The Abused Werewolf Rescue Group (7 page)

‘No.’ I was pushing Fergus away, as Amin mimed at me. ‘She’s at work.’

‘
Uh-huh
.’

‘Have you got any evidence? Like . . . um . . . paw prints? Or a tooth, or something? I know you said you didn’t have photos—’

‘
Listen.
’ Reuben raised his voice over a metallic screech in the background. I couldn’t tell if it was machinery or car-brakes or even a bird of some sort. ‘
I’ve been wondering why no one saw you the other night. You musta been wondering about that yourself, eh?
’

‘Yeah. I guess.’ Actually, I hadn’t. I’d just figured that the whole of Doonside must have been in bed asleep.

‘
I’ve been looking at my street directory
,’ Reuben continued, ‘
and I think I know where you musta gone. I think you went to that big reserve near your house. The one with the lake in it
.’

‘Nurragingy?’

‘
That’s the one
.’ Reuben’s tone warmed up a little. ‘
If you were running around in there, you wouldn’t have been in people’s gardens, killing pet guinea pigs. Whatever you did wouldn’t have been very obvious.
’

‘How do you mean, killing pet guinea pigs?’ I repeated, so Fergus could hear. He nudged Amin, who smothered a gurgle of delight. ‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘
Because they’re edible
,’ Reuben rejoined. Then he changed the subject – or seemed to. ‘
Did you feel sick when you woke up that morning? After your blackout?
’

I felt a sudden chill. ‘Why?’ I asked.

‘
You did, didn’t you?
’

‘Maybe.’

‘
That’s because you ate something rank. Like a rat or a dead pigeon.
’ Though he couldn’t have seen me wince, Reuben must have sensed my discomfort. ‘
We’ve all done that,
’ he said. ‘
It’s no big deal. Pigeons are nothing; it’s people we’ve gotta worry about.
’

At this point Fergus couldn’t contain himself any longer. He had been avidly studying my face, and my expression was driving him wild. ‘What is it?’ he hissed. ‘Tell me!’

But I shushed him instead, because Reuben was still talking.

‘
You were lucky, mate. If that reserve hadn’t been there, you woulda been chewing up aviaries and attacking drunks. I’m surprised you didn’t mangle a few mailboxes.
’ His flat voice became suddenly brisk, as if he was running out of time. ‘
The proof you want will be in that park. I’ll bet money on it. Just go there and have a poke around – you’ll see.
’

‘See what?’ I demanded. ‘What should I look for?’

‘
Damage
.’

‘Huh?’

‘
damage
.
You know. When things get busted.
’

‘Things are always getting busted around here. There’s nothing much else to do.’ I wasn’t impressed. Vandalism? What kind of proof was
that
? ‘I know lots of people who like pulling up bushes. It doesn’t make them werewolves.’

‘
Check the garbage bins
.
You’ll have gone for the garbage bins.
’

‘Yeah, but
everyone
goes for the garbage bins. That’s not proof.’ By this time, I have to admit, I was growing angry. How stupid did he think I was? Did he really expect me to believe such blatant lies? ‘This is all crap. What are you really after? What’s this all about?’

‘
Toby, I just wanna help.
’

Suddenly Fergus grabbed my arm and whispered, ‘Tell him you’ve gotta meet him!’ When I shook my head, he began to nod frantically. ‘Yes! Yes! We’ll do it in the park!’

‘
Sorry.
’ Reuben must have heard something. ‘
I didn’t catch that
.’

‘It’s nothing,’ I replied, glaring at Fergus – who wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. He put his lips to my free ear.

‘We’ll play a trick,’ he buzzed. ‘We’ll fool him with fake paw prints. It’ll be a total set-up.’

‘
Toby? Are you there?
’

‘Get him to meet you and I’ll film it,’ Fergus instructed, under his breath. ‘With my mobile.’

‘
Hello?
Toby?
’

‘Hang on,’ I told Reuben, before covering the mouthpiece again. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ I squeaked. ‘This guy’s a head case, remember? If he finds out I’m having him on, he might go for me!’

