Through the Cracks Read Free

backroom. The bed had a steel base. His father could have found something to unscrew the bed legs. He could be holding a short length of steel right now, pretending to be unwell. The taps in the shower could be unscrewed, the showerhead too, the timber chair could be dismantled, the chest of drawers taken apart and the long boards of timber tied together with torn sheets to make one strong, heavy board. At different times, on different days, Adam had noted these things, he’d imagined himself a different type of boy, a boy who would act. He’d also thought about what would happen if his father never returned to unlock the door, if he didn’t come home one day from shopping, or if the house caught on fire and his father didn’t let him out. Adam had feared being found escaping, losing the bed base, the chair, the drawers, the taps, he’d feared losing a way out. And he’d feared the punishment that would come with trying to escape.
    ‘Go to the shower, stand in it then call to me. Stay there while I come in. I’ve got you some toast. If you look sick, I’ll . . .’ Adam stopped. All he knew was that he didn’t want his father walking around, sick or not. ‘Go and stand in the shower or I can’t bring you anything to eat.’
    ‘I need my tablets.’ His father thumped the door. He slapped his hand against it. ‘Just open the door.’
    ‘What tablets?’
    ‘I’m not well.’
    There was a waver. Adam didn’t think his father would pretend to sound that weak. His voice was coming from lower down. One of his father’s hands, or his shoulder, pushed against the door, as though to prop him up.
    ‘What tablets?’
    ‘Unlock the door.’
    ‘What are they for?’
    ‘Unlock the door.’
    ‘If I see them I’ll believe you.’
    His father swore, breathless, holding out. Then he gasped, ‘Inside the radio beside my bed. Quickly.’
    Adam sat the plate of toast on the floor and laid the hose beside it. He turned and jogged down the hallway. One morning, very early, while they were outside cleaning cages and topping up bird feeders, his father had collapsed. He’d clutched his chest and staggered to the side, hit the shed wall and slid onto a pile of rope, his face completely white. He’d been unable to speak, and had stared wildly across the yard, mouth open, barely breathing. Monty and Jerry had run under the lemon tree and lain together, watching him, ears flat, heads down on their paws. Adam had felt a cold sweep of white-faced breathlessness too. His feet had rooted to the spot. His head had spun. The thoughts he’d had weren’t right: he’d looked away, not wanting to see or think about his father on the ground, not wanting to help him. Adam had thought instead about how the sun was coming up, he’d looked at the light seeping into the sky. He’d wanted to finish cleaning the cages so he could have his breakfast. He’d hoped this didn’t mean they wouldn’t get takeaway chips for dinner. He’d wondered if he’d be able to spend the whole day watching TV if his father never got up. Gradually the colour had come back into his father’s face and his chest began to rise and fall. His eyes had started focusing. He’d straightened himself on the ropes. Without a word he’d held out his hand. Adam had helped him to his feet. His father had walked unsteadily inside, leaning on Adam. No talk of it. Not ever. It was like every other strange, bad and painful thing – it wasn’t talked about; it lived inside Adam, in his chest, in his head.
    The radio had a large battery compartment. There were no batteries in it. Instead there was a brown glass bottle of tablets and a long white box of tablets. There was also a fat brass key with chunky square teeth and a cloverleaf design on the end. Adam left the key there. He ran with the bottle and the box, down through the house.
    ‘Go over into the shower,’ Adam said when he arrived at the backroom door.
    ‘I can’t.’
    ‘I have the hose.’ Adam picked it