The Abused Werewolf Rescue Group Read online

  She feels guilty that she can’t provide enough guidance and discipline.

  Maybe that’s why she sounded so apologetic when she greeted the two police officers who showed up at my bedside. She had this look on her face, as if she was bracing herself for a well-deserved putdown. But the police didn’t start laying into her. They didn’t get stuck into me, either. They were very polite.

  After he’d introduced himself as Tino, and his partner as Michelle (I can’t remember their last names), the policeman said, ‘So you’ve had a bit of a rough night, eh, Toby?’

  I grunted.

  ‘Dr Passlow tells me you don’t appear to have any major problems, which is good,’ Tino went on.

  I glanced at Mum, who immediately came to my rescue.

  ‘We – we haven’t really talked to any doctors yet,’ she stammered. ‘Is Dr Passlow the paediatrician? We haven’t talked to the paediatrician.’

  ‘Oh.’ Tino seemed surprised. ‘Okay. Well, I’m sure he’ll be heading over here in a minute. And before he does, I just want to see if we can clarify a few things.’ He turned back to me. ‘According to the doctor, you don’t remember what happened last night. Is that correct?’

  I nodded. Then Tino nodded. But his nod and my nod were very different. There was a resigned quality to his nod.

  ‘I see,’ he said with a sigh. ‘And do you know where you ended up this morning?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I rejoined. ‘Mum told me.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea how you got there? Who might have left you there?’

  ‘No.’ Suddenly I realised what he was getting at. ‘Hang on – are you saying someone actually did this to me?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to establish. Do you suspect someone of doing this to you?’

  Talk about a loaded question! I just stared at him, open-mouthed. I couldn’t believe he was serious.

  That was when Mum spoke up.

  ‘I’m not sure my son should be discussing this right now,’ she objected, sounding perfectly serene even though she wasn’t. (She had lots of crinkles on her forehead, and her mouth had gone stiff.) ‘He’s not in a fit state . . .’

  ‘We aren’t trying to pin anything on Toby, Mrs Vandevelde,’ Tino assured her. ‘Even if he was responsible for the damage at Featherdale, there’s no way of proving it. And quite frankly, we don’t believe he is to blame. We think other people were involved.’ He fixed me with a benign but penetrating look. ‘Have you been fighting with the kids at school, by any chance?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about the ones in your neighbourhood? I know a few of them can be pretty rough. Are they giving you trouble?’

  ‘Course not!’ What did he think I was, a geek? A nerd? A natural-born target? ‘Why would anybody want to pick on me?’

  ‘Listen.’ All at once Michelle took over. Even though she was smaller than Tino, she had a harder face and a gruffer voice. ‘You shouldn’t be afraid to tell us if some bully’s been giving you a hard time,’ she said flatly. ‘We’ve got zero tolerance for bullying. If you don’t nip it in the bud, it gets worse and worse. Someone might end up getting killed. That’s why we take these situations very seriously, and why we’ll make sure there won’t be any repercussions if you decide you want to give us a few details.’

  ‘But I can’t.’ It was like talking to a brick wall. ‘I told you, I don’t know what happened. I can’t remember.’

  Michelle sniffed. I got the distinct impression that she didn’t believe me. Mum must have thought so too, because she leaped to my defence.

  ‘My son was unconscious,’ she pointed out. ‘The nurse said he might have amnesia. Post-traumatic amnesia.’

  ‘Huh?’ I didn’t like the sound of that. I didn’t like the word ‘post-traumatic’. ‘What do you mean, traumatic?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘You mean I saw something bad? Like a murder? Is that what you mean?’

  Mum blinked. Michelle said, very sharply, ‘Did you see a murder?’ And I had to take a deep breath before replying.

  ‘Are you deaf?’ I growled. ‘For the millionth time, I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m sure the nurse meant physical trauma, not mental trauma,’ Mum interposed hurriedly. ‘Like a blow to the head. Being knocked out can cause amnesia. It happens all the time.’

  ‘Mmmph,’ said Tino.

