The Slap

  Sandi was loading the dishwasher. She was a little bit tipsy herself and swung around eagerly on hearing him behind her. A coffee mug fell onto the floor, jumped and rolled again and again on its side before coming to a stop, unbroken.

  ‘That was lucky.’ She shrugged good-naturedly and stooped to pick up the mug. He could kick her in the face right now. She stood up, a delirious smirk on her face. ‘That was a fantastic day.’

  As she spoke she must have become aware of the danger in his eyes because she took a step back, bumping the back of her knee on the open dishwasher door.

  ‘Honey, what’s wrong?’

  ‘How dare you go to Hector behind my back?’ He saw fear spread across her features and a surge of excitement flooded through him. He grabbed her hair and tilted her head towards him. ‘How fucking dare you?’

  She went limp. She did not struggle. ‘Harry, I was going to tell you.’

  ‘You stupid bitch, you don’t talk to anyone about our business. Not to Hector, not to your mother, not to your sisters, not to your girlfriends. Our business is our business and nobody else’s.’ He kept his voice low. He would not awaken his son. He pulled again at his wife’s hair, a thick strand was now curled tight around his fist. ‘Do you want that stuck-up Indian bitch of Hector’s knowing your business? Do you? You don’t think she’ll run straight to that slut friend of hers and tell her everything? What the fuck were you thinking?’ Now he wanted to scream, he wished he could yell, that he could slam his fist into her face. He pulled at the coil of her hair around his fist and brought her face right up next to his.

  He could see the terror in her eyes. She was petrified, shivering like a desperate animal, and he realised, looking into her eyes, that he had failed her. She would never be able to forget his violence, never forget the slap. He could hit her now, he could, like his father would have, to see how far he could go, how far she’d let him and how far he’d let himself.

  He freed her hair from his hand, pulled her into his arms and hugged her hard, tight through her confusion, her crying, that blessed moment of relief when her tense body collapsed into his and he realised that her fear had gone.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she kept repeating. ‘I’m so sorry, Harry.’

  ‘It’s alright.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘I’ll go and see that bastard, I’ll go with Hector. I’ll go and see him and that bitch of a wife. Fuck! It will cost me, but I’ll apologise to the cunts. I’ll do that, sweetheart, I promise. But you’re not coming with me. You and Rocco are going to have nothing to do with them ever again.’

  She nodded, eagerly, glad of his love. Again, he was reminded of a faithful dumb animal.

  Hector swung the car into a small side street and Harry was suddenly reminded of his childhood. His old man had once taken him for a walk down these very streets. He must have been younger than Rocco—six? seven?—and it must have been a Sunday because his father, he recalled, had been wearing a freshly ironed white shirt, not his usual overalls. The neighbourhood had been bare of trees back then, the sun had scorched the asphalt streets and Harry remembered being mesmerised by the shimmering heat that seemed to rise in opaque waves from the concrete. The houses had not seemed so pretty back then, they had seemed small, ugly and squat. Now that the wogs had moved out and the yuppies had moved in, the houses had been renovated, beautified, the streets stank of money. The council had planted bushes and plane trees along strips of concrete that had once reeked of dog shit, petrol and sewage. Not that he would ever move into any of them. They cost a bomb but they were still tiny shitboxes. His father had taken him into a small worker’s cottage. The men had played cards into the evening and he had gone off with a young boy who lived in the house and spent the day playing in the small unkempt park across the road.

  Hector turned into another street and Harry was sure that they were passing that very same park. Back then there had been no swings for children, no benches, nothing. It had been more of a vacant lot than a park. When they had returned to the house at dusk, he remembered that heaps of wogs had been sitting outside on the porches of their houses, drinking coffee, smoking, yelling across to the neighbours. Evening was falling now but the houses they passed were all silent.

  Hector braked and parked the car. Harry looked out of the window and his cousin pointed to a small weatherboard house sitting desolately between two newly renovated red-brick ones. The weather-boards were originally painted white, God knows how many decades ago, but years of rain and wind had stained them a murky jaundice. The small front garden was overgrown with weeds, and the one lonely rose bush was dying.

  ‘That’s their place?’

  Hector nodded.

  It figured, thought Harry, the fucking pricks didn’t even have enough pride to look after their home. He would be ashamed to have his neighbours think that he was so lazy or indifferent or hopeless that he could not even manage to maintain this small shitty excuse of a garden.

  ‘Do they own it?’

  ‘They rent.’

  Of course. Perfect. They were the types that would be renting all their lives. Still, it was their home for the moment; were they so degenerate that they did not care at all for having a beautiful place to come home to? And how about the kid? What example did they want to set for him? Or didn’t they care about such things either?

  ‘Come on, let’s do it.’

  Harry hadn’t even unbuckled his seatbelt. He sat still for a moment, then nodded.

