Falloir (Passion Noire Book 2) (36 page)

It’s been four days since I last saw Jones. He’s not answering his phone or returning my messages. When I finally got over my pride or my patience snapped—whatever you want to call it—and took a cab over to his flat earlier, I saw his car parked outside and noticed that it’s now bearing its original registration plates again. I rang the buzzer several times but there was no reply. I know he’s not immature enough to avoid me. I’ve been so desperate to apologise to him for freezing him out while I got my head together; so desperate to tell him that we’ll make it work, whatever it takes. Now, I’d settle for knowing he’s okay. If he’d been there and had a problem with me, he’d have told me. Hiding away is not Jones’ style ... unless he’s hiding from MI6 of course.

I assume, since his car has been returned to his home, that they’ve caught up with him and they’ve sent him on some job that’s fraught with danger in some faraway part of the world. I know he can’t communicate with me but I hope that he’d had the desire, if not the ability to let The Kid and I know that he’d been tracked down and forced to do their bidding. It would be something if we'd been told when to expect him back. Just a quick text would have done—ten seconds of his time. But then I don’t know how pissed off the Secret Intelligence Service was when it finally caught up with him. I can only assume that he had no choice in the matter and no chance to text me.

I’ve tried to maintain a sense of normality for The Kid in Jones’ absence. It’s tough though, since it seems that everything else is turning to crap. Gabe has walked out of Vouloir, leaving me right in the shit. Dean didn’t turn up to his appointment this morning and I can’t get hold of him. And, to top it all off, I have new referrals coming out of my ears. Then, half an hour ago, Bernie calls. Another youngster in trouble. Another parasuicide. Another child without enough hope to cling to—not enough light at the end of the tunnel to hold on. I’m up to my neck, but how could I say no? Especially after Dan ...

I feel my lip tremble and, as cruel as it seems, I have to push the image of his pale face from my mind. I have to be strong now. This isn’t the time for self-indulgent tears and recriminations. It’s time for learning from my mistakes so I can catch the kids that are failed by the outdated, inflexible system.

I’ve been instructed to keep a very low profile. The investigation into Dan’s death is in full swing. The Trust are fully in the frame—as they deserve to be. Heads are going to roll for allowing a desperately suicidal kid get out of his bed, hours after life-saving surgery that he didn’t want, and walk right out the door on his mission to take his life. They’re desperate for a scapegoat and Bernie’s strung out on her nerves, convinced they’re going to point the finger at me, and in doing so, her. But I’m no biblical creature ... if I were, I wouldn’t be a goat! And I’m not taking the sins of the Trust on my head and fucking off into the wilderness.

If the Trust had found anything on their CCTV that incriminated us, we’d have heard about it by now. I’ve told her that we all need to keep our heads down and our mouths closed. But I vowed, the night that Dan died, that I’d never let another kid down. Whatever it takes, I’m going to honour that vow in his name. He’s my guardian angel, so he said. He can help me and, from the sound of it, he’d better be standing by.

The girl I’ve come to see is called Milly. I walk into the ward, unchallenged—catching the door as a porter leaves, despite the fact that it’s 3:00 a.m.—so much for increased security. The reception desk is unmanned so I scan the screen displaying the name and location of each patient. Her name leaps out at me. Bed five.

Nobody bats an eyelid as I walk into the bay of six beds—the occupants all appear to be sleeping. She’s in the second bed on my right, fast asleep from the looks of things. I pull the curtains around the bed to give us some privacy. Bernie told me that she’s seventeen and just a slip of a thing but she looks a few years younger. She needs a bath or a shower; her chestnut hair is limp and greasy around her porcelain elfin face. I sit next to her and wait, accompanied by the quiet, mechanical whooshes and beeps that signal their attempts to remove paracetamol from her bloodstream. The parallels with the time I met Dan keep trying to take my mind back to that night. My heart is thumping just a little too fast and my chest feels tight. I attempt to distract myself by thinking over what Bernie has told me about Milly. Her story is very different to Dan’s. Their journeys to rock bottom of the hope stakes are nothing alike. What they did about it is the same.

Me, being here, is the same.

