So who were they really?
As my dull gaze drifted towards the underground passage, a bell tolled somewhere in the dim recesses of my brain. I remembered the name ‘Darwell’. Reuben had mentioned someone called Darwell, as had the two fake policemen. Did this mean that they were all part of the same plot?
I struggled to concentrate on my last, dim recollection of the kidnappers. They’d been asking me who Reuben was. They’d referred to a ‘Mr Darwell’. There was a Reuben for sale here not long ago, the American had said. Mr Darwell flew in to do the deal. But how did Mr Darwell fit into Reuben Schneider’s story? No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t dredge up the exact details. There had been some kind of illegal racket. Reuben had been forced to fight other werewolves – or so he claimed. And he had spoken of Mr Darwell in this context, along with someone else . . .
Suddenly I recalled another name: ‘McKinnon’. Reuben’s story was that the McKinnons had locked him up for five years. Had the McKinnons locked me up as well? Had I been kidnapped by the McKinnons?
It was all too confusing. I couldn’t think straight. And besides, I had a more urgent job to do. Before anything else, I had to get out.
I felt in my pocket, but my phone was gone – along with my keys, my watch and my wallet. Bastards, I thought, through a sickening spasm of pain. Bloody stinking bastards. My shoes were also missing; I couldn’t see them anywhere. I was still wearing my socks, though, and the rest of my wardrobe as well. No one had tried to strip me of all my layers.
I was just making sure that my T-shirts were all present and accounted for when I had a flash of inspiration. And if you’re wondering why I was dressed in more than one T-shirt . . . well, the truth is, I get embarrassed. I’ve told you that I’m skinny and that I wear baggy clothes. What I haven’t told you is that my arms are as puny as pipe-cleaners and that my chest is all narrow and knobbly. My hips stick out like a skeleton’s pelvis. My knees bulge like two beads on strings. I look as if I’ve been stretched on a rack, and I’m not happy about it.
That’s why I bulk up with extra T-shirts. That’s why I wear trackpants under my jeans, even in summer. It might get hot, but at least I don’t have people asking me how much I eat. Because I eat plenty, in case you’re interested. There’s nothing wrong with my appetite.
Mum says that I haven’t grown into my height yet. She says I’ll fill out when I get older. And while I certainly hope that’s true, I suppose it’s just as well that I was so underweight when the two fake policemen kidnapped me. If I hadn’t been swaddled in layers of fabric, they might have realised how thin I was. They might have worked out that I was spindly enough to squeeze through the bars of their cage.
They might have chained me to the floor instead of leaving me on the bed, unfettered.
Even from a distance, I could tell that I had a good chance of escaping. Though the bars were thick, they were also widely spaced; I figured that if I could just push my head between them, the rest would be a cinch. My only concern was what this might do to my ears. I was very concerned about my ears. They stick out a bit, and I didn’t want them torn or crushed. My headache was bad enough without the added burden of mangled ear cartilage.
I wasn’t worried about hidden cameras. To be honest, the thought of electronic surveillance never crossed my mind. It should have, of course. Checking for cameras should have been my first priority. But I wasn’t reasoning too well just then. In fact I didn’t even stop to consider what might happen once I was out of my cell. Right at that moment, I couldn’t see past step number one.
First I stripped down to my underpants. Then I pushed every other piece of clothing through the gate into the tunnel. At least I was thinking clearly enough to realise that I would need to put them back on again.
Then I forced myself through the bars, nearly ripping my head off in the process. It was an agonising experience, like being stuck in a vice. For one really bad moment, I thought I was going to be trapped there. My skull seemed to be wedged into the narrow space as tightly as a nut in a nutcracker.
But I managed to pull free at last, leaving some blood and hair behind me. As expected, my ears had taken the worst beating; they felt bruised and flattened. My headache hadn’t improved, either. Every time I bent down to pick up a T-shirt or a sock, the pain was so bad that I had to close my eyes. Getting dressed was awful. Just keeping my balance was a strain.