  ‘When Toby recovers, his memory might come back to him,’ Mum concluded. ‘That’s why I don’t think he should be answering questions right now. He’s just not well enough.’

  Tino and Michelle exchanged glances. There was a brief pause. Finally Michelle said to my mother, ‘Are there any troubles at home?’

  Poor Mum. She flushed and gasped. She was speechless.

  I was pretty gobsmacked myself.

  ‘We have to ask these questions, Mrs Vandevelde,’ Michelle continued. ‘Has there been a new man in your life lately?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Mum cried, in a strangled voice.

  ‘No ex-husband or ex-boyfriend who might have been giving you grief?’

  God knows what Mum would have said to that, if Dr Passlow hadn’t appeared. I knew it was Dr Passlow because of his name tag; he was a small man in a crumpled suit, who twitched back the bed-curtains with casual authority, behaving as if the police weren’t there.

  His reddish hair was thinning on top, and there were bags under his eyes. Even from a distance, I could smell the mint on his breath.

  ‘Hello. I’m the paediatrician, Glen Passlow,’ he announced. ‘How are you feeling, Toby? How’s the stomach?’

  ‘Umm . . .’ I thought about it. ‘Better.’

  ‘You’re looking better,’ he informed me, then turned to Mum. ‘Are you Mrs Vandevelde? Yes? How are you holding up?’

  ‘Oh. Well . . .’ Mum obviously didn’t know what to say. ‘I – uh—’

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t talk to you earlier,’ Dr Passlow interrupted, as if he was pressed for time and couldn’t wait around until Mum had managed to think of a response. He talked very quickly, in a bracing tone. And he refused to acknowledge the police, despite the fact that their guns and badges were very hard to ignore. ‘I want to tell you how pleased I am with Toby,’ he declared. ‘We thought he might have a fractured skull or some sort of spinal injury, but there’s no evidence of that. No fractures of any kind, no internal bleeding, no invasive wounds . . .’

  ‘Thank God,’ said Mum.

  ‘My one concern is that he was unconscious for so long. With concussion, there’s often a delayed recovery period. That’s why I want to keep you here until tomorrow, Toby.’ All at once Dr Passlow was speaking to me again. ‘It’s just a precaution. We’ll find you a bed in the children’s ward, and observe you overnight, and if everything’s still okay in the morning, we’ll let you go. Does that sound reasonable?’

  I love the way adults do that – as if they’re genuinely interested in what you want. Suppose my answer had been: ‘No way! Get stuffed!’ Would they have listened?

  Would they hell.

  ‘Guess so,’ I mumbled.

  ‘But you should come back later in the week for an eeg,’ the doctor advised. ‘That’s a kind of brain scan, and it’s nothing to be alarmed about.’

  You should have seen Mum’s face! ‘But—’

  ‘When Toby first arrived, we did an arterial blood gas test. That test showed elevated lactate, which indicates a massive metabolic disturbance. Like a grand mal seizure, for example.’ Dr Passlow raised his hand, as if to repel a barrage of furious objections. ‘I’m not saying that Toby did have an epileptic fit. It’s just something we have to explore.’

  An epileptic fit? I didn’t know what that meant. There was a kid at our school who had epilepsy, and she’d always acted just like a normal person. Except that she was an abba fan.

  ‘But Toby’s never had a fit in his life,’ Mum said faintly. ‘Not even when he was running a temperature.’

  The doctor shrugged. ‘Sometimes seizures go completely u
nnoticed,’ he observed, before launching into a long spiel about different kinds of epileptic fits. I didn’t listen to that. I couldn’t see how it was relevant.

  Because the more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed that Fergus and Amin were to blame for my troubles. Fergus was always playing tricks. He could easily have lured me through the bedroom window with some dumb idea – and when that dumb idea had gone belly-up, he’d probably panicked. I certainly would have panicked.

  I have to talk to Fergus was the decision I made, as Dr Passlow said his piece about recent advances in the treatment of epilepsy, and Mum chewed on her bottom lip, looking anxious. I wasn’t anxious. I was convinced that Fergus (or possibly Amin) would be able to explain everything.

  What I needed was a phone.

