The Abused Werewolf Rescue Group (4 page)

‘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.

I
t 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.

So I was pleased when Mum told Fergus that I couldn’t speak to him. I was too tired, she said. Naturally, Fergus tried to call me on my mobile, but I turned it off. For the rest of the afternoon I played a really fast computer game, which called for lightning response times and didn’t give me enough headspace to think about anything else.

Meanwhile, the calls kept coming. There were calls from Mum’s friends, asking how I was. There was a call from the hospital to say that I could have an outpatient’s appointment the next morning, because someone else had cancelled. There was even a call from a journalist – or at least, that was what Mum thought. When she answered the phone, a voice said, ‘
Mrs Vandevelde?
’ And after Mum confirmed that she
was
Mrs Vandevelde, the voice asked, ‘
Are you Toby’s mother?
’

Mum’s immediate response was, ‘No comment.’ She told me later that hanging up was a kind of reflex. It was only after she’d done it that she began to wish she hadn’t. ‘What if it was someone who saw you the other night?’ she fretted. ‘What if they were ringing to tell me what happened to you?’

I wondered about that myself. ‘Was it a kid?’ I inquired.

‘No. I don’t think so.’

‘Was it a man or a woman?’

‘A man.’

‘Oh well.’ I shrugged. She was interrupting my computer game. ‘If they saw something weird, and they want to report it, they’ll probably ring the police.’ In an effort to change the subject, I added, ‘What’s for dinner, Mum?’

Dinner was my favourite: Chinese takeaway. Afterwards I stayed up as long as I could, putting off the moment when I would finally have to climb under the sheets and stare at the revolving fan above my bed. When Mum caught me locking my bedroom window, she offered to bunk down beside me on an inflatable mattress. ‘Or you could sleep on the mattress yourself, in my room,’ she said.

I turned her down. I didn’t want her to know how scared I was. I didn’t want to face up to it myself; in fact I was so determined not to look like a wimp that I refused to leave my bedroom door open, even a crack. When she suggested a nightlight, I scoffed at the idea. And when she started talking about homemade alarm systems – things like wind chimes, squeaky toys or crunchy gravel arranged in front of every access point – I poured scorn on the whole concept.

‘Are you crazy?’ I said. ‘Do you
want
this place to look like the Miscallefs’? Because I don’t.’

I should probably explain that the Miscallefs, unlike most of the families on our street, live knee-deep in crap. There are always bikes, blades, shoes, car parts, dog bowls, fluffy toys and old barbecue grills scattered around their front yard. Now, don’t get me wrong; I know that my own room is a real mess. And I also know that when you have a lot of kids, it’s hard to keep things clean. But every time I pass that house in someone else’s company, it always gets the same reaction. Mum’s friends always say something like, ‘What are the unemployment figures in this area?’ And
my
friends say something like, ‘There’s a kid who lives around here, and he’s got four different fathers, and they’re all fighting over which one’s his real dad.’

It’s not fair, because the Miscallefs are okay. I like them. They’re friendly. But that whole junkyard look is the kiss of death in this part of town. You should hear Mr Grisdale talk about the Miscallefs! Grisdale is a grumpy old bastard who lives three doors down from us. He yells at every kid who even pauses outside his front gate, so it’s not as if anybody pays much attention when he calls the Miscallefs ‘trash’ and ‘scum’ and ‘bludgers’. The thing is, though, he isn’t the only one. I’ve heard Mrs Savvides badmouthing the Miscallefs, too. And Mrs Savvides is a nice person; she feeds the birds and sends us a card at Christmas. But she’s really mean about the Miscallefs. She says they live like pigs, let their kids run wild, and stink up the whole street because they’re always forgetting to put out their rubbish for collection. ‘People like that,’ she says, ‘shouldn’t be
allowed
to have kids.’

I swear to God, I must have heard this a million times – and not just from Mrs Savvides. The guy on the corner, the retired couple across the street, and the new people at the end of the block have all said the same thing. There’s only one poor soul who cops it even worse than the Miscallefs, and that’s the alcoholic living behind us. I don’t know her name. I’ve never actually seen her, since she hardly ever goes out. But
her
house is messy too. So even though she’s as quiet as a mouse, the whole neighbourhood is constantly moaning about her.
Just because she doesn’t tidy up.

Is it any wonder that I didn’t want to leave squeaky toys scattered around? If you do something like that where I live, your neighbours will start telling each other that you’re growing marijuana in the garage.

Maybe Mum realised this, because she soon shut up about the homemade security system. She didn’t leave any lights on, either. But she did shut all the windows, even though it was a really warm night. Maybe that’s why she didn’t sleep very well. In fact it was lucky that I had a clinic appointment the next day, otherwise poor Mum might have had to go to work feeling totally trashed.

However, I’m getting ahead of myself. First I should tell you about my night, which was much better than I’d anticipated. I was scared that I’d lie awake for hours, jumping at every noise, and that when I finally
did
fall asleep I would be tormented by horrible nightmares. The funny thing is, though, that I was fine. Having dropped off the instant my head hit the pillow, I plunged into a dreamless stupor, hardly stirring until Mum shook me into consciousness at around 9.00 am.

Then I climbed out of bed, ate breakfast, cleaned my teeth, and went to the neurological outpatient’s clinic.

I’ll spare you the details of my visit. Let’s just say I spent a long time sitting on a hard chair in a lemon-scented waiting room, playing with my Nintendo and trying not to look at some of the other patients, who were . . . well, in a bad way, quite frankly. You don’t want to know what some poor people have to live with.
I
didn’t want to know, that’s for sure. So I kept my head down until the doctors decided that they were ready to stick electrodes all over it.

Actually, the eeg was pretty cool. I was hooked up to a computer and given things to look at, so that the doctors could map my brain’s electrical activity. It was like being a lab rat or a science-fiction hero. (‘
You think you can outsmart us, Consumer Unit 2792, but we are able to see what you are thinking
. . .’) Fergus would have loved it. So would Amin. I guess I would have loved it too, if I hadn’t been so worried about the results. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t forget that all this whiz-bang technology was being used to search for a nasty, lurking, terrible thing – like sniffer dogs tracking down a corpse. I was so worried, in fact, that I kept expecting someone to notice. I was sure that my worry would show up on the brain scans.

But nobody said a single word about my eeg. Not then, anyway. I was supposed to wait for the results, which Dr Passlow would explain to me during my next appointment with him. So after all that fuss, I emerged from the clinic still not knowing if I had epilepsy or not.