The Abused Werewolf Rescue Group (5 page)

It was a real bummer. I was so pissed off that I spent the whole trip home in a sulk, with my arms folded and a scowl on my face. And my mood didn’t exactly improve when I spotted Fergus sitting on our front steps. Fergus was the
last
person I wanted to see just then. Mum couldn’t have been too happy, either; she didn’t have much food in the fridge, and Fergus eats like a swarm of locusts.

‘Oh, God,’ she said with a sigh, as she pulled into the driveway, ‘I don’t have a thing for lunch. Why on earth does he always turn up at mealtimes?’

Because his brothers eat everything at his house
, I thought. But I didn’t say it. Instead I climbed out of the car and slammed the door shut behind me.

Before I could even open my mouth, Fergus jumped up.

‘Man, where have you
been
?’ he cried. ‘What’s happened to your phone? Did you lose it, or something?’

He had nicked one of Liam’s T-shirts, which was much too big for him. Not that I’m saying big is bad. I always wear baggy clothes myself, because when you’re as skinny as I am, you have to bulk up with extra layers. Fergus, however, is a lot shorter than me. And though he seems to like dressing in his brothers’ T-shirts, with the hems hanging down past his knees and the shoulders flopping around his elbows, I think oversized gear makes him look like a performing dog.

Of course, this wouldn’t worry Fergus. He honestly couldn’t care less about his hand-me-downs, or his chipped front tooth, or his lousy haircuts. He doesn’t even mind that he’s short. Some people might, but not Fergus.

I wish I was like that.

‘Maybe you left your phone in the dingo pen,’ he gabbled, without waiting for a reply. ‘Maybe we should go back and see if it’s there!’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ I snapped. And Mum said, very calmly, ‘We’ve just been at the hospital, Fergus. There are some parts of the hospital where you’re not supposed to leave your phone on.’

Fergus grunted. He dodged Mum as she moved past him to unlock the front door, never once meeting her gaze. She’s used to that, though. He hardly ever catches her eye or answers her questions. I don’t know if he’s afraid or embarrassed or what.

‘I suppose you’re staying for lunch, are you, Fergus?’ Mum queried. As usual, he squirmed and glanced at me for input, as if he didn’t understand English.

I couldn’t help feeling impatient.

‘Well?’ I demanded. ‘Are you staying or not? Make up your mind.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ he said, happy to be addressing me instead of Mum. ‘I’ll stay.’

‘Because if you come in,’ I warned, ‘we’re not talking about Monday night. No way.’

‘But—’

‘Forget it. Don’t even go there. It’s none of your business.’

Fergus blinked. He stared at me for a moment, drop-jawed and goggle-eyed, before shuffling into the house.

‘Jeez,’ he moaned. ‘What’s got up
your
bum?’

‘You have,’ I told him.

‘Why?’

‘I dunno.’ It occurred to me suddenly that I was being unfair. ‘I just don’t want to talk about any of this.’

‘So you don’t want to know what happened?’

‘Of course I do!’

‘Well, how are you going to find out if you don’t talk to people?’

He had a point. He was also extremely unsquashable. The thing about Fergus is, whatever he wants to do, he does it. Without a second thought. That’s why he gets into so much trouble at school.

‘I was thinking, if someone’s to blame for what happened, we can pay ’em back,’ he suggested, following me into my bedroom. ‘We can work out what they did, and then do the same to them.’

‘Don’t be such an idiot.’ I could hear Mum banging kitchen drawers in her search for something edible. ‘This isn’t funny. This isn’t a joke. It’s
really serious
.’

‘I know! That’s what I’m saying! Whoever’s responsible should be made to suffer!’

‘Just drop it.’ I scanned my possessions, eager to distract him. ‘Do you wanna play that computer game you got off Liam, or what?’

Fergus seemed taken aback. He eyed me in a perplexed sort of way, then pulled a face and scratched his chin.

‘Did some pervert get hold of you?’ he asked quietly.

‘
No!
’ I was stung. ‘Jesus!’

‘Well, why are you acting so weird?’

‘Because you’re really bugging me, that’s why!’

‘Were you with a girl?’

‘Of course not! Why the hell would I take a girl to a dingo pen?’

Fergus shrugged. ‘Some people are really strange when it comes to sex,’ he announced.

I laughed: a short, sharp honk.

‘Like you’d even know,’ I said witheringly.

‘Was it a boy?’ he inquired, as if struck by a sudden thought. ‘Are you gay?’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘Was it a dare?’

‘Just
leave me alone
, will you?’

‘Why? What’s the big deal?’ He wouldn’t stop pestering me – and at last I blew my top.

‘The big deal is that I might be epileptic! Okay?’ I barked. ‘Are you satisfied? Huh? Will you shut up, now?’

Of course not. Dumb question.

