The Abused Werewolf Rescue Group

by Catherine Jinks

  I was skirting around this trolley when a car suddenly appeared at the other end of the lane. It was a big, sleek sedan that looked pretty wide from where I was standing. As it rolled towards me, I flattened myself against the nearest stretch of fence.

  But instead of passing by, the car braked when it drew level with me. One tinted window slowly descended, revealing two men in suits. The driver had a grey walrus moustache and the sort of dour, bloodhound face that’s all sagging jowls and drooping eyelids. The other man was clean-shaven, with a wide, square jaw and a scar on his upper lip. His curly black hair was neatly trimmed.

  I couldn’t tell how old he was, because of the suit. He was a whole lot younger than his partner, though.

  ‘Are you Toby Vandevelde?’ he asked.

  I gaped at him. My heart seemed to do a backflip.

  ‘Wh-what?’ I stammered at last.

  ‘Are you Toby Vandevelde?’ When I didn’t answer, the younger guy waved a plastic wallet at me. I caught a glimpse of the word ‘police’. ‘I’m Detective Constable Santos, and this is Detective Sergeant Green,’ he said. ‘Now – are you Toby Vandevelde or not?’

  For about half a second I toyed with the idea of giving him a false name. Then I decided against it. He already seemed to have made up his mind that I was Toby. Besides, I had a vague idea that giving the police a false name was something you could get arrested for.

  ‘Yeah, that’s me. So what?’ Though I spoke with as much attitude as I could muster, I was reeling inside, stunned that the police could have caught up with me already. Had Amin spilled the beans? Had he told them where I lived? Had he given them a description?

  ‘You’ve had a complaint of trespass made against you, Toby,’ Detective Constable Santos announced. He had a reedy, drawling voice and a glint in his eye; there was something about him that made me wonder if he was the kind of cop Fergus is always complaining about – the kind that likes to hassle the Duffys for no reason at all.

  ‘Trespass?’ I was confused. Wasn’t Nurragingy a public park?

  ‘By the owner of Featherdale,’ the detective constable explained. That’s when I finally understood.

  This wasn’t about the fire extinguisher. This was about the dingo pen.

  ‘We need to take you down to the station and call your mum,’ the younger detective continued. ‘I guess she’s at work, is she?’

  ‘Uh . . . yeah,’ I said.

  ‘There’s a procedure we gotta follow. But don’t worry – we can’t do any interviews unless your mum’s present.’ For some reason, Detective Constable Santos was doing all the talking. ‘Just hop in the back, okay? This won’t take long.’

  I was in such a state of shock that it took me a while to absorb his instructions. ‘You’re – you’re arresting me?’ I croaked at last.

  ‘Yeah, but that doesn’t mean we’ll be laying charges. Personally, I think this is a big waste of time.’ If the detective constable hoped to encourage me with his assurance, it didn’t work. I just gaped at him in horror. ‘Come on,’ he said impatiently. ‘We’re busy people, y’know – we’ve got real fugitives to track down.’

  Numbly I scrambled into the back of the car, which smelled of pizza and cigarette smoke. I was still trying to get things straight in my head, so I barely noticed as we emerged from the laneway.

  Arrested? It couldn’t be true.

  ‘Put on your seatbelt,’ Detective Constable Santos reminded me. Then he added, ‘You look like you’ve had a rough day, so far.’

  At first I didn’t know what he was talking about. Then I glanced down at myself and saw what a mess I was in, all covered in dirt and scratches.

  ‘I was . . . uh . . . I was just playing soccer,’ I said. ‘In the park.’

  ‘Soccer player, are ya?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Who were you with?’

  ‘Friends.’

  ‘What friends?’

  I swallowed. ‘Why do you wanna know?’ I asked. And the detective constable shrugged.

  ‘Why don’t you wanna tell me?’ he retorted. ‘I was just making conversation.’

  ‘Well – they’ve gone home now, anyway.’ I quickly changed the subject. ‘Which police station are we going to?’

  ‘Blacktown.’

  ‘Oh.’ I felt sick.

  ‘Do you know your mum’s work number?’ the detective constable went on. ‘It’s probably in our case file somewhere, but—’

  ‘Of course I know it!’

