Chameleon's Shadow

‘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?’