‘What do you mean?’ He was frowning. ‘How can you be epileptic?’

‘I dunno, Fergus! Go figure!’

‘But—’

‘I might have had a seizure on Monday night. I might have lost it. And now I can’t remember what happened.’

I braced as Fergus caught his breath.

‘But that’s
fantastic
!’ he exclaimed.

I gawped at him. ‘What?’

‘Don’t you see?’ He grabbed a handful of my T-shirt. ‘You’ve got a free pass, you lucky bastard!’

I still didn’t get it, though. He had to spell it out.

‘You can do anything you want,’ he said, ‘and you’ll never get in trouble. Because you can always blame the epilepsy. Man, you’ve got it
made.
’

He was right. The truth slowly dawned on me as I gazed at his widening grin. I now had the perfect excuse. For everything. There was no end to what I could get away with, providing I didn’t push my luck.

‘You know what?’ I said slowly. ‘Yesterday the doctor was talking about these things called absence seizures, where you just sit there and stare into space.’ Lowering my voice so that Mum couldn’t hear, I hissed, ‘What if I pretended to have one of those during an exam?’

‘You wouldn’t have to answer any questions!’

‘I know!’

‘You could do it in class!’

‘Exactly!’

‘You could say you didn’t do your homework because you had a seizure . . .’

That’s what I like about Fergus: he’s a real silver-lining kind of guy. We soon worked out a whole bunch of tricks that we could play, thanks to my dreaded ‘condition’. He put an entirely new spin on something that I’d been viewing as a total disaster. Thanks to Fergus, I was no longer scared to talk about what had happened. On the contrary, we discussed it at length. We laughed. We made plans. We tried to imitate the various kinds of epileptic seizures. Looking back, I guess it sounds pretty gross, but we did have a lot of fun. And by the time Fergus went home, I wasn’t worried anymore. I was in a terrific mood. The world seemed to be full of exciting possibilities.

It didn’t last, though. When Father Ramon Alvarez turned up, everything went pear-shaped.

T
he doorbell rang
after dinner. It was about seven o’clock, and the light was only just beginning to fade. Mum and I were in the kitchen, cleaning up.

‘I bet that’s the Mormons,’ Mum said with a sigh. ‘I saw a couple in Blacktown the other day.’

‘What if they’re looking for donations?’ I asked, as I headed out of the room.

‘Tell them we donate online,’ Mum called after me. I was still in a pretty good mood, thanks to Fergus. In fact I was in
such
a good mood that I practised my dance moves all the way to the front door – which I yanked open without checking through the peephole.

Imagine my surprise when I found myself staring at a Catholic priest.

I knew he was a priest because I’d recently watched
The Exorcist.
There are Catholic priests in that movie, and they all wear black robes and clerical collars like the guy who was standing on our welcome mat. I figured that he must be collecting for charity, so I was about to tell him that we always donate online when he murmured, ‘Are you Toby Vandevelde?’

My heart seemed to do a backflip.

‘I’m Father Ramon Alvarez,’ he continued, before gesturing at the man just behind him. ‘This is my friend Reuben Schneider. We were wondering if we could have a word with your mum?’

I raised my voice. ‘
Mum!
’

‘It’s very important or we wouldn’t have come here like this. We don’t want to annoy or frighten you.’ The priest certainly didn’t
look
frightening, with his soft brown eyes and worried expression. He had one of those creased, pouchy, unthreatening faces, topped by a dense thatch of silver-grey hair. He smelled faintly of flowers.

Reuben Schneider, on the other hand, had trouble written all over him. It wasn’t just his age (early twenties, by the look of it), or the fact that he was dressed in clothes that must have been borrowed from someone else (like his grey tweed jacket, for instance, which was too tight across the shoulders). No; what freaked me out was the way he stood with every muscle tensed, as if he wanted to lunge forward. There were other disturbing things about him too: the jagged scars on his neck and hands; his split lip and bandaged fingers; the fact that he’d smoothed back all his thick, wild, curly brown hair to make his appearance less alarming.

It didn’t work, though. I was alarmed.

‘
Mum!
’ I yelled again, retreating a step or two.

‘We’re really sorry to bother you at such a late hour,’ the priest murmured. He was already gazing over my shoulder at Mum, who was hurrying down the hallway towards us.

‘It’s that priest,’ I said, turning to address her. ‘The one from the hospital.’

‘Oh, I’m not from the hospital—’ Father Ramon began. Mum, however, wouldn’t let him finish.

‘What are you doing here?’ she shrilled. ‘How did you find us?’

‘Mrs Vandevelde.’ The priest spread his hands, as if to show her that he was unarmed. ‘Forgive me for intruding. I realise how irregular this must seem. But I didn’t know what else to do.’

‘
How did you find us?
’ she repeated.

