Every time he’d ask me for a tool, I found it and handed it to him, watching as he worked, lying on his back half inside the bathroom cabinet. At one point, he began to whistle, a tone I instantly recognized as the one Royce would sometimes bellow out. Despite the tune putting a dampener on the experience for me, he soon stopped, swearing as the wrench slipped, his knuckles slamming into the corner of the cabinet.
“GOD-DAM SON OF A BITCH!” my father bellowed, looking at his hand as bits of skin hung down, blood already weeping from where he skinned his knuckles. The wrench went flying and as he tried to stand, a fart screamed out of his arse, loud enough to sound like his pants had ripped. He stopped, looked up at me, then began to laugh furiously, forgetting about his wounded hand.
I laughed with him, cautiously at first, but let my walls down a little as I saw tears begin to stream from his eyes.
“Don’t matter the language you speak, son. A fart is funny in whatever tongue you use.” I didn’t have a clue what the hell he was talking about, but that moment was one of the happy memories for me.
“What’s so funny?” a voice suddenly asked from behind us and I spun around to see Royce standing in the doorway, leaning against the side as if he’d been standing there the whole time.
He had a strange grin on his face, one I cannot describe, other than to say it looked as if he knew something we didn’t. The laughing stopped almost instantly, a strange silence descending over us. Even my father looked uncomfortable and I could tell from a single look at him that he was ashamed.
Our eyes met for the briefest moment, a mere second. That was all it took for me to see the shame in his eyes, and for him to see that I saw that shame. He swung his meaty hand at me, the back of it slamming into the side of my face.
“Pick up these fucken tools and get ‘em back to the shed,” he hissed at me. He then stood, took a final look at his handywork and walked out of the bathroom. Royce took one final look at me then turned and followed my father as I began to clear the floor.
2.
Time passed for us and although I wish I could say there were more good times than bad, there weren’t. Except for one. One major one. A moment that would forever remain as the only time my father ever made me feel like his son.
It happened the day after my 12th birthday. Isn’t funny how all these things always seem to happen around birthdays or other special days. Although there were no presents for me that day. The prick didn’t even wish me a happy birthday when he shuffled past me that morning. He did slap me painfully in the back of the head when I took the last slices of bread for my lunch. It was a school day and yet old Daddyo woke up with a bad case of booze temper. I swear he was still drunk.
“No school today. I need you to take a shovel to the old Windmill and dig a new rubbish hole. You make sure it’s big enough for all of it.”
Before my mum had died, my father would often be forced to dig a hole at some point on our property, a place to dump our household waste. Given that he hadn’t dug a single hole in all the years she was gone had meant the build-up of shit had never ended. It surprised me to be asked, but I figured maybe he wanted to clean up the place, something that made me happy.
I did as he asked, taking a shovel and walking the half a mile to where the old windmill stood. From this spot there was virtually no sign of civilization in any direction. The nearest home was through more trees beyond a ridge. It was a hot day and within an hour, had stripped off my shirt as the sweat flowed freely from every pore of my body.
After maybe three hours of non-stop working, I stepped out of a hole that sat almost 3 feet deep and at least 10 feet long. It was a couple of feet wide and I hoped that it would be enough. There was an old abandoned cart that sat a few yards from this spot, a relic from the previous owner. It had a busted wheel, but the tray was still in one piece.
I walked over to it, jumped up and sat with my legs dangling down. I then reached into my pocket and pulled out a prize I’d stolen from my old man. It was half a cigarette; one he’d stubbed out and left on the kitchen bench.
I straightened it, gave the end of it a rub and popped it in my mouth. It felt strange, the taste a little musty. But all the tough kids smoked and I figured it was time I did too. I pulled a book of matches out, snapped one off and struck it. The flame danced a little, no breeze to ease the heat. I let it lick the end of the cigarette and drew in, pulling the flame into it. I could feel the smoke fill my mouth and sucked it into my lungs.
The explosive coughing fit that erupted from my throat was painful, but not as painful as the low cackle I heard from somewhere behind me. I spun my head and saw Royce Packard leaning against a tree. He had a cigarette dangling from his own lips. His eyes were as dark as ever, eyeing me off with that same look he had during that very first walk we
