first time. But he can’t stop crying, can he? He’s all choked up.
What he needs is a surname, added on to Katariina. A proper one instead of a supermarket chain. I wish I could do the opposite of delete – add his real, lost name to his file. But I can’t. So I stand there, don’t I, like a dingbat, and make
there there
noises of reassurance, and keep patting his back, gentle as I can.
*
I know who I am. I am the son of Katariina. I know me mother’s name. I am Alfi Spar, son of Katariina.
If she has a first name, I can find her second name. She’s no longer Unknown Unknown. She’s Katariina. And when I get out of here, when I can live me life for meself, I can find who she was.
Katariina Somebody. My mother is Somebody.
When I find her name, I’ll know mine. Nobody’ll make jokes any more about us having a shop sign for a name.
I’m only Alfi Spar for now. Tomorrow – sometime – I’ll be Somebody.
11. THE JIMMYS
Alfi Spar was doomed.
The Digit has seen many a WhyPee in a dreadful state. I’ve seen acts of violence and destruction, the head-buttering of Carers, the smashing of fists, the slashing of wrists, rainbows of bruises and overdoses of booze. Life is hard. I walked away from Alfi that afternoon knowing that the boy didn’t have the strength in him to survive what was hanging round his next corner.
The Digit kept his nose to the ground. Sniffed what was afoot and heard the furtives. That night was going to be another party night.
The Jimmys. Alfi Spar was perfect fodder for them – without family, friends or respectabilities. Their big party was going to freak him out, sure enough, and then they’d put him down. Right down.
The Digit was outta there anyway, but Alfi had to get himself out of Tenderness House too, or he was going to end up such a damage case that he’d never be allowed back on the outside.
The Digit knew, because Byron himself hadn’t been in much of a better state. Only the Incredible Citizen Digit knew how to survive.
So, even though he didn’t deserve it, on account of being a misery-guts goody-two-boots cry-baby snob, I decided – at great risk to my good self – to give Alfi a bit of a hand.
There was only one option. I had to invite him to join Citizen Digit in his Greatest of Escapes.
“You’re nuts,” I said. “How’re you gonna escape anyway? Do you reckon it’s really any better – out there?”
Byron had snuck up to us in the yard during afternoon break. He cudn’t leave us alone, could he?
“Listen up,” he said. “You remember in the newspapers, all that stuff about that freak Jimmy Savile?”
I had nowt to say to that. All of us had heard that horrible stuff. Byron knew that well enough. So he went on. “In all of them children’s homes, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I said. So what was he getting at?
“Well, it’s like that here.”
And he told us, all about it. How he reckoned that Call-Me Norman were grooming us, setting us up. He told us what Sniper and some o’ them other WhyPees had been having to do to get all their so-called rewards. How Call-Me would have “parties” in his lounge at night, with all his posh friends coming round. How the WhyPees and WhyPettes would provide the entertainment.
I’d never heard such a load o’ rubbish. I stood there, shaking me head at him. “It’s against the law, in’t it. They can’t make you do owt if you don’t want to. Anyway, even if you did want to, for rewards or whatever, it’s still against the law. We’re only kids.”
“Doesn’t make any difference,” he said. “They make you do it.”
Like he knew all about it. Byron reckoned if he went round calling himself Citizen Digit he could come out with any nonsense and it made it true. But he din’t know. How could he? He were just trying to freak us out.
“No,” I said. “I wun’t let ’em. Not for an iPod. Not for owt.”
He laughed at us, din’t he? Like I were a stupid littl’un.
“Anyway –” I
What he needs is a surname, added on to Katariina. A proper one instead of a supermarket chain. I wish I could do the opposite of delete – add his real, lost name to his file. But I can’t. So I stand there, don’t I, like a dingbat, and make
there there
noises of reassurance, and keep patting his back, gentle as I can.
*
I know who I am. I am the son of Katariina. I know me mother’s name. I am Alfi Spar, son of Katariina.
If she has a first name, I can find her second name. She’s no longer Unknown Unknown. She’s Katariina. And when I get out of here, when I can live me life for meself, I can find who she was.
Katariina Somebody. My mother is Somebody.
When I find her name, I’ll know mine. Nobody’ll make jokes any more about us having a shop sign for a name.
I’m only Alfi Spar for now. Tomorrow – sometime – I’ll be Somebody.
11. THE JIMMYS
Alfi Spar was doomed.
The Digit has seen many a WhyPee in a dreadful state. I’ve seen acts of violence and destruction, the head-buttering of Carers, the smashing of fists, the slashing of wrists, rainbows of bruises and overdoses of booze. Life is hard. I walked away from Alfi that afternoon knowing that the boy didn’t have the strength in him to survive what was hanging round his next corner.
The Digit kept his nose to the ground. Sniffed what was afoot and heard the furtives. That night was going to be another party night.
The Jimmys. Alfi Spar was perfect fodder for them – without family, friends or respectabilities. Their big party was going to freak him out, sure enough, and then they’d put him down. Right down.
The Digit was outta there anyway, but Alfi had to get himself out of Tenderness House too, or he was going to end up such a damage case that he’d never be allowed back on the outside.
The Digit knew, because Byron himself hadn’t been in much of a better state. Only the Incredible Citizen Digit knew how to survive.
So, even though he didn’t deserve it, on account of being a misery-guts goody-two-boots cry-baby snob, I decided – at great risk to my good self – to give Alfi a bit of a hand.
There was only one option. I had to invite him to join Citizen Digit in his Greatest of Escapes.
“You’re nuts,” I said. “How’re you gonna escape anyway? Do you reckon it’s really any better – out there?”
Byron had snuck up to us in the yard during afternoon break. He cudn’t leave us alone, could he?
“Listen up,” he said. “You remember in the newspapers, all that stuff about that freak Jimmy Savile?”
I had nowt to say to that. All of us had heard that horrible stuff. Byron knew that well enough. So he went on. “In all of them children’s homes, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I said. So what was he getting at?
“Well, it’s like that here.”
And he told us, all about it. How he reckoned that Call-Me Norman were grooming us, setting us up. He told us what Sniper and some o’ them other WhyPees had been having to do to get all their so-called rewards. How Call-Me would have “parties” in his lounge at night, with all his posh friends coming round. How the WhyPees and WhyPettes would provide the entertainment.
I’d never heard such a load o’ rubbish. I stood there, shaking me head at him. “It’s against the law, in’t it. They can’t make you do owt if you don’t want to. Anyway, even if you did want to, for rewards or whatever, it’s still against the law. We’re only kids.”
“Doesn’t make any difference,” he said. “They make you do it.”
Like he knew all about it. Byron reckoned if he went round calling himself Citizen Digit he could come out with any nonsense and it made it true. But he din’t know. How could he? He were just trying to freak us out.
“No,” I said. “I wun’t let ’em. Not for an iPod. Not for owt.”
He laughed at us, din’t he? Like I were a stupid littl’un.
“Anyway –” I
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