*You can keep it.' Mum folded her arms. *I don't want anything to do with it.'

*That's probably wise.'

*I'm just grateful we're leaving. What if this priest actually tries to visit Toby?' After hesitating a moment, she suddenly changed tack. *Do you know what rare condition he's referring to?' she asked, sounding a bit shamefaced. *I mean, do you think it's worth pursuing, or . . .?'

She trailed off weakly. Dr Passlow was tucking the letter safely back into its envelope, his eyes downcast. Without lifting his gaze he said, *It's impossible to know what this so-called "condition" might be, without more details.'

*Oh.'

*But what we have to do first is rule out all the obvious problems. Fretting about exotic diseases isn't going to help anyone.' He glanced up, smiling professionally. *For all we know, this blackout of Toby's might never be repeated. I don't want you panicking because ignorant people are poking their noses into your business. Father Alvarez might be a hospital chaplain, but he's going way beyond his remit. And I'll make sure it doesn't happen again.'

With this undertaking my mother had to be satisfied, because the doctor was a busy man. He couldn't hang around discussing my mysterious *condition' a" not while dozens of other patients were waiting for him. So after a few more words of advice, he proceeded into the next room, taking the priest's letter with him.

I remember feeling relieved. I remember thinking, That's one scary thing I don't have to worry about anymore.

God, I was stupid.

I t was just as I'd feared. While I was in hospital, Mum had *cleaned up' my bedroom, uncovering all kinds of sinister and suspicious objects. Her search for my Nintendo had become a contraband shakedown.

For some reason, the soda-can padlock shim hadn't rung any of her alarm bells. Neither had the really, really gross computer game lent to me by Fergus. But Mum isn't a complete fool. She knows a bit about chemical reactions. That's why my length of pipe, my bottle of vinegar and my little plastic bag full of baking soda were all lined up accusingly on the desk when I opened my bedroom door.

*That bicarbonate of soda gave me a real fright,' she admitted, before I could say anything. She was standing right behind me. *I thought it was cocaine for a minute.'

*Yeah. I figured you would.' This was a total lie, of course, but I was trying to brazen things out. *That's why I put it there. It was meant to be a joke.'

*Toby, I know perfectly well what happens when you mix vinegar and baking soda. Don't you remember that volcano we made when you were six?'

*No.'

*I suppose I should be grateful. When it comes to science experiments, you could be growing your own marijuana, or distilling your own alcohol.' She sighed into my ear. *So there's absolutely nothing you want to tell me about Monday night? Before we start all these medical tests?'

*No!' I snapped. (Why didn't she believe me?) As I marched forward to reclaim my room, she followed me in, fiddling and fidgeting. I'm used to that by now. I'm used to the way she can't pass my open door without darting across the threshold to pick up a sock, or shut the wardrobe, or adjust my curtains. She has to fix things the way some people have to smoke cigarettes.

This time, however, there wasn't much left to fix. She'd already cleared out all the dirty laundry and half-eaten sandwiches, so she had to be satisfied with smoothing down the curled edges of my Fred Astaire poster. Yes, that's right. I have a poster of Fred Astaire. So what? He was a good dancer a" though I prefer Gregory Hines. I'd like to see you doing what Fred Astaire used to do. I've tried it myself and it's impossible. Especially when you have to practise on a shag-pile carpet in a cluttered bedroom.

Maybe my moves would be better if I had access to a converted warehouse, with a whole wall of mirrors and a shiny wooden floor. But where am I going to find a converted warehouse? Unless I start taking proper lessons, of course, and the trouble with that is . . . well, you know what the trouble with that is. I mean, come on. Lessons? Surrounded by hundreds of little girls in tap shoes? No thanks . I'm not Billy Elliot, for God's sake. I'd rather be Dingo Boy than Twinkle Toes.

Besides, it's just a hobby. I enjoy it. I don't want to ruin it with a bunch of lessons. Maybe if there was some kind of B-boy workshop at the local community centre, I'd consider joining that a" though it would depend on who else was there. If the place was full of wannabe gangstas, with their fingers stuck out and their baseball caps turned back to front, then I wouldn't want to go. Deadheads like that are worse than little girls in tap shoes.

I guess I just prefer working things out on my own.

