The first morning he carried them, the plastic bag’s handles cut into his palm and fingers, and he cried. The next time, he put them in a backpack he found under the stairs. That was easier, though it did hurt his shoulders.
Now he watched the ferry approach, and he could see the cars and one small bus on its bottom deck, a few passengers leaning on the rails of the top deck. He lifted his hand and waved. Some of the passengers waved back, smiling.
The library van wasn’t there. Mum wasn’t there.
Barry said goodbye to Old Man Gove and headed home.
Dad wasn’t there when Barry got to the house. He looked in the cupboard and found the last slices of bread. There was no more butter in the fridge, so he ate them dry along with water from the tap. That done, he took the backpack up to his bedroom and removed the books. He set Mum’s aside and opened the first of his own.
He’d borrowed this one before and he knew nearly all the words from memory. The pictures of the little boy in his bed, then falling.
“Did you ever hear of Mickey, how he heard a racket in the night?”
Barry worked his way through the book, touching the words, saying them out loud. Almost like proper reading. He did the same with the others, though he didn’t know them so well.
He hoped the library van would come tomorrow so he could get some new ones. He hoped Mum would come back soon and take him away.
Sometime later, Barry heard Dad arrive home. He went to his bedroom door, opened it a little, and listened. Keys dropped on the table. The rustle of plastic bags. Things getting put away. The snap and hiss of a beer can being opened.
Barry went back to his books.
His belly grumbled louder as the day went on. He heard bad words and stumbling from below, then crying.
“She’s a demon,” Dad said. “A demon.”
Barry wondered if he should go down there and tell Dad it was all right, Mum would be home soon to look after them. But he knew when Dad was like that he would be angry, and he might hit. So he stayed in his room until he smelled something bad, a burning kind of smell.
He opened his door and the smell got worse. He saw wisps of smoke in the air. The stairs creaked under his feet. From the hall, he saw Dad in the kitchen, his head resting on his forearm, spit hanging from his lips. Rows of empty cans on the table, and a half full bottle with an orange label. Dad always called it wine, but Barry thought it wasn’t real wine, not like people drink on TV.
Smoke billowed from a pot on the stove. Two slices of charred bread stood up in the toaster. An open tin of beans on the counter.
Barry went to the cooker. He thought he should probably turn it off the way Mum did when something was getting too hot. One of the big knobs on the front was turned all the way round. He turned it back until it clicked. Still, the beans in the pot burned, more smoke filling the air. It made his eyes water, and he wanted to cough.
He reached for the pot handle to lift it away. His fingers released it before he felt the burning heat, and the pot clattered on the floor, spilling hot beans across the tiles.
Dad’s head jerked up, his eyes wide, his mouth open.
Barry put his hands up, backed away, saying, “Sorry, sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean it, sorry.”
Dad blinked at him, then coughed, waved the smoke away.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I’m sorry,” Barry said, the tears coming. “I didn’t mean to spill it. It was an accident. I’ll clean it up, I promise.”
Dad looked at the mess. He looked at Barry.
“The beans were burning,” Barry said. “I lifted the pot off but it was too hot and I dropped it. I’m sorry.”
Dad crossed the room and Barry backed as far into the corner as he could go. He held his hands up, crouched down, made himself small, saying, sorry sorry sorry . . .
Dad got down on his knees, took Barry’s hand, and pressed his lips to the hot palm. Barry felt the stubble of his chin, saw tears fall from Dad’s eyes. Then Dad wrapped his arms around him, pulled him in close, hugged him for the first time he could remember.
“No, I’m sorry,” Dad said. “I’m so sorry. I did a terrible thing and I can’t take it back. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
And Dad held Barry like that for a long time, so long that Barry had to push Dad’s arms away. Then they cleaned up the mess together. Later, Dad made them both toast, and opened more beans, and they ate them cold straight from the tin.
After they’d finished, and they’d been sitting quiet for a while, Dad started to cry again. It occurred to Barry that he should hold Dad’s hand, even though he knew how hard and heavy it could be. He did it anyway. Dad squeezed Barry’s fingers between his.
“I should end it,” Dad said as his eyes gazed at something very far away. “I should just end it, but I’m too scared.”
“End what?” Barry asked.
Dad didn’t answer. He let go of Barry’s hand, stood up from the table, and fetched another can of beer. As he drank it, staring out of the kitchen window, Barry left him there and went to bed.
“Everything all right, son?” Old Man Gove asked.
He hardly ever looked at Barry, but he did this morning, his eyes small and watchful.
“Yeah,” Barry said.
“You sure? I saw your dad yesterday afternoon. He didn’t look too well.”
“He’s been sick,” Barry said, not sure if it was a lie.
“Where’s your mum these days?”
“She left,” Barry said.
Old Man Gove’s face went loose. He looked away and said, “Sorry to hear that, son.”
He didn’t say anything else.
It had been three sleeps since the night Barry and Dad ate together. Barry had hardly seen him since. Only heard him staggering and bumping into things, and the cursing and shouting, and the crying, saying, demon, demon. So Barry had eaten dry bread, and Weetabix from the packet, and drunk water from the tap once the milk was done. Each morning, he washed his face at the bathroom sink, even brushed his own teeth. He’d been wearing the same clothes since Mum left, but he did change his underpants one day because they had gotten stained and smelly.
He didn’t see Dad at all yesterday, and hadn’t heard him since the evening. The back door had slammed sometime after dark, and that was all.
The house had felt empty as Barry came downstairs this morning and into the kitchen. A piece of paper lay on the table, some writing on it that he couldn’t read.
“Is she coming in on time?” Barry asked.
“Aye,” Old Man Gove said.