Through the Cracks by Honey Brown Page A

put his tank top on. He combed his fingers through his hair. Up on the street he lit a smoke, cupping his hand around the flame, puffing fast in the gusting wind to keep it lit. A car on the road slowed and pulled over to the kerb. Billy watched it. There were no other cars about, only a few people on the sidewalk. Drifting up was the sound of waves softly tumbling in and flowing out. Flags flapped on the tops of tall poles. The driver of the car wound down his window.
    He called across, ‘Hey boys, need a lift?’
    ‘Maybe not,’ Billy murmured.
    He turned and they headed back down the steps again.
    ‘Not tonight, hey,’ Billy said.
    Drunks were passed out in the playground along from the steps. Some were huddled in groups talking. They smelled of alcohol and unwashed clothes. Billy was asked for smokes. He gave out a few.
    They wandered off to where the streets were quieter, sheltered from the sea breeze.
    ‘What’s your last name?’
    ‘Vander.’
    ‘Man, you got to drop that shit. You’re like a broken record. Do you know your
real
last name?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘How old are you?’
    Adam shook his head.
    ‘You don’t know? You don’t know how old you are? You’re kidding me? What’s the story with your mum?’
    ‘She’s dead.’
    ‘How did that happen?’
    ‘She died when I was a baby.’
    ‘Who told you that?’
    ‘My fath— Joe,’ Adam said.
    ‘That’s likely to be a load of shit then. How old do you reckon I am?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘Well, give it a go. Have a try.’ Billy skipped out in front and held his arms out. He danced along, facing Adam. ‘You’ll never guess.’
    ‘You’re eighteen.’
    He stopped skipping. ‘Why would you say that?’
    ‘That’s how old you seem.’
    ‘I
seem
? What sort of stupid thing is that to say? I don’t look eighteen – I look fucking older. Everyone says I look older. What would you know anyway? . . . Fool.’
    After crossing an empty parking lot they went down wooden steps to a new part of the beach. No sand. The swell splashed against a bank of jagged rocks. They walked out onto a jetty and sat with their legs over the side, listened to the waves slap against the boats.
    Adam watched the black water move beneath them. Billy talked about the different fish to catch – flathead, mullet, bream and whiting. He talked about what baits to use. Adam rested his forehead on the rail and dozed in bouts.
    His hearing fuzzed in and out. His awareness faded.
    Wind died away and mozzies swarmed.
    Billy nudged him. They got up and climbed the steps, headed back the way they’d come.
    Whenever they saw the police, Billy spun on his heel and Adam followed. They’d disappear, let the crowd hide them.
    At first light they were out front of a bakery. The shop had not long opened. Adam was scratching his itchy bites. The lumps and welts were on his hands, up and down his arms, some were on his nape and scalp.
    ‘That isn’t any old haircut, by the way,’ Billy was saying, ‘that’s a
cut
. You look fucking cool. Like David Bowie’s love child.’
    He slid two sausage rolls from the paper bag and passed one to Adam.
    ‘That’s us skint.’
    They climbed the stairs to Vern’s place. Adam was weak with fatigue. He stopped halfway up to muster the last bit of effort left inside him.
    ‘Want a jellybean?’
    ‘No, thank you.’
    ‘Don’t like them?’
    ‘They’re too sweet.’
    ‘Too sweet? Jeez, kid, you crack me up.’
    Vern’s door was locked. They sat down with their backs against it. From the mesh platform they were able to see the sun lift higher and the coloured clouds turn white. Adam’s eyes kept closing. The bites nagged and niggled. Adam clawed at them. Billy chewed his jellybeans. Vern arrived in a brown van and parked in the alleyway. His hair and beard were damp. He had on a baggy singlet top and shorts. He came up the steps. Adam felt Billy’s body grow tense. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Billy’s forced smile