Through the Cracks (13 page)

Adam’s heart took a while to stop racing.

Billy showed Adam a deep cut on his arm. ‘Me and glass, hey. Smashed the toilet window.’

‘We have to go.’

‘We’re better off sitting tight. He’s not gonna wanna hang around. Do you reckon she’s dead . . .’ his voice trailed off. ‘Is that the TV?’ He squeezed past Adam to look.

One of the dogs had begun barking again, the cats were meowing: Billy was a new person to appeal to. He propped his elbows on his knees, hunkered down, looked awfully like he was about to light a smoke.

‘How about this place, hey? Creepy enough for you?’

Kovac kicked away a bag of clothes and threw down the shears. He walked the path through the gear, past the cages, disappeared into the front rooms.

Billy stood. ‘Let’s do this.’

When Billy tipped the TV up on one end they heard the key rattle in the back of it. Billy looked around for a tool to break the plastic casing. He grabbed the shears, stuck the blade into the TV vent and levered it. The plastic cracked, a section came away. Billy peered into the gap.

‘I can’t see it, can you?’

Adam looked. Down amongst the dust and bits of wiring inside the TV casing lay the brass key. He reached in and pulled it out.

They could hear Kovac returning.

‘Billy, he’s coming.’

As they stood, Kovac came into view. He had a can of fuel, was splashing the contents over everything. He tossed the empty can onto a pile of clothes. He hadn’t yet seen them. Billy sucked in a breath. It was a different Billy then, more like the Billy who’d walked into Joe’s lounge room. Veins sprung up on his temples. His arms seemed thicker, his chest broader. His hands were clenched. Kovac slowed to a stop. His eyes darted, then settled on Billy, swung across, settled on Adam. Kovac’s head tipped, confusion and realisation played out across his features.

‘What is this . . . ?’ he murmured.

‘Bit slow recognisin’?’ Billy said.

‘What is this . . . ?’ Kovac repeated.

‘You lot just don’t get it, do you – we grow up.’

It was perhaps not how Billy had imagined it, because Kovac turned and ran. He tried to climb a pile of crates. Billy pulled him off the stack and tried to make Kovac face him. Kovac wouldn’t; he thrashed about, got free and ran blindly into the wall of books. They toppled and spread everywhere. Billy dragged him into what little empty space there was. Kovac kicked and screamed, twisted and wriggled on the ground. He threw books. Billy swatted them away. He punched Kovac in the face. Billy’s eyes were glazed. His expression wasn’t angry. He didn’t yell like Adam had when he hit Joe. Billy simply punched . . . and punched . . . and punched. The cut on his arm was bleeding. It didn’t slow him down. His fist was bloody from the start. None of the graceful wheeling-around and sparring that he’d shown Adam, this looked like something that couldn’t be taught, or stopped. Billy held Kovac by the shirtfront and with his other hand he hit him.

It made sense, why Billy let some men touch him, why he felt little fear in fearful situations – Billy could stop the men when he wanted, with just his bare hands.

Smoke began seeping out from the front rooms. Adam went across and opened the first animal cage. As it was too frightened to come out on its own, Adam had to reach in and grab the cat. It hissed and spat, clawed him. He ran with it to the door and placed it down. Smoke got thicker and Billy coughed while hitting Kovac. He let the man drop. Billy came to help Adam. The animals would have to be carried out. The fire began to roar. Air got hotter. It burned to breathe. The second cat yowled and fought. Adam ran with it out the shed door and into the open air, released it. Billy was able to carry both the dogs. They weren’t fighting like the cats had. They understood they were being saved.

A churning column of dark smoke lifted from the shed. Adam didn’t go back in. He watched Billy drag the woman out by her ankles. She was weakly coughing. Her bloodied head bounced over the stones as Billy pulled her. Her T-shirt rode up.

Billy and Adam stood back and watched the fire build. In seconds it doubled. Bits of burning material and paper and cardboard lifted, floated back down. Heat radiated out, it pushed Billy and Adam back. Inside the shed, beneath the line of smoke, Kovac was crawling towards the doors, inching forward on his belly, barely managing to move. Blood bubbled from his face. Adam looked at Billy. The sides of Billy’s cheeks were streaked with ash and tears from the smoke. No emotion. Billy wasn’t pleased to have defeated him; he simply wished Kovac had never been in his life in the first place. Adam looked back to the fire. As they watched, the shed roof collapsed on top of Kovac. Sparks shot up high. He was swallowed in the flames.

