The Abused Werewolf Rescue Group Page 3

‘Bull.’

  ‘I do not!’

  I took a deep breath. ‘This isn’t funny, okay? Whatever you gave me, it messed with my head. I can’t remember a thing. So you’d better tell me exactly what happened, or I’ll bloody kill you.’ When Fergus didn’t respond, I added shrilly, ‘You dumped me in it, you dickhead! I’ve had the cops on my back and everything! The hospital wants to do all these tests, thanks to you!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just tell me how I got into that dingo pen! If you tell me what we did, I won’t mention your name. I’ll say I don’t remember.’

  There was a sudden gasp at the other end of the line.

  ‘Don’t tell me it was you in that dingo pen?’ he squeaked. ‘Man, you were all over the news!’

  If this was supposed to impress or distract me, it didn’t work. All it did was make me even madder.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ I growled. ‘Well, guess what? You’ll be all over the news, if you don’t ’fess up!’

  ‘Whaddaya mean?’ Fergus protested. ‘Don’t blame me, I wasn’t there!’

  ‘You were too.’

  ‘Was not. I haven’t been near your house since Saturday.’ During the silence that followed, I could almost hear Fergus turning things over in his head. ‘Maybe it was Amin. Have you asked him?’

  ‘No,’ I had to admit. ‘But Amin can’t get out at night. You know that.’ Fergus can come and go as he pleases, because his mother is usually at her boyfriend’s house. Amin, on the other hand, is one of eight kids. He can hardly turn around without bumping into somebody. ‘Are you sure this isn’t down to you, Fergus?’

  ‘I swear to God.’ He was pretty convincing. ‘Why would I lie?’

  ‘Because you killed someone?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘By accident,’ I hastily amended. ‘I mean, you might lie if you killed someone by accident.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t!’ he cried. ‘Jeez, Toby!’

  ‘It was just an example.’

  ‘You’re a really great friend, you know that? First you ask me if I left you in a dingo pen, then you ask me if I killed someone!’

  ‘By accident.’

  Fergus sniffed.

  ‘What about your brother?’ I went on, feeling more and more confused. ‘Could he have done it?’

  ‘Who – Liam?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s got drugs.’

  ‘Liam gave you drugs?’

  ‘I dunno. I can’t remember.’

  ‘Toby, Liam never gives anyone drugs. He always charges for them.’ Fergus abruptly changed the subject. ‘On the news it said you were in hospital.’

  ‘Yeah. I still am.’

  ‘Really? How come?’

  ‘I dunno. Because I was knocked out? There’s nothing much wrong with me.’ If I sounded a little absentminded, it was because the slap-slap-slap of approaching feet had caught my attention. ‘Ah – listen, Fergus, I’ve gotta go.’

  ‘Hang on—’

  ‘I’ll call you later, dude.’

  I hung up just as the footsteps passed me by. It was a lucky break, and I took full advantage of it. Carefully opening the door a crack, I checked the adjoining passageway. No one was looking in my direction. There were people around, but they had their backs turned or their eyes fixed elsewhere. They were too busy and preoccupied to be worrying about a barefoot kid in a blue smock.

  So I slipped out of the office and began to walk, briskly but calmly, back to my room.

  It worried me that Mum might have shown up while I was away. I couldn’t think of an excuse that would explain my absence. In the end, however, I didn’t need a cover story, because Mum wasn’t waiting beside the bed when I returned. Nobody was. Even Pneumonia Boy had disappeared. The room was deserted.

  All the same, I realised that someone had been there. Envelopes aren’t like birds or bees; they don’t just land on pillows without human intervention. The envelope sitting on my pillow had ‘Toby Vandevelde’ scrawled across it – so my phantom visitor must have known who I was.

  Mystified, I picked up the envelope. It smelled faintly of antiseptic. There was a letter inside, addressed to the Vandevelde family and signed by a priest called Father Ramon Alvarez. I was pretty sure I didn’t know him. My mother isn’t religious, so we don’t mix with priests. Or nuns.