Fergus, however, flapped my objections aside as if they were mosquitoes. ‘You’ll be fine. I told you, I’ll film it. Me and Amin can hide in the bushes, so if anything happens, it’ll be three against one.’

I hesitated. It was a tempting plan. Tricking the guy who had tried to trick me would be an enjoyable case of poetic justice.

‘Maybe you’d better come and show me all this stuff yourself,’ I said into the phone. ‘Why don’t we meet at the reserve and go from there?’ A pause. ‘Hello?’ No answer. ‘
Hello?
’

‘
Jeez, mate.
’ When Reuben finally spoke, he did it very, very reluctantly. ‘
I dunno about that.
’

‘Why not?’

‘
Well, I’m not sure if Father Ramon is available.
’

‘So come by yourself.’

‘
I can’t. Your mum wouldn’t like it.’

‘She won’t even know.’

‘
Exactly,
’ Reuben muttered. ‘
It would look bad. Meeting you in a park? I could get arrested. People might think I was there for
. . .
uh
. . .
well—’

‘The wrong reasons?’ All at once I could see what he was getting at. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. ‘Like you’re a pervert, or something?’

‘
Which I’m not
,’ he growled, then added, ‘
You’re not trying to get me arrested, by any chance?
’

‘No!’

‘
Because if you are, you’ll rue the day.
’

Though his matter-of-fact tone was chilling, all it did was make me mad. Really mad.

I often get mad when I’m frightened.

‘So you’re threatening me now?’ I retorted. ‘Nice move.’

‘
Toby, what the hell do you want?
’

‘What do
you
want?’

‘
I’ll tell you what I want. I want to make sure that no one gets killed.
’ He was fast losing patience. I could tell. ‘
You’re dangerous. Do you realise that? You’re a threat to society.
’

‘Oh, yeah. Right.’ Man, but I was pissed off. ‘So you’re
scared
to meet me, is that it?’

‘
I’m not scared.
’

‘That’s funny. You sound scared.’

‘
Jesus,
’ he spat. ‘
You think I can’t take care of myself?
’

‘Well if you’re that tough, what’s the problem?’

‘
I’m not scared to meet you. I’m scared of what will happen if I
don’t
meet you. I’m scared you’ll end up killing someone.
’

‘Then what are you waiting for? Come and convince me.’ By this time, I have to admit, I was already half-convinced. Something about our heated exchange had opened a door in my head, and I desperately wanted to shut it again. I was anxious to see his so-called proof, so that I could dismiss it as complete rubbish. ‘Put your money where your mouth is, why don’t you?’

‘
I would, if I could be sure you were on the level.
’

‘Me?’ I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘That’s pretty rich, coming from a guy who says he’s a werewolf!’

‘
I’m not trying to pull a fast one—’

‘Prove it.’

‘
Fine.
’ All of a sudden he capitulated, sounding weary. ‘
Where should I meet you? At the park?
’

It took me a moment to switch tracks. His about-face had come as a complete surprise.

‘Uh – yeah,’ I agreed, glancing at Fergus. ‘At the park. Around two o’clock?’

Fergus nodded. There was a big grin on his face.

‘
Okay. Two o’clock this afternoon,
’ said Reuben.

‘On the steps by the lake. In front of the conference centre,’ I suggested. It was the most obvious place I could think of. ‘Have you been there before?’

‘
No
.’

‘Well, you can’t miss it. Just follow the signs.’

‘
I’ll be there
.’

Click.
Reuben hung up before I could, like someone slamming a door in my ear. Fergus scowled at me.

‘Where are we gunna hide, if you meet this bloke near Deathwater Pier?’ he demanded. ‘You should have told him Ambush Alley, or the Culling Fields!’

‘But we don’t have to hide,’ Amin broke in. ‘We can pretend to be buying stuff at the kiosk.’

‘That’s true,’ Fergus had to concede. ‘Yeah, you’re right. That wouldn’t look suspicious.’

‘And you could follow me from there.’ My hands were shaking, but not my voice. I was proud of that. ‘We could put some tracks in the swamp. Right near the boardwalk, where he’ll see them.’