  ‘So do epileptics sometimes lose the plot when they have a seizure?’ Tino asked, once the doctor had finished. ‘I mean, do they act in an irrational way, like they’ve been drugged?’

  Dr Passlow didn’t appreciate being questioned by the police. This was clear from his raised eyebrows and pursed lips.

  ‘Epilepsy isn’t a psychosis,’ he said crisply, without even glancing in Tino’s direction.

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Some people do experience tension or anxiety before a seizure, just as some people experience temperature changes. I suppose you could describe that as an irrational response, though it’s hardly the same as an irrational act.’ The doctor finally dragged his gaze away from my mother, fixing it on Tino instead. ‘You’ll excuse me if I don’t feel entirely comfortable discussing the details of this case with you, since there’s been no proper diagnosis.’

  It was such a put-down that it silenced Tino. He cleared his throat, his expression blank.

  Michelle, however, was made of sterner stuff.

  ‘But if the kid had a fit,’ she said, in her harsh and nasal monotone, ‘would he have felt so hot that he had to take off his pyjamas? Would he have been scared enough to run away?’

  Dr Passlow sighed. ‘As I’ve already told you, I’m not able to comment at this point,’ he retorted.

  ‘Yeah, but I’m asking if it’s possible—’ Michelle began, then broke off when Tino nudged her in the ribs.

  She shot him a sullen look, which he disregarded.

  ‘We ought to be going,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything more you want to discuss, just ring me at the station.’ He offered Mum his phone number on a card. ‘We’ll be keen to hear from Toby if his memory improves. And of course we’d appreciate an update on his condition, once the test results are in. Just in case they have any bearing on last night’s incident. ‘

  For a moment my mother sat there dumbly, staring at the card in her hand. Then she raised her eyes and gazed at Dr Passlow.

  ‘Do you think his condition might be to blame?’ she asked. ‘Do you think it’s why Toby ended up where he did?’

  Something about this question must have pained the doctor, because he grimaced as he sucked air through his teeth. You could tell that he was trying to be patient.

  ‘Mrs Vandevelde,’ he said, ‘Toby doesn’t have a condition. Not as far as we know. My concerns might prove to be utterly unfounded.’

  ‘Yes, I realise that, but—’

  ‘You shouldn’t worry about your son. He’s a healthy lad, and those cuts of his are fairly superficial. I’m sure he could do with a few hours’ sleep, though.’ Dr Passlow suddenly rounded on the two police officers. ‘Which he’s not going to get if he’s constantly disturbed.’

  I’ve never much fancied being a doctor, but you have to admit there’s an upside. Who else could have talked to the police like that and got away with it? Michelle was certainly cheesed off; her mouth tightened as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. Her partner swallowed, his expression becoming a little strained.

  ‘Okay. Well, I don’t think there’s anything else,’ he remarked. ‘We might leave you to it and check in later. Good luck on the scan. I’m glad things turned out better than we all expected.’

  I think he meant what he said. He was a nice guy. And I don’t blame him for thinking that I was a liar. After all, my own mother had jumped to the same conclusion.

  As for me, I guess you could say that I also jumped to conclusions. I was so sure that Fergus must have engineered some sort of joke or trick or scheme; something involving drugs, perhaps, or dingoes, or nudity, or all of the above. Something that I couldn’t remember, owing to the lingering effects of whatever substance I’d been sampling.

  Because there seemed to be no other explanation. I didn’t have an enemy in the world, so why would anyone have wanted to kidnap me and dump me in that dingo pen? More to the point, how could anyone have done such a thing? Even if some twisted creep had decided to sneak into my room and slap a chloroformed rag over my nose while I was sleeping, surely there would have been a few moments of consciousness? Surely I would have had a faint, confused memory of the struggle?

  As my mind veered away from this extremely unpleasant scenario, I quickly decided that I was being over-dramatic. No, I thought, that’s all spy-thriller stuff. That doesn’t happen in real life. In real life, crazy friends like Fergus dreamed up ideas that sounded hilarious when you first heard them, like the time we took all the firewood out of a firewood cage at Nurragingy Reserve, before hanging a sign on the cage that said free child restraint facility. Of course it all went wrong when Fergus decided to stick a few bits of playground equipment inside the cage; there’s a fenced yard full of old plastic spring animals at Nurragingy, and when we tried to rescue one of those, we nearly got caught.

