The Abused Werewolf Rescue Group (16 page)

Maybe these guys are all asleep
, I pondered, having no idea what time it was. My watch had been stolen, so I couldn’t tell how long I’d been unconscious. If it was still before midnight, I might not have to rush. If it was nearly dawn, however, every second would count. I sensed that I might be out in the bush (it certainly smelled that way) and country people, I knew, often woke up early.

I didn’t want to retrace my steps. When I drew back into the tunnel, closing the hatch behind me, it was like climbing back into my own grave. I hated having to shut out all that wonderful light and air. Even though I’d decided that an open hatch might raise the alarm, I had to force myself to do the sensible thing. You probably won’t believe this, but my headache returned as soon as the latch clicked into place. I had to swallow again and again, to stop myself from throwing up. Every nerve in my body was screaming
no!

But I had to ignore what my nerves were telling me. I had to set off towards the fork in the tunnel, teeth clenched and eyes peeled, hoping that I would stumble across a ladder, or a rope, or a cable – something, at any rate, that I could use in a daring escape attempt. When I reached the second tunnel, I nearly chickened out; advancing into unexplored territory took a lot more courage than I had, by that time. What if I was heading straight into the arms of the fake policemen? What if there were dogs or guns or instruments of torture at the end of the tunnel? For a minute or so I couldn’t even move. I just stood there sweating, with my heart in my mouth. It was so unfair. I didn’t deserve any of this. How come it had happened to
me
?

Finally, a voice in my head snarled,
Get going, ya wuss –
and I obeyed. Step by cautious step, I picked my way down the curving tunnel, which grew brighter and brighter. A soft radiance began to seep across the walls. Somewhere up ahead, I knew, an electric light must be burning. The question was: had it been left on in an empty space, or was someone actually using it?

I was so intent on what lay in store for me that I forgot to look down. I stopped paying attention to my own feet. And that was a fatal mistake, because I didn’t see the metal drum until I bumped into it.
Crash!
The noise was like an explosion; it seemed to ricochet off the walls. As I fell, the drum rolled away from me, making a hollow
boom-boom-boom
. I banged my knee and scraped my right hand.

A distant voice said, ‘Hello? Who’s there?’

I froze. I think my heart might have stopped beating. I certainly held my breath.

‘Hello?’ The voice was young and high-pitched. It didn’t belong to either of the fake policemen. ‘Is that you, Gary?’

Gary. I knew that name. Gary and Lincoln – my two kidnappers.

Very slowly and quietly, I pushed myself upright again. One of my knee-joints clicked.

‘Who is it?’ the voice entreated. ‘Say something!’

I couldn’t hear footsteps. Was no one going to come after me? I took a step backwards, wincing at the soft
crunch
it made as loose pebbles slid from under my heel.

‘Please! Help me! I’m trapped here!’ The voice cracked on a shrill note. Something rattled. ‘You gotta get me out! You gotta call the police! Don’t go! Wait! Help!’

This time, when I froze, it was because of shock – not fear. Help? Someone wanted
help
?

‘I’ve been kidnapped!’ the voice cried, sounding more and more desperate. ‘Are you there? Can you hear me? Who is that?’
Rattle, rattle
. ‘Don’t be scared! I’m all alone! There’s no one else!’

Oh my God
, I thought.
It’s another kid! Just like me!

If I hadn’t clutched at the wall, I might have lost my balance.

‘Oh,
please
help me,
please
!’ the voice moaned. It was horrible to listen to. I wanted to cover my ears. ‘Don’t go . . . don’t leave me . . . I gotta get out . . .’

What could I do? What choice did I have? If you’d heard that despair – that hopeless misery – you wouldn’t have walked away either. You would have done exactly what I did; you would have taken a deep breath, licked your dry lips, and moved forward.

One step, two steps, three steps . . . after eight long strides, I found myself staring at a barred gate identical to the one I’d just squeezed through. Beyond it lay a concrete cell bathed in harsh electric light. This cell contained some standard-looking items, like the metal-frame bedstead and stainless-steel toilet, together with a scattering of more unfamiliar objects: an apple core, some sheets, a dirty plastic plate, a couple of dog-eared comic books. But I didn’t really notice these minor details at first. Because they couldn’t compete with the sight of a long-haired boy, about my age, who was clinging to the bars as if he needed their support.