I almost growl in frustration at my inability to focus on Milly. She’s confided a little in Bernie, but the good old system means that a psych evaluation tomorrow means that she could easily be discharged. Sent home. But she has no home. Where will she go? Any shelter she’s given will be short-lived. She’s seventeen in an area that has waiting lists resembling an Andrex puppy’s favourite plaything. What’s the use of emergency hostels that have waiting lists? Talk about defeating the object. What will she do in the meantime? The system is run on telephone bookings—she has no phone credit and anyway, even if she found a place, where would she get the money for meals? Laundry?

There are night shelters—dossing down in a church hall that turns everyone out during the daytime and these stays are only for the short term. The Nightstop scheme—volunteer families take in young adults for one night, or maybe, if they’re very lucky, a handful of nights. They get a bed, a meal, a bathroom to use ... but again, they get turned out during the daytime as they aren’t allowed to stay in the volunteer’s house.

Milly’s lucky—she’d take priority for a place because of her age. But tell me, how many kids know where to go and who to turn to in their hour of need? And what happens when the system can’t cope with the number of kids in need? There isn’t an unlimited number of places in shelters. The Nightstop scheme is swamped—despite it only being for short term placements. If she got a place, what would happen when her time was up?

She’s just a kid ... an abused, frightened, vulnerable kid. Homeless through no fault of her own. Abandoned without warning at the age of seventeen. Let down by her stupid mother and bastard of a stepfather. How long before she steals enough paracetamol to do the job properly? And that’s my real worry. If she’s let out with no proper support—just like Dan—she could ...

I shake my head and take a deep breath. I can’t let that happen. I want to wring the necks of her legal guardians. In my opinion, both of them should be hauled before the court on manslaughter charges—okay, so she’s still here in the land of the living—but it’s no thanks to them. However, I accept that some lesser charges may be seen by some as more appropriate but sadly, they can wash their hands of her because she’s over the age of sixteen. The fucking system stinks and I, for one, have had enough of it letting these kids down. This poor, vulnerable kid will not be taking any more paracetamol—not on my watch. Nor will she turn to any other method because I’m going to show her that life is worth living, despite the evils we have to face. I’m going to give her hope.

Bernie and I are on the same page on this one. She hasn’t said as much but she was in such a state when she called me. She’d had a chat with Milly once the girl was properly conscious. Milly had cut to the chase, demanding to know what would happen to her when she was well enough to leave. She’s a smart girl, she wasn’t expecting much so she wasn’t disappointed. Bernie was worried that Milly seemed increasingly distant. Like Dan. As though she’s given up completely and there’s nothing anyone can do to help her. She’s ignored everyone who tried to speak with her after that, refusing to engage or even acknowledge their presence.

Bernie doesn’t like it one bit—there’s no way of knowing which way Milly’s psych assessment will go if she behaves like that. In the wake of Dan and the ongoing investigation, there will most likely be a tendency to play it safe. Worried that Milly could get sectioned, Bernie immediately bent the rules to secure an urgent referral to me—something she’ll probably get her arse hauled over the coals for. I think poor Dan is still weighing on her conscience too. She’s begged me not to incriminate her but when I asked how I might do that, she’d remained silent. She knows what needs to be done. I just need Milly to wake up and agree.

Right on cue, I see her eyelids flutter.

‘Hey, Milly,’ I whisper through a smile. ‘Bernie, who you were speaking to before, called me in to see you. Did she tell you about me?’

Her eyes focus properly and I’m struck how they’re a similar puppy-dog-brown shade to The Kid’s. Milly nods, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. She looks scared shitless and not at all pleased to see me. I give her a minute but she rolls over, turning her back to me and almost pulling over the saline drip stand in the process.

‘What did she tell you? I bet it’s all lies. I’ll bet she told you I was a stuffy old psychologist, didn’t she? You probably think I know nothing about your situation. You probably think that I’ve had an easy ride into adulthood and into this job. That I’m a do-gooder. Or worse, that I’m paid to be here but I don’t give a fuck about you.’

I see her head twitch at my inappropriate use of an expletive.

‘I wonder whether she told you that I was abused by a man when I wasn’t much older than you ... that I can appreciate what you’ve been through more than any other do-gooder. I can appreciate how frightening it was. How brave you were to fight back. If you hadn’t turned your back to me, I was going to high five you for the headbutt and, well it might have been accidental, but surely a fist pump is in order for whacking the bastard in the bollocks. There’s a male nurse on this ward ... have you noticed he’s wearing a jockstrap since you got here? You are one tough cookie, Milly. You’re not to be fucked with and word is spreading.’

