Nobody Saw No One Read Online Free PDF

a way. So Mr Virus must be almost as respectable as a bank manager. He’d be sure to score highly on a Suitability Questionnaire. He must be used to filling in them kind o’ forms. There’s six of us lads sitting round stuffing our faces. A couple of ’em look younger than me. We’ve got big shiny plates like a posh restaurant, and proper napkins an ’all. Look at these knives and forks. Matching. Never seen owt like it. Not even the Barrowcloughs had matching cutlery.
    Mrs Barrowclough – “Call me Jenny,” she said, but not in a creepy Call-Me Norman way – taught us how to make apple crumble and trifle. She spent half her life in that kitchen, said it were good for us to learn to cook, ’cos it were a life skill that ’ud allus come in handy. I’d allus be helping her out. Mr Barrowclough – Doug – said that I were turning into a proper Jamie Oliver. He had his own business, making furniture, and he used to make miniature carvings for me and t’other lad they fostered. He tried teaching us how to do carvings ourselves, but I cudn’t get the hang of it. I learned to make a killer soufflé though, and he helped us design me own cookery book, ’cos he were good at calligraphy. He said it were – what? A
related skill
to woodcarving, and between the three of us – me, him and Jenny – we’d make a cookery book that ’ud make us famous, in our village at least.
    T’other lad used to get right narky when we worked on that cookery book. We never did finish it.
    Then at Tenderness, there were nowt nice like that going on. Only the bad stuff.
    So, yeah, this’ll do.
Cash Counters
’ll do us, even if Mr Virus in’t no Jenny. The trick is to not get sent back to Tenderness. Maybe if I could convince Mr Virus about the truth at Tenderness House he could speak to the authorities on our behalf. Get Tenderness House shut down and Governor Newton sacked – or maybe even arrested! What a result that’d be.
    I’m just about to ask Mr Virus what happened to me old clothes when there’s a buzzing on the wall. An intercom. All the lads freeze wi’ their forks half way to their mouths.
    That lad called Predictiv Tex – funny names they’ve all got – drops his knife and shoots a look at Mr Virus. “What if it’s the—”
    Mr Virus picks up his Smartphone and points it at Tex. “What if some of us have over-extended vocabularies?” He looks narked. He wipes his mouth with his napkin and nods at Byron. “See who it is.”
    But Byron’s frozen to his seat.
    Mr Virus waggles the phone, like a teacher making a point. “I said see who it is.”
    Byron gets up, dead nervous, and Mr Virus is gesticulating at the two younger lads. “Get those boxes up to the top office. Then stay there. Lock the door behind you. iTunes.” He looks at another boy. iTunes must be his name. “Take their plates. They were never here.”
    Everyone moves dead fast. Mr Virus shifts his attention to me. Looks like he’s thinking, but I can’t tell what.
    “It’s all right,” Byron shouts from the entry-phone. “It’s Grace. Everything’s rinky-dink.”
    Rinky-dink.
    But is it? Everyone looks like at Tenderness when one o’ the big lads has a bag o’ dope out on the table and somebody rushes in and yells
Call-Me Norman’s coming
!
    But there en’t no contraband here. Just egg and bacon. What’s the panic?
    “Ahhh, Grace.” Mr Virus closes his eyes, and relaxes. “Grace,” he repeats. “Digit – buzz her up. Boys!” he calls out. “Back to your seats. It’s only Grace, honouring us with a visit.”
    Mr Virus looks at me and smiles. “Alfi,” he says, “you’re in luck tonight. Grace is a dear friend of ours. It’ll be a pleasure for you to meet her.”
    All dead peculiar. Half a mo later, there’s a knock on the door. The same funny rhythm Byron used.
    “Tex.” Mr Virus clicks his fingers and Predictiv Tex leaps up and unlatches the door.
    There’s this girl standing there. She’s tall and thin – but