After a moment’s hesitation, the priest replied, ‘To be honest, you’re the only Vandevelde in the phone book who lives anywhere near Featherdale Wildlife Park.’ He spoke so quietly and humbly that I almost felt sorry for him. ‘And when I called to ask about your son, you said ‘no comment’. Which made me think that you’d been dealing with the media at some point—’

‘That was
you
?’ Mum interrupted. ‘
You
made that call?’

‘Yes. I had to.’

‘And you wrote that letter? The one about Toby?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t have!’ Mum exclaimed. She kept trying to push me back into the house, but I wouldn’t let her. I had a firm grip on the doorknob. ‘You shouldn’t be leaving notes on teenagers’ beds! If there’s something you want to say about my son’s health, you should go through the official channels!’

‘What official channels?’ Reuben asked. He’d been watching me intently, his green eyes raking me up and down like a pair of laser beams. All at once they swivelled towards my mother. ‘You want us to go to the
police
?’

Mum didn’t answer him. She was still talking to Father Ramon.

‘If you’re a hospital chaplain,’ she said, ‘you should have spoken to Dr Passlow.’

Reuben gave a snort. The priest winced.

‘I’m not a hospital chaplain,’ he confessed. ‘I’m just a wellwisher. A concerned party. I’m genuinely worried about your son, Mrs Vandevelde.’

‘And so am I,’ Reuben cut in. ‘Because I think he’s got the same thing as me. I’m
sure
he’s got the same thing as me.’

But Mum wasn’t interested in Reuben. She was still trying to absorb what the priest had said.

‘You’re not from the hospital at
all
?’ she demanded.

‘No.’ By now Father Ramon’s hands were folded meekly in front of him. ‘I have a friend who works there as a volunteer, and she found out Toby’s name.’

‘Then you can leave right now,’ said Mum, her soft voice trembling with anger. ‘Get out of here or I’ll call the police.’

‘Please, Mrs Vandevelde—’

‘I’m not listening. How dare you? You’re just stickybeaks! I’m not interested in what you have to say!’

‘You will be,’ Reuben warned. He wasn’t looking at Mum, though. His hard stare had shifted back to me – and something about it was deeply disconcerting. ‘There are things you have to be told. For your own safety.’

‘Is that a
threat
?’ Mum cried.

‘No, no.’ Father Ramon unlocked his hands, flapping them about in a beseeching gesture. ‘We have information, that’s all.’

‘Well, I don’t want to hear it!’

Suddenly I glimpsed a small, bright object whizzing towards me. I caught it without thinking; my muscles moved automatically to intercept it.

It was a bunch of keys that Reuben had thrown.

‘
That’s
one of my symptoms,’ he pointed out. ‘Quick reflexes. Like you.’

There was a brief, stunned silence. Then Reuben added, ‘Does your hair grow really fast? Do you need a lot of haircuts?’

I don’t know if I can describe the peculiar, sinking sensation that I felt when he said this. Because the thing is, my hair does
grow fast. Mum’s always complaining about it. If I don’t have a haircut every two weeks, I look like a hippie.

‘
My
hair grows fast,’ Reuben continued. ‘I mean, you’d never believe I shaved this morning, would you?’ His fingers scraped across his scrubby jaw.

I was so shaken, I couldn’t even nod. It was Mum who spoke.

‘Get out!’ she snapped. Reuben promptly rounded on her, all bared teeth and flashing eyes.

‘Your son needs to hear
this!’ he barked.

‘Nonsense.’ She wasn’t even listening. She was in too much of a state. ‘I’ll count to three, and if you haven’t left by then, I’m calling the police.’

‘Mrs Vandevelde—’

‘One.’

‘You’ll regret it!’ said Reuben.

‘Two . . .’

‘Mum.’ I grabbed her arm. ‘He’s right.’

Talk about a bombshell. Even Reuben blinked. Poor Mum was so shocked that she just stood there with her mouth open, staring at me.

‘Don’t you think we should at least listen?’ I mumbled. ‘It might be important.’

‘It
is
important
.
’ Reuben was butting in again. ‘It’s genetic. Hormonal. How many brothers do you have?’

This time it was my turn to blink. ‘What?’

‘You’ve got six brothers, right? Six older brothers?’

I glanced at Mum, totally confounded. And she stepped up to the plate for me, declaring in a frigid tone, ‘My son is adopted, if that’s any of your business.’

Father Ramon clicked his tongue. ‘Ah,’ he said with a nod.

Reuben grimaced. ‘So you don’t even know how many brothers you have?’ he asked.

‘No.’ I was aware that there must have been a few, because my junkie biological mother had been such a useless parent that her kids had been taken away from her. But I’d never bothered to learn all the details. Why go looking for trouble? ‘I don’t care about my brothers.
Or
my sisters.’

