The Wolf Border(85)

He moans softly, almost whimpering. She bends and picks up the blanket and is about to lay it over him, when he turns abruptly, sits up, and puts his head in his hands. He moans again, as if fighting the impulse to vomit. Between his legs, from a dark nest of hair, his genitals hang, limp and small, hooded. The skin around them is rashed, and on the left side of his groin there’s an angry red swelling – some kind of abscess. Nearby, on the floor, a bandage stained yellow and pink.

Christ! Lawrence! What have you done?

He does not try to shield himself. He scratches his scalp.

I’m sorry, he says. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

He breaks, and starts to weep, his shoulders lifting and falling, with gathering power and sound. She looks down at him, at the raw thing on his upper leg, next to his crotch. The smell of rot is strong. Horror begins to fill her brain, disbelief. A site infection. Rigors. He is in withdrawal. He is not sick, though he is suffering badly. His distress gathers force, becomes unbearable. His body convulses as he cries, and he retches, saliva spooling from his mouth in a glistening stream. She cannot speak, she tries to say something but stops. He shakes his head and holds himself tightly.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

It’s OK. It’s OK, Lawrence.

What else can she say? He looks up. His pupils are massive, collapsing through the pale blue irises, strangely, wrongly beautiful. She sits down on the bed, and puts her hand on his leg, which is hot and clammy. The smell is very bad. The patch in his groin is glistening and clearly needs medical attention, though he must have been doctoring it himself. How long? she wonders. How long has her brother’s life been like this? How long has Emily known? It seems an impossible secret to have kept. She thinks of him at Christmas, marching the toy lion across the floor. Anxious to get home. Disappearing into the bathroom. Lawrence shakes and cries and apologises, and his saliva drools onto the sheet. He turns again, lies down, faces the wall. She puts her hand on his quaking back, and he winces. She picks up the sheet and the blanket and gently covers him, as she would the baby.

It’s going to be OK, she says.

She sits with him, tries to think about what to do. Call an ambulance? Let him go through what he must? She is not equipped for any of this, even though she’s seen it – the margins, at least. She thinks of Kyle’s brother – the awful descriptions he gave her, the lack of medical insurance, the forced detoxes, locked doors. A kind of loving brutality. She thinks of the addicts on the Reservation, kids five generations down and old unemployed men, milling at the relief road bars, desperate for money, standing in the dock at the tribal courts where the punishments meted out were often harsher than American ones. She knows enough about the consuming power of it, the slyness, the requirements. It is perfectly possible to lie to your wife. To not tell your sister. To function outwardly and at the same time be hidden. How could you be so stupid? she thinks. How did you let this happen? But then, he is here. Even against his will, and in this anticipated state, he came; he must have known it would be a confession. And is that not a positive decision of sorts?

It’s going to be OK, she says again, firmer, surer, though this too is a partial act.

He is still weeping, tremors running through his body. He clutches his stomach as it cramps, gets up, pushes past her, and goes to the bathroom, his walk crabbed and fast. The bathroom door shuts. She hears his bowels empty violently. After a while the toilet flushes. He comes back into the room, looking waxy and weak. He gets into bed, and she puts the covers back over him.

Across the hall, the baby wakes and starts crying. She stands and crosses the room, then stops at the door. She turns and walks back to the bed, sits, and puts her arms round her brother as best she can, while he shivers and Charlie shouts louder and louder.

Alexander arrives later that afternoon, carrying a small tarpaulin satchel, his workbag. He has cut short his appointments. He hugs her, keeps her held for a moment. She feels like crying in his arms.

I’m sorry to drag you here. I didn’t know what to do.

Don’t worry. How is he?

I don’t know. Can you just have a look at him? I think maybe he should be in hospital, but he doesn’t want to go.

OK.

She shows him upstairs, into Lawrence’s room, and shuts the door behind him. She lingers outside for a moment, hears Alexander’s voice, friendly, confident, as he greets and approaches her brother. Then she goes downstairs and gives them privacy. She plays with Charlie, building a tower out of blocks, which he topples and she builds again. He can sit unsupported, though he often topples himself. She tries to give her son her full attention – after leaving him to cry for so long, she feels guilty – but she’s too distracted. After twenty minutes she hears the bedroom door open and Alexander comes downstairs.

He’s getting dressed, he says. Can you take him to A&E?

Is his leg really bad?

It’s not great. I’ve dressed it but I can’t drain it properly. I wouldn’t want to try. I explained the risks if it’s not treated. He’s not stupid – he knows.

Did he say anything to you about it all?

A little. He’s been using clean needles. He thinks the dose was contaminated – an unlucky batch.

Unlucky?

He went somewhere different for it, apparently.

She shakes her head.

When did it all start?

I don’t know. Seems like a while, though.