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308 pages, Paperback
First published August 1, 2014
‘Get him out of here, Robby!’ she shouted. ‘Go!’ Then she was quiet. No more begging or pleading, as if she knew what happened next and it was too late to stop it. There was only the sounds of our bodies – skin rubbing skin, our breaths – trying to get away as if the centre was our dad and we were spinning around him but the gravity was him and it dragged us towards him. Another slap, the same place, the same ear, and down Mum went. She never tried to stop him, she didn’t shield herself. She just let him – there was so much of her for him to choose from. Mum got up slowly, having to balance her weight.
Dad was shaking, as if the pressure was too much and he might explode. That’s why Mum offered herself. She didn’t want him in pieces all over the walls – there’d be too much to clean.
Early on Monday morning Dad went back to work. He wore long sleeves even though it was going to be a scorcher. It was to hide the cut from Bill Philby, his boss. Dad was scared that if Bill Philby saw it he would start asking questions Dad didn’t want to answer.
Before he walked out the door to meet his lift, I said to him: ‘You could roll one sleeve up, Dad, so the cool won’t have so far to travel. It will go under your shirt, and come out the other side like a breeze through a short tunnel.’
Dad laughed. Sometimes it happened. Why? Where was the engine of laughter? There was no time to ask him; he was through the door and gone, a full day of rust ahead of him.
Robby bent down and picked up a stick, stirring the water until clouds of mud swirled upwards. He looked across to the road, then back to the water. I could see his words and wishes circulating his tributaries. ‘One day I’ll leave this place,’ he said. ‘It’s a hole.’
(...)
On the way home I looked for the hole that was this place. I checked between clouds and blades of grass, and under rocks and down rabbit burrows and in clumps of reeds and behind patches of shrub, and in the water that ran beneath the bridge and in the plastic bottles that washed up against the banks of the stream and under the viewing bench and even in the far distance where the trains ran back and forth and the flame leapt from the pipe – but I couldn’t see it.
‘It’s in you, Robby,’ I said.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘The hole.’
‘Fuck off, Jimmy,’ he said, walking ahead.