In the end, though, I found myself fully clothed, upright and more or less in one piece. The tunnel stretched out before me, disappearing into blackness. A disturbing smell wafted out of the shadows; I couldn’t identify its source, or why it seemed so alarming, but it raised the hairs on the back of my neck. All the same, I had to move forward. What else could I do? Turning back was out of the question.
So I advanced reluctantly, pressing against the wall as my vision adjusted to the fading light. Wires running along the roof of the tunnel were attached to a fuse box near the gate, but I wasn’t tempted to throw any switches. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Wearing socks, I was able to tread almost noiselessly over the rocky, uneven surface of the floor. Though I was pouring sweat – though my legs were shaking and my head was throbbing – I was able to ignore these symptoms, because fear does such a great job of concentrating your mind. I didn’t even hiss when I stubbed my toe. My only concern was getting out unnoticed. I was living from heartbeat to heartbeat.
Then I hit a fork in the tunnel. Another tunnel joined mine, after running on an almost parallel course. I was faced with an unwelcome choice: should I keep going in the same direction or not? I didn’t like the idea of doubling back down the parallel tunnel. On the other hand, there seemed to be very little light up ahead at the end of my tunnel – and I noticed that the converging tunnel led back towards a faint, golden glow.
After a moment’s thought, I opted for the darkness. At least in the darkness I couldn’t be seen. And I was much more afraid of being spotted by a fake policeman than I was of falling down a crevasse.
This has to lead somewhere, I decided, before continuing on my way.
Luckily, the tunnel didn’t wind around too many corners. It did swerve a bit, but not enough to block out every trace of light from the cell behind me. So I didn’t break my nose on the first obstacle that I encountered; I was able to see just well enough to pull up short before I ran straight into a metal hatch, which was bolted shut from the inside. For a few seconds I groped around, fingering the bolt and the hinges and the wire that ran from the latch through a hole in the ceiling. Then, very slowly and carefully, I drew the bolt, lifted the latch, and pushed the hatch open.
Needless to say, I didn’t want to announce my arrival. Instead of giving the hatch a huge, careless shove, I nudged it open just a crack, wincing at the squeak it made. Though I couldn’t hear any voices, I could smell fresh air. My heart leaped as I realised that I was peering through the hatchway at a large space drenched in moonlight.
I was out. I’d escaped from the underground tank.
You can imagine how relieved I was – at least for a moment. The night air immediately whisked away that rank, raw odour that had frightened me so much. A peppery bushland scent seemed to flood through my veins like a reviving drug. My headache vanished. My mood lifted. I pushed open the hatch a little further, admiring the emptiness of the roofless space beyond it. There was no one around! I had stumbled upon a large, rectangular pit under a starry sky. The pit was fully tiled and very deep. It’s an old pool, I thought, noting a drainage outlet in the floor. High above, the pool’s rim was edged with razor wire. I couldn’t see any steps.
And at that very instant, my hopes began to fade.
How could I possibly scale those sheer, slippery walls without the aid of some steps? No ladders or ropes were lying around at the bottom of the pool. Its pale tiles reflected so much moonlight that I could see at a glance every piece of rubbish that had collected near the drain: a stick, a beer can, a crumpled plastic wrapper. The shadows weren’t
dense enough to conceal anything as big as another hatch. There were no iron rungs hammered into the tiles.
Gazing up at the pool’s edge, I felt like a spider in a bath. Unless someone reached down to help me – unless a friendly face appeared overhead – I would never get out.
That’s why I went back inside. You might think I was brave, but I wasn’t. I didn’t have a choice; I had to find a ladder or another exit. And I had to do it quickly, before my kidnappers realised what was going on. I had to escape while the coast was clear.
Maybe these guys are all asleep, I pondered, having no idea what time it was. My watch had been stolen, so I couldn’t tell how long I’d been unconscious. If it was still before midnight, I might not have to rush. If it was nearly dawn, however, every second would count. I sensed that I might be out in the bush (it certainly smelled that way) and country people, I knew, often woke up early.