  But that’s the kind of idea I’m talking about – the kind where you can really screw up. It seemed to me that the whole dingo-pen affair was a typical Fergus Duffy extravaganza.

  And I thought to myself, Fergus, you are dead meat on a doner kebab, my friend.

  I stayed in the children’s ward overnight. It wasn’t much fun, because the food was lousy, the sheets smelled weird, and you had to pay for the tv (even though it was just ordinary free-to-air, not cable). I was sharing my room with a four-year-old kid who kept yak-yak-yakking about every tiny thing that popped into his head. You know the way some kids will give you a running commentary on stuff that most people take for granted? Like how water comes out of taps, or how cars have four wheels? Well, the kid I’m talking about was that kind of kid. And when he wasn’t babbling, he was coughing like a bull walrus. I swear to God, it was hard to believe the kind of monster coughs that kept coming out of his bony little chest.

  Apparently he had pneumonia. That’s what his mother told my mother, anyway. I felt sorry for his mother, who had to sit at his bedside all day long wearing mental earplugs while he exercised his mouth. She didn’t even go home to sleep in the evening; instead, she bunked down next to her son, on a kind of narrow sofa-bed that squeaked every time she turned over.

  Luckily, Mum didn’t do anything like that. She packed up and left when the lights went out, promising to come back first thing in the morning. But by that time, of course, it was too late to call Fergus. All day I’d been waiting and waiting for Mum to leave, so I could pick up the bedside phone and dial his mobile number. I’d been asking her if she wanted to go out and buy some food, or move the car, or check her email. Not once, however, had she disappeared for more than three minutes at a stretch – not even when she went to the toilet. The bathroom wasn’t very far away, you see; I was sharing it with the Pneumonia Kid, and from where I was lying, you could hear people flush even when they’d closed the bathroom door.

  So there was no way I could have used my phone without alerting Mum. That’s why I had to put off calling Fergus until bedtime, when I discovered that I couldn’t get through. I’m not sure why. Maybe you had to pay for outside calls. Maybe Fergus was out of range. Whatever the reason, I’d left it too long.

  Fergus was unreachable.

  After that, I was kept awake for most of the night by all the squeaking and coughing. I kne
w that there was no point calling Fergus too early, because he always sleeps late during the holidays – and because he turns off his phone when he goes to bed. So I didn’t even try to make contact before breakfast. But by nine o’clock I was starting to panic; I had a nasty suspicion that Mum might be along any second, lugging the clothes and shoes and toiletry bag she’d promised to bring. She’d already told me that she was taking another day off work. I figured she was bound to show up as soon as she could, and I was worried that she might interrupt me while I was giving Fergus an earful.

  That’s why I decided not to use my bedside phone. That’s why I wandered around the ward – holding my stupid hospital gown together at the back – until I found an empty office with a telephone in it. I should tell you, by the way, that I was feeling fine. Wandering around the ward didn’t trouble me in the least. Though still a bit sore, I wasn’t dizzy or limping. And I began to think that there was nothing much wrong with me.

  I’d felt ten times worse after my nicotine overdose, which I’d managed to survive without a trip to the hospital.

  Needless to say, I shut the office door before dialling Fergus’s number. My call went straight through. Fergus answered on the second ring, sounding cautious; he wouldn’t have recognised my caller id, I suppose.

  ‘Yeah?’ he said.

  ‘You bastard.’

  ‘Toby?’

  ‘This had better be good.’ I was already in a rage. ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I don’t remember what happened, Fergus.’

  ‘What happened when?’

  ‘Don’t gimme that.’

  There was a long and loaded pause. Then Fergus said, ‘Are you stoned or what?’

  ‘Get stuffed!’

  ‘You’re not making any sense, okay? Just tell me what the problem is.’

  ‘Oh, right. Like you don’t know.’

  ‘I don’t know.’