  To the Vandevelde family, forgive me for intruding at this time. Having read about Toby’s plight in the newspaper, I am concerned that you might not be fully informed about what probably occurred. There is a very good chance that Toby suffers from a rare condition that isn’t widely known or commonly treated, especially in the western world. I have a friend with the same condition, and he would be more than willing to discuss it with Toby. Before you take any further steps, would you consider calling me? We could arrange a meeting – for Toby’s sake, as well as for your own. If I’m correct (and I think I am), it’s important that you understand what you’ll soon have to deal with.

  In the top right-hand corner of the page there was a picture of what was probably Father Ramon’s house – St Agatha’s presbytery – with its phone and fax numbers listed underneath. When I saw that he lived in Sydney’s inner west, I realised that Fergus had been right. I must have been all over the news.

  ‘Toby? What are you doing?’ a puzzled voice said. With a start, I looked up.

  Mum was standing on the threshold.

  ‘Oh. Hi,’ I muttered. There must have been something weird about my expression, because she asked, ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah. Course.’

  ‘I brought your clothes and your toothbrush,’ she announced, dumping her bags on the floor. ‘And your Nintendo, naturally. What’s that, a get-well card?’

  ‘Uh – no.’ I held out the letter. ‘I think it’s for you.’

  ‘For me?’

  I had a feeling that she wasn’t going to like that letter. As a matter of fact, I didn’t really know how I felt about it myself.

  All this talk about my so-called ‘condition’ was freaking me out. I didn’t have a condition. I didn’t want a condition.

  ‘What on earth . . .?’ Mum’s eyes widened as they travelled down the page, finally coming to rest on Father Ramon’s signature. She blinked, then raised her head. ‘Where did this come from?’

  I gave a shrug. ‘It was on my pillow. Someone left it.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘But you must have seen. Weren’t you here?’

  Ouch. I tried not to wince.

  ‘I had to go to the toilet,’ was my lame excuse. Talk about feeble! But Mum seemed to buy it. She frowned, her gaze dropping to the letter again.

  ‘This really isn’t appropriate,’ she said. ‘I don’t care if he is a priest, he shouldn’t be writing letters like this. And how does he know who you are? Who could have told him your name?’

  I didn’t bother answering, because I couldn’t. Instead I snatched up a bag full of clothes and retreated into the bathroom, where Pneumonia Boy had left his Thomas-the-Tank-Engine toothbrush. At that point I was beginning to wonder if there might be something wrong with me after all. My heart was racing. My skin was clammy. Surely it had to mean that I was sick?

  It’s only now, when I look back, that I realise how scared I must have been. If Fergus wasn’t to blame for what had happened, then my life had suddenly become way more ominous. I mean, it’s not easy to accept that you have a ‘condition’. Not when you’re thirteen years old. The whole idea is just too much to cope with.

  That’s probably why I let myself get distracted. As I pulled on my baggy old jeans (trying not to snag them on any gauze dressings), I was suddenly struck by a terrible thought.

  Had Mum been poking around in my stuff?

  My heart sank at the possibility. Where had she found my Nintendo, for instance? It might have been sitting on my desk or in my schoolbag, but what if it had become tangled up with a whole lot of other things – things that I didn’t want her to see? Like that length of pvc pipe? Or t
hat wiring diagram? Or that bottle of vinegar? Could I tell her I needed the vinegar to clean my windows?

  Nup. Not a hope. I knew she’d never believe it.

  I was still trying to remember what I’d done with the padlock shim that I’d made out of a soft-drink can (using instructions from the Internet) when I opened the bathroom door again. To my surprise, I found that Mum had been joined by Dr Passlow. He was parked by the bed, looking creased and puffy. The priest’s letter was in his hand.

  ‘Hello, there,’ he said, glancing in my direction. ‘I see you’re ready to go.’ Before I could reply, he added, ‘How’s the stomach?’

  ‘Okay.’ It wasn’t a lie. Though I was pouring sweat and my heart was racing, I didn’t feel nauseous.

  ‘You’ve been eating all right,’ he remarked, jerking his chin at the breakfast tray still sitting on my bedside cabinet.

  ‘Yeah.’ I could have made some joke about the food (which was bad enough to make anyone feel sick) but I didn’t.

  Dr Passlow nodded.

