Through the Cracks Read Free Page B

inwards, a clean sharp feeling that wrinkled his nose and travelled backwards through his skull, into his brain, down his spine, through his ribs and chest, right down through his hips, down his legs and into his feet. It was a white-hot feeling that emptied him of fear. Pushed all the fear out.
    ‘You’ve still been giving these to me.’
    ‘Because you need them.’
    ‘I don’t.’
    ‘You don’t understand.’
    ‘I do.’
    Adam capped the bottle and put it in his pocket. He kept the box of tablets too. He picked up the plate and threw the slices of toast towards the bed, letting them land and fall whatever way they did, buttered side down on the blankets, one piece skating off onto the floor. Adam picked up the hose.
    ‘Use the shower for the toilet. Do what you made me do.’
    He shut the door. Bolted it.

E very now and then Adam stopped searching for the gun and went out to check if the chickens had left their cages. At last they had. They were huddled by the feed bins. Adam didn’t go down in case he frightened them. He kept Monty and Jerry by his side. One chicken flapped its wings, shook its body and fluffed its feathers. Adam could tell by watching them that they wouldn’t go back inside the cages. Now that they were together, they’d want to stay that way. After collecting the key from the radio, he kept on searching for the gun. The key had to unlock something. The gun would be in whatever it unlocked.
    At the bar, Adam looked in the cupboards. He removed the bags of chips and cartons of cigarettes. He pressed the cupboard sides and floors. His father was good at hiding things. Adam had to check for spaces and gaps in walls, he had to move furniture. Once, hiding from his father, Adam had squeezed in behind the wardrobe in the spare room. He’d found a small section of plasterboard was missing from the wall. Through the gap was a space big enough to kneel in. Adam had climbed in and knelt inside the wall, head down over his knees, tense and small, like a mouse hiding from Monty, thinking he couldn’t be sniffed out and found, when, of course, he could be. The longer Adam had stayed there the more his eyes had adjusted to the dark. Beneath his knees had been magazines, stacks of them. They weren’t what were hidden, though. Jammed in behind the stack had been a shoebox filled with photos. He’d held one photo up to the crack of light. The picture had been of a boy, dark-haired, brown-skinned and naked, standing in the billiards room. The boy had been holding a pair of small white puppies. Monty and Jerry. Something had budded in Adam’s mind then, an idea or a memory had seemed about to burst, into full recollection. But he’d heard his father coming and dropped the photograph. The wardrobe had been pulled away from the wall, Adam had been hauled out, kicking, squealing, like a mouse. Later his father had come into the lounge room holding the photo, waving it and snarling.
Did you get a good look? Did you? Did you look at all the pictures? I hope you did.
He’d put the photo in front of Adam’s face, stuck it on Adam’s sweaty forehead, drilled his knuckle against it.
Look
. That close it had been impossible to see.
You’re not looking.
He’d smacked Adam in the head. His father had thrown the photo in the fireplace, and with it any chance of Adam remembering the boy had also seemed to go up in flames. His father had brought out the shoebox and burned all the photographs. His face had grown red doing it. He’d begun to tremble and shout. During moments of hating and blaming, his father often lost all sense. He probably hadn’t wanted to burn the photographs, but his temper made him do it, the craziness had taken over. Adam’s father was worst when he lost control. Not even the rules were in play then. He’d removed his belt.
    Think you’re clever finding those? Think you know things, do you? This is what your sneaking gets you. Your snivelling behaviour is why no one can look at your