Even though his house had been tidied up, Brendan decided he wouldn’t stay there. The mad doctor only lived a few blocks away. An hour at home to pack a bag and then he was out of there—down to Albury to hang with his folks for a week. The school would have to suck it up and get a relief teacher for his class. Postpone his parent–teacher interviews. Shit, he still hadn’t reported Fox’s absence all week. Now he’d have to ring Kathleen at the front office on Monday and it would become a big deal. Why hadn’t he said something last Tuesday or Wednesday?

Originally, the nurses had wanted to discharge him tonight but Brendan argued that his head hurt too much. He didn’t want to be in the same area as that man. And he didn’t want to see the police out searching for that little girl.

‘What time can I pick you up in the morning?’ Claire asked.

‘Dunno.’ Brendan yawned; the drugs were kicking in. ‘Maybe around ten? I’ll text you.’

After Claire had kissed him and left, Brendan checked out the other patients in the ward. Two old guys in their fifties and two in their thirties or forties. Nurses and dinner ladies were coming and going. Would he be safe here? He’d finally read the paper while waiting to be stitched up. That nutso doctor worked in this very hospital. He wasn’t supposed to come near Brendan because of the temporary protection order, but that guy was crazy. The look in the man’s eyes when he’d asked for the shed key … Brendan had thought he’d be beaten to a pulp if he didn’t hand it over.

The snowboarding gang would all be impressed with the scar. Most of them had broken arms, collarbones and ankles from snowboarding or their other extreme sports. Brendan was more careful. He’d never broken a bone. Not even his little finger.

As his eyes closed and he started to drift off, Brendan could hear the roar of the crowd at a footy match. One of the other patients had his TV turned up too loud. Was it the same old fart who’d ogled Claire as she had perched on the bed next to him?

The noise of the roaring crowd was replaced by a TV commercial, blaring out even louder than the game. An ad for Dominos’ Pizza. God, he could do with a pizza. That hospital dinner of unidentifiable meat drowning in gravy hadn’t hit the spot. Normally he hung out with the lads after the game and they had a steak at the Kingo. Where were his rugby boots? Brendan couldn’t remember. The painkillers were fogging up his brain—but they hadn’t made him forget the photos in yesterday’s paper.

That crazy father—what would he do if he found out?

SUNDAY

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