*Do you think Fergus might be involved?' said Mum, as I foraged in my schoolbag. *I realise you can't remember what happened, but do you think it's likely?'

*Fergus had nothing to do with it,' I retorted.

*How do you know? If you can't remembera"'

*I already asked him.' At last I found my phone. *I rang him up and he didn't know what I was talking about.'

Mum absorbed this for a moment. Then she said, *Are you sure he was telling the truth?'

I was draped across the bed at that point, scrolling through my messages as if everything was back to normal. I didn't want to discuss my mysterious blackout. I wanted to forget that it had ever happened. The whole subject was like a dark shadow, lurking just outside; I felt that if I even glanced its way, it would pour through my window and engulf me.

But I had to answer Mum's question. Otherwise she would have assumed that I didn't believe what Fergus had said.

*Oh yes,' I mumbled, lifting my gaze. *Fergus was telling the truth, all right.'

I have to admit, there was a slight wobble in my voice. Mum must have heard that a" or perhaps she saw a hint of panic in my expression a" because she gave me a long, grave, sympathetic look before leaning down to press my shoulder.

*It'll be all right,' she assured me. *You heard what the doctor said. Even if you do have epilepsy, it's an easy condition to manage these days. You can live a perfectly normal life.'

There it was again; that word. *Condition'. God, how I hated it.

*Anyway, we don't want to get ahead of ourselves,' Mum continued. *There's no use worrying before we have to.'

At that very instant, the kitchen phone rang. Mum immediately rushed off, crying, *I hope that's not the hospital!' So I never did get a chance to say, * You think I've got it, though, don't you?'

Because she did. I could tell. She was already bracing herself for the bad news a" and I couldn't really blame her. When you think about it, what's easier to cope with: drugs, epilepsy, kidnapping, or some weird rare disease?

I can understand why she picked epilepsy.

In the end, it wasn't the hospital calling. It was Fergus. He'd been trying to reach me all day; most of the text messages on my phone were his, and most of them were about the dingo pen. Fergus had lots of very dumb and far-fetched theories about my dingo-pen escapade, involving things like bikies and aliens and magnetic fields. That's why I didn't want to talk to him. I was having a hard enough time coming to terms with the whole epilepsy scenario. Discussing Satan worshippers or multiple personalities was way beyond my scope.

So I was pleased when Mum told Fergus that I couldn't speak to him. I was too tired, she said. Naturally, Fergus tried to call me on my mobile, but I turned it off. For the rest of the afternoon I played a really fast computer game, which called for lightning response times and didn't give me enough headspace to think about anything else.

Meanwhile, the calls kept coming. There were calls from Mum's friends, asking how I was. There was a call from the hospital to say that I could have an outpatient's appointment the next morning, because someone else had cancelled. There was even a call from a journalist a" or at least, that was what Mum thought. When she answered the phone, a voice said, * Mrs Vandevelde? ' And after Mum confirmed that she was Mrs Vandevelde, the voice asked, * Are you Toby's mother? '

Mum's immediate response was, *No comment.' She told me later that hanging up was a kind of reflex. It was only after she'd done it that she began to wish she hadn't. *What if it was someone who saw you the other night?' she fretted. *What if they were ringing to tell me what happened to you?'

I wondered about that myself. *Was it a kid?' I inquired.

*No. I don't think so.'

*Was it a man or a woman?'

*A man.'

*Oh well.' I shrugged. She was interrupting my computer game. *If they saw something weird, and they want to report it, they'll probably ring the police.' In an effort to change the subject, I added, *What's for dinner, Mum?'

Dinner was my favourite: Chinese takeaway. Afterwards I stayed up as long as I could, putting off the moment when I would finally have to climb under the sheets and stare at the revolving fan above my bed. When Mum caught me locking my bedroom window, she offered to bunk down beside me on an inflatable mattress. *Or you could sleep on the mattress yourself, in my room,' she said.

I turned her down. I didn't want her to know how scared I was. I didn't want to face up to it myself; in fact I was so determined not to look like a wimp that I refused to leave my bedroom door open, even a crack. When she suggested a nightlight, I scoffed at the idea. And when she started talking about homemade alarm systems a" things like wind chimes, squeaky toys or crunchy gravel arranged in front of every access point a" I poured scorn on the whole concept.

