The Chameleon's Shadow (20 page)

B
EN
R
USSELL
’
S MOTHER
looked tired and depressed, as if the strain of the last three days had taken their toll. A small, grey-haired woman, she sat at her son’s bedside, interminably lacing her fingers and pretending not to care that he was only interested in what was playing through the headphones attached to a TV and radio console beside him. In daylight, and conscious, his unsmiling mouth and permanent scowl identified him clearly as the alienated youth he was, and Jackson doubted any joy would come of this mother-and-son reunion.

He was in a side room on his own, segregated from the other patients because of the continued police interest in him, but Jackson had a good look through his open door as she and Trevor Monaghan passed. They came to a halt ten yards down the corridor. ‘How old is the mother?’

‘Sixty-seven,’ murmured Monaghan. ‘Thought she was through the menopause at fifty-two, slept with her old man for the first time in twelve months and ended up pregnant. Poor woman. The husband was dead of lung cancer a year later.’

‘Any other children?’

‘Four . . . all much older than he is. There’s a brother of thirty-eight who has a couple of teenagers of his own. The kid was brought up as an only child – spoilt rotten, as far as I can make out – but wasn’t a particular problem until husband mark two came on the scene. Now the wretched woman’s blaming herself for marrying again. Ben’s been in constant trouble ever since.’

Jackson pulled a wry expression. ‘How many times have I heard that before? It’s the history of every runaway.’

‘Mm. Mrs Sykes wants me to say it was diabetes that sent Ben off the rails.’

‘Instead of what? The stepfather?’

Monaghan shrugged. ‘Take your pick. She blames everything from over-compensation for his father’s death . . . changing her name when she remarried . . . to having to share her time between the son and the new husband. The only thing she’s not prepared to accept is that Ben behaves the way he does because he wants to. She keeps telling me he’s a good boy underneath.’

‘Is he?’

‘Not that I’ve seen. He’s a rude little bugger. Are you sure you want to talk to him?’

Jackson nodded. ‘Preferably alone. Any chance of prising the mother away?’

‘What’s the quid pro quo?’

‘A bottle of Scotch if I get an uninterrupted half-hour with the door closed. I want to know what he’s told the police.’

* ‘Rude little bugger’ was about right, thought Jackson, after the door closed and she was left alone with Ben. He studiously ignored her until she swung the Patientline TV console to one side, switched off the power and plucked the headphones from his ears. ‘Good morning, Ben,’ she said pleasantly. ‘My name’s Dr Jackson. We’ve met before but you probably don’t remember me. I was the doctor who attended you before the ambulance arrived.’ The scowl deepened as he assessed her. ‘Are you a dyke?’ ‘Last time I looked I was.’ She prevented him retrieving the headphones by unplugging them and dropping them out of reach on the floor behind her. ‘Life’s a bitch, eh?’ ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’ ‘Why not? They’re not yours and you aren’t paying for them.

It’s either me, the taxpayer, who’s funding your TV habit . . . or your poor long-suffering mother.’ She took the chair that Mrs Sykes had been sitting in.

‘It’s the law. You put your hands on me. I could have you done for assault.’

‘Then you’d better report me to Superintendent Jones the next time he questions you about the contents of your rucksack. That was some stash you had hidden away inside it. Where did it all come from?’

‘None of your fucking business. I don’t answer questions unless Mum and the solicitor are here.’ He clasped his hands together and extended his two forefingers to point in her direction. ‘I’ve got rights.’

‘What kind of rights?’

‘I don’t have to talk to you.’

‘Suits me. I’ll do the talking for both of us.’ She settled herself deeper in the chair and crossed her legs. ‘You have a condition that means you’ll be subject to monitoring for the foreseeable future. The quicker you learn to take an active role in your treatment – particularly in the adjustment of insulin, food intake and exercise

– the shorter your dependency time . . . but it’s only the brightest and most cooperative teenagers who succeed in managing their disease without the help of a parent. The chances—’

‘I know all this,’ Ben broke in impatiently, ‘and I’m sick of hearing it. I didn’t ask to be born with fucking diabetes, did I?’

Jackson ignored the interruption. ‘—of an ungrateful little toe-rag who wants his own rights respected but doesn’t give a toss about anyone else’s . . . as long as he’s free to steal to his heart’s content . . . and make his mother’s life a living hell—’

‘You don’t know the first thing about it!’ the boy snarled, levelling his fingers at Jackson’s eyes. ‘What about what
she’s
done to me?’

