November, 1933.
The first few weeks back at Wool's passed Tom by in familiar grey tedium. He still had his old bedroom (room twenty-seven) now with a repaired window and no leak in the ceiling. It was marginally less cold, the walls peeling and faded but no longer cracked, and at night he lay awake listening to the creaks and whines of the worn building in the winter wind, yearning for a life far away. One gloomy day, he was wrapped in a threadbare sweater and paging through a dry history text on his cot when he heard a knock and Mrs. Cole's voice.
"Tom?" She poked her head in, eyeing with suspicion the book he held, for no one in the orphanage had a library card. "There's someone here to see you."
Tom marked his place and stood, a pit of unease churning in his gut, though there also stirred a nervous sapling of hope. Maintaining a stoic demeanour, he followed her downstairs to the tea room, which was actually little more than a storage closet with an ancient tweed sofa and table pushed together, a small square window cut near the ceiling. Therein sat a stately old woman in a dark blue dress and green shawl. Tom's gaze lingered on her emerald jewellery.
"I'll leave you both with some privacy," Mrs. Cole said, shooting him a stern look that plainly said be good or dire things shall come.
"Good evening, Tom." The woman shook his hand, appearing a little dazed, scanning his worn clothes with distaste. Tom in turn wrinkled his nose at her Tyrian purple cap. "My name is Mary."
Tom nodded, surveying her with distrust. She did not look like a shrink, but that his recent bouts of brooding and strangeness had struck Mrs. Cole as more frequent than usual, so she'd fetched this woman to ship Tom off to an asylum was not out of the realm of possibility. Tom had seen a psychiatrist once before, had manoeuvred his way into the man's good graces with scant difficulty. Still, he sat with ill grace, wondering if she'd leave were he to remain polite and tight-lipped enough.
"I live in a village near Surrey and Kent: Little Hangleton. Have you heard of it?"
Tom shook his head.
"Well," she pursed her mouth, scrutinising him. Tom was made acutely aware of the hole in his shirt. "I saw your picture in the papers." She fished a few newspapers from her bag, each beholding photos of Mr. Flint and his many trodden-on beneficiaries, including Tom and the orphans. Silver rings shone on her thin fingers, as well as a gold wedding band, as she placed them before him. "My Uncle Roland met Mr. Flint once," Mary said, "quite a charming man, if he's to be believed." Tom nodded, eyeing her expectantly. She met his critical stare with surprising steadiness until, seemingly coming to a decision, she produced a photograph from her purse. "My son." Ever polite, Tom took it: a boy, around his age, standing by a stable housing a white horse. To Tom's chagrin, the boy bore a remarkable resemblance to himself. He wasn't sure whether to be more relieved or disappointed — for the woman was no doctor. No, she was another niche of visitor entirely: grieving parents looking to replace a dead child, visiting and acquainting themselves with one, only to abandon the endeavour once they realised how shallow the similarity truly ran.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Tom lied smoothly, "I'm sure he —"
"Oh, no, no!" the woman shook her head, laughing the tempered laugh of the rich and lovely. "No, dear, my son is very much alive. Why, as a matter of fact," her frosty eyes bored into his, "I might even say he's old enough to be your father now."
Tom shuddered at those words, feeling himself a cornered spider under Mary's ungiving gaze. What ever did she mean by that? A myriad responses rushed to mind (you're lying, I don't care, where is he?) but instead, he said, with acute skepticism, "Why are you here?"
A satisfied smile stretched her thin lips.
"Mary Riddle," she said, shaking his limp hand. "It was quite a surprise to discover you, Tom."
*
In the days that followed, Tom found himself relentlessly torn between anxiety and thrill. Since Mary Riddle's first visit, the woman had come twice more, bringing her husband, Thomas, with her once. The man, allegedly his grandfather, had had a vague whiff of spirits masked in cologne and been a combination of indifferent and haughty towards Tom, who willed himself not to feel disappointed at being related to such a man. The Riddles spoke with Mrs. Cole, presumably explaining how their grandson had ended up with a dying mother in a decrepit London orphanage, though they offered no such explanation to Tom beyond 'circumstances, dear' and attempted to placate him with photographs of young Tom Sr and his favourite horses. Mrs. Cole, glad to see him go, did not contest their story and graciously surrendered the paperwork once the Riddles expressed a desire to take him in.
So, Tom spent the nights tossing and turning in his rusty bed, stomach churning with equal parts hope and dismay, glaring at a photo of nine year old Thomas Edward Riddle and a chestnut mare named Taliana. The other orphans chafed with envy whenever they crossed paths, each having once wished for a mysterious, wealthy relative to swoop in and fly them away to a world less bleak; for Tom, this elusive dream had come true, yet somehow he couldn't bring himself to feel much joy.
He sat pondering these matters one cold day in the yard, a book lying discarded by his side and eyes locked on a pair of sparrows resting in a leafless tree, shivering in his tattered sweaters. The birds chipped and yawned every so often, fluffing their feathers against each other, nipping with affectionate beaks. Suddenly, there was an echoing thud, and the sparrows flew skyward.
"Riddle."
Tom looked up. To his annoyance, Billy Stubbs and his posse had come to sneer at him, cracking their knuckles like the goons they were. He decided immediately to ignore them, for he knew himself too proud to run away and too runty to fare well in a fight.
"Lovely weather, isn't it?" Billy said, with far more contempt than such a comment should reasonably hold. "Pity a germ like you has no friends to enjoy it with."