Though shorter than me, he was wider, with a nuggetty frame and a big head (which might have looked bigger than it really was, owing to all the fuzzy blonde hair sprouting out of it in tightly coiled ringlets). He had huge pale eyes, a slightly flattened nose and almost invisible eyelashes; his clothes were grubby and his colour was bad.

Normally, I don’t know what Mum means when she says that someone’s colour is bad. I’ll take one look and think,
What’s wrong with that colour? It’s not bright blue or orange.
This time, however, even
I
could see that something was wrong. The face behind the bars had a kind of pasty, greenish cast to it. There were purple rings around the kid’s eyes and a yellowish bruise near his mouth, which fell open as I approached him.

For a second or two we just stood there, gaping at each other.

Then he burst into tears.

‘H
elp me!’
he sobbed. ‘Get me outta here,
please
!’

‘Yeah, all right . . .’ What else could I say? He was bawling like a baby. ‘Can’t you squeeze through the bars, then?’

‘No! Of course not!’ The gate rattled furiously. ‘D’you think I haven’t tried?’

‘Okay, okay. Calm down.’ I made a ‘shushing’ motion, because I was afraid that someone might hear him. Then I scanned the sides of the gate, looking for a latch or release button.

‘It’s padlocked,’ he informed me, pointing. ‘Up there . . .’

‘Oh.’ That was bad news. I could see the padlock and chain high above my head. The padlock was enormous. ‘Bummer.’

‘You can stand on the drum!’ he said shrilly. ‘That’s how
they
always do it!’

‘Who?’

‘Huh?’

‘Who are you talking about?’ I demanded. ‘Who did this?’

He stared at me as if I were insane.

‘Gary and Lincoln!’ he cried. ‘Who else?’

‘So they got you too?’

‘Of course they did!’
Rattle, rattle
went the gate. ‘And they’ll come down if you don’t hurry up!’

‘Down from where? Where are we?’ I asked. But he wasn’t about to answer any more questions.

‘Just
break the lock
!’ he screeched, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. I glanced at the padlock doubtfully. ‘How am I supposed to do that? I’d need a big rock, or something . . .’

‘So find one! Quick!’

He was ordering me around – and I have to admit, I didn’t like it. That’s why I said, in a sulky sort of way, ‘There’s no point. We can’t get out through the tunnel – it leads straight into the bottom of an old pool.’

‘I know that! D’you think I don’t know that?’ His voice broke as he pressed against the bars. ‘I’ve been out there! I’ve seen it!’

I frowned. ‘Then—’

‘We can use the drum!’ he explained. ‘You can stand on the drum and I can stand on you—’

‘—and you might reach the top,’ I finished, nodding in agreement. Then something else occurred to me. ‘We can tie your sheets together and make a rope,’ I suggested. ‘So you can pull me up after you.’

‘I’ll do that. Sure I will,’ he said tearfully. ‘If you can just get the gate open . . .’

We both raised our eyes to the padlock again. It looked awfully solid.

‘I don’t think I could lift the drum that high,’ was my doleful conclusion.

‘No, no! Don’t hit it with the drum!’ he pleaded, his teeth chattering with fear. ‘It would make too much noise! They’d hear you!’

‘Would they?’ My gaze followed his, towards the iron door in his cell. ‘Are they close by?’ I whispered.

‘Maybe.’

‘In the next room?’

‘Upstairs.’

‘Do they live upstairs, then?’

‘How should
I
know?’ he yelped. ‘It’s not like they let me use their toilet!’

‘Okay, okay . . .’

‘Just
get me out of here!
’

‘Shh! Okay!’ Unnerved by his mounting hysteria, I was tempted to beat a retreat. But since my only escape route led into the bottom of a swimming pool . . .

Suddenly I had a flash of inspiration.

‘Hang on – wait – I’ve got an idea,’ I said, turning.

‘No! Don’t go!’

‘Shh. I’ll be back.’

‘
Don’t leave me here!
’

‘I’m not! Okay? I’m just getting something.’

He didn’t believe me, though. I could hear him begging piteously as I raced back down the tunnel; it was pretty obvious that he was in a bad way. Any minute now, I felt sure, he would flip his lid and start screaming like a maniac. So I didn’t linger when I finally reached the pool. Without a moment’s hesitation I burst through the hatch, stumbled over to the drainage outlet, and snatched up the aluminium beer can that someone had left there. I didn’t even pause to check for unexpected noises or movements.

Then I returned to my fuzzy-haired friend, who had fallen to his knees in despair.

‘It’s okay,’ I assured him. ‘Look – see? I had to get this.’

