Free Through the Cracks by Honey Brown Page A

shirt and dots of green on his legs. The man opened his arms.
    ‘Watch this,’ Billy murmured out of the corner of his mouth. He grinned and said, ‘Vern, you big fucking bear, how’s it going?’
    They embraced. Billy whispered something in the man’s ear. He turned his back on the man, winked at Adam.
    ‘I’ve missed you, William.’
    ‘Well, I fucking hope so. What’s not to miss?’
    For a while it was as though Vern didn’t see Adam. His eyes were fixed on Billy.
William
. When Billy walked to the windows, Vern went too, passing right by Adam, not looking at him, not even a glance. Billy crossed his ankles and leaned against the window frame. He watched the cars and people down on the street. Some of the paintings in the room were of boys in poses very much like Billy’s, at that same window, perhaps. Only when Billy pointed at Adam did Vern switch his attention.
    ‘That’s Adam. He’s quiet. He needs a haircut.’
    Vern smiled gently. There was nothing to read in his eyes. It was Billy he wanted to be looking at.
    Vern led them down to the room he’d first come from. It was a kitchen, with a couch squeezed in against one wall and a narrow bed against the other. Takeaway containers covered the table and were scattered on the floor. Vern began clearing away the mess. He kept apologising for it. Billy sank down onto the couch and tipped his head back. He closed his eyes. Vern continued to clean up. Adam perched on the couch beside Billy. Soon the bin was full and Vern had to squash the rubbish down to fit more in.
    ‘Hey,’ Billy said, without opening his eyes, ‘enough already. Leave it.’
    Vern stopped and left the kitchen. He shut the door behind him.
    Billy sighed. ‘You’re right, aren’t you, kid, if I have a sleep? You’re good?’
    ‘Is there a way I can get a drink?’
    He answered with his eyes closed. ‘Turning on the tap has always worked for me.’

I t was a long couch. Adam had a seat cushion to himself. Billy was fast asleep, lying on his side, with his knees bent. His feet were right by Adam’s leg. Billy had kicked off his shoes. The bottoms of his feet were pale but dirty. The window was open a crack. Warm sea wind gusted in. Adam drank the tap water from a mug.
    He got up, dried the mug, put it back in the cupboard where he’d found it. Billy continued to sleep. The sun got lower. Every so often the door handle would turn and the door would open. Vern would peer in, look at Billy sleeping, and close the door again. As tired as Adam was, it was the wrong time to rest. The situation didn’t feel safe. There was no easy way out of this upstairs room. A shout for help could be lost to all the noise in the street below.
    In the fridge, Adam found a packet of chocolate biscuits. He eased three biscuits out, at pains not to make the packet crackle. He stood by the window and ate them. Billy’s face in sleep was round and boyish. He lay there like a child, a very big one. The shorts he was wearing rode higher up his thighs. The tops of his legs were covered in round scars, shiny and slightly risen, not burns, but healed puncture wounds. His fingers sometimes curled in and then gradually reopened. His palms were pale, like the soles of his feet. From the window Adam could see over the rooftops to the ocean. Ocean water changed colour. It was now dark blue. Adam thought for a moment about the house, the safe and the hidden key; he thought about his father. Billy had said with new clothes and a haircut Adam wouldn’t know himself, and it felt like that could happen. Adam rubbed his tongue along his teeth, fretted that they were furry.
    The day darkened. The ache in Adam’s lower back wasn’t letting up. Chocolate-flavoured bile rose in his throat. He stepped nearer to the wall, slid down against it, crouched and pulled in small. Was he feverish because he was thinking too hard and too much? If he let himself, he could cry. If he let himself, he could vomit.
    Billy stirred. Adam rose