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  237 days to go …

  I was back in Dr Snudgeglasser’s office, staring at the row of cactus plants again.

  ‘How are you feeling this afternoon?’ he asked.

  ‘Pretty good,’ I said, sighing. ‘A little more like myself.’

  Dr Snudgeglasser looked very pleased. ‘That’s good, Ben.’

  He passed me the passport, the school bus pass and the birth certificate. ‘Please don’t reject these. Make sure you put them somewhere safe—there are some strange people in here.’ He laughed at his little joke. ‘Now the next thing to consider, now that you’re becoming more reasonable, is the other documents you’re holding. The papers that Mr Sligo requires. You’ve been here over a week now. Perhaps you are more inclined to hand them in?’

  ‘I haven’t got them any more,’ I said. ‘I did have them with me, but my place was broken into and they were stolen. Right now, I don’t know where they are. Sounds like a sketchy story, but it’s the absolute rock-solid truth.’

  Dr Snudgeglasser sighed and drew back, picking up a pen and fiddling with it. ‘I can see this is going to be a long, drawn-out process, Ben.’

  ‘Why don’t you let me out of here,’ I suggested, ‘so that I can go after the documents? I have an idea where they might be. I can’t hand them over if I don’t know where they are.’

  Dr Snudgeglasser picked up an envelope from his desk, took a letter out, unfolded it and then looked over the top of it at me. His glasses glinted in the afternoon light.

  ‘It’s not possible to let you out just yet. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell you this, but I’ve realised there is no point in mystifying you. You seem to think that you’ve been locked up here for no real reason. Ben, that doesn’t happen at Leechwood. This is the twenty-first century—and this is a best-practice, modern therapeutic centre, and not some Gothic prison in a horror story. Here’s something else you need to read and accept.’

  ‘You see, Ben. It’s not just Mr Vulkan Sligo who is concerned about you. You’ve been referred to me by one of the greatest physicians in the country. Dr Manfred Oppenheimer is the leader in this field, Ben. So why don’t you do what he suggests? Do you really think that there is some sort of complex conspiracy to keep you here?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I am saying! I don’t know about this Dr Manfred Oppenheimer—I’ve never heard of him! That letter could have been written about somebody else and Ben’s name written in later. The whole thing could be a forgery, just like all the “Ben Galloway” IDs with my photo on them. Sligo could have paid the doctor to write it! Or threatened him to write it! He’s the one who tried to kill me—he’s the one who’s violent!’

  Dr Snudgeglasser took his glasses off, frowned, polished them and put them back on his nose. I realised instantly I’d made a mistake again by denying that I was Ben Galloway.

  ‘Right,’ he sighed patiently. ‘I’m getting the feeling you’ve been very dishonest with me. I’m getting the impression that you’re pretending to be Ben Galloway to please me. It often happens between therapists and their patients.’

  I sprawled back hopelessly in the chair, floored by the impossibility of my situation. If I said I was Cal Ormond, I was delusional. If I admitted to being Ben Galloway, Dr Snudgeglasser would think I was only saying that to please him.

  I took a deep breath and began backtracking.

  ‘I didn’t mean to give that impression. It’s just … it’s very confusing coming out of all this denial and delusion. I know I am Ben Galloway,’ I lied. ‘And Redmond Galloway was my father.’

  I decided to stretch the act a little further. I leaned my elbows on the desk and let my head fall into one of my hands.

  ‘Everything that’s happened has been so hard,’ I sighed, letting my eyes glaze over. ‘My dad dying,’ I said quietly, looking down, ‘was the toughest thing. Old Red. I miss him so much. He meant the world to me. He was like a best friend. Sometimes it all hurts so bad that I don’t want to be me any more.’

  I suddenly felt my eyes stinging with real tears, but I fought them back. Perhaps I wasn’t putting on such an act after all.

  Dr Snudgeglasser leaned forward and tapped the ID. ‘Thank you for opening up, Benjamin,’ he said quite sincerely. ‘I do understand your confusion, and your loss. And I’m here to support you, not to cause you further suffering.’