‘Got that key?’ Billy said.

Adam’s body was getting better at keeping going, pushing on, but his head wasn’t. Thoughts got sluggish while his legs marched on. Sounds carried slow to him. Fire engines wailed in the distance. Billy and Adam kept on down narrow streets and along cracked pavements. There were things to think about, but Adam didn’t think about them yet. If he tried he’d be able to piece together a couple of things, make sense of what he’d heard inside the shed, seen inside his own mind, and what it all meant. But now wasn’t the right time to get his thoughts straight. When faced with the truth, when looking directly into a bright light, into the sun, the glare was blinding. The same way the freed cats had skulked off into the furthest corners of the yard, Adam felt safer hanging back and keeping to the shadows.

T
hey went past the petrol bowsers and into the toilets.

Billy went to the tap and drank.

‘Lock the door.’

His voice was raspy and low. Smoke and heat had scorched his throat, like it had Adam’s. Billy’s hands and knuckles were swollen. He rinsed the blood away. He cleaned the cut on his arm. Adam watched as Billy touched the wound and pushed the slash together. Billy didn’t flinch. Adam got light-headed just seeing the bloodless colour of the flesh and the way the wound gaped and leaked a thick clear substance, as well as bright-red blood.

They washed as best they could. Adam noticed that along the way, at some point, the bandaid from his forehead had come unstuck and fallen off. His forearms were covered in cat scratches.

Billy crouched and rested against the wall. For a while he was motionless, deep in thought. Adam listened for people walking up to the door, watched for shadows in the crack of sunlight.

They left into the white heat of the day. Two men standing at the back of a ute stopped talking and watched them go.

The cab driver ducked his head as they opened the passenger door. The radio was going. A song was playing. The driver’s seat had a beaded cover. It looked uncomfortable to sit on. A speaker crackled softly on the dash. They climbed into the back seat.

‘Barbary Street.’

Billy lit a cigarette. He coughed and wheezed, checked for Sal’s money. The driver kept looking at them in the rear-view mirror.

‘Got enough there?’

Billy folded the note. ‘Yeah, I got it.’

‘Barbary Street?’

‘Is there a problem?’

The driver didn’t answer. Adam watched the man’s hand slide on the wheel. In silhouette, when the driver turned to check for traffic, his lips were pressed firmly together.

Billy put the money away. The cut ran down the back of his arm, finishing above his elbow. He kept the wound pressed against his side. Blood soaked his tank top.

Traffic crowded in and the taxi slowed. Footpaths were empty. On the radio they were talking about a heatwave, a top that day of forty-four degrees, record heat. Stay out of the sun. Keep indoors. Billy didn’t finish the cigarette. He squashed it into the overflowing ashtray. Bits of tobacco and ash stuck to his sweaty fingers.

Adam was sitting with his knees and feet together. His hands in his lap. He looked at the back of the driver’s head, studied the man’s hair and neck, the collar of his shirt.

‘Kid,’ Billy murmured, ‘cut it out.’

Adam looked out the window. The pocket of his trackpants bulged with the bottle opener, toothpaste and toothbrush. In the other pocket he had the safe key, pushed down deep, beside the tiger. Adam fingered the toy through the fabric. Billy began clenching and wriggling his right hand, as though testing it still worked. He held both hands up, palms facing down, and he compared them. The right hand was paler than the left.

They drove over a bridge, went through a tunnel. Billy checked his watch. A second song started on the radio. Billy scooted forward on the seat and leaned into the front. Joe’s street was ahead.

‘The corner will do.’

Patches of road tar gleamed soft and gooey. Curtains were drawn. Billy and Adam kept to the shady side of the street, crossed over at Joe’s gates. Adam pushed through his hesitation. Billy was in no mood for it: he gave the impression he wouldn’t stop. They went into the yard, got on hands and knees to go beneath the house, between the stumps, around the cages and planters. It was cooler under there. Dry dirt was chilled and powdered.

‘It’s not gonna be there,’ Billy was saying. ‘I know how this shit goes – another kick in the teeth every time. Be ready for that.’

Adam took out the safe key, put it in the lock, turned it, turned the handle. He lifted the heavy door, but could only get it partly open because of the floorboards above it. Adam peered through the gap.

‘Is it there?’

‘I can’t see.’

Adam began to close the door so that they could get the boards up.