  ‘We won’t call her yet. It’s better to use a landline when you break bad news.’ He peered at me over the back of his seat. ‘If you’d both been at home, it would have been easier.’

  Suddenly a glimmer of light pierced the fog in my head. ‘Is that where you were going?’ I quavered. ‘To my house?’

  ‘Nup. We were on our way back from your house. And since we’ve got a description . . .’ He didn’t bother to finish. He didn’t need to. I remembered how Mum had reported me missing on Monday night; her description was probably still on file, somewhere.

  ‘It’s no big deal,’ Detective Constable Santos was saying. ‘Your mum’ll get a lawyer, and he’ll sort things out.’

  ‘But that other policeman – back at the hospital – he said it would all be okay!’ My heart was thudding so loudly that I could hardly hear myself speak. ‘He said no one could prove I did anything!’

  ‘Yeah, well. I think he’s right.’

  ‘And it wasn’t my fault! Something happened to me! The doctor thinks I had an epileptic fit!’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ Clearly, this was news to the detective constable. ‘What doctor is that?’

  ‘Didn’t anyone tell you?’ I demanded, clenching my fists. He immediately turned to his partner and asked, ‘Have you seen any medical reports?’

  The other detective shook his head.

  By this time we were in Blacktown, heading towards the mall and railway station. But we didn’t take the route I’d expected. Instead, Detective Sergeant Green swung his car down a backstreet that ran behind a whole row of shops. All I could see were skips and delivery bays and garage doors.

  ‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘Where are we going? This isn’t the way to the police station, is it?’

  ‘It’s the scenic route,’ Detective Constable Santos drawled. ‘We just gotta stop off at the Local Area Command.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The Local Area Command. It’s where my boss hangs out.’ He flashed me a kind of lazy smirk. ‘We can’t leave you here, so we’ve gotta take you inside. But we won’t be more’n ten minutes, don’t worry.’

  ‘I thought we were going to Blacktown police station?’

  ‘We are. When we’re finished here.’

  At that instant, Detective Sergeant Green spun the wheel. We bounced over a metal grille into a small, fenced-off area that was paved with cracked concrete. Someone had divided this space into half a dozen parking spots, using white painted lines; the space itself was sitting out the back of a low blue building that appeared to be empty, though it had once been occupied by a dvd rental outlet. On either side loomed the blank, windowless walls of two ugly brown office blocks, each about five or six storeys high.

  ‘It’s in there,’ said the detective constable, gesturing at the larger, browner office block. Then he fixed his little dark eyes on my face. ‘And the thing is, Toby, we’re gunna have to cuff ya. Before you get outta the car.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry, mate. It’s just that we’re not on police property.’ Seeing me blanch, he adopted a wheedling tone. ‘I mean, having this yard free is great, because the lac parking is rubbish. There’s never enough room. But it means we gotta go down the side there, into a public lane, and that means handcuffs. Isn’t that right, Link?’

  His partner gave a grunt.

  ‘There’s a fire door round the corner – we won’t be using the front steps,’ Detective Constable Santos continued. ‘No one’ll see you, I promise.’

  ‘In that
case, why do I have to put on handcuffs?’ It seemed like a reasonable enough question to me. The detective constable, however, didn’t think so.

  ‘Regulations,’ he said flatly.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Sooner we get ’em on, sooner we’ll get ’em off.’ He heaved himself out of the car and yanked open my door. ‘Just turn around and put your hands behind you. Thumbs together.’

  ‘Listen—’

  ‘Don’t piss me about, Toby, I’ve been up since five.’ He sounded crabby rather than threatening, but I did what I was told. I couldn’t help it. Resistance would have required a certain amount of willpower – and all my energy was being channelled towards not bursting into tears.

  That’s why I tried to concentrate on something other than the cold touch of metal around my wrists. That’s why I found myself staring between the front seats, directly at the dashboard. It looked like a perfectly normal dashboard.

  And I suddenly thought, Shouldn’t there be some kind of police radio?

  ‘Okay,’ said the detective constable, as his cuffs went click-click. Then he grabbed one of my arms. ‘Where is it?’ he inquired. But he wasn’t talking to me. His partner swivelled around, reaching up over the headrest to hand him something.

  It was a loaded syringe.