  He relaxed back in his chair, swivelling it a little from side to side, frowning as he looked at me from under his bushy eyebrows.

  ‘Ben,’ he said quite gently, ‘you must give your late father’s papers to Mr Sligo.’

  ‘I feel really bad about that,’ I said, ‘but I already told you, I don’t have them. I honestly don’t have them. They were stolen from me.’

  ‘Stolen?’

  ‘Yes, stolen.’

  It was the one honest thing I was saying, and yet on hearing this, Dr Snudgeglasser already seemed to have lost the kindness from a moment ago and returned to his former suspicious self.

  ‘Ben, this will not help you. You must realise your position. This resistance is not helping your case at all.’

  ‘I’m telling the truth. They were stolen.’

  Dr Snudgeglasser looked frustrated and disappointed, perhaps in himself for thinking that ‘Ben Galloway’ was finally coming around.

  ‘OK,’ he said, resolved to the fact that I was a liar.

  My effort had achieved absolutely nothing. I stood up and pushed my chair away.

  ‘You can’t just keep me here as if I’m a prisoner. I want out of here! Why don’t you call Dr Oppenheimer? He’ll tell you he’s never even met me!’

  ‘I see,’ Dr Snudgeglasser replied. ‘You are suggesting that we’re all involved in the conspiracy, eh? To harm you?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve already checked with Dr Oppenheimer. I called him when you first arrived. It’s part of my job to talk to the other physicians who have tried to help you. We’re all trying to help you. And Manfred confirmed exactly what his letter says.’

  It was hopeless. Sligo had every base covered.

  ‘And don’t think violence is going to get you anywhere,’ he added. ‘You know I have this emergency button right here that means the orderlies can be on you in seconds.’

  ‘I’m not interested in hurting anyone,’ I said. ‘And there’s nothing wrong with me. I just need to get out of here.’

  ‘First, you concocted this fantastic story of being a runaway like that celebrity fugitive. You tried running away from the truth and seized that boy’s story as a sort of cover—an emotional cover for your own story, which you still can’t face. Ben, do you think that by holding on to the documents you’re keeping your father alive in some way? That while you hold on to the documents, you hold on to your father too?’

  It was strange how the doctor’s words, which were meant for Ben Galloway, had so much meaning for me. I thought of all the hopes I’d pinned on the documents I’d been protecting. The pursuit of the truth about the DMO—the Dangerous Mystery of the Ormonds—had been keeping Dad alive in my mind. I didn’t want to let that go. Ever.

  ‘Your dad’s gone,’ he continued. ‘He’s dead. No documents are going to bring him back to you, and the sooner you realise that, the sooner you will get out of here.’

  His words cut deeply. A fire rose inside me. I lurched at him over the desk.

  Dr Snudgeglasser slammed the emergency button down, and kicked his chair away from me.

  Within seconds, the door opened and the huge orderly with a shaven skull—Musclehead—came into the room and grabbed me.

  ‘I think you’re going to be with us for quite some time, Ben,’ said the doctor, standing up and straightening his jacket. ‘Please take Mr Galloway back to his room,’ he said to the orderly.

  ‘Any medication, Doctor?’ asked Musclehead.

  Dr Snudgeglasser looked at me. ‘You’ll behave yourself, won’t you, Ben?’

  Musclehead put a heavy hand on my shoulder and steered me out of the room. He reminded me of a ge
nie out of a bottle—all shoulders and upper body—huge—draped in hospital greens, with a prickly, shorn head and scowling face.

  ‘Get a move on,’ he said, giving me a shove in the corridor.

  I’d really messed things up again, and didn’t know whether I’d be able to recover Dr Snudgeglasser’s trust. I had to try to get out. Halfway down the hall was the stairwell up to the first floor where my room was. From that point, I gauged the distance to the double doors to be about twenty-five metres. A plan was starting to take shape in my mind.