I didn’t want to retrace my steps. When I drew back into the tunnel, closing the hatch behind me, it was like climbing back into my own grave. I hated having to shut out all that wonderful light and air. Even though I’d decided that an open hatch might raise the alarm, I had to force myself to do the sensible thing. You probably won’t believe this, but my headache returned as soon as the latch clicked into place. I had to swallow again and again, to stop myself from throwing up. Every nerve in my body was screaming no!
But I had to ignore what my nerves were telling me. I had to set off towards the fork in the tunnel, teeth clenched and eyes peeled, hoping that I would stumble across a ladder, or a rope, or a cable – something, at any rate, that I could use in a daring escape attempt. When I reached the second tunnel, I nearly chickened out; advancing into unexplored territory took a lot more courage than I had, by that time. What if I was heading straight into the arms of the fake policemen? What if there were dogs or guns or instruments of torture at the end of the tunnel? For a minute or so I couldn’t even move. I just stood there sweating, with my heart in my mouth. It was so unfair. I didn’t deserve any of this. How come it had happened to me?
Finally, a voice in my head snarled, Get going, ya wuss – and I obeyed. Step by cautious step, I picked my way down the curving tunnel, which grew brighter and brighter. A soft radiance began to seep across the walls. Somewhere up ahead, I knew, an electric light must be burning. The question was: had it been left on in an empty space, or was someone actually using it?
I was so intent on what lay in store for me that I forgot to look down. I stopped paying attention to my own feet. And that was a fatal mistake, because I didn’t see the metal drum until I bumped into it. Crash! The noise was like an explosion; it seemed to ricochet off the walls. As I fell, the drum rolled away from me, making a hollow boom-boom-boom. I banged my knee and scraped my right hand.
A distant voice said, ‘Hello? Who’s there?’
I froze. I think my heart might have stopped beating. I certainly held my breath.
‘Hello?’ The voice was young and high-pitched. It didn’t belong to either of the fake policemen. ‘Is that you, Gary?’
Gary. I knew that name. Gary and Lincoln – my two kidnappers.
Very slowly and quietly, I pushed myself upright again. One of my knee-joints clicked.
‘Who is it?’ the voice entreated. ‘Say something!’
I couldn’t hear footsteps. Was no one going to come after me? I took a step backwards, wincing at the soft crunch it made as loose pebbles slid from under my heel.
‘Please! Help me! I’m trapped here!’ The voice cracked on a shrill note. Something rattled. ‘You gotta get me out! You gotta call the police! Don’t go! Wait! Help!’
This time, when I froze, it was because of shock – not fear. Help? Someone wanted help?
‘I’ve been kidnapped!’ the voice cried, sounding more and more desperate. ‘Are you there? Can you hear me? Who is that?’ Rattle, rattle. ‘Don’t be scared! I’m all alone! There’s no one else!’
Oh my God, I thought. It’s another kid! Just like me!
If I hadn’t clutched at the wall, I might have lost my balance.
‘Oh, please help me, please!’ the voice moaned. It was horrible to listen to. I wanted to cover my ears. ‘Don’t go . . . don’t leave me . . . I gotta get out . . .’
What could I do? What choice did I have? If you’d heard that despair – that hopeless misery – you wouldn’t have walked away either. You would have done exactly what I did; you would have taken a deep breath, licked your dry lips, and moved forward.
One step, two steps, three steps . . . after eight long strides, I found myself staring at a barred gate identical to the one I’d just squeezed through. Beyond it lay a concrete cell bathed in harsh electric light. This cell contained some standard-looking items, like the metal-frame bedstead and stainless-steel toilet, together with a scattering of more unfamiliar objects: an apple core, some sheets, a dirty plastic plate, a couple of dog-eared comic books. But I didn’t really notice these minor details at first. Because they couldn’t compete with the sight of a long-haired boy, about my age, who was clinging to the bars as if he needed their support.
Though shorter than me, he was wider, with a nuggetty frame and a big head (which might have looked bigger than it really was, owing to all the fuzzy blonde hair sprouting out of it in tightly coiled ringlets). He had huge pale eyes, a slightly flattened nose and almost invisible eyelashes; his clothes were grubby and his colour was bad.