  ‘I’m pretty pleased with your progress,’ he said. ‘We might just run a few more checks, and if everything’s in order, you can be discharged.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘What we need to do first, though, is set up an appointment at the neurological outpatients’ clinic for an eeg,’ he continued. ‘Then I’ll want to discuss the results with you both, and perhaps give you a referral, depending on the indications.’

  ‘But what about this?’ Mum demanded. She tapped the letter he was holding. ‘What does this mean?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Is Father Alvarez some kind of hospital chaplain? Does he actually work here?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Dr Passlow confessed. ‘I’ll have to follow it up.’

  ‘If he is, I don’t think he should be writing things like this and leaving them on children’s beds.’ Poor Mum was in a state. I can always tell, though it isn’t easy; most people think she’s just a little concerned when she rambles on in her soft, breathy voice. They don’t realise that Mum’s agitated ramblings are the exact equivalent of another person’s screaming hysterical attack. ‘It’s not appropriate,’ she complained. ‘My son shouldn’t have to read this sort of stuff. His medical advice should come from you, not from a hospital chaplain . . .’

  She went on and on, but no one was listening. I’d tuned out, the way I often do. So had Dr Passlow. Watching him, I realised that he was actually giving the letter his serious consideration. Something in it had sparked his interest.

  When he finally looked up again, he caught my eye.

  ‘Ahem,’ he said, clearing his throat. Mum immediately shut up. She and I both waited, staring at him.

  I don’t know what we expected. The answer to all our problems, perhaps? If so, we didn’t get it. Dr Passlow wasn’t about to spill any beans.

  ‘I’ll make some inquiries,’ he promised. ‘As you say, it’s all rather troubling. Do you mind if I copy this? For my own records?’

  ‘You can keep it.’ Mum folded her arms. ‘I don’t want anything to do with it.’

  ‘That’s probably wise.’

  ‘I’m just grateful we’re leaving. What if this priest actually tries to visit Toby?’ After hesitating a moment, she suddenly changed tack. ‘Do you know what rare condition he’s referring to?’ she asked, sounding a bit shamefaced. ‘I mean, do you think it’s worth pursuing, or . . .?’

  She trailed off weakly. Dr Passlow was tucking the letter safely back into its envelope, his eyes downcast. Without lifting his gaze he said, ‘It’s impossible to know what this so-called “condition” might be, without more details.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But what we have to do first is rule out all the obvious problems. Fretting about exotic diseases isn’t going to help anyone.’ He glanced up, smiling professionally. ‘For all we know, this blackout of Toby’s might never be repeated. I don’t want you panicking because ignorant people are poking their noses into your business. Father Alvarez might be a hospital chaplain, but he’s going way beyond his remit. And I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

  With this undertaking my mother had to be satisfied, because the doctor was a busy man. He couldn’t hang around discussing my mysterious ‘condition’ – not while dozens of other patients were waiting for him. So after a few more words of advice, he proceeded into the next room, taking the priest’s letter with him.

  I remember feeling relieved. I remember thinking, That’s one scary thing I don’t have to worry about anymore.

  God, I was stupid.

  It was just as I’d feared. While I was in hospital, Mum had ‘cleaned up’ my bedroom, uncovering all kinds of sinister and suspicious objects. Her search for my Nintendo had become a contraband shakedown.

  For some reason, the soda-can padlock shim hadn’t rung any of her alarm bells. Neither had the really, really gross computer game lent to me by Fergus. But Mum isn’t a complete fool. She knows a bit about chemical reactions. That’s why my length of pipe, my bottle of vinegar and my little plastic bag full of baking soda were all lined up accusingly on the desk when I opened my bedroom door.

  ‘That bicarbonate of soda gave me a real fright,’ she admitted, before I could say anything. She was standing right behind me. ‘I thought it was cocaine for a minute.’

  ‘Yeah. I figured you would.’ This was a total lie, of course, but I was trying to brazen things out. ‘That’s why I put it there. It was meant to be a joke.’

  ‘Toby, I know perfectly well what happens when you mix vinegar and baking soda. Don’t you remember that volcano we made when you were six?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I suppose I should be grateful. When it comes to science experiments, you could be growing your own marijuana, or distilling your own alcohol.’ She sighed into my ear. ‘So there’s absolutely nothing you want to tell me about Monday night? Before we start all these medical tests?’