  I walked along, all calm and docile, with Musclehead’s hand heavy on my shoulder, until we were almost at the bottom of the staircase. But instead of taking the first step, I wrenched myself away from his hand with a spinning sideways jump, and took off, running as fast as I could along the slippery vinyl, heading for the double doors at the end of the corridor. I had taken the orderly completely by surprise.

  ‘Stop that patient!’ I heard him yell. ‘Staff emergency! Dangerous patient on the loose!’

  I pounded along the corridor, barrelling past the curious staff members who had stepped out of their offices. A couple of them tried to grab me but I wrenched myself free. I ducked another orderly who suddenly appeared through the double doors and tried to seize me. But I pushed him away, throwing him off balance, and then I rocketed away past him.

  I was almost at the double doors! Behind me I could hear the pounding of several staff members and by now a siren was blaring and red lights along the corridor ceiling were flashing.

  I reached the doors and threw myself against them.

  They opened! I was outside!

  I leaped down the stairs and took off along the garden path that I’d noticed from my window. I knew this led to the main entrance, as I’d seen visitors entering and leaving the site through it. I hammered along the cement path, head down, legs pumping. The blaring sound of the alarm fuelled my adrenaline surge, adding speed and recklessness to my race. Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the male nurses appear and try to crash-tackle me, but that just gave me an extra burst of speed. He grunted as he missed me and hit the deck, swearing.

  I raced around a curve in the path, and ahead of me I saw the dark-green iron gates—solid iron with spikes along the top—but supported on either side by stone pillars.

  Behind me, my pursuers were gaining ground. I threw myself at the gap between the gates and one of the pillars, my scrabbling fingers finding a handhold on the top hinges, while my bare feet clawed a foothold on the stone. I heaved myself forward and up, grasping the top of the pillar.

  I had done it! I gave a shriek of triumph!

  I barely noticed that I’d grazed my shins as I hauled myself up and over, dropping to the ground on the other side of Leechwood Lodge.

  I took off down the road. I didn’t care where I was going—I didn’t know where I was going! But I was out of there! I’d contact Boges, do whatever I had to do to get back the drawings and the Riddle, and then get the heck out of the city and on to my great-uncle at Mount Helicon.

  I kept running and running, head down, arms pumping.

  The screeching brakes of the vehicle were the first I heard of its approach. The van pulled up beside me, jumped the footpath and slewed sideways, so that I nearly crashed into it. I almost screamed with frustration!

  Musclehead and another orderly jumped out. I tried running around the back of the van, but they pounced on me, pinning me on both sides, slamming me hard against the side of the vehicle.

  Musclehead twisted my right arm painfully behind me.

  ‘Nice try, sunshine,’ he hissed into my ear. ‘Move and I’ll break your arm!’

  232 days to go …

  They kept me in the straitjacket for two long, painful days after my escape attempt. My plan had really backfired—I was now in a worse position—hemmed in by even more security.

  The little birds outside had gone and the little mud nest had broken up and fallen away as if it had never even been there. Every morning, Vernon yelled his threats from down the hallway and I had nothing to do except try to ignore the noise and think about how I could get out. I had to change tactics.

  Every day, my enemies might be getting closer to working out the meaning of the Ormond Riddle or interpreting Dad’s drawings. A criminal lawyer like Oriana de la Force could have experts from anywhere in the world—code breakers and cryptographers. Right now they might be working on it, coming to grips with it, deciphering what the drawings and the Riddle meant. I felt an urgency that was close to panic—and I couldn’t keep still.

  I had to come up with a plan.

  231 days to go …

  When my breakfast tray arrived, I called out. It was a new nurse, a woman over six feet tall, who put her head around the door. The blue eyes and floaty blonde hair didn’t fool me—I could see the steely hardness in her face. She looked tough, like the sumo wrestler’s sister, only slimmer.

  ‘Call me Gilda,’ she said, in a most unwelcoming voice.

  ‘I want to see the doctor,’ I said. I needed to get out of this cell I was locked up in.

  ‘All in good time,’ Gilda said. ‘You’re allowed half an hour in the recreation room after lunch today. Dr Snudgeglasser hopes you’ll stop this attention-seeking behaviour and do what is required, so don’t mess up,’ she warned. ‘Things could always get much tougher for you.’

