‘That’s why it helps to be skinny. If you take it easy, there’s room for your arse and your prick between the spikes. You have to squeeze down carefully, mind.’ Another snicker. ‘I’m not saying it doesn’t sting occasionally.’
‘You’re a great help,’ said Jackson sarcastically, transferring her weight to her right hand and using her left to rearrange her jacket over her boots to make an improvised saddle. ‘Here.’ She retrieved her mobile from her trouser pocket. ‘Catch this.’ She tossed it down to him before clamping her right hand over the crosspiece again. ‘If I get skewered on this sodding thing, call an ambulance before I bleed to death. And don’t move the torch!’
‘Bossy, ain’t you?’ he said. ‘Just like my old woman.’ But he’d caught the mobile cleanly and the beam remained focused on the rivets.
‘With a husband like you, I don’t blame her,’ said Jackson, supporting her weight on her hands and working her left foot up the wall. ‘Did she ever get to spend money on the kids, or did you drink it first?’
‘Wasn’t around long enough for nippers.’
Jackson’s toe locked on to another rivet. ‘I’m aiming to straddle this thing, so get ready to move in case I lose my balance.’ With a grunt, she straightened her left leg, swung the other one over the saddle and, in a surprisingly graceful movement, like a female gymnast on the asymmetric bars, reversed her grip and twisted over the spikes. ‘Never even touched it,’ she said with satisfaction as she lowered herself to the ground.
The wino nodded approval. ‘Not bad for a big girl,’ he agreed. ‘You’ve got some muscles on you, that’s for sure . . . assuming you are a girl.’ He ran the torch up and down her body. ‘You’re not one of those guys who want to be women, are you?’
‘No,’ said Jackson without offence. ‘I’ve always had a fanny.’
She reached down her jacket and boots and stepped away from the cigarette butts, wiping detritus off her socks with the back of her hand before relacing the boots. She held her breath while she did it to avoid taking in the man’s aroma. Susan had told her the story of the urinating yobs to explain why she thought Charles might be in Caroline Street, and Jackson concluded that not only was this the vagrant in question but, judging by his powerful smell, he hadn’t washed his clothes since the episode. Either that or he had prostate problems.
She stood up and opened her palm. ‘Mobile?’ she asked pleasantly. He gave it to her but wasn’t so keen to give up the torch. She gestured down the passageway. ‘You lead,’ she said. ‘I’ll follow.’
But he had quaint ideas about escorting women and insisted on walking beside her, shepherding her carefully with one hand behind her back and lighting the ground in front of her with the other. It made for close communion in the narrow confines of the alley and Jackson wasn’t entirely sure that he wasn’t touching her up. He was a couple of inches shorter than she was, but his shoulders looked powerful and, despite the grey streaks in his beard, she suspected he was younger than he looked.
‘There’s three of us,’ he told her, ‘me, a young lad who’s out cold and your bloke.’
‘What kind of “out cold”? Drugs?’
‘Never seen him with any . . . but I can’t swear to it. He turned up in a right state about half an hour ago, saying he felt sick and his belly hurt. He passed out shortly afterwards.’ They rounded the corner and he directed the beam towards a couple of seated figures in front of a darkened doorway, one leaning against the other. ‘It’s not much,’ he said apologetically, as if Jackson had made a request to join them, ‘but it’s safer than the Strand. You get some real nutters down there.’
‘What name do you go by?’ Jackson asked him.
‘Chalky.’ He played the torchlight over some bags against the wall as if to satisfy himself they were still there, then handed the torch back to Jackson. ‘The lootenant –’ he pronounced it the American way for reasons best known to himself – ‘was planning to go for help till you turned up. He says you’re a doctor.’
‘True.’
‘So will you look at the lad? My guess is he’ll be dead if no one does anything.’
‘Sure. What’s his name?’
‘Ben. I dunno his last name.’
She walked forward and flashed the light into Acland’s face. ‘You might have given me a hand over the railings,’ she admonished mildly, kneeling beside the other figure. ‘What good would I have been with a spike up my arse?’ She shone the torch over the grey, unconscious face of his companion.
‘I didn’t think you’d come in if I climbed out.’
‘Why not?’ she asked, rolling the youngster’s lids back with the ball of her thumb and shining the light into his unresponsive eyes.
‘I don’t know what your agenda is. You told me you worked for the police the first time I met you.’
‘Only in a medical capacity. I don’t round up witnesses for them.’ Jackson leaned forward to sniff the unconscious boy’s mouth. ‘How long’s his breath been smelling of nail polish remover?’
‘Since he got here. It was even stronger when he was awake.’
‘Have you tried speaking to him? Calling his name? Any response?’
‘No. He’s been like this from the moment he passed out.’
She turned the torch on the youngster’s neck, where patches of inflamed skin stood out against his ashen pallor. ‘How long have you known him, Chalky?’
‘A month or so. He’s a pretty lad, so the shirt-lifters came after him. I took him under my wing cos I don’t hold with that kind of malarkey. The fact a little lad’s run away shouldn’t make him easy meat for the first predatory 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 you –’ she said to Acland, fishing her car keys out of her back pocket – ‘hop round to my car and get my medical bag out of the boot. It’s a black BMW and it’s parked on the corner of Caroline Street opposite this bar.’ She pressed the keys into his hand. ‘Trevor? Are you on call? I need you to meet me in A&E. I’ve one sick kid for you, mate . . . Deep diabetic coma . . . initial diagnosis, ketoacidosis shock from untreated type one. Can you organize the ambulance from your end? Yes . . . absolute priority . . . the corner of Caroline Street and Russell Street in Covent Garden...And we need a fire crew . . . there’s no way out of here without ladders...’
*
‘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.’