Through the Cracks Read Online Free Page B

the chickens.’
    Adam hardly recognised his own voice. It was like someone else had spoken, a new person in the house, with a hoarse, deep way of talking.
    ‘Monty and Jerry have attacked the chickens.’
    ‘Stay there, wait, don’t close the door.’
    Adam turned and walked down the hallway. He left the backroom door open behind him. He kept the hose. The backroom smell had been enough to take Adam’s air. The bed, a glimpse of the shower, had been enough to lighten his head. If his father found a way to put him back in there, Adam would fight this time, he wouldn’t drink the drinks and he wouldn’t eat the food, he’d dismantle the bed, tear apart the drawers, do whatever it took to smash the door to pieces, he’d arm himself with whatever sharp or heavy thing that he could get his hands on, and if his father touched him, Adam would kill him.
    But Adam couldn’t kill the chickens.
    He stood on the deck as his father came out, bruised and stooped. Monty and Jerry were down on their bellies near the door, wagging their tails and gazing up at Adam’s father. They rolled onto their backs when he looked down at them. For a few moments Adam’s father stood there taking in the changes – the empty cages, the dead chickens scattered around the yard, and then he looked at Adam, down Adam’s body, at the clothes, the socks. Adam stared back. He was holding the hose, ready, almost hoping for a bad reaction.
    ‘Where’s the spade?’
    His father was unsteady going down the steps. He took a deep breath before raising the spade. He wasn’t steeling himself for the job of killing. He was steeling himself for the effort in it. Adam felt relief with each dull chop. He wasn’t sad, not anymore, he just wished the chickens had more time out of the cages, more time being chickens.
    Done killing them, his father let the spade drop and walked back towards the house. His eyes were glassy. His lips were white. Adam let him pass. He let his father return to the front rooms.
    Adam felt that he didn’t need a weapon. He could stop his father with his bare hands if he wanted. A kick would send him sprawling. A push would topple him. His father didn’t sit in the armchair. He sat on the couch. He didn’t turn on the TV; Adam did. His father went, without speaking, into the kitchen and ate while standing at the fridge. His hands were trembling. He chewed weakly.
    ‘What’s wrong with you?’
    ‘What do you think – you hardly brought me anything to eat.’
    ‘No, what’s wrong with you?’
    ‘I told you, I’m sick.’
    ‘What have you got?’
    He didn’t answer. The smell of him had changed. It was old sweat. He went back into the lounge room and sank down on the couch, breathed shallow and short. Adam left him and went out to pick up the dead chickens. He held them by the feet, bundled them in his hands. They weren’t as heavy as they looked. Beneath the feathers they were bony. Sun seared hot. The chopped-off heads of the chickens, the ones his father had killed, Adam left in the grass. He took the bodies and threw them in the rubbish trailer. Monty and Jerry hung around the decking steps, sniffing the air, not coming any closer.
    ‘Where’s the key from the radio?’ his father said when Adam went back inside. He was standing in the hallway outside his bedroom door.
    ‘I’ve got it. I’m keeping it.’
    ‘Where are my tablets?’
    ‘I’m keeping them too.’
    For a few moments his father stood there, the same place Adam had crouched with the carving knife. His father swayed on his feet. He went past Adam, into the lounge room, staggered the last few steps and collapsed onto the couch. He lay there, silent.
    Adam made his father breakfast. Vegemite toast. He made him a cup of tea. Into the drink Adam dropped a tablet from the brown bottle. He stirred. One tablet didn’t seem much, so Adam dropped in two more and stirred again. He was careful not to let the teaspoon hit the sides or bottom. He capped the bottle