He was sobbing too hard to ask why. But his expression, as he stared at the beer can, told me exactly what he was thinking.

He was thinking,
What the hell use is a beer can?

‘I’m gunna make a shim. I’ve done it before.’ Not only that, I had successfully used my beer-can shim to pick a lock. ‘You can tear this stuff with your bare hands, if you fold it properly first.’

‘How – how—’

‘Just gimme a minute, all right?’

I can’t pretend it was easy, making that shim. Ripping up aluminium requires a lot of patience; unless you concentrate hard, you end up with crooked rips (not to mention cut fingers). With so much whimpering going on, I found it hard to focus.

‘So what’s your name?’ I said at last, when the impatient atmosphere got too much for me. I wanted to distract the guy from his fretting and fuming. ‘Mine’s Toby Vandevelde.’

‘I’m Sergio. Pereira.’

‘How long have you been here, Sergio?’

‘I dunno. How should
I
know? They took my watch. I got no calendar . . .’ He sounded peevish, but at least he wasn’t jigging up and down. ‘I guess you’re a werewolf too, huh?’ he said, wringing the tears from his eyes.

I grunted, not quite sure how to respond. The jury was still out on my status as a werewolf . . .

‘It’s a family curse,’ Sergio continued. ‘That’s what the priest told us. My parents thought I had a demon in me, but when they called the priest, he couldn’t get rid of it. He said it was genetic. Seventh son. You know?’

‘Mmmm . . .’

‘They didn’t believe him. They didn’t believe that
they
had bad blood, so they tried to beat the devil out of me. They locked me in a pizza oven.’

‘A
pizza oven
?’

‘Wood-fired. You know. Very thick.’

‘But—’

‘When the police found out, they put me in a foster home. Is that what happened to you?’

‘Nuh.’ I was nearly finished. ‘I live with my mum.’

‘Does she lock you up?’

‘No.’

‘And you haven’t killed her?’

‘Of course not!’ He was beginning to freak me out. I didn’t want to listen to any more of his weird family history. ‘Okay – so this is done, now. I just have to haul the drum over here . . .’

‘
I
killed someone. It wasn’t my fault. Gary and Lincoln – they
made
me do it.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Boy, I was squirming. ‘Hang on a tick.’

‘They wanted me to!’ he groaned. ‘I woke up and he was dead! I couldn’t help it!’

‘Sure – fine – but d’you think we could talk about this later, please?’ The drum was even heavier than I’d expected. I found myself panting as I dragged it towards the gate. Meanwhile, Sergio just went on and on and on, as if he
couldn’t
shut his trap.

‘They said they were police,’ he gabbled. ‘That’s why I went with them. They knew my name. They knew where I was living. I thought, “They must be police.” But they weren’t . . .’

I climbed up onto the drum, trying to ignore his high-pitched chatter. By stretching my arms above my head, I could reach the padlock without too much trouble. I soon realised, however, that actually
picking
the damn lock wasn’t going to be a piece of cake. Not from that position.

‘I don’t know how they found out where I was,’ Sergio was saying. ‘Someone must have told them all about me. Like my dad. Or my brother. Maybe my dad was scared that I’d come and get him one night. Maybe he wanted someone else to lock me up.’

Fiddle, fiddle. Flick, flick. I was sweating bullets, and my arms were beginning to shake.
Come on
, I thought,
you bastard lock!

‘Except that Dad didn’t know my address,’ Sergio added. ‘The social worker wouldn’t tell him. That was her story, anyway. Maybe she was lying. Maybe
she
was the one who told Gary.’

‘Goddammit!’ That lock just wouldn’t cooperate. So I took a couple of long, deep breaths before trying again.

Flick-flick. Flick-flick-flick.

‘It could have been her,’ croaked Sergio, oblivious to my struggles. He was staring off into space. ‘She knew where I was. But so did the lawyer. And Dr Olsen. And Dr Passlow. And Mrs Tennant—’

‘Dr Passlow?’ I interrupted, cutting him off. ‘You
know
Dr Passlow?’

Sergio goggled up at me. ‘Huh?’

‘Dr
Glen
Passlow? From Mount Druitt hospital?’

Sergio shook his head. ‘I’ve never been to Mount Druitt,’ he mumbled. ‘I come from Orange. They took me to Orange Base Hospital . . .’

But he was missing the point. ‘Paediatrician?’ I pressed. ‘Balding? Ginger hair? Ring a bell?’

