likes that. “Please?” he mocks, in his best high-pitch, his hands held together in prayerlike. He throws his dagger eyes back at Grace. “Oh, but poor me. My darling Crow is gone. Gone for ever. And I need another. Please?” He’s loving it. Testosteroned up, and set for nastiness.

Grace throws herself forward. “J,” she says, “Newton won’t pay up if you harm the boy.”

Banks’s free hand grabs Alfi’s face like a vice. Alfi’s eyes try and flee round the back of his head, sliding round the sockets, all helpless. Banks gives a gasp of delight.

“Please, J.” She’s got her hand on Banks’s wrist. “J, there’s no need. Virus is blackmailing Norman Newton and his gang. Alfi Spar is part of the plan. Think of the money. The money, J.”

She’d make more impact with a swift knee to the groinals. Or maybe not. When JB’s in his rages, even his nuts are made of steel.

“It won’t work,” she’s pleading. “There’s evidence, a video – V’s going to make it public, blow it wide open. The Sherlocks’ll be looking for Alfi. It’ll be all the worse!”

All useless. Banks is lost in his own nutty role-play.

“Sherlocks need to know whether the boy corpse they’ve got belongs to me.
‘Who is this dead boy corpse, Mr Banks? Is it your young Crow lad?
’ ‘Indeed it’s not, Your Honour,’” JB smirks, chuckling at his own lines. “‘For I still have my assistant, safe and sound.’”

“No, you don’t,” says Grace.

“Yes, I do,” says Banks. “What a lovely young Crow he’ll make.”

He flourishes the cut-throat blade in front of Alfi’s face. “You all look the same, more or less,” he laughs.

“No, they don’t!” She’s pleading, desperate. “No, they don’t!”

Obnob whimpers and does a widdle on the floor. Jackson Banks frowns, like a thought is trying to happen. Then he bares his teeth and steps towards Alfi.

“Don’t worry, be happy.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a rag that reeks of nastiness. “I’ll put him under first.”

“Jackson. No!” Grace throws herself between them.

Alfi, for once, is lost for words.

“No, Jackson!” She flings herself at him, surprises him, snatching the rag from his hand.

“Give it back.”

But he’s going to have to chase her for it. He lunges, she dodges. He trips over his dog, falls flat. He yells. Grace sees her moment. She thrusts the rag into JB’s face, over his mouth and nose. She clambers over his face, wrapping both arms round the back of his head, forcing his face and the chloroform into her chest. She hooks her legs under his armpits and latches her ankles round his back. Obnob has a grip on her top and is tugging at it, trying to pull her off Jackson Banks.

I wonder if JB is really going to black out. He’s spinning round and round, trying to Buckaroo her. The Digit keeps getting flashes of her face. Grimful determination. We both know it’s our only chance; we can cut Alfi free and flee. But we’re forgetting about JB’s big metal bolt-cutters, ain’t we? He’s feeling for them, where I left them leaning against the wall, and he gets his fingers round them, swings his arm, smashes her head. There’s a
thunk
, and she falls sideways off him, like she’s given up in a sudden huff. But it’s the force of the blow, streaking down through her limbs, killing her every muscle.