  ‘Sure.’

  The doorbell didn’t work and Harry belted the thick red wooden door with the ball of his palm. They heard a child call out, then rapid footsteps along the corridor. It was the man who opened the door. He was wearing overalls, his paint-splattered shirt unbuttoned. The moment was awkward, tense. Harry extended his hand. Gary looked at it, he seemed unsure, confused. The resulting handshake was limp.

  The house smelt of incense. Harry was the last in the file down the corridor and he peeked into the rooms. They were all darkened, dishevelled. He noticed that the bed was unmade and he couldn’t see a room for the child. They walked into a brightly lit kitchen. A wide table dominated the space. She was sitting at one end of the table, her child in her lap suckling on her bosom. She did not even acknowledge his smile.

  ‘Hello,’ he growled. ‘Thanks for seeing me.’

  Her voice was cold, distant. Was she stoned? ‘I didn’t want to see you.’

  She was ice-bitch beautiful, a stunner blonde with crystal blue eyes. But he did not find her attractive at all. There was something sly, something he did not trust in her eyes. They were serpent’s eyes.

  The child looked up at him and Hector, quizzical but friendly eyes. There was something both obscene—and possibly because of that—something erotic about seeing such a grown child still drinking from his mother. A quick thought came to Harry. What would she do once the brat started school? Would she be sticking her jugs through the school fence?

  ‘How are you, Hector?’

  Her tone was cool towards his cousin as well. Gary had returned from a small room, adjacent to the kitchen, holding three stubbies of beer. There was no room in the kitchen for a fridge. How did people live like this? She had not offered them a seat and Gary indicated that they take a chair.

  Harry sat, took a sip of the beer, but he found he had no thirst.

  ‘Do you remember this man, Hugo?’

  The boy had inherited his mother’s fairness, the uncanny opaqueness of her eyes. There seemed to be no bile or fear in them as he looked at Harry. The boy slowly nodded.

  ‘This is the bad man who hit me. He’s going to go to jail.’

  The men all laughed, as if the boy’s innocent words had allowed them to confront and therefore relax into the situation. The boy, surprised at the reaction to his statement, looked from man to man with glee. Rosie’s face remained stony. She shifted Hugo on her lap, capped her breast into her bra, and then flopped out her other tit. Hugo immediately turned and fell upon it. You stupid bitch. Harr
y couldn’t bring himself to look at them. He glanced over at Gary. The man didn’t approve of this. The man obviously didn’t approve of this at all but didn’t have the fucking balls to do a thing about it.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Her tone was contemptuous.

  ‘I’ve come to apologise.’

  ‘Not fucking accepted.’

  ‘Rosie, at least hear him out.’

  Christ, the man was a whiner. Harry noticed that he had nearly finished his stubbie.

  ‘I have. He’s come to apologise.’ She turned back to Harry. ‘Well?’

  He was unsure of her taunt, confused. He realised what she was demanding. ‘I’m sorry I hit Hugo. I shouldn’t have done it. You’ve got to understand it was because I was scared for Rocco . . .’

  She interrupted him. ‘Your son is twice his size,’ she sneered.

  And thank you Panagia that he is my son rather than that little faggot you are breeding on your tittie there. Why had he come? He just wanted to belt the silly cow.

  ‘Harry’s really sorry, Rosie. Trust me. It happened so fast, he was scared for Rocco.’

  ‘This is none of your business, Hector.’

  None of his fucking business? This had all happened at his cousin’s barbecue. Of course it was his business.

  ‘I know this is not my business, but I’ve come here today to see if I can help resolve it. I am affected, I can’t help but be. Harry is my cousin, you are my wife’s best friend. I’m fucking involved.’

  ‘No,’ Gary called out from that back room where he had gone to get more grog. ‘You aren’t involved. The only people involved are me, Rosie and this arsehole here. It’s simple.’ He returned holding three more stubbies. Harry and Hector had hardly drunk any from the bottles in front of them.

  Gary slammed them down on the table and sat, grinning. ‘Simple,’ he repeated, looking across at Harry. ‘It’s between us.’

  ‘And Sandi.’

  ‘Sure.’ Gary’s grin disappeared. ‘She’s involved too.’

  ‘We don’t blame her at all.’ Rosie’s voice was steel. She hated him as much as he hated her. ‘It’s not her fault she’s married to a pig.’

  That was it. Fuck them, let them do their worst. He looked around the room. The lazy bitch hadn’t even started dinner yet. In a few years Hugo would probably be joining his old man in an after-school stubbie. He’d make one last attempt, just one.

  ‘Whatever you guys think of me, Sandi is so messed up by all of this. Please don’t take it any further. It’s a waste of money, a waste of all our time. It’s unfair. It’s unfair on her.’