‘Ah, well, that’s a different issue altogether,’ said Jackson mildly. ‘Children can behave as they like, but mothers get lumbered with whatever rotten hand fate deals them. I can’t imagine yours is taking any pleasure from having a retard for a son. I expect she’s sitting in the canteen right now, wishing she’d made your father wear a condom.’

‘I’m not a retard.’

‘You could have fooled me. Why didn’t you go for help when you first started feeling unwell?’

‘It’s my life. Maybe I wanted to die.’

‘You wouldn’t have gone looking for Chalky if that was the case. It must have taken some effort to climb those railings in the state you were in. You became comatose within ten minutes of arriving.’

‘What if Chalky hadn’t been there? I’d have died then.’

‘You gave yourself a better chance than if you’d folded up in a shop doorway. You’re a vagrant. Passers-by would have thought you were asleep.’ She lapsed into a brief silence, watching him. ‘But you don’t do doorways, do you? Chalky said you have a thing about being propositioned by gays.’

‘I hate the fuckers.’

‘Have you ever gone with one?’

He swivelled his pistol fingers towards her again with a look of pure hatred on his face. ‘No,’ he snarled. ‘I’d rather die.’

Jackson didn’t believe him. Such intense homophobia suggested the opposite – an abusive long-term relationship or self-disgust that he’d sold himself for money when he needed it. ‘What’s your stepfather like?’

‘He’s a creep,’ he said dismissively.

‘What kind of creep?’

‘Thought he owned the house just because he married Mum.’

She watched his mouth work in a kind of impotent fury. ‘Are we talking rules and discipline . . . or something else?’

‘I hardly knew the bastard and he started behaving like my dad. All we ever did was row.’ He stared resentfully at Jackson. ‘Everything was fine till he came. I wouldn’t have left if it hadn’t been for him.’

‘Is that what you told your mother?’

‘What if I did? It’s true.’

Jackson shook her head. ‘Your stepfather altered the dynamics of your relationship with your mother. From the look of her, I’d guess you’ve been ruling the roost for years. You were a little god in your own universe . . . and you had your nose put out of joint when someone arrived to challenge you.’

‘Whatever. You weren’t there and you don’t know me,’ he muttered, falling back on the cliche´s of inarticulate youth.

‘If everything had been fine from your mother’s perspective, she wouldn’t have brought your stepfather in,’ Jackson pointed out reasonably. ‘I expect she was lonely. Did you think about that when you decided to go into battle to get rid of him?’

‘Shut up!’

Jackson shrugged. ‘Problems don’t disappear just because you refuse to talk about them. At some stage you’ll have to resolve the issue of where you’ll go when you leave here . . . and the streets aren’t an option . . . not for someone who’s insulin dependent.’ She waited through a brief silence. ‘I could be wrong, but I get the feeling you’ve been forced to do things to survive that you’d never have done if you’d stayed at home.’

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘It is if it affects your health,’ she said dispassionately. ‘It won’t help your diabetes if you have an undiagnosed STD. Have you told anyone about your sexual history?’

‘No . . . and I’m not going to either.’

‘It’s a simple test and you’re in the right place for it,’ Jackson said calmly. ‘It may even have been done as routine when you were admitted. Do you want me to ask Dr Monaghan to talk to you about this? He won’t discuss it with your mother, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

He flicked her an assessing glance, as if to see how trustworthy she was. ‘What about you?’

‘I won’t repeat anything you say . . . unless you give me permission.’

‘You’d better not,’ he said aggressively.

‘I’ve given my word.’

He watched her out of the corner of his eye. ‘I’ll slit my bloody wrists if anyone finds out. It makes me sick every time I think about it.’

‘What happened?’

‘I only did it once. This bastard said he’d give me thirty quid if I went to a hotel with him. It was a fucking set-up. There were five of them and they made me do it for nothing. They thought it was funny . . . told me to go to the cops if I reckoned I’d been cheated.’ He pointed his fingers at the wall, took aim and performed a mock recoil. ‘I wanted to kill them . . . still do.’

‘I don’t blame you,’ said Jackson. ‘I’d feel the same.’

‘I only did it for the fucking money.’

‘When did it happen? How long ago?’

