Free Tom All-Alone's by Lynn Shepherd

scar above his eye hadsoftened a little with time, but in every other respect he was still, in essence, the Maddox of Charles’ childhood. The man before him now is a meagre shadow of that former self, his face sunken and his back bowed, and his old red silk dressing-gown is gaping open over a white night-shirt that – Charles sees with horror – is soiled, and still wet. His hair is well-cut but grown out ragged, and his whiskers need trimming. There’s a long rope of spittle hanging from one side of his mouth. Knowing who and what this man once was, it is a pitiful sight, and the worst of it is that Maddox himself seems more aware of it than any of them. He calls out to Charles as the corpulent doctor struggles to trammel his flailing arms and get him back into a chair.
    â€˜I’ve told this fat scoundrel he can take that filthy stuff back where he found it – they’re trying to poison me, you know, him and that crabbed old witch – eh? Eh? You hear me?’ Maddox strains towards the woman on the floor and aims a kick in her direction. He’s too far away to harm her but the woman cowers in terror all the same. ‘Ha! Lost your tongue now, have you? You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, you shrivelled old hag!’
    â€˜Come, come, sir,’ says the doctor, the beads of perspiration standing out on his brow. ‘Just a few drops of this medicine and I guarantee you’ll feel better in a trice. Ah! You there, whoever you are,’ he says, catching sight of Charles in the doorway, ‘give me a hand here, would you, the old fellow is quite raving.’
    Charles is quick to oblige, but not quite in the way the doctor expected. He seizes the man forcibly by the shoulders and pulls him away, then encircles his great-uncle in his arms and sets him gently on the sofa, feeling, for the first time, just how gaunt and thin he’s become. The old man’s anger vanishes like a summer storm. He’s suddenly as meek as a kitten, staring up at his great-nephew nervously, his shoulders huddled as if it’sonly now that he feels the icy draught slicing through the room. Charles kneels before him, smoothes back his rough grey hair, and pulls his dressing-gown closer about him. It isn’t much better, but it is something. He stands up and turns to the doctor.
    â€˜Thank you, Mr—’
    â€˜Boswell. Lawrence Boswell, of Devereux Court, the Strand. Mrs McLeod was—’
    â€˜Well-meaning, but ill-advised. We will have no more need of your services tonight.’ He turns to Stornaway, who has appeared now in the doorway. ‘Abel, do you still keep the keys to Mr Maddox’s strong-box?’
    Stornaway nods.
    â€˜In that case,’ says Charles, returning to the doctor, ‘if you call tomorrow with your bill, I shall see that it is paid without delay.’
    But the doctor is not so easily dismissed. He has been asked for an opinion and he intends to give it.
    â€˜Are you a physician, then, sir?’
    â€˜No. I have some knowledge in that field, but—’
    â€˜But not qualified? Not a practitioner?’
    â€˜No, sir. I am not.’
    â€˜May I then venture to suggest that this old man—’
    â€˜Mr Maddox,’ says Charles softly. ‘His name is Mr Maddox .’
    â€˜That Mr Maddox is clearly in need of more considered medical attendance than you can possibly give him. This infirmity of his requires such constant care and surveillance as only a—’
    â€˜No,’ says Charles. ‘Out of the question.’
    â€˜I could recommend a most reputable establishment.’
    Charles moves a little closer to him, his voice even lower now. ‘Did you not hear me? I said, no .’
    There is something in the young man’s blue stare that gives the doctor pause. And it is not merely the ferocity of his determination.
    â€˜Is there,’ he begins, more hesitantly – the young man is still