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head.
    Mr Virus gives a long, loud sigh, like he’s playing a character in
Eastenders.
“Digit.” He shakes his head. “You’re a little slow tonight also.”
    Citizen Digit pats his pockets. Looks like he’s missing summat of his own! “What a liberty!” he laughs, turning towards Grace.
    “Uh-huh.” She holds up her palm. “Young Alfi needs that crinkle much more than you.”
    What? Me?
    Oh. There’s twenty quid sticking out me pocket.
    I’m rich!
    “Betcha can’t pull the same stunt with me, Angel-Face,” Grace taunts us. She turns round and wiggles her bottom at us. There’s a wallet sticking out her back pocket. “Come and ’ave a go – if you think you’re soft enough.”
    I dunno what happens, really. We’re all dancing around playing Pick the Pocket, dipping our fingers in and out, having a proper tickle, falling about in hysterics. Even Mr Virus is joining in.
    I en’t much cop at it, get me fingers slapped a couple o’ times. But twice I manage to get a hanky from Mr Virus wi’out him noticing, and once from Grace. Unless she’s letting us win deliberate? And I manage to smuggle a slice o’ bacon down Tex’s sock. He never predicted
that,
did he? I snatch a plastic crocodile from one o’ the younger lads and run round the table, and under it, and over the top of a chair and he still can’t catch us – until Byron jumps on me head and flicks cold baked beans down me ear.
    After a while, I start to conk out. I’m flat on me back while everyone’s still mucking about. Me eyes need a bit of a rest. Next thing, Byron is leaning over us and he’s waving the twenty in front o’ me. But … that’s impossible! I stuffed it deep inside me trouser pockets.
    “It’s mine by rights,” he says, with a smile, “but you know what? The Digit don’t have much need of money. He has all he needs – donated by generous friends. You have it, Alfi-Boy. I reckon you need it.” He tucks it into me breast pocket. “Come on, Angel-Face, Virus has got beddybyes all set up for you.” He tugs us up. He’s right. I’m shattered. I throw me arm round his shoulder, pretending I’m too tired to lift meself. He struggles to hold us up, giggling at me big fake yawns.
    Grace appears, gives him a hand lifting me. She whispers in his ear, private-like, but I catch it. “So,” she says, “another one of yours, Didge?”
    “It must be you, Grace,” says Digit, “you’re magnetic, ain’t you, to us Tender Boys.”
    Tender Boys.
    I’m between ’em, wi’ me arms round their shoulders, pretending to sleepwalk up to me room. I’m only half pretending, en’t I? Grace pulls back the duvet, while the Citizen takes off me shoes and lifts me legs up onto the bed. Dead comfy.
    Grace leans down, all smiley-eyed. “Alfi,” she whispers, “I got sumfink for yer. I think yer might ’ave misplaced it.”
    Me birth certificate. She must o’ fished it out o’ me old clothes. How did she know?
    She fixes us a look, like no one’s ever given us before, like she can see right inside us. “Seems your mum must have bookmarked you as her Favourite Number One.”
    I dunno what to say. No one’s ever said owt like that to us before. She pushes me birth certificate into me palm and squeezes me fingers around the folds.
    “Keep it safe,” she says. “It’s proof of yourself.”
    It’s who I am.
    Grace knows. She looks into me eyes. Sees me.
    “Don’t let no one delete it.”
    Her and the Digit share a look, like they know summat, and both their eyes flick back at the other room, towards Mr Virus, just for a second, like they’ve played the best trick o’ the night – on him.
    She turns round, skipping back, hair bouncing. She turns her head, gives us one last look. “Pleasant dreams … Alfi Spar.”

5. MAN AND DOG
    Alfi Spar suffers from a humour haemorrhage. He ain’t even ticklish. How Grace has managed to get Grumbly Guts giggling along with the rest of us is proof she’s a proper Mary