***
I notice the smell first. I could be back at Wildthorn—that unmistakable smell of unwashed bodies in an airless room. There's another smell that's also familiar, but I can't identify it.
It's hard to make anything out, the window is so caked with grime. When my eyes adjust to the dimness, I find I'm in a cramped room whose walls and sloping ceiling are black with soot and dirt. There's little furniture: a rickety table and a wooden chair; a small cupboard, where candle stubs sit in a pool of hardened wax. Near the window is what I take to be a heap of rags, but then it shifts and sighs.
As I kneel by the makeshift bed, a quiver of shock runs through me.
Tom's eyes are shut, he's breathing heavily. His face is thinner than when I last saw him—almost gaunt. He's unshaven and his skin has an unhealthy yellow tinge. That smell I couldn't place is stronger here, and I now know what it is—opium.
Choking back a cry, I force myself to remain calm.
Oblivious to his squalid surroundings, and the wretched state he's in, Tom smiles, as if he's having a wonderful dream.
I sit back on my heels and watch my brother sleeping, a sick feeling in my throat. How could he have let himself sink so low?
After a while his eyelids flicker and open.
His gaze focuses on me and at once, he starts up from the bed, a look of horror on his face, and cries, "Don't come near me! Stay away!"
Shivering, he presses himself against the wall, hiding his face in his arms.
Alarmed, I say, tentatively, "Tom?"
Keeping his face buried, he exclaims, "I didn't mean to do it! Don't hurt me!"
I lay my hand on his shoulder. "Tom, it's me ... Lou."
As if my touch has woken him properly, he lifts his head, blinking, and a look of astonishment fills his face. "Lou, is it really you? Here?"
"Yes."
"But I thought..." He shakes his head, as if he's trying to clear it. "Just now I thought ... I thought you were a ghost, come to get revenge." He shudders.
"No, Tom, I'm not a ghost," I say dryly.
His face creases with perplexity. "But I don't understand. How is it that you're here and not in the asylum?"
"No thanks to you!" As if the word "asylum" has triggered it, the anger I have buried rises into my throat, its bitter taste threatening to choke me. "Tom, how could you do it? Let me be sent to that dreadful place? You read my letter to Mamma, you knew what it was like ... How could you be so wicked?"
Struggling for control, I glare at him. Then I add quietly, "And just for a measly allowance ... I know about it, Tom. Aunt Phyllis told me."
He hangs his head, says nothing.
"Tom?"
I can hardly hear him. "It wasn't just for the allowance. I wouldn't do that to you, Lou."
"What then?"
"I thought—I thought, if you were certified mad, I'd get your inheritance!"
His face crumples and he cries out, "Oh, Lou, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done it, I know I shouldn't. It was a terrible thing to do to you. But I was desperate."
He collapses into sobs, his shoulders heaving.
I'm stunned. The inheritance. Of course. That makes more sense. Opium is expensive. And I wonder if he's still gambling. All that money he had from Grandfather and Papa, just thrown away...
I look at him, my brother.
He's always patronised me. At times in my life, he's infuriated me. And he's just admitted to the cruellest thing a brother could do to his sister.
This is the moment to say, Yes, it was a terrible thing and I'll never forgive you and I'm glad you're suffering!
When we were children, I wouldn't have hesitated. But I do now. I'm trying to hold on to my anger, but I can feel it slipping away, and something else taking its place, something that feels like pity. I wanted him to be punished for what he did to me, but nothing I could imagine was as bad as this.
Would it make me feel better to hurt him further?
An image of Papa comes into my head. Not saying anything. Just watching. Waiting for my reaction...
And I say, "Never mind that now. I'm here, as you see, safe and sound." He raises his wet face.
"Mamma's really worried about you, did you know?"
He groans, pushing his hands through his hair so it sticks up even more. "I know, I know. I should have written, but..."
"I'm surprised you didn't. Since you could obviously do with some more money." I can't resist that jibe.
At least he has the grace to look ashamed.
What am I going to do? I can't possibly take him home in this state, even if he'd come. It would break Mamma's heart. I will have to think of something.
"Listen, Tom. I'm going now, but I'll look in again in the morning. If I send out for some food, will you try to eat?"
He looks at me despairingly. "I haven't any money."
"I have some." Safe in my waistband again, thanks to Mamma.
His face brightens. "Can you lend me some?"
"No."
He looks crestfallen.
"Tom, you know it's no good. If I give you money, you'll only waste it."
He looks at me imploringly, but I harden my heart. "I'll see you tomorrow."