Chameleon's Shadow

by Minette Walters

  ‘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 b
ed 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.’

  ‘And when did you say this happened?’

  ‘Last month some time. I don’t know exactly.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Jackson murmured. ‘With symptoms as severe as that, I’m amazed you didn’t go into a coma immediately.’

  The wariness came back into his eyes. ‘I’ve been feeling sick for ages.’

  ‘Mm.’ She arched an amused eyebrow. ‘Hasn’t Dr Monaghan explained that type one diabetes tends to come on suddenly? The usual time-frame is a period of days – not a period of several weeks. Fatigue, thirst and frequent urination are typical of onset, but pains in the abdomen and vomiting indicate ketoacidosis, which is what caused your collapse four days ago. I find it hard to believe you’ve had ketones poisoning your blood for weeks . . . but managed to neutralize them successfully without intervention.’

  He ran the tip of his tongue across his lips. ‘I guess I’m lucky.’

  ‘Or very odd.’ She cocked her forefinger at him, mimicking his pistol hand. ‘You can tell me the truth now. There’s no one else here, so you can be honest.’

  ‘I have been honest.’

  ‘Nn-nn. If you were falling over and vomiting, then you must have stolen the phone in the twenty-four hours before you collapsed. If you stole it four weeks ago –’ she put ironic emphasis on the word – ‘thirst and constant peeing shouldn’t have affected your memory. Unless you have a drink or drug addiction that you’ve been keeping from Dr Monaghan.’

  The writhing tic set Ben’s mouth going again. ‘It’s just a mobile,’ he burst out. ‘I know a guy who steals them all the time. He swipes ’em out of bitches’ hands while they’re texting their mates.’ He upended his palm in front of his chest and danced his thumb around while make mincing gestures with his shoulders. ‘They don’t even think someone’s gonna walk by and rob ’em . . . and they’re usually too scared of being knifed to do anything about it.’

  Jackson folded her arms across her chest and stared him down. ‘How old are these “bitches”? Twelve-year-old schoolgirls? That’s some brave friend you have. Or are you talking about yourself? Does demonizing a little kid as a “bitch” excuse what you do to her?’

  ‘It’s just a word,’ he muttered. ‘Everyone uses it.’

  ‘Not in my presence they don’t. In my presence men show some respect for women.’

  ‘Yeah, well—’ He trailed off. ‘All I was saying was that mobiles get stolen every day and no one takes a blind bit of notice.’ He watched her out of the corner of his eye. ‘What’s so important about the Nokia?’

  Jackson took this for cunning rather than ignorance. ‘If you don’t know the answer to that, you should fire your solicitor. At the very least he should have established why you were being questioned.’

  ‘He did . . . sort of. The cops said one of the things in my rucksack belonged to a bloke who was part of a murder inquiry. It scared the shit out of me because they wouldn’t say what it was. But it has to be the Nokia, right? You wouldn’t be asking about it otherwise.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I knew it ... I fucking knew it!’ He stared at her with wide, frightened eyes. ‘You’re going to tell, aren’t you?’

  Jackson wondered who he was more afraid of. His mother . . . the police . . . someone on the street? ‘That you lied about the man in Hyde Park? Probably,’ she agreed, ‘unless you decide to do it first. It’ll look better if it comes from you.’

  ‘You promised you wouldn’t,’ he said with a spurt of anger.

  ‘I promised I wouldn’t repeat information about your health and sexual history,’ she reminded him. ‘Did the five men have something to do with the mobile?’

  He stared at her with a look of indecision on his face, but if his intention had been to unburden himself he was thwarted by the return of his mother. He spotted her face at the glass panel in the door and clammed up immediately, muttering that she’d want to know why the door was closed. Jackson stood up to open it, greeting the woman with a firm handshake and explaining her presence by saying she was the doctor who’d first treated Ben.

  ‘I dropped in to see how he was doing,’ she said.

  Mrs Sykes’s response was as limp as her handshake. ‘That’s nice.’ She stooped to retrieve the headphones from the floor, as if her job in life was to clear up after people. ‘He likes his music,’ she murmured, plugging them into the console and handing them back to her son.

  Jackson watched her resume her seat while the boy clamped the headphones over his ears again. Neither showed any interest in continuing their conversations with her, nor in talking to each other, and Jackson had a feeling that she and Trevor Monaghan might have misunderstood the relationship between them. Perhaps it wasn’t the son who was blanking the mothe
r, but the mother who’d developed devices to distance herself from the demands of a child she’d never wanted.

  *

  Before she left, Jackson sought out Trevor Monaghan again to ask if Ben had been routinely tested for STDs. He nodded. ‘It’s pretty much standard when we don’t know anything about a patient. We couldn’t find any needle marks on him but you can never be too careful with HIV and hepatitis.’ ‘And?’ ‘Clean as a whistle. Is he worried he’s got an infection?’ Jackson gave a neutral shrug. ‘Did you do a rectal examination?’ He studied her curiously. ‘What’s he been telling you?’

  ‘Answer my question first,’ she urged. ‘I thought that in view of his age, and the fact he’s a runaway, you might have checked. He doesn’t appear to know about it if you did.’

  ‘He wouldn’t. I asked Anna Pelotski to take a look while he was still comatose. She didn’t find anything to suggest penetration . . . no old scarring . . . no fissures.’ Monaghan paused. ‘Has he told you differently?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Monaghan shrugged. ‘He accused his stepfather to one of the nurses, said Mr Sykes buggered him whenever he was in the mood, which is why he doesn’t want to go back if the man remains in the house. I can’t say categorically that it never happened – we’d be talking about something that happened a year ago, and he may not have suffered any physical damage from it – but I suspect it’s a ruse to get his mother to himself again.’

  ‘He told me he was gang-raped by five men last month.’

  ‘Then he’s having you on. In his condition, Anna would have found open sores, and he’d still be hurting.’

  ‘What about longer ago . . . say, three or four months?’

  Monaghan was doubtful. ‘Five men . . . one after the other . . . all hyped up . . . and no obvious scarring? Can’t see it, Jacks.’

  She nodded. ‘So why invent a story like that? What does he hope to achieve by it?’

  ‘Confusion,’ said Monaghan with a touch of irony. ‘He’s adept at manipulation, that kid.’

  Seventeen

  FOR NO REASON THAT he felt it necessary to explain, Acland had taken to accompanying Jackson whenever she went out. Released by Jones (this time on police bail) under condition that he reside at the Bell and keep himself available for questioning, he seemed to have an inbuilt radar that told him precisely what the doctor’s movements were. While she was in the pub, front or back, he kept to his room, but every time she went to her car, day or night, she found him standing beside it. If the sortie involved a house call to a patient, he remained on the pavement outside; if it was appropriate to walk with her, he did.