There’s no response but I can almost hear her brain whirring. She doesn’t know what to make of me. I need her to see that I’m different. I need her to let me in, just a little.

‘That’s why they sent for me, I think. I’m a tough cookie too. And sometimes, life really is a bitch. But I was smart. I wasn’t going to let some man take everything away from me and I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of making me give up. On anything. On everything. So I fought back. And the only way I could do that was with help. Someone took me in for a few months, until I was back on my feet. They fed me and clothed me and gave me the tools I needed to heal myself. I want to do that for you.’

Still nothing ... I’m running out of time. I know I am. I shouldn’t be here at this time of night. Since Dan, Bernie says that breaches of hospital procedures have been clamped down on. I can’t help the bitter laugh that rumbles up my chest—that’s why I’m sitting next to a vulnerable minor, with curtains drawn, in a hospital ward and nobody knows I’m here. Getting in was easy—I should have been challenged. I should have needed to call on Bernie for assistance. Getting out? Well, we’ll see soon enough.

I wasted too much time trying to get Dan onside and I trusted the hospital to keep him safe. I won’t make the same mistake twice. If Milly gives the impression that she poses a risk, they’ll section her. Assuming they can manage to keep her safe if they do so, once her time is up, she’ll be no better off than she is now. If they manage to improve her mental health, she’ll be plunged back into the same situation, only this time she’ll have the stigma of having been sectioned. No, I don’t agree with that—I fucking hate it—but let’s not kid ourselves that it doesn’t happen. Milly doesn’t have a mental illness. Milly is just in a situation where she feels hopeless. And it’s not one of her own making. She's a vulnerable young adult who's been dealt a shitty hand. I can't let her down.

‘Milly, I’m going to cut the crap and lay it on the line. You will have your psych evaluation in the morning. Unless you convince them that you’re a serious risk to yourself or to others, in which case you’ll be detained in a mental health unit indefinitely, you’ll be released into the care of Social Services. They will place you somewhere in the short term. You might get lucky and get taken into care to be placed with a foster family but at seventeen, with demand for their services exceeding capacity by a long way?

‘I’m no expert and can only go on the experiences I’ve had and tales I’ve heard. On that basis, it’s likely that you’ll be flitting between hostels and shelters unless you land on your feet. It’s a cycle that’s hard to break out of at any age but, at your tender age, with no job experience to fall back on, you’re up against it, I’m afraid. If you ignore them, like you’re ignoring everyone else, they might detain you but, once they realise you’re not suffering from a mental illness, the demand for bed space will put you back into the same position as if they don’t detain you. You’ll still be homeless. You’ll still feel hopeless.’

There’s silence but her shoulders are so tense. I can tell she’s listening to me. I can only hope that my words are frightening her, just a little—not that I’m exaggerating the case, I’m not—I need her to work with me. I can’t risk her being detained as a knee-jerk reaction to Dan’s case and, if she’s released from here, I can’t stand by and hope that she’ll get in touch with me if she needs me, even if I give her an appointment to attend. Not knowing whether she’ll have a bed to sleep in from one night to the next would be a daunting prospect for anyone. For someone who’s alone in the world at the age of sixteen and who’s already tried to end their miserable existence, it’s just too much. The risk for me is too high.

‘So what will happen to me?’ Her voice is barely a whisper.

‘You’ll probably get a little more help, given your suicide attempt, but there’s no magic wand. There are others like you, sadly. Kids and adults without a home or without an income, and there isn’t an unlimited supply of adequate housing and facilities. The hostel you visited is always bursting at the seams with people being turned away every single day. Milly, are you still studying at school or college?’

She shakes her head. ‘I left when I came home from school and found that my mum and her husband had driven off with their belongings and all mine had been burnt in an incinerator in the garden. I found the burnt remains of clothes and books—even my schoolwork and text books—when I went around to try the back door because my key wouldn’t open the front door. So, all I had was the clothes I was wearing and the school stuff that was in my bag. Finding somewhere to sleep seemed more important than going to school and getting a bollocking for not having my books so I left.’