‘A few months back,’ he said vaguely, ‘around the time I met Chalky.’

Months...?
‘Is that why he took you under his wing? Did you tell him about it?’

‘Some . . . not much. I didn’t want him going round saying I was a fucking gay, did I?’

Jackson smiled. ‘I suspect you’re safe on that score. I imagine Chalky has too many secrets of his own to gab about anyone else’s.’

Another assessing glance. ‘Do you know him?’

‘He was in the alleyway the night you went into a coma. I think he may have taken a canvas bag that belonged to you.’

Ben’s answer was immediate.
Too immediate...?
‘Nah,’ he said firmly. ‘The only thing I had was the rucksack.’

‘What about the carrier bag of booze and fags? Chalky said that was yours.’

‘He’s an alky. He talks out of his arse most of the time.’

‘He did his best to help you. I had to ask him questions to find out when your symptoms first started.’ She watched his eyes widen in alarm. ‘He didn’t know much . . . said he’d only known you a month . . . maybe seen you five or six times.’

Ben stared at his hands.

‘So who’s right? You or Chalky? When did this gang rape actually happen?’

‘A month ago.’

Jackson doubted that. With type one diabetes, fissures or sores wouldn’t have healed in four weeks. But she let it go. ‘Do you know if the men were wearing condoms?’

The boy’s shoulders squirmed with embarrassment. ‘I never saw – they made me lie face down on a bed while they took it in turns – but I reckon they did. One of them thought I had Aids because I was skinny . . . and the bloke I went with told him to double up on the skins.’ He squeezed his eyes shut to block off tears. ‘I really hate the fuckers.’

‘With reason,’ she agreed easily. ‘Bastards like that should have their tackle ripped off and nailed to their front doors. Would you recognize them if you saw them again?’

‘No. Is it them gave me diabetes?’

Jackson shook her head. ‘It’s not a sexually transmitted disease. You’ve probably been developing it over the last few weeks, but Dr Monaghan can set your mind at rest about Aids and STDs with a few simple tests.’

‘Why can’t you do them?’

‘Because one of the tests involves a quick look up your bum . . . and it’ll be less embarrassing for you if a bloke does that.’

‘Shit!’

She smiled again. ‘Yup! There’ll definitely be some of that, but don’t worry . . . yours won’t smell any different from anyone else’s. Trust me, I’m a doctor.’

Ben gave a grudging lift of his lips in return. ‘You don’t look like one.’

‘I’m a bodybuilder in my spare time.’ She saw a gleam of interest flicker in his eyes. ‘Once you’re eating properly and your insulin’s adjusted, you’ll put on muscle in no time. I’ll give you a workout if you’re willing to take instruction from a woman.’

‘OK.’

‘You’ll have to take it seriously,’ she warned. ‘I’m not interested in time-wasters.’

‘OK.’

‘What do I get in exchange?’

Ben cast her another wary glance, as if fearing she was looking for a physical display of gratitude and affection. ‘What do you want?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Information. Upfront . . . now . . . without the police, your mother or the solicitor listening.’

He became even more suspicious. ‘What kind of information?’

‘Let’s start with how you came by the Nokia mobile.’

* The request seemed to faze him, although to Jackson’s mind he seemed more perplexed than alarmed. She listened patiently while he delivered the same account that he’d given the police and showed only sympathy when he described how unwell he’d felt on the day of the theft. ‘The really good thing about stealing the guy’s bag was that there were some sandwiches in it. I was fucking hungry.’ ‘It’s a classic symptom of diabetes. Your cells weren’t converting glucose to energy, so your brain was telling you to eat . . . meanwhile, your system was expelling sugar through your urine and you were losing weight.’ ‘I was pretty weak. That’s why I don’t remember the details too well.’ Jackson nodded gravely and encouraged him to describe his other symptoms. He produced quite a litany. Tiredness. Intense thirst. Pains in his abdomen. Frequent urination. Vomiting. Giddiness. Tremors. ‘You were a sick boy,’ she agreed. ‘Too right. I reckon I fainted a couple of times.’ ‘No wonder you’re confused.’

He nodded.

‘Perhaps you hit your head when you fell. That’s often a cause of amnesia.’

‘Yeah,’ he agreed readily. ‘I’m pretty sure that happened after I left the park. I remember a lady helping me off the pavement and asking if I was all right.’