‘
Man
, this’ll be great!’ Fergus yelped. His eyes were bright with joyful malice. ‘We are
so
gunna get this guy! This guy is
toast on a spit!
’

‘I hope so,’ was all I could say.

Though I didn’t want to admit it, I was already beginning to regret the whole crazy idea.

I
know what you
must be thinking. You’re thinking, ‘Ambush Alley? The Culling Fields? What kind of a place
is
Nurragingy Reserve?’ You’re wondering if it’s a park or a war zone.

But those names aren’t for real. My friends and I just made them up. Ambush Alley is really Parkland’s Track. The Culling Fields are actually the Barbecue Grounds. Even Deathwater is only a small lake with ducks on it. We call it Deathwater because we’ve spent so many years playing games at Nurragingy that some of our old fantasy names have stuck. In the Barbecue Grounds, for instance, we used to pretend that the play equipment was going to entrap us – that the climbing frames were cages, designed to lure us in before they snapped shut, and that the slippery-slides had quicksand at the bottom. Where other people saw an innocent stretch of lawn, we saw an arena. Where other people ate their picnic lunches, we fought world-shaking battles with bits of borrowed firewood.

So don’t be misled; there’s nothing especially dangerous about Nurragingy. Not unless you pull the kind of stunts that Fergus and Amin and I used to pull – like the time we planted a stink bomb in the Wedding Garden, for example. (
That
nearly got us killed.) And there was the famous grass-surfing stunt, of course, not to mention our firewood treehouse, which nearly collapsed on top of my head. Both of those stunts were pretty dangerous, though not because they were against the rules. We’ve always been careful not to break the rules. Mind you, there are so many rules at Nurragingy that it’s kind of hard to figure out what you’re actually
allowed
to do; you’re certainly not allowed to swim, litter, skateboard, fly kites, ride horses, play hockey, climb on the water feature, or let your dog off the leash. On the other hand, there are no signs anywhere forbidding you to grass-surf, or build treehouses, or piss in the lake. That’s always been our defence, in fact: ‘Where are the signs that say we can’t?’ Usually it’s a good enough argument to keep us out of major trouble, especially since nothing we do is ever
really
bad. I mean, none of it’s as bad as vandalising the toilet blocks or carving graffiti into the trees at the top of the waterfall. You should see those trees; they’re like notice boards, except that they never have anything interesting to say. It’s all just names and dates and four-letter words.

Personally, if I was going to take that kind of risk, I’d be doing it for something worthwhile – like a riddle or a poem. If those trees were covered in treasure-hunt clues, I could see the point. But I guess it’s like Fergus says: deadheads have no class.

And there are always lots of deadheads at Nurragingy.

Not that the deadheads make it dangerous. They don’t. Even Mum doesn’t mind Nurragingy, despite the fact that I’ve broken several bones there. According to Mum, hanging out in the park is a whole lot safer than hanging out on the street, or at the mall. And Mrs Kairouz is always delighted to see us go. ‘Yes! Good idea! Get some fresh air!’ she’ll say. ‘You need to run around!’

She said it again on Thursday afternoon, when Amin asked if we could wander down to the reserve for a little while. This was after the three of us had spent most of the morning shut up in his room making a werewolf paw out of modelling clay. The result was pretty good, I thought, even though it was pink and shiny. (We’d had to borrow the modelling clay from Amin’s little sister, so we’d ended up with a paw full of sparkly bits, like glitter-glue.) We’d then run a few tests, leaving some paw-shaped impressions in various substances around the house: cocoa, washing powder, margarine. Only when we were satisfied that the paw really worked did we feel ready to head for the park.

‘Yes! Good idea!’ Mrs Kairouz said, as usual. ‘It’s a nice day – go and run around!’

So we did. We took our phones, some money, Amin’s sister’s digital camera, and the pretty pink paw wrapped up in a plastic shopping bag. On our way to Nurragingy, we discussed certain technical challenges, like sound recording. Fergus didn’t think that the camera would be able to pick up Reuben’s voice from a distance. He was wondering if I could use my
phone as well.

‘I don’t see how,’ was my opinion. ‘There’s no way Reuben’s gunna let me take pictures of him – why should he?’

