complicated and confusing, disappearing in different directions. Just the thought of it makes me short of breath.
‘How did you find me?’ I ask. I want you to say that my father gave the address to you on a slip of paper and told you to be my brother, but I know you won’t.
You laugh. It is your happy laugh, not your sad one. I am better at voices than I am at faces. I understand you better when I close my eyes and block out the pictures, because picturesconfuse me. I listen now with eyes shut tight and can hear that you are pleased with yourself.
‘It wasn’t so hard,’ you chuckle. ‘I am more devious than your sister. I waited year after year, until Pa trusted me completely.’
Your voice comes closer. You must be stretching towards me. I shuffle backwards a fraction on the bed.
‘I showed no interest in you, Georgie, or in your whereabouts.
Georgie who?
That was my attitude. Your name never passed my lips with our parents, even though when I was little I was sleeping in your bed, wearing your clothes, and reading your books.’
My books
. That hurt. Why should that hurt so much?
‘So,’ I ask, ‘how did you find me?’
‘You sure you want to talk about this?’
I nod.
‘Well,’ you continue, ‘Pa was on the telephone in the hall. He called me over and gave me – for the first time ever – the bunch of keys that lives in his pocket. He wanted me to fetch a document from his desk drawer in his study. Instead I shot straight to the safe that I knew was hidden behind the mirror in there, found the right key, unlocked it and …’ You laugh. ‘Hey presto, here I am!’
‘Hey presto, here you are. What does that mean?’
‘It means I found a letter from Dr Churchward from this address. But don’t look so depressed, Georgie.’
I flop on my back on the bed and stare up at the grey ceiling. A spider is busy in one corner and I know from experience that busy is good. I start to count to one thousand out loud. Numbers are stable. They never change.
‘Oh, Georgie! My brother. Don’t blame them. You were impossible to live with. Honestly you were. I’ve heard from Jessie all about your tan trums and screaming, your disobedience and your violent attacks on people.’
I shut my eyes but you lean over me, so close I can smell your chocolatey breath.
‘It was hard on our parents, as well as on you and Jessie,’ you say.
I push you away from me and roll off the bed. Istand facing the window with its bars, my back to you, and I rub my chest hard with both hands because the pain inside is so sharp.
‘Georgie,’ you say softly, ‘what can I do to help?’
I think about it for a long time. ‘Nothing. Nothing can help. Dr Churchward thinks his needles do. But numbers help more.’
‘Numbers?’
‘I count.’
‘What do you count?’
‘I count Jessie’s heartbeats.’
‘Oh hell, Georgie, sometimes you scare me.’
‘Sometimes I scare myself.’
Like now. The pain is choking me, squeezing my throat in its grip. My lungs are starved of air, clawing at me, and my vision grows blurred, and I know an
episode
is coming. It rolls down from my brain, black and suffocating. I am frightened. My hands are shaking and I try to shout to you but no sound emerges. Death dances with heavy feet in my ears. I panic. Panic. Panic …
My hand seizes one of the heavy
Encyclopaedia Britannica
volumes piled up on the floor and rams it against the glass pane. The window shatters. Explodes in my face. Fresh clean air slams against my skin but still I can’t breathe, my lungs are collapsing, dark and lifeless, a coal mine inside me. Lights flash and fade. Silence roars into my head.
I am dying.
I fall to my knees and feel a whisper of pain. Dimly I am aware of glass snapping like brittle bones under me and I grope blindly for a piece of it, annoyed when it bites my fingers and gouges into my kneecap. I lift a long icicle of glass and start to rake my chest with it. To let in the air. To make a hole for
‘How did you find me?’ I ask. I want you to say that my father gave the address to you on a slip of paper and told you to be my brother, but I know you won’t.
You laugh. It is your happy laugh, not your sad one. I am better at voices than I am at faces. I understand you better when I close my eyes and block out the pictures, because picturesconfuse me. I listen now with eyes shut tight and can hear that you are pleased with yourself.
‘It wasn’t so hard,’ you chuckle. ‘I am more devious than your sister. I waited year after year, until Pa trusted me completely.’
Your voice comes closer. You must be stretching towards me. I shuffle backwards a fraction on the bed.
‘I showed no interest in you, Georgie, or in your whereabouts.
Georgie who?
That was my attitude. Your name never passed my lips with our parents, even though when I was little I was sleeping in your bed, wearing your clothes, and reading your books.’
My books
. That hurt. Why should that hurt so much?
‘So,’ I ask, ‘how did you find me?’
‘You sure you want to talk about this?’
I nod.
‘Well,’ you continue, ‘Pa was on the telephone in the hall. He called me over and gave me – for the first time ever – the bunch of keys that lives in his pocket. He wanted me to fetch a document from his desk drawer in his study. Instead I shot straight to the safe that I knew was hidden behind the mirror in there, found the right key, unlocked it and …’ You laugh. ‘Hey presto, here I am!’
‘Hey presto, here you are. What does that mean?’
‘It means I found a letter from Dr Churchward from this address. But don’t look so depressed, Georgie.’
I flop on my back on the bed and stare up at the grey ceiling. A spider is busy in one corner and I know from experience that busy is good. I start to count to one thousand out loud. Numbers are stable. They never change.
‘Oh, Georgie! My brother. Don’t blame them. You were impossible to live with. Honestly you were. I’ve heard from Jessie all about your tan trums and screaming, your disobedience and your violent attacks on people.’
I shut my eyes but you lean over me, so close I can smell your chocolatey breath.
‘It was hard on our parents, as well as on you and Jessie,’ you say.
I push you away from me and roll off the bed. Istand facing the window with its bars, my back to you, and I rub my chest hard with both hands because the pain inside is so sharp.
‘Georgie,’ you say softly, ‘what can I do to help?’
I think about it for a long time. ‘Nothing. Nothing can help. Dr Churchward thinks his needles do. But numbers help more.’
‘Numbers?’
‘I count.’
‘What do you count?’
‘I count Jessie’s heartbeats.’
‘Oh hell, Georgie, sometimes you scare me.’
‘Sometimes I scare myself.’
Like now. The pain is choking me, squeezing my throat in its grip. My lungs are starved of air, clawing at me, and my vision grows blurred, and I know an
episode
is coming. It rolls down from my brain, black and suffocating. I am frightened. My hands are shaking and I try to shout to you but no sound emerges. Death dances with heavy feet in my ears. I panic. Panic. Panic …
My hand seizes one of the heavy
Encyclopaedia Britannica
volumes piled up on the floor and rams it against the glass pane. The window shatters. Explodes in my face. Fresh clean air slams against my skin but still I can’t breathe, my lungs are collapsing, dark and lifeless, a coal mine inside me. Lights flash and fade. Silence roars into my head.
I am dying.
I fall to my knees and feel a whisper of pain. Dimly I am aware of glass snapping like brittle bones under me and I grope blindly for a piece of it, annoyed when it bites my fingers and gouges into my kneecap. I lift a long icicle of glass and start to rake my chest with it. To let in the air. To make a hole for
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