‘Well, you should.’ The way Reuben talked, he and I could have been alone on a desert island. He didn’t seem to notice that Mum was about to blow her top. ‘If you’re number seven, then that pretty much clinches it,’ he briskly decided. ‘
I’m
number seven. And I’ve also got a Portuguese background.’

‘Uh – Reuben?’ the priest interposed. Unlike his friend, he was stealing anxious looks at my mother’s flushed cheeks and compressed lips. ‘Perhaps we should hold off until we have more privacy. This is hardly the appropriate spot.’

He jerked his chin at the scene behind him: the dusky sky, the glowing windows, the nearby houses. A few Miscallefs were playing football down the other end of the road. Mr Savvides was walking his dog.

‘Could we please step inside, Mrs Vandevelde?’ Father Ramon pleaded. ‘Just for ten minutes? So I can explain?’

Mum didn’t know what to do. She dithered on the doorstep, unable to make up her mind. Perhaps she was afraid that the whole thing was a scam – that Reuben was going to rob her, or something.

But I was keen to hear more about these so-called ‘symptoms’. How could quick reflexes possibly be a ‘symptom’? And who could have told Reuben about my hair?

‘All right. You can come in,’ I announced, tossing the keys back at him. His hand shot out abruptly, catching them without the slightest effort. He didn’t even
look
at the bloody things. ‘Just don’t expect me to believe you, that’s all,’ I added, stepping aside like a good host.

Reuben gave me the hairy eyeball as he passed. Father Ramon smiled gently. They both proceeded into the living room, stopping when they reached our sectional sofa.

Bringing up the rear, Mum whisked a pair of dirty socks off the carpet.

The priest didn’t sit down. I think he was waiting for an invitation. Reuben also remained standing, though not out of politeness; he just couldn’t keep still. His restless gaze flitted from our tv to our sideboard to our rocking chair. He paced like a caged animal, stopping here and there to finger a souvenir or study a family photograph.

When he picked up one of her Japanese dolls, Mum said sharply, ‘Please don’t touch that!’

Reuben immediately put it down again, flushing. I suddenly realised that he was younger than I’d thought.

‘I fidget a lot,’ he had to admit, before turning to me. ‘Do you fidget a lot?’

‘Uh . . .’

‘I’m not sure if that’s a symptom,’ he allowed. ‘But a good sense of smell
definitely
is. I bet you have a good sense of smell.’

He was bang on. I couldn’t believe it. My sense of smell is so damn good, it’s annoying. Everywhere I go, I’m assailed by the stench of mouldy drains, or burnt food, or dog shit, or really rank body odour. Other people hardly notice the stink, but to me it’s like being gas-bombed. I hate it. I hate being able to tell if someone’s eaten garlic within the past forty-eight hours.

‘Yes,’ I said hoarsely, as I lowered myself into the rocking chair. ‘I can smell anything.’

‘Me too. I can smell your conditioner from here. Coconut, right?’ Reuben gave a satisfied grunt when I nodded. ‘Thought so.’

I wanted to ask him how he knew all this. I tried to. For some reason, however, I couldn’t force the words through my constricted throat.

I think Mum saw how freaked I was, because she broke in harshly, glaring at Reuben. ‘Will you sit
down
, please? You’re making me nervous.’

Reuben sat down. So did Father Ramon. But Mum didn’t; she stood over them with her arms folded, looking quite fierce even though she was wearing fluffy slippers and a very old pink cardigan.

‘Well?’ she asked.

The two men exchanged glances. Then the priest took a deep breath. ‘Are you aware if Toby is of Spanish or Portuguese descent?’ he murmured.

There it was again. The Portuguese angle.

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Mum wanted to know.

‘I told you. It’s genetic.’ Reuben couldn’t seem to restrain himself. He seized control of the conversation, sitting on the edge of the sofa, his knees jiggling with suppressed impatience. ‘My mother had Portuguese blood, and I was her seventh son. This thing only happens to boys who are the seventh sons of women with Spanish or Portuguese backgrounds. So you tend to find it in South America.’

‘And the Philippines,’ Father Ramon interjected.

‘Yeah. That’s right. And Goa.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Mum was already lost. ‘What do you find in the Philippines? You’re not making sense.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said the priest. And he really did sound sorry. ‘It’s confusing, I know. What we’re referring to is a very rare condition that begins to affect certain boys at puberty. That’s not to say they don’t share a number of characteristics from birth—’

‘Like the hair and the reflexes,’ Reuben piped up.

‘Exactly. But acute symptoms only appear from the age of fourteen or so.’ Before Mum could even open her mouth, Father Ramon proceeded to describe these ‘acute symptoms’ in a careful and hesitant sort of way. ‘It’s basically a transformation,’ he murmured. ‘Once a month, for a single night, there’s a huge metabolic change that causes . . . um . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘I suppose you could call them behavioural problems.’