‘It’s not the pictures I’m worried about. It’s the audio,’ said Fergus. ‘We’ve gotta have audio.’

‘Maybe Toby could take shots of the paw prints,’ Amin suggested. ‘
That
would look normal.’

‘You’re right.’ Fergus favoured Amin with an approving nod. ‘It’s what most people would do. They’d whip out their phones and start filming.’ As we trudged along the side of the road, he turned to address me again. ‘You should ask questions while you’re at it. Get him to talk about werewolves. Then we’ll have a soundtrack of him lying.’

‘I guess so.’ Though the prospect didn’t exactly thrill me, I could offer no alternative plan. ‘But how will I make sure he finds the paw prints?’

‘By putting ’em everywhere,’ Fergus replied. ‘The more there are, the easier it’ll be.’

There was no arguing with logic like that. It made perfect sense. When we reached the park, however, we soon realised how difficult it would be to stamp any paw prints into the dry, sunbaked earth. Nurragingy isn’t too lush in the middle of summer. Where the ground isn’t covered with mulch or tarmac or yellow grass, it’s often as hard and unyielding as concrete. We tried (and failed) in various spots: near the blacksmith’s shed, around the Memorial Garden, under the windmill. There wasn’t even a sandpit where we could leave our werewolf tracks.

Finally we were forced into some of the boggier areas – like Lorikeet Marsh, for instance. Lorikeet Marsh was tricky. There’s a boardwalk built across it, and you’re not supposed to step off that boardwalk. (We used to pretend that if we
did
fall off, we’d be swallowed up by a tar-pit, or a lava-flow, or a swamp full of acid.) But now we didn’t have a choice. One of us had to leave the boardwalk and break the rules.

That’s why Fergus volunteered to plant werewolf tracks in the mud. He’s good at breaking rules – and he also doesn’t weigh a lot. By the time he’d finished, there were only a few shallow, indistinct human footprints scattered around. You could hardly see them. They weren’t nearly as noticeable as the paw prints, which were deep and regular, though probably not quite far enough apart.

‘We should have spread them out more,’ I lamented, as I stood with Amin, gazing down at Fergus’s handiwork. ‘Those feet are really big, but the stride’s really small. Like the werewolf’s got tiny legs.’

‘Maybe it’s got a limp,’ Amin replied. ‘Or maybe it’s stalking its prey. You know . . . stopping and listening. Stopping and listening.’

‘You
guys
.’ It was Fergus. He hadn’t retraced his steps across the swamp, in case he left more footprints. Instead he had come back the long way, through the bush that ringed Lorikeet Marsh. Amin and I had been so deep in conversation, neither of us had heard the pad of approaching feet along the boardwalk. ‘I thought you were supposed to be keeping watch?’

‘It doesn’t matter, now you’re finished,’ Amin rejoined. ‘No one can prove that
we
did this.’

‘They can if they see our paw.’ Fergus gestured at the plastic-wrapped parcel under his arm. ‘Let’s get outta here quick, before somebody else shows up. I wanna check the lake. See if there’s any mud around there.’

‘Fergus, don’t you think these tracks are too close together?’ I interrupted. ‘It looks like the werewolf has really short legs. And a werewolf wouldn’t have really short legs.’

Fergus stared at me.

‘How the hell do you know?’ he asked.

‘Well, it doesn’t make sense. Why have enormous feet and short legs? I dunno if Reuben’s gunna buy it—’

‘Dude.’ Fergus cut me off. His tone was one of strained patience. ‘Of course he’s not gunna
buy
it. We’re not trying to convince him that werewolves exist. We’re trying to get him on film, lying to you.’

‘Oh. Yeah.’ Of course. Somehow I’d become too focused on the details.

‘Come on,’ said Fergus. ‘Let’s not stand around pointing like a bunch of bozos. We’re running out of time.’

He led the way back to Deathwater, where we found a bit of mud along the lake shore. While Fergus busied himself at the water’s edge, in a grove of date palms, Amin and I created a diversion by running around and screaming like lunatics. It was a good move, because it did more than simply attract people’s attention. It also frightened them away.

By the time Fergus had finished, Amin was puffing like a steam engine. Even I was a little out of breath.