  ‘No!’ I snapped. (Why didn’t she believe me?) As I marched forward to reclaim my room, she followed me in, fiddling and fidgeting. I’m used to that by now. I’m used to the way she can’t pass my open door without darting across the threshold to pick up a sock, or shut the wardrobe, or adjust my curtains. She has to fix things the way some people have to smoke cigarettes.

  This time, however, there wasn’t much left to fix. She’d already cleared out all the dirty laundry and half-eaten sandwiches, so she had to be satisfied with smoothing down the curled edges of my Fred Astaire poster. Yes, that’s right. I have a poster of Fred Astaire. So what? He was a good dancer – though I prefer Gregory Hines. I’d like to see you doing what Fred Astaire used to do. I’ve tried it myself and it’s impossible. Especially when you have to practise on a shag-pile carpet in a cluttered bedroom.

  Maybe my moves would be better if I had access to a converted warehouse, with a whole wall of mirrors and a shiny wooden floor. But where am I going to find a converted warehouse? Unless I start taking proper lessons, of course, and the trouble with that is . . . well, you know what the trouble with that is. I mean, come on. Lessons? Surrounded by hundreds of little girls in tap shoes? No thanks. I’m not Billy Elliot, for God’s sake. I’d rather be Dingo Boy than Twinkle Toes.

  Besides, it’s just a hobby. I enjoy it. I don’t want to ruin it with a bunch of lessons. Maybe if there was some kind of B-boy workshop at the local community centre, I’d consider joining that – though it would depend on who else was there. If the place was full of wannabe gangstas, with their fingers stuck out and their baseball caps turned back to front, then I wouldn’t want to go. Deadheads like that are worse than little girls in tap shoes.

  I guess I just prefer working things out on my own.

  ‘Do you think Fergus might be involved?’ said Mum, as I foraged in my schoolbag. ‘I realise you can’t remember what happened, but do you think it’s likely?’

  ‘Fergus had nothing to do with it,’ I retorted.

  ‘How do you know? If
you can’t remember—’

  ‘I already asked him.’ At last I found my phone. ‘I rang him up and he didn’t know what I was talking about.’

  Mum absorbed this for a moment. Then she said, ‘Are you sure he was telling the truth?’

  I was draped across the bed at that point, scrolling through my messages as if everything was back to normal. I didn’t want to discuss my mysterious blackout. I wanted to forget that it had ever happened. The whole subject was like a dark shadow, lurking just outside; I felt that if I even glanced its way, it would pour through my window and engulf me.

  But I had to answer Mum’s question. Otherwise she would have assumed that I didn’t believe what Fergus had said.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I mumbled, lifting my gaze. ‘Fergus was telling the truth, all right.’

  I have to admit, there was a slight wobble in my voice. Mum must have heard that – or perhaps she saw a hint of panic in my expression – because she gave me a long, grave, sympathetic look before leaning down to press my shoulder.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ she assured me. ‘You heard what the doctor said. Even if you do have epilepsy, it’s an easy condition to manage these days. You can live a perfectly normal life.’

  There it was again; that word. ‘Condition’. God, how I hated it.

  ‘Anyway, we don’t want to get ahead of ourselves,’ Mum continued. ‘There’s no use worrying before we have to.’

  At that very instant, the kitchen phone rang. Mum immediately rushed off, crying, ‘I hope that’s not the hospital!’ So I never did get a chance to say, ‘You think I’ve got it, though, don’t you?’

  Because she did. I could tell. She was already bracing herself for the bad news – and I couldn’t really blame her. When you think about it, what’s easier to cope with: drugs, epilepsy, kidnapping, or some weird rare disease?

  I can understand why she picked epilepsy.

  In the end, it wasn’t the hospital calling. It was Fergus. He’d been trying to reach me all day; most of the text messages on my phone were his, and most of them were about the dingo pen. Fergus had lots of very dumb and far-fetched theories about my dingo-pen escapade, involving things like bikies and aliens and magnetic fields. That’s why I didn’t want to talk to him. I was having a hard enough time coming to terms with the whole epilepsy scenario. Discussing Satan worshippers or multiple personalities was way beyond my scope.