pervert that passes by.’
‘I agree. Has he been complaining of thirst?’
‘Haven’t seen him for a while.’
‘Does he pee a lot?’
‘Anywhere he fancies.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Said he was eighteen . . . but I reckon fifteen’s nearer the mark. What’s wrong with him?’
‘His symptoms suggest diabetic coma brought on by a buildup of chemical poisons in his blood.’ She took out her mobile, scrolled down her menu and punched in a number. ‘Yes . . . Trevor Monaghan, please . . . Dr Jackson . . . It’s an emergency. Cheers.’ She glanced up at Chalky. ‘Go back to the railings and holler when you see an ambulance, and
*
‘Is he going to die?’ asked Chalky twenty minutes later as the paramedics loaded the stretcher into the ambulance. He’d been impressed by the speed of the operation. Seconds after shouting down to Jackson that the ambulance had arrived, he’d called again to say that a fire crew were erecting a ladder gantry over the railings. ‘You’d have to be pretty ill to have this many people turn out for you.’ Jackson was using Acland’s back to write a note to the consultant. ‘He’s very ill, Chalky. Juvenile diabetes is a serious condition, and living on the streets won’t have helped any.’ She signed her name and tucked the piece of paper into an envelope which she took from her medical bag. ‘If it’s any comfort, I’m sending him to an expert.’ She slapped the envelope into Chalky’s hand. ‘Make yourself useful . . . Give this to the driver, then grab your stuff and follow me down to my car. I’ll give you a ride to the hospital.’ She levelled a finger at Acland. ‘You, too . . . and bring everything of Ben’s. There might be some personal information in it.’ Acland shook his head and retreated against the nearest wall, where his, Ben’s and Chalky’s bags were stacked. Because of the narrow confines of the passageway, they’d been ordered to remove themselves and their possessions before the stretcher was brought in. ‘It’s nothing to do with me. I don’t know the boy.’ ‘Me neither,’ said Jackson, kneeling to close her bag, ‘but it didn’t stop you involving me in his problems.’ ‘It was your choice to come here.’ ‘True.’ She stood up. ‘So what’s the deal?’ ‘There isn’t one. You’re not responsible for me. You go your way . . . I’ll go mine.’
She eyed him curiously for a moment, then gave a small shrug of disappointment. ‘You’re not the person I thought you were,’ she said.
‘Ditto,’ Acland murmured.
‘Then we’ve both wasted our time.’ She offered a small nod of farewell and headed towards the ambulance, where she had a brief word with the paramedics and Chalky before continuing on to her car.
Chalky came back. ‘Shift your arse,’ he ordered. ‘Your lady friend wants to follow the meat wagon so that we can see the lad safely delivered.’ He retrieved all the bags from the pavement, including Acland’s kitbag, and set off after Jackson.
Acland stalked angrily behind him. ‘Did she tell you to do that?’
‘What?’
‘Take my kitbag.’
‘Just doing you a favour, mate.’
‘Not interested. I want my stuff.’
‘Then show the lady some gratitude first.’ Chalky crossed Caroline Street and dumped all the bags into Jackson’s open boot before slamming it shut. ‘Grow up, son,’ he said scathingly. ‘Do you think anyone’s ever cared enough to come looking for
*
Jackson made no comment when Acland slid into the seat behind Chalky and pulled the door closed. She merely lowered the windows to dispel some of the older man’s aroma then headed down towards the Aldwych. Amused by Chalky’s cheerful announcement that it was the first time he’d been in a car since he’d walked out on his old woman, she encouraged him to talk about himself. How old was he? ‘Last time anyone took notice, thirty-three . . . but I gave up counting after that. I went for a drink with some mates . . . had a few too many jars . . . and found the wife waiting for me when I got home. She had a bad temper, that woman. Didn’t want to celebrate my birthday herself but got steaming mad because
Is that fair or is that fair?’
Jackson smiled. ‘How long ago was that?’
‘Now you’re asking.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Twenty-two years, give or take a year or two. I was born in ’51 . . . joined the army in ’69 . . . spent three years in Germany . . . did a couple of stints in Northern Ireland . . . married in ’78 . . . fought in the Falklands in ’82 . . . cashed in my chips a year later . . . then took to the road when I couldn’t stand the missus any longer. She blamed me for the lack of nippers. That’s what got her riled.’
‘Did you think about getting help for it?’
‘Nah. Waste of time. Reckoned the best thing I could do was bugger off and let her have a bash with someone else.’ He sounded quite cheerful about it. ‘It wasn’t much of a marriage. She only liked me when I wasn’t around – sent letters and such – then, soon as I came home, the knives came out.’ He pulled a face. ‘The drink might have had something to do with it. Couldn’t face her without a few jars under my belt . . . Kept asking myself why I’d tied myself to a roly-poly pudding – no offence – when I should have gone for something I could have got my arms round.’
‘What did you do after you left the army?’