*Are you crazy?' I said. *Do you want this place to look like the Miscallefs'? Because I don't.'

I should probably explain that the Miscallefs, unlike most of the families on our street, live knee-deep in crap. There are always bikes, blades, shoes, car parts, dog bowls, fluffy toys and old barbecue grills scattered around their front yard. Now, don't get me wrong; I know that my own room is a real mess. And I also know that when you have a lot of kids, it's hard to keep things clean. But every time I pass that house in someone else's company, it always gets the same reaction. Mum's friends always say something like, *What are the unemployment figures in this area?' And my friends say something like, *There's a kid who lives around here, and he's got four different fathers, and they're all fighting over which one's his real dad.'

It's not fair, because the Miscallefs are okay. I like them. They're friendly. But that whole junkyard look is the kiss of death in this part of town. You should hear Mr Grisdale talk about the Miscallefs! Grisdale is a grumpy old bastard who lives three doors down from us. He yells at every kid who even pauses outside his front gate, so it's not as if anybody pays much attention when he calls the Miscallefs *trash' and *scum' and *bludgers'. The thing is, though, he isn't the only one. I've heard Mrs Savvides badmouthing the Miscallefs, too. And Mrs Savvides is a nice person; she feeds the birds and sends us a card at Christmas. But she's really mean about the Miscallefs. She says they live like pigs, let their kids run wild, and stink up the whole street because they're always forgetting to put out their rubbish for collection. *People like that,' she says, *shouldn't be allowed to have kids.'

I swear to God, I must have heard this a million times a" and not just from Mrs Savvides. The guy on the corner, the retired couple across the street, and the new people at the end of the block have all said the same thing. There's only one poor soul who cops it even worse than the Miscallefs, and that's the alcoholic living behind us. I don't know her name. I've never actually seen her, since she hardly ever goes out. But her house is messy too. So even though she's as quiet as a mouse, the whole neighbourhood is constantly moaning about her. Just because she doesn't tidy up.

Is it any wonder that I didn't want to leave squeaky toys scattered around? If you do something like that where I live, your neighbours will start telling each other that you're growing marijuana in the garage.

Maybe Mum realised this, because she soon shut up about the homemade security system. She didn't leave any lights on, either. But she did shut all the windows, even though it was a really warm night. Maybe that's why she didn't sleep very well. In fact it was lucky that I had a clinic appointment the next day, otherwise poor Mum might have had to go to work feeling totally trashed.

However, I'm getting ahead of myself. First I should tell you about my night, which was much better than I'd anticipated. I was scared that I'd lie awake for hours, jumping at every noise, and that when I finally did fall asleep I would be tormented by horrible nightmares. The funny thing is, though, that I was fine. Having dropped off the instant my head hit the pillow, I plunged into a dreamless stupor, hardly stirring until Mum shook me into consciousness at around 9.00 am.

Then I climbed out of bed, ate breakfast, cleaned my teeth, and went to the neurological outpatient's clinic.

I'll spare you the details of my visit. Let's just say I spent a long time sitting on a hard chair in a lemon-scented waiting room, playing with my Nintendo and trying not to look at some of the other patients, who were . . . well, in a bad way, quite frankly. You don't want to know what some poor people have to live with. I didn't want to know, that's for sure. So I kept my head down until the doctors decided that they were ready to stick electrodes all over it.

Actually, the eeg was pretty cool. I was hooked up to a computer and given things to look at, so that the doctors could map my brain's electrical activity. It was like being a lab rat or a science-fiction hero. (* You think you can outsmart us, Consumer Unit 2792, but we are able to see what you are thinking . . .') Fergus would have loved it. So would Amin. I guess I would have loved it too, if I hadn't been so worried about the results. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't forget that all this whiz-bang technology was being used to search for a nasty, lurking, terrible thing a" like sniffer dogs tracking down a corpse. I was so worried, in fact, that I kept expecting someone to notice. I was sure that my worry would show up on the brain scans.

But nobody said a single word about my eeg. Not then, anyway. I was supposed to wait for the results, which Dr Passlow would explain to me during my next appointment with him. So after all that fuss, I emerged from the clinic still not knowing if I had epilepsy or not.

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.'

*Buta"'

*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?'