Billy lunged forward. ‘Keep the fucking thing open.’ He stuck his hand in the gap. ‘Jesus? After all that? Don’t shut it. I’ll hold it. You get the boards up.’

Adam pushed the floorboards from beneath. It was difficult in the heat. Sweat covered him, dirt stuck to him, it was not unlike the feeling of the tablets – slower, not as strong, an effort to concentrate.

Billy looked through the gap into the safe. Light was poor under the house. He squinted and strained.

Adam finished. They lifted the safe door all the way open.

The stack of cash was there, where it had been, untouched and unmoved. A single breath fell from Billy. He reached in and picked up the notes, held the bundle, stared at it.

‘Is it a lot?’ Adam asked.

Billy gave him a strange sideways look, was straight-faced for a moment, then he swiped Adam’s head with the cash and grinned. He slapped the money against Adam’s arm. ‘You’re a piece of work, aren’t ya?’

‘It is?’

‘It’ll do.’ Billy tucked it in the waistband of his shorts. ‘We gotta be smart about this.’

No sooner had he said that, than he became distracted. He backed up from the safe and looked at it from a distance.

‘Can you see that? This thing should be deeper.’

The inside and outside of the safe didn’t match. The interior was shallow, while the safe itself was deep. Billy shuffled forward and pushed the safe’s back wall. He knocked on it.

‘Pass me your bottle opener.’

Adam held out the tool. Billy took it with his good hand, pushed the blade between the velvet back wall and the side of the safe. He levered the blade, got his fingers under the board and pulled it out.

The false back wall hid a space that ran the length and width of the safe. It had been built in with velvet-lined partitions and compartments. It looked to Adam as though you could choose to use the false wall, or take it out if you preferred open access to the shelving. There was evidence that the shelves had been used in the past – worn lining and small scraps of paper, snipped-off ends of negatives, bits of fluff. What was not yet disposed of, the thing still being stored there, was the handgun. It was sitting in one of the compartments, bulky and black. Beside it was a see-through box of small silver bullets.

The smell of the gun filled Adam’s nostrils. His scalp shrank with the scent. Billy glanced at him.

‘You knew that was here?’

‘Not here; I knew it was somewhere.’

‘I’m not much into guns. We’ll leave it, hey?’

Billy then noticed the wet brown smear on the safe lining near his elbow. He jerked his arm higher. He’d put bloodied marks everywhere – on the safe door, inside the safe, drops of blood on the steel. There were sweaty fingerprints on the removed board. He backed away.

‘Not real smart . . .’ he muttered.

The panic that entered Billy’s face made Adam’s heart rate soar. They stopped moving and listened. There was a creak inside the house, soft scampering and pattering not far from where they were. Billy looked up at the floor above his head. Adam reached for the gun.

‘What are you doing?’ Billy whispered.

Adam opened the chamber and checked to see if the gun was loaded. It wasn’t. He opened the ammunition box, took out some bullets, pushed two in.

‘What
are
you doing? Put it back.’

‘I’m going to take it.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘I am.’

Adam put the gun in his trackpants pocket. It didn’t fit. He turned it around, put the stock in the pocket first, with the barrel pointing up. It felt less likely to fall out that way. The band of Adam’s T-shirt covered the majority of the thick cylinder sticking out. It didn’t hide the swell of the weapon, or conceal the telling weight. Adam folded the waistband of his trackpants to stop them slipping down. He put a few spare bullets in his other pocket. To lighten his load, he took out the toothpaste and toothbrush. Adam threw them away under the house.

He couldn’t help but look back at the scattered tube and brush as they left. His tongue probed his teeth. Everything was changing. There’d been a switch. The ash in Adam’s hair, the soot on his skin, the smell of fire in his clothes, blood and sky, earth and the soles of his sneakers, footpaths, gutters, houses, cars, light poles, letterboxes, . . . all of it was real. He wasn’t looking at it, it wasn’t happening on the TV, or taking place beyond a fence, he wasn’t watching it from a place inside himself.
He
was
in
it. Adam was real. Belonged.

They bolted out of the yard, out the gate, away from Wade Park. As Adam ran he kept the gun pressed to his hip, one hand clamped to it. Billy tucked his bleeding arm into his side and put his other arm across his waist, holding the wad of money firm.

‘You know what this is, don’t you,’ Billy said, ‘it’s a fuck ’n’ run. Leave whatever lame bastard you’ve been with, take their wallet, don’t look back, and just fucken run.’