  Even now, I don’t like to think about what happened next. A moment like that is your very worst nightmare; nothing seems quite so bad to me anymore, because I lived through that moment. It’s hard to describe the panic. My heart leaped into my throat. My hair stood on end. For half a second, I forgot how to breathe.

  Then I threw myself towards the other door, kicking and yelling.

  ‘Shuddup!’ At last the older guy spoke. ‘Don’t move!’ He pointed a gun at me, shoving it between the two front seats.

  Do you know what it’s like to stare down the barrel of a gun? This particular gun wasn’t very big, but it was scary as hell. It looked like a Nazi’s gun, all sleek and black and businesslike. An automatic. My brain registered that it wasn’t a revolver – don’t ask me why. I couldn’t have cared less what kind of gun it was.

  ‘Ow!’ A jab in my arm made me jerk like a hooked fish. Distracted by the gun, I’d forgotten about Detective Constable Santos.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘All finished.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ As I kicked him in the ribs, he held on grimly. Then I felt the gun barrel against my scalp.

  ‘Don’t move,’ warned the other one. ‘If you move, you’ll get hurt.’ He had a flat, gravelly voice with an American accent.

  ‘You’re not police!’ I shrieked. ‘What do you want? Lemme go!’

  ‘Shh.’

  ‘Lemme go!’

  The younger one threw himself on top of me like a wrestler, knocking the air out of my lungs. He planted an elbow in the small of my back. Then he wriggled around, before somehow slamming the door shut behind him.

  ‘For Chrissake, Gary . . .’ said the other one.

  ‘I’m doing my best, okay?’

  ‘Someone’s gonna hear.’

  ‘He’s a bloody werewolf, Lincoln! It’s not that easy!’

  A werewolf?

  I stopped struggling. I couldn’t believe it. ‘Who are you?’ I wheezed, gasping under Gary’s weight. ‘How did you know about me?’

  ‘Jesus, can’t you shuddim up?’ the American growled. ‘You’re supposed to be the goddamn muscle in this operation.’

  ‘Just drive, then! If you’re so worried!’

  The American snorted. ‘Sure, I guess that’s one way to screw the whole deal,’ he said, with lumbering sarcasm. ‘Hit the lunchtime traffic before he’s gone under. Why not just wind down the windows while we’re at it?’

  ‘Did Reuben send you?’ I clutched at this possibility the way a drowning man might clutch at a lifebelt. If Reuben was involved, then it all made sense. It wasn’t so frightening. It was something I could talk my way out of . . . ‘Tell him there’s no need to do this!’ I squawked. ‘You don’t need to worry about me! I believed him, I swear! I was gunna take precautions!’

  But Gary didn’t seem interested. He was still talking to his partner. ‘I thought you said this wouldn’t take long?’ he complained.

  ‘It won’t,’ Lincoln retorted.

  ‘Are you listening? Are you Reuben’s friends?’ By now I was almost hysterical. I kept thinking, Reuben wants to lock me up! He’s scared I’ll kill someone! ‘I won’t tell the police, I promise! He convinced me last night! I was gunna ask him what to do!’

  Suddenly Gary pushed my head down, so that my face was half-buried in the grey upholstery.

  ‘You wanna know what to do?’ he spat. ‘You should shut your mouth, that’s what! Or I’ll shut it for ya!’

  ‘Nnn-mmmm-nnn . . .’ When I tried to speak, the words were muffled by layers of foam and viscose. Even I couldn’t understand what I was saying.

  I couldn’t breathe, either.

  ‘Don’t smother him,’ the American said sharply.

  ‘Do you want him quiet, or not?’

  ‘I want him quiet. I don’t want him dead.’

  You can imagine how relieved I was to hear that. And I was even more relieved when Gary shifted his grip, allowing me to raise my head and gulp down some air.

  But the extra oxygen didn’t seem to help a lot. I still felt dizzy and nauseous.

  ‘This isn’t fair,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Shuddup! Jeez!’ Gary slapped me on the ear. ‘Are you deaf? Don’t you understand English? Shut your mouth!’

  I shut my eyes instead. I had to. They wouldn’t stay open. ‘It’s not for weeks, yet,’ I whimpered. ‘Tell Reuben I was gunna call . . .’

  ‘Who’s Reuben?’ said Gary.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ the American replied. ‘Ask him.’

