Nobody Saw No One Read Online Free PDF Page A

planet.
    Most other WhyPees reckoned Alfi’s ma died before she even managed to finish spelling his name, and he should have been named
Alfie
. But the Citizen’s got keener peepers, ain’t he? Alfi’s mum wanted no mistake about it. No way had she meant to write
Alfie
, on account of her putting a full stop to it after the
i
, and then giving it an underlining truth – Alfi .
    Everyone at Tenderness knew about his mum’s mortal coil uncurling ten minutes after birthing Alfi in a shop doorway.
    As if that wasn’t sad enough, he wasn’t even blessed with a second name. Nobody knew who Baby Spar’s da was – least of all Alfi’s ma. According to some of the more ignoramus WhyPees, not only was Alfi’s ma too thick to spell her own baby’s name, she was also a Sex Labourer.
    As if they’d know. It used to drive Alfi absonutly loopy, and who can blame him?
    But it was the
other
rumour that always pushed him over the ledge. The one about how he came by his conveniently local second name.
    Tenderness rumour-mongrels had it that Alfi’s mum was an Illegal, over from Eastern Europe, toiling for a gang from someplace like Letsbeavinya. No passport, no name, first or second, to speak of. So what were peeps expected to give little Alfi for a second name? The law says we all got to have a second name.
    I know
says some Bright Spark.
We ought to name him after where he was found.
    Oh yeah
agrees his mate, Light Bulb.
Well, where was he found then?
    Doorway of a supermarket, wasn’t it?
    Better call him Alfi Spar.
    Ha ha ha. Not.
    Told you, the boy was a loser before he was even a day old. You gotta feel sorry for him, yeah?
    Nevertheless and allthemore, while Alfi was drowning his fleas, the Digit dipped into his pockets and dug out that scrap of paper.
    And as for the Tenderness evidence that I’d deposited into his safe-keeping? Not there. I guess Alfi Spar has a brain cell or two after all.
    Let’s just hope Call-Me Norman never gets his smokey-stained fingers on it – or us. Believe me, a low-watt zap from Virus once in a blue moose is leisurelike compared to what Call-Me Norman will do if he catches us.
    Actually, the Digit hated taking Alfi’s Birthday Certificate. Alfi ain’t got nothing much to start with. Mother-memory means everything to those of us who have nothing. I wished I could have held it in safety for him, but I had to hand it over to Mr Electric Eel, didn’t I?
    So now Alfi Spar is hoovering up Virus’s bacon and eggs, and Virus has Alfi’s Birthday Certificate.
Cash Counters
would consider that a
fair and just
exchange. That Birthday Certificate is Alfi’s personal
precious,
ain’t it, and there shouldn’t be any real reason why Virus would want to keep it, besides his magpie tendencies.
    Except that bit of paper is Alfi Spar’s very identity.
    And that’s one of Virus’s recreationals, ain’t it – stealing peeps’ identities.
    I give it two minutes from Alfi’s last gulp of grubbings before he says to the Great Manager, “Oh, Mr Virus, sir, I wonder if I might possibly please retrieve an item of personal value from my mucky old pockets, sir?”
    And Mr Virus Sir is going to go, “Oh, I’m so sorry, dear Alf, I’m afraid we burned all your old clothings on account of them being nuclear toxical.”
    And then Alfi Spar – as the Good Citizen has seen for himself with first-eye experience – will lose all sense of reasonability. In fact, I reckon Alfi is going to go a little Ape Poo.
    And Virus is still fidgeting with his Smartphone’s Zap App. He always has it to hand when he’s in the company of his henchboys.
    The Digit’s trying to shovel the last of his sausages down, before it all goes Armageddish.
    Food, glorious food. Me stomach’s gone to heaven. Mr Virus seems even kinder than Mr and Mrs Barrowclough.
    I wonder if he’s fostering all them other lads? Maybe he’ll foster me. Or adopt me!
    I bet he could. He runs his own business –
Cash Counters
is almost a bank in