The Abused Werewolf Rescue Group (3 page)

‘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 knew 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
.’

‘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 that 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?’