He nodded slowly. ‘I guess,’ he faltered. ‘Except that he was in Orange.’

‘When?’

‘Huh?’

‘
When were you in hospital?
’

‘Well . . .’ He thought for a minute. ‘I was in hospital after the pizza oven. Before I went to foster care. And I was in foster care for three months.’

‘There you are, then. He could have moved hospitals.’ I suddenly realised that I wasn’t doing what I was supposed to be doing, so I fixed my attention on the padlock again.
Flick, flick.
Flick-flick-flick
. ‘If you ask me,’ I said, conscious that my face was growing hot with the effort of keeping my arms raised, ‘Dr Passlow must have something to do with this. Unless it was the priest. What was your priest’s name? Was he called Ramon Alvarez?’

‘No.’

‘Did he ever
mention
anyone called Ramon Alvarez?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Sergio sounded completely dazed.

‘What about Reuben Schneider? Have you heard of him?’

‘No.’

‘Sanford Plackett? Nina Harrison? Bridget Doherty?’

‘Why are you asking me this?’ Sergio whined. ‘I don’t know any of those people. Why should I?’

‘Just wondered.’ At that moment something went
click –
and the padlock released its clenched jaw. I can’t tell you how unbelievably good it felt when that happened. I was so surprised, I nearly fell off my drum.

‘Oh!’ I exclaimed. ‘Oh my God!’

‘What?’

‘I’ve done it!’ The chain clinked as I pulled it through the bars. ‘Look! Oh my God!’

‘Shh! Not so loud!’

‘Yeah. Right. Sorry,’ I muttered, climbing down to the dusty floor. It occurred to me that the chain would make a very good weapon. ‘We should keep this,’ I proposed, swinging it like a lasso. ‘I bet you could really hurt someone with it.’

But Sergio wasn’t listening. He had pushed the gate open, and was squeezing through the gap he’d made for himself. Without even stopping to say ‘thank you’, he bolted past me down the tunnel.

‘Hey! Wait!’ I called after him. ‘What about the drum?’

‘Shh!’ He hit the brakes and whirled around. ‘Stop
shouting
!’

‘I’m not shouting. I’m asking nicely.’ Lowering my voice to a hiss, I fixed him with a stony glare. ‘You wanna help me with this drum, or what?’

To give him his due, he came straight back. Though he didn’t say anything that I actually wanted to hear (like ‘sorry’ or ‘thanks’ or even ‘I owe you’), he picked up one end of the drum and began to retrace his steps – facing backwards.

‘Hang on,’ I said, from the other end of the drum. I’d slung the chain around my neck like a scarf. ‘We should do this sideways.’

‘It’s okay. I’m fine.’

‘You’ll fall.’

‘No, I won’t.’

‘You will if you can’t see where you’re going,’ I insisted. ‘It’s
dark
down there.’

‘Just hurry, will you?’ He was frantic. ‘Stop farting about!’

With a shrug I gave in – and we shuffled off into the shadows. Sure enough, Sergio soon came a cropper; because he was moving too fast and couldn’t see where he was going, he caught his heel in a shallow dip that caused him to sit down abruptly, dropping his end of the drum.

It made a hollow
bong
as it hit the ground.

‘See? I told you.’ Impatiently I readjusted the thing until it was sitting at a sensible angle, with each end facing a wall. ‘If we do it like this, we can both keep our eyes peeled, and it’ll be much quicker . . .’ I trailed off when I realised that he was crying again. ‘What’s wrong?’ I said. ‘Did you hurt yourself?’

‘I’ll never get out,’ he sobbed. ‘I’ll never get out.’

‘Course you will. We’re nearly there.’

‘I’m gunna die in this hole . . .’

‘Sergio!’ I spoke sharply because he was dragging me down. His terror was infectious. ‘Snap out of it! Stop being such a wuss!’

‘You dunno what’s it like,’ he moaned, then yelped as I gave him a hard little kick on the shin. ‘Ouch! What are you doing?’

‘I’m getting you out of here, okay? Stand up!’

‘All right, all right. You don’t have to yell at me . . .’

I did, though. I had to yell at him at least twice – once when he thought he’d heard a noise (and nearly lost the plot), and another time when his legs suddenly buckled, for no apparent reason, so that he slid to his knees with a squeak of dismay.

‘I can’t breathe!’ he croaked. ‘I can’t – I can’t—’

‘You’re fine,’ I said crossly.