history, while we’re here.”
But he started trying to tug my hand away, fully panic-attacked. He’d be terrified of his own bad breath, that boy. “No!” he was going. “No! We can’t!”
“Oh, indeedly?” says me, clicking away like a fury. “But ain’t you, Mr Innocence, always proclaiming yourself a victim of framing? This is your history, Alfi. One version at least. Don’tcha want the opp to rewrite it?”
I flipped the laptop so he could see the screen, and there was his file in all its gory.
“Dun’t matter,” said Alfi-Boy. “I
am
the victim of a Great Miscarriage of Justice.” He pointed at the screen, where it boasted:
Reason For Relocation to Tenderness House
. In the little box was typed up one word: THEFT . “But even so,” he went on, “you can’t mess wi’ this. It’s against the rules.”
At the bottom of the page, to prove the truth of all this, was one electronic autograph:
Approved by: Governor Norman A. Newton.
“You could just delete that one word,” I tempted him. “Replace THEFT with something more suitable. Like
Needs constant supervision due to lack of life skills.
”
“That en’t funny,” he sulked.
“Aww, go on. Just delete it. Then you can type what you like.”
I could tell he was tempted. “Should I?” he said.
“Shouldn’t you?” said the Digit.
“No, it en’t right,” said Alfi.
“Thief,” says I, all cruelsome. “Stinky thief.” If this boy was going to default the document, he was going to have to do it himself. It was his life, not mine.
“Errr,” fumbled Alfi, “ahh.”
“Forget it then,” I teased.
But he just stood over it like Chief Ditherer. I took a quick glance down the corridor. Down in the Social Room, Barry was rolling on the floor, WWE-ing them rough girls.
“What could I replace it with?” said Alfi. “I can’t leave it blank, can I?”
“Run away!” I yelled, all of a sud.
“Ahh!” Alfi yelled back, and scowled as I laughed at my little joke.
“Type:
runaway
,” I rectified. Alfi always hates it when I pull those kind of crackers on him.
But suddenly he seemed to blank out. Just stood there, squitzing at the screen.
“What?” says I, but he don’t say nothing back, just keeps on squitzing like he’s seen Jesus or Michael Jackson or whatnot. I follow his eyes and I see a box that says:
Name of Mother
. And in it is typed: KATARIINA UNKNOWN .
“Katariina,” he purrs, taking his time over the two
i’
s, enjoying the sound good and proper. “Katariina,” he repeats. “Katariina.”
From Alfi’s rants, I always assumed they’d told him his mother’s name wasn’t known.
“Katariina,” he purred again, like a hypnotic kitty.
“I guess
Alfi
’s a letter down, but your mum’s got one extra, so that balances out.”
He didn’t answer, and then I saw he had a tear trickling down his cheek. I suppose it probably must have been a bit moving, suddenly finding out what your mum was called, after all that time. Then I saw he had tears trickling down both cheeks. The Digit’s a bit emotionally embarrassed. I looked back down the corridor, hoping Barry might be on his way back, but he was still rolling round with the Psycho Girls.
“Come on.” I start to hint we maybe should get out of there, and I see Squealer’s chin all trembling, and the tears are getting worse. I’m reaching into my pockets, seeing if I ain’t got a tissue for him, and he only starts moaning, doesn’t he?
Then he starts wailing, good and proper. Next thing I know, he’s got snot coming out of his nostrils, and his shoulders are shaking too.
The Good Citizen’s never seen anyone sob as much as this before. It’s a veritable tsunami of tears. I lay my hand on his back, dead gentle, try and help him through it.
Through the tears and sobbing, he says again, “Katariina,” only it’s all in a gurgle and he sounds like he’s drowning. In his own tears.
“Come on,” I say, even more gentle and kindly than the
But he started trying to tug my hand away, fully panic-attacked. He’d be terrified of his own bad breath, that boy. “No!” he was going. “No! We can’t!”
“Oh, indeedly?” says me, clicking away like a fury. “But ain’t you, Mr Innocence, always proclaiming yourself a victim of framing? This is your history, Alfi. One version at least. Don’tcha want the opp to rewrite it?”
I flipped the laptop so he could see the screen, and there was his file in all its gory.
“Dun’t matter,” said Alfi-Boy. “I
am
the victim of a Great Miscarriage of Justice.” He pointed at the screen, where it boasted:
Reason For Relocation to Tenderness House
. In the little box was typed up one word: THEFT . “But even so,” he went on, “you can’t mess wi’ this. It’s against the rules.”
At the bottom of the page, to prove the truth of all this, was one electronic autograph:
Approved by: Governor Norman A. Newton.
“You could just delete that one word,” I tempted him. “Replace THEFT with something more suitable. Like
Needs constant supervision due to lack of life skills.
”
“That en’t funny,” he sulked.
“Aww, go on. Just delete it. Then you can type what you like.”
I could tell he was tempted. “Should I?” he said.
“Shouldn’t you?” said the Digit.
“No, it en’t right,” said Alfi.
“Thief,” says I, all cruelsome. “Stinky thief.” If this boy was going to default the document, he was going to have to do it himself. It was his life, not mine.
“Errr,” fumbled Alfi, “ahh.”
“Forget it then,” I teased.
But he just stood over it like Chief Ditherer. I took a quick glance down the corridor. Down in the Social Room, Barry was rolling on the floor, WWE-ing them rough girls.
“What could I replace it with?” said Alfi. “I can’t leave it blank, can I?”
“Run away!” I yelled, all of a sud.
“Ahh!” Alfi yelled back, and scowled as I laughed at my little joke.
“Type:
runaway
,” I rectified. Alfi always hates it when I pull those kind of crackers on him.
But suddenly he seemed to blank out. Just stood there, squitzing at the screen.
“What?” says I, but he don’t say nothing back, just keeps on squitzing like he’s seen Jesus or Michael Jackson or whatnot. I follow his eyes and I see a box that says:
Name of Mother
. And in it is typed: KATARIINA UNKNOWN .
“Katariina,” he purrs, taking his time over the two
i’
s, enjoying the sound good and proper. “Katariina,” he repeats. “Katariina.”
From Alfi’s rants, I always assumed they’d told him his mother’s name wasn’t known.
“Katariina,” he purred again, like a hypnotic kitty.
“I guess
Alfi
’s a letter down, but your mum’s got one extra, so that balances out.”
He didn’t answer, and then I saw he had a tear trickling down his cheek. I suppose it probably must have been a bit moving, suddenly finding out what your mum was called, after all that time. Then I saw he had tears trickling down both cheeks. The Digit’s a bit emotionally embarrassed. I looked back down the corridor, hoping Barry might be on his way back, but he was still rolling round with the Psycho Girls.
“Come on.” I start to hint we maybe should get out of there, and I see Squealer’s chin all trembling, and the tears are getting worse. I’m reaching into my pockets, seeing if I ain’t got a tissue for him, and he only starts moaning, doesn’t he?
Then he starts wailing, good and proper. Next thing I know, he’s got snot coming out of his nostrils, and his shoulders are shaking too.
The Good Citizen’s never seen anyone sob as much as this before. It’s a veritable tsunami of tears. I lay my hand on his back, dead gentle, try and help him through it.
Through the tears and sobbing, he says again, “Katariina,” only it’s all in a gurgle and he sounds like he’s drowning. In his own tears.
“Come on,” I say, even more gentle and kindly than the
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