...Where have you been, my blue eyed son? Where have you been, my darling young one?...
The thump and twang of Bryan Ferry's Dylan cover filled the clinic. John drew a breath, let it out slowly.
Jamila had leant on the volume again, something she tended to do when the waiting room got too crazy, forgetting that the music penetrated the consulting rooms as well.
"Excuse me a moment," John said to the girl on the bed. "Sorry about this."
He was not sure why was bothering to apologise because the girl was, frankly, out of it. But courtesy counted for a lot in this rough world, and it was one small thing he could control.
He opened the consulting room door and shouted across the fluorescent lit waiting area. Jamila! Volume!
Jamila was locking foreheads with a girl in post punk splendour: studded everything and a face full of metal. "I. Ain't. Interested. In. The. Doctor," this person enunciated into Jamila's face. "Just. Give. Me. Them. Pills."
John moved to place his body between the punk girl and the counter, blocking her access to Jamila." What's the problem," he asked briskly, looking at the girl but talking to Jamila.
"She won't be examined. Wants to be prescribed anyway." Jamila scowled at the girl. For a charitable volunteer she was a remarkably grumpy and stubborn woman, something which came in handy during the chaos of these midnight street clinics.
"Ok, what's the drug?" John asked. Behind the girl the other clients differed and twitched and peowled around, waiting their turn. This girl had queue jumped.
"The Pill," said the punk girl.
"Which pill?" The clinic had limited powers to distribute methodone and other addiction controlling substances.
"You stupid? The pill."
John blinked. "Right. Ok, come in."
"Your other patient," Jamila said sharply, reminding him.
John glanced at his receptionist with a wry smile. "Much as I cherish the professional outfit we run here, in this case, my other patient wouldn't know if we landed a Harrier next to the bed."
Nonetheless he preceded the punk girl into the room and pulled the curtains briskly round the occupied bed. "Ok, contraceptive pill," he said. "Name please."
"They said I wouldn't have to."
"They said wrong. Name please."
"Crash."
He wrote it down. "Any headaches, bleeding, prior pregnancies or are you pregnant at the moment?"
Crash clamped her mouth shut.
John sighed. "Yes or No will do," he said.
Behind the curtain, the girl moaned in her stupor.
"No," said Crash. She was looking around the room, registering every drawer, cupboard, bag. Looking for weak points, things to steal. She missed nothing. It reminded John of Sherlock.
"I need to take your blood pressure," John said, taking down the cuff.
Crash didn't like it, but submitted. There was a silence, then: "I ain't stupid," she said. "I know you're tracking me. But I'm desperate, right, and I just decided I don't care."
"Tracking you," John repeated steadily, watching the pressure monitor. "What?"
"Don't give me that. These clinics are just a front for the Hands."
He looked up. And for the first time, she seemed to see him.
"You're new, ain't you?"
"Not so new," John said mildly. "What do you mean, the Hands?"
But she had snapped shut like the doors on a District line train. John had seen it so many times. They found it hard to trust you. Addicts and dependents, the homeless and the jobless.
There was a rustle from the concealed bed.
John checked Crash over and then prescribed the pill. There was no middle man here - the clinic was doctor and nurse and pharmacist all in one. John kept the heavy stuff and Jamila doled out the painkillers and condoms." Collect from reception," John told Crash." And we're not tracking you, by the way. We just record your details for our performance reports."
Crash paused at the door. She gave him, for a girl of perhaps, nineteen, an astonishingly pitying stare. "You haven't heard of the Empty Hands. Right. That just means they haven't heard of you, yet."
She gave her spiked blonde hair a shake, rattling every bit of metal on her, and left.
John stared. Then turned to see the comatose girl standing, swaying by the bed.
She gazed at him with eyes the colour of river fog, and then threw up all over his floor.
John leapt back. "Jamila! Mop and bio waste kit!"
It was shaping up to be one of those nights.