  She left and locked the door again. I thought about the threat involved in her words. I had never been seeking the attention I’d attracted.

  After I’d eaten breakfast, I stared out the window through the bars, pulling my hoodie up around my ears because of the chill in the air. I saw other patients in the garden and I could hear the sound of distant traffic. I had to get out—but not just into the recreation room, out of this asylum.

  Gilda collected me from my room. With an iron grip on my upper arm, she steered me downstairs.

  ‘You see, Ben, it can be quite pleasant here—as long as you have certain privileges. TV, phone calls, even special treats like your favourite food. It’s more like a hotel, for people who cooperate. Dr Snudgeglasser hopes you will cooperate. And so do I.’

  This technique reminded me of Boges’s earlier warning about good cop, bad cop. Was this an attempt to soften me up with alternating threats and bribes?

  I walked with her into the recreation room. ‘Take a seat,’ she said before leaving, locking the door behind her.

  The room was long and wide, with a few plastic tables and chairs, a TV, tattered board games and domino boxes, and some square floor cushions. A few patients were scattered around, busy with their own company, it seemed—none of them stirred as I passed by. I sat myself down by a table at the end of the room, under the windows. I noticed they were all locked, barred, and open only four or five centimetres at the top. They had what looked like silver security tape running around the edge of each pane of glass, holding wiring in place.

  Cigarette burns dotted the table tops, and the scent of a eucalyptus-based disinfectant on the newly mopped floors hung in the air. I turned around as somebody else plopped down behind me.

  ‘You’re new,’ he said, as I studied him. He was a pale, plump guy, with white eyelashes and strange eyes that seemed to look straight through me. He was a bit like a big baby, with a bald head and chubby cheeks.

  Before I could say anything back to him, he scooted his chair closer to me, leaned in and whispered, ‘They replaced my mother, you know.’

  Was this Vernon, the guy Dr Snudgeglasser had talked about? The guy whose screams and threats thudded down the hallway on a daily basis? I frowned, puzzled, as he continued.

  ‘She looked like my mother and she acted like my mother, but I knew the truth. It wasn’t her. My real mother was imprisoned inside and I had to try and get her out.’

  ‘And did you?’ I asked, unsure of where this conversation was going.

  He looked away, ignoring my question.

  ‘Then they replaced my brother,’ he began agai
n. He nodded slowly. ‘That’s what they do. They replace people. Someone looks exactly like they used to, except they’re not that person any more. You can see it in their eyes—they’re not quite the same as they were before.’

  I had no idea what to say, so I just listened to him.

  ‘Dr Snudgeglasser. He’s one of them—one of the replaced ones. I’m going to have to deal with it. His eyes are definitely different now.’

  Something in his words made me very uneasy. This guy seemed quite clearly crazy, but I couldn’t help thinking about what he was saying. It was too close to what had happened with my real identity being replaced with that of Ben Galloway.

  Reality seemed to waver around me for a second as if it were nothing but a painted backdrop for a play. I looked around the place I was in. Was I going crazy? Was I in the right place? Had I been ‘replaced’ too?

  Behind us, one of the patients suddenly turned up the TV to full volume. We both twisted around to see what was going on. He stood nearby clapping, while a few of the others in the room covered their ears, moaning.

  I caught a glimpse of some football match highlights, before a glamorous newsreader’s face filled the screen. I watched in disbelief as Uncle Rafe’s house, with an ambulance in front of it, appeared on the screen. My jaw dropped. The newsreader’s voice blared through the room.

  ‘Police and paramedics were called to a Dolphin Point home earlier today where Mrs Winifred Ormond, the mother of the teenage fugitive, Cal Ormond, appears to have been the victim of a savage assault. Mrs Ormond was rushed to hospital after an incident involving an attempted burglary at the house she is currently residing in, believed to be shared with a relative. At this stage, police are unsure as to whether this incident is related to her son or not, but they cannot rule it out.’