Normally, I don’t know what Mum means when she says that someone’s colour is bad. I’ll take one look and think, What’s wrong with that colour? It’s not bright blue or orange. This time, however, even I could see that something was wrong. The face behind the bars had a kind of pasty, greenish cast to it. There were purple rings around the kid’s eyes and a yellowish bruise near his mouth, which fell open as I approached him.
For a second or two we just stood there, gaping at each other.
Then he burst into tears.
‘Help me!’ he sobbed. ‘Get me outta here, please!’
‘Yeah, all right . . .’ What else could I say? He was bawling like a baby. ‘Can’t you squeeze through the bars, then?’
‘No! Of course not!’ The gate rattled furiously. ‘D’you think I haven’t tried?’
‘Okay, okay. Calm down.’ I made a ‘shushing’ motion, because I was afraid that someone might hear him. Then I scanned the sides of the gate, looking for a latch or release button.
‘It’s padlocked,’ he informed me, pointing. ‘Up there . . .’
‘Oh.’ That was bad news. I could see the padlock and chain high above my head. The padlock was enormous. ‘Bummer.’
‘You can stand on the drum!’ he said shrilly. ‘That’s how they always do it!’
‘Who?’
‘Huh?’
‘Who are you talking about?’ I demanded. ‘Who did this?’
He stared at me as if I were insane.
‘Gary and Lincoln!’ he cried. ‘Who else?’
‘So they got you too?’
‘Of course they did!’ Rattle, rattle went the gate. ‘And they’ll come down if you don’t hurry up!’
‘Down from where? Where are we?’ I asked. But he wasn’t about to answer any more questions.
‘Just break the lock!’ he screeched, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. I glanced at the padlock doubtfully. ‘How am I supposed to do that? I’d need a big rock, or something . . .’
‘So find one! Quick!’
He was ordering me around – and I have to admit, I didn’t like it. That’s why I said, in a sulky sort of way, ‘There’s no point. We can’t get out through the tunnel – it leads straight into the bottom of an old pool.’
‘I know that! D’you think I don’t know that?’ His voice broke as he pressed against the bars. ‘I’ve been out there! I’ve seen it!’
I frowned. ‘Then—’
‘We can use the drum!’ he explained. ‘You can stand on the drum and I can stand on you—’
‘I’ll do that. Sure I will,’ he said tearfully. ‘If you can just get the gate open . . .’
We both raised our eyes to the padlock again. It looked awfully solid.
‘I don’t think I could lift the drum that high,’ was my doleful conclusion.
‘No, no! Don’t hit it with the drum!’ he pleaded, his teeth chattering with fear. ‘It would make too much noise! They’d hear you!’
‘Would they?’ My gaze followed his, towards the iron door in his cell. ‘Are they close by?’ I whispered.
‘Maybe.’
‘In the next room?’
‘Upstairs.’
‘Do they live upstairs, then?’
‘How should I know?’ he yelped. ‘It’s not like they let me use their toilet!’
‘Okay, okay . . .’
‘Just get me out of here!’
‘Shh! Okay!’ Unnerved by his mounting hysteria, I was tempted to beat a retreat. But since my only escape route led into the bottom of a swimming pool . . .
Suddenly I had a flash of inspiration.
‘Hang on – wait – I’ve got an idea,’ I said, turning.
‘No! Don’t go!’
‘Shh. I’ll be back.’
‘Don’t leave me here!’
‘I’m not! Okay? I’m just getting something.’
He didn’t believe me, though. I could hear him begging piteously as I raced back down the tunnel; it was pretty obvious that he was in a bad way. Any minute now, I felt sure, he would flip his lid and start screaming like a maniac. So I didn’t linger when I finally reached the pool. Without a moment’s hesitation I burst through the hatch, stumbled over to the drainage outlet, and snatched up the aluminium beer can that someone had left there. I didn’t even pause to check for unexpected noises or movements.
The Abused Werewolf Rescue Group Page 16