  ‘Who’s Reuben?’ Gary repeated, giving me a shake. Despite the chill that ran down my spine, I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t do anything. I was so sleepy . . .

  ‘Wait a minute.’ The last thing I heard was Lincoln’s measured rumble. ‘I know that name. There was a Reuben for sale here not long ago. Mr Darwell flew in to do the deal – nearly got himself arrested.’ After a brief pause, the American added, ‘Looks like we mighta scored us another prospect. Two for the price of one! I like that.’

  I didn’t. But before I could say so – before I could even think it all through – darkness descended.

  I passed out with a question half-formed on my tongue.

  I felt so bad when I woke up. My head was aching. My bladder was bursting. My stomach was heaving. And when I tried to open my eyes, the eyelids seemed to be stuck together. I had to peel them apart.

  ‘Aaugh . . .’ I groaned, wondering how I was going to move. If I didn’t move, I would almost certainly wet myself. But if I tried to get up, something awful was bound to happen. My brain would explode, or I’d regurgitate my own guts.

  What on earth was wrong with me?

  For a while I didn’t even have the strength to think about it. I just lay very still, wincing at every throb of pain. At last, however, sheer discomfort drove me to act. I had to piss. Nothing else mattered quite as much – not even the fact that I was all on my own, in a completely strange place.

  When I climbed to my feet, I thought I was going to pass out. I had to prop myself against a wall, clutching my head and swallowing my nausea. The wall was made of concrete, rough and grey and cold. The floor was made of concrete too. I had to shade my eyes from the glare of an overhead light as I squinted around, searching for a bathroom door – or at the very least, an empty bucket.

  I certainly didn’t expect to see a stainless-steel toilet sharing the room with me. In such a vast, empty space it looked a bit odd, not to mention grimly practical. Even as I staggered towards it, I wondered if I was in gaol. Because you don’t normally see beds and toilets sitting next to each other unless you’re in a prison cell or a furniture warehouse. And I was pretty damn sure this wasn’t a furniture warehouse.

  Us
ing the toilet helped me a bit. Once I’d taken a piss, the relief was so enormous that I was able to raise my head and study my surroundings. But what I saw made me feel sick all over again. I was in a windowless, circular dungeon. Apart from the toilet, this dungeon contained only a heater suspended high above me, a manacle chained to the floor, and a metal-frame bed with a mattress on it. One exit was blocked by a door made of painted steel, like a prison door. There was also a very tall barred gate, beyond which lay a long, dark, winding passage.

  I could tell that this was a subterranean passage – and not just because its walls were as rough and dusty as the walls of a mine shaft. The whole place smelled of damp soil. Somehow I could feel the earth’s weight bearing down on my head. And I also remembered what Reuben had said to me at Nurragingy: When I was your age, I was locked in an underground tank.

  The more I thought about it, the more certain I became. The room in which I stood was round, and made entirely of concrete. It had no windows. A power cable had been taped across the ceiling in a slapdash kind of way, suggesting that no one had wired the place up when it was first built. As for the door, it was well and truly locked. There wasn’t even a handle to turn. And after stumbling over to the gate, I discovered that it wouldn’t budge either. No matter how hard I shook it.

  I was locked in an underground tank. Just like Reuben.

  If I hadn’t been so unwell, I probably would have had a nervous breakdown at that point. But the thing about pain is: it’s very hard to ignore. Other worries tend to fade into the background when you’ve got a headache as toxic as mine was. I knew that something very, very bad had happened. I knew that I could probably expect a lot worse. Yet none of this seemed to matter much, compared to the sudden flare of pain that I experienced every time I turned my head or bent over.

  I was also distracted by a raging thirst, which was so intense that I caught myself wondering if I could drink out of the toilet. Let me tell you, it’s pretty alarming when you find yourself thinking something like that; I immediately made a huge effort to snap out of my daze, looking around for an alternative water source.

  Then I spotted a plastic water bottle beside the bed. It was like a sign from God. I pounced on the bottle and drained it, without even stopping to make sure that I was squirting water into my mouth instead of urine or methylated spirits. Luckily, that bottle was full of water. And after drinking my fill, I felt less seedy. My sore throat went away. My stomach settled a bit. I was able to focus my attention on the fact that I’d been knocked out. With a drug. By two guys who hadn’t been policemen after all.