Free Nobody Saw No One by Steve Tasane Page A

Alfi. If they find out who you are, they’ll send you back.
    Think. Think!
    Ah-hah! I know. I say, “Threads…”
    “What?” The copper leans in.
    “He said his name’s Fred,” says the other voice.
    “All right,” says the mouth filling me vision, “You’ve just given your head a bit of a knock, Fred. Can you tell us how old you are?”
    Remember the Digit. Always tell ’em sixteen, whatever. Works for him, dun’t it? So I say it.
    “You must be older than me then,” says the copper who’s driving. “’Cos I must have been born yesterday.”
    Oh. Ha ha.
    And the other copper says, all doubtful, “Any ID?”
    No ID, no idea, as the Digit ’ud say.
    Oh no. There’s me birth certificate. I shoved it in me jeans pocket before leaving
Cash Counters.
It’s got me name on it in big letters. I move me hand to feel for it, like a muppet.
    “Let’s have a look then,” says the copper, and he digs his big copper hands in. Comes out empty. Me birth certificate is gone.
    Gone?
    Byron! He must o’ took it when he bumped into us in the alley, to give us a chance to keep me name to meself.
    More likely to give hisself a chance. That’ll be why Tex threw the nicked wallet for me to catch. So’s I’d become a thief like them. And a liar.
    Then the copper is going through me other pockets and he finds the phone. I’d forgotten about that. “This yours?” he says. I say nowt. He starts pushing the buttons, frowning at the screen. Turns to his mate. “Empty,” he says. “Not a thing on it. No numbers. No history. No last call.” He looks back at me. “This brand new then, is it, Fred?”
    I don’t get it. How come it dun’t have Mr Virus’s
Cash Counters
number in it? Me head hurts. Throbbing.
    Mr
Virus.
Hah. I suppose
Cash Counters
is just the same old story.
    That’s it, in’t it? They want us to give up Alfi Spar, be a little Freddy Pickpocket like them. Well I won’t. I won’t do it. I’m Alfi Spar, and I en’t no thief, nor no liar.
    Then I hear the cop in the front, on his radio. “Yeah. Attempted robbery, Seven Sisters Road. Young pickpocket. Bringing him in.”
    The copper next to us smiles, dead sarcastic. “Looks like you’re nicked, young Fred. I don’t know. You young ’uns must enjoy being locked away.”
    So that’s it. I’m a thief again.

9. TENDERNESS ITSELF
    Imagine the horrors that must have been scrawled all over Alfi’s fizzog when he first arrived at Tenderness House. The Good Citizen was used to the place by then, having advantaged his self of its leisure activities since six months previous.
    Tenderness House is a Secure Unit. Locks and keys and windows that won’t open – windon’ts. Rules and regularities, rewards and sanctions. For WhyPees that have fallen off the Googlemap and don’t know the way back. Protecting society from us, and protecting us from ourselves.
    The Unit is run by a private enterprise corporation called Reliance Plus. They’re in charge of a dozen other Houses around the UK. The more of us young hoodligans crammed into these places, the bigger the profit for Reliance Plus. Crime does pay.
    The Good Citizen himself was an expert at dodging these places. Since I lost Trisha and Dee and Dad, I’d gone through a right royal succession of foster families and care homes. Lovely families, some of ’em, but substitutes alwaystheless; substandard subletting sorrowgates, ain’t no denying it. Poor tragic Byron – no matter how hard he tried to please, to fit himself in, smile and play and help with the chores, those Mr and Mrs Sorrowgates always had the well-thumbed Byron File nestling on their kneecaps: Sherlock statements, hospital notes, psychiatricks’ reports. That clipping from the
Daily Mirror
. Byron could never avoid seeing himself, his sisters and Dad in the
Mirror.
And neither could the Sorrowgates.
    Famous, yeah? Once seen, never forgotten.
    At first, Byron was mad at his mum. Certainly, Dad’s drinking was out of hand before Mum