Tom did not respond — how could he care to, when he'd be leaving Billy and all his grot behind, never to look back again? He cast a sideways glance at the boy, with his patched up clothes and his browning teeth, a far too big hat loped over his scraggly hair. No, he much preferred the ill-handled book he'd snatched from a busy mother's bag, feeble and tedious though it was.
Suddenly, a hand clamped on the front of his collar; the breath left him as Billy slammed him up and against the tree, a sharp twig scraping his scalp. The book landed in a patch of snowy dirt at their feet.
"You think you're better than us," the boy spat, as if struck by revelation, "now you've found a family, do you?" His breath stank of rancid milk and stale breakfast porridge. Tom dug his nails into his meaty hand but he did not relent. He focused on a dry branch above Billy's head, willing it to fall, to knock the worthless rat down and leave him there forever but it did not so much as creak. Behind him, the others guffawed.
"I was better than you before as well," he finally drawled, at which the group silenced.
"So high and mighty, are you, Riddle?" Billy hissed, face contorted with malice. "You don't seem to realise the old sods just want you to keep their money. A bastard heir's better than nothing, after all. It's clear your father never wanted you for a moment."
Tom, who had been thinking along much the same lines, could say nothing in response — so he spat in Billy's face instead. Disgusted, the brute let him go and he collapsed on the ground, breathing fast in the chilly air.
Something hard struck his side and Tom yelled in pain, dark spots appearing in his vision. Billy hit him again, this time in the jaw. Tom tasted blood.
His ears began to ring, the world simmering as if through the eye of an oracle; briefly, he lay not amid the wilting trees in front of the orphanage but the rustling oaks of Dodona, beneath the whispering wings of doves. Vaguely, he discerned the other boys' voices, nervously asking Billy to stop as yet another blow stung his cheek. When he finally did, Tom blinked blood from his eyes and met Billy's venomous glare with pure loathing, pulse beating akin to a marching battalion. Billy's knuckles were bloody, his face red and slick with sweat. He kicked dirt in Tom's face, the winter sun blinding behind his towering form.
"Don't forget, Riddle," he spoke with the bitter relish of a victorious gladiator, "you're nothing but a filthy son of a whore."
Rage roared to life inside Tom. As Billy turned to leave, he spotted a ball of white fluff in the hands of one of his sidekicks, watching the scene with its blank red eyes. A stringy branch hung over the pair, and a smile curled Tom's torn lips as he let all of his hatred free. The group watched, transfixed, as the branch slung down like a lunging snake and entwined the rabbit's neck, snatching it into the air, far out of reach. The rabbit struggled, hissing and squealing, kicking its little legs as the life was squeezed out of it. Before long, it was dead, swaying like a cursed pendulum over their heads.
Grimacing, Tom struggled to his feet. All the boys turned to him, faces drawn in fear and disbelief, shocked tears streaming down Billy's face. Hugh Whitby, the halfwit who'd held the rabbit just seconds ago, stumbled back, white as the snow-covered ground.
"He's – he's – the Devil," he whimpered, quivering like a leaf. "He's the Devil!"
Tom smiled as they ran.
*
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, whatever happened to you?" cried Mary Riddle the moment she saw Tom on her next visit. She crouched on her knees in front of him, careful not to let the floor besmirch her wool skirts, turning his face this way and that to inspect it.
Tom felt blood flush his cheeks and, for the first time since the encounter, was grateful for the many colourful bruises he'd obtained from Billy. He tried to shrink away but Mrs. Riddle was not having it, tutting and grimacing at the injuries.
"Lord, does that Cole woman do nothing around here!" She dabbed at his forehead with a petroleum balm she'd produced from her bag. Tom winced, regretting it immediately when he saw tears swimming in her eyes.
"It's quite all right," he reassured her — the last thing he wished for right now was someone snivelling at him. "I fell down the stairs is all." Though Tom was quite proud of his hanging of Billy's rabbit, no one else seemed to share the sentiment, so he'd figured Mrs. Riddle wouldn't either. She inhaled deeply, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.
"You ought to be more careful," she urged, caressing his cheek. "At my age, such things are quite a scare. Why, I had nearly died of worry when —"
She stopped talking abruptly, a distance seeping into her expression. Tom waited for her to continue.
"Never mind." She shook herself, now smearing the balm over his split lip. "I came to tell you we'll be leaving on the New Year — you'll come with me to the house." She spoke as if this were a tremendous honour, bestowed only by the generosity of her heart upon those deemed worthy. Tom nodded, thinking with dread of his elusive father, whom Mrs. Riddle had so far refused to discuss beyond 'he didn't know, love' and 'his memory wasn't quite right', and this too after much persuasion on Tom's part. "I had the maids prepare a room for you. I won't be able to visit before New Year's Eve but I expect you to have your things packed by then, all right?"
Tom, whose meagre possessions consisted of a box of stolen cash, knick-knacks and a few clothes, nodded in response, irrationally afraid that were he to speak, Mrs. Riddle would be driven away, aghast that she'd ever acquainted herself with him, deigned to step inside the gimcrack building that comprised his lonely home. Mrs. Riddle advised him to rest well and handed him a bar of that rare delicacy known as chocolate, which Tom hid deep in his pockets, promising to see him come December 31st. He waved goodbye in Wool's sunless entryway, chilly breeze sweeping him by, and even as the other children eyed him with jealous longing (with fear), Tom felt the weight of their sorrows lift from his shoulders.
He was a nobody, no more.