‘What now?’ Amin panted, as the three of us went into huddle. ‘Should we try somewhere else?’

‘I don’t think so.’ My watch said 1:48. ‘Reuben might be early. We should split up.’

‘Do you think we’ve got enough paw prints?’ asked Fergus, who was all muddy around the knees. ‘Maybe I should do some more. He might not see them, otherwise.’

‘He’ll see them,’ I promised. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he sees them.’

‘Okay, but what about this?’ He brandished the paw. ‘Should we throw it away?’

‘Don’t be stupid!’ Amin snatched it from him. ‘My sister would kill me! This is
her
Play-Doh.’

He stuffed it into his backpack, as I nervously glanced towards the function centre’s wall of glass windows. No one was standing in front of them. ‘You guys shouldn’t stay with me,’ I said. ‘You should hang around here for a few minutes before you hit the kiosk, okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay.’

‘And please don’t be stupid,’ I begged, because Fergus was already grinning fiendishly. ‘Just act normal, or you’ll get noticed. You’re meant to be invisible, remember?’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Fergus gave me a push. ‘Go on, then. If you wanna go, go.’

So I went. I headed straight for the flight of steps that lay between the lake and the function centre. Once there, I sat down to wait, wishing that I’d brought my sunglasses. The reserve wasn’t too crowded. It never is, on a weekday – not even around the lake. From my vantage point, I could easily keep track of everyone who wandered across my field of vision. I saw two joggers, a dog-walker, and a woman on a bike. I saw a mum with a stroller, and a couple smooching in the shade. But I didn’t see Reuben until he was practically on top of me.

He must have parked behind the function centre and come around the side. I smelled him before I saw him; the scent of his deoderant made me turn with a start. Then I scrambled to my feet, because he looked so damned scary.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I know I’m late, but it was a helluva drive. I had to come all the way from Burwood.’

This time he hadn’t even tried to spruce himself up. The grey tweed jacket was gone, as was the musky hair gel. He wore a T-shirt that revealed tattoos on both arms, plus knee-length shorts that showed off the scars on his legs. I could see my face reflected in his mirror-lens sunglasses. His lip was still split and his fingers were still bandaged. And despite the fact that his tan and his cheekbones and his curly brown hair made him look like a rock star, I suddenly realised what a bad idea it would be to mess with the guy.

In the full light of day, on neutral ground, without the priest beside him, he seemed much more hard-edged than he had in our living room. I couldn’t believe that Fergus had talked me into his dumb paw print idea. I couldn’t believe that I’d even
considered
screwing with a bloke like Reuben Schneider. His fuse was as short as he was; I could sense that, somehow. And I figured he had a brain in his head, as well.

Oh, man
, I thought, inwardly quaking.
This is a big mistake.

‘I like this park. It’s nice,’ he observed, slowly scanning the view. ‘I never even knew it was here.’ The waterbirds seemed to catch his eye for a moment. Then he abruptly got down to business, jerking his chin at the structure behind him. ‘Didja see the bins out back?’ he asked.

‘Huh?’

‘There are wheelie bins out the back of this restaurant. Didja see ’em?’

‘It’s not a restaurant,’ I feebly corrected, ‘it’s a function centre.’

‘Well, whatever it is, it’s got bins,’ he said. ‘And I wanna show you what’s happened to ’em.’

God, but he was a fast mover. The words had barely left his mouth before he was out of sight; I had to run to catch up as he ducked around the side of the building, which was locked and empty of people. He was retracing his steps, heading back towards the rear entrance.

I wondered what Fergus was going to do. If he and Amin had been hanging around the centre’s kiosk, they might have caught a glimpse of Reuben.

Would they be having second thoughts at the sight of all those scars and tattoos?

‘There,’ said Reuben, pointing. ‘See that bite mark? I reckon you did that.’

Dazed, I peered at the two wheelie bins near the kitchen door. One had had its lid ripped off; the plastic hinges were squashed or frayed, as if savaged by a very powerful set of pliers. The other one was full of jagged puncture-marks, its rim scored by deep cuts and tears. Both bins were cracked, dented and completely unusable.