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
‘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?’