  The sneer had not left Rosie’s face. She sat in silence when Harry had finished, not taking her eyes off him. He forced himself not to blink, he kept his gaze on her cold blue eyes. Gary, the kid, his cousin, they had all disappeared. There was only the battle with Rosie. The child dropped the nipple and hiccoughed. A flash of concern crossed the woman’s face and she dropped her gaze. Harry breathed out. Rosie was stroking Hugo’s hair. She sat him on her lap and the child started playing with his father’s keys.

  ‘I am sorry for your wife. But she’s made the choice to be with you. You hit my child. Do you hit her?’

  Harry sat still, breathing in, slowly breathing out.

  ‘I bet you hit her. Do you hit your kid? How often do you hit your kid?’

  Breathing in, breathing out.

  ‘I hope all this makes her leave you. I hope she has the sense to walk out on you, you disgusting sexist pig.’

  It was the sniggering that did it. Gary’s drunk, nervous giggle, as saliva dribbled from the edge of his mouth.

  Harry jumped up and the force of his chair hitting the wall was so loud that the child began to howl. Rosie shrank back in her seat.

  ‘Mum!’ The child was terrified and his wailing would not stop.

  Rosie hugged him to her and stood up. ‘Gary,’ there was a triumphant smile on her face. ‘Call the police.’

  The bitch. She had trapped him.

  ‘Gary. I said call the cops.’

  ‘Calm down, for God’s sake, it’s alright. Hugo’s just frightened.’

  Rosie ignored Hector. ‘He’s threatening us. He’s made Hugo scared. Call the bloody cops.’

  Gary was on his feet, staggering, looking in confusion from his wife to Harry. Harry did not take his eyes off the cunt. If he could only smash his fists into her pretty face, if he could only bruise her, hurt her. The boy was still howling, enfolded in his mother’s arms, but he stole furtive glances at the angry stranger and then immediately curled back into the protection of his mother.

  ‘Should I call the cops?’

  What a fucking pussy-whipped creep. What a fucking lame excuse for a man. Harry saw the opportunity, saw what he could do. He could reduce the man to pulp, he could beat him senseless, here in this room, in front of the man’s son. Hector would not be enough to stop him. He could smash the man right in front of his son and that bloody useless child would never ever forget it. That would be one of his earliest memories, forever. He would never be able to forget it, to forget what a coward his father really was.

  He breathed in.

  Then they would have him. Then they would crucify him. What a world, what a lousy, ugly, unjust world that allowed the weak and fucked-up and hopeless scum to survive, to have the upper hand. A bullet into each of their heads, three sharp pops.

  He picked up his jacket and walked calmly down the hall. He heard the witch shouting that she would call the cops, he heard his cousin clammering to follow him. He heard the child’s howls, now almost hysterical, as if he was choking, gasping for air. He kicked the front door open and emerged into the clear cool night.

  He breathed out.

  He waited by the car for Hector. He lit a cigarette and the first intake of smoke felt pure, righteous.

  ‘Aish doesn’t want anyone to smoke in the car.’

  Pussy-whipped. They were all fucking pussy-whipped. He butted out the smoke.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Forget it. It was a stupid idea to talk to those scum anyway.’

  They drove to Hector’s place.

  ‘You want to come in?’

  Can I belt the bitch you’re married to?

  ‘Nah, I’ll head off. I’m too wound up.’

  ‘They’re . . .’ Hector could not find words to describe the night.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing hanging out with degenerate trash like that, cuz? Why the fuck do you do it?’

  He left Hector staring at him open-mouthed, embarrassed. Harry started up his own car, pushed in the cigarette lighter, drove off without a wave and lit his cigarette. He’d allow the car to fill up with smoke if he wanted, let it burn if he wanted, smash it up and drive it in the river if he wanted. He drove carefully, steadily. The smoke felt good. It felt real fucking good.

  He had not even been conscious that he was driving to Kelly’s flat. He banged loudly with his fists on the door and Kelly answered, in a yellow singlet and a baggy grey tracksuit. Her hair was up in a ponytail and there was no make-up on her face. It made her look younger. He leaned over and kissed her hard, biting her bottom lip. She drew back and looked at him with alarm.

  ‘Baby, what’s wrong?’

  Without answering he barged into the flat, and started dragging her into her room. Kelly pulled away from him and looked into the girls’ bedroom. Harry stood in the living room, he could hear their voices but he could not make out the words. Kelly emerged and shut the bedroom door firmly behind her.

  ‘You scared them. Are you drunk?’

  He looked at her without answering. She seemed so dark, so dark and small and fat after the poised brittle aloofness of that Australian bitch.

  ‘I’m not drunk.’ He started pushing her towards her bedroom. ‘I’m horny, I want to fuck you.’

  Kelly resisted him again. But a smile started spreading across her face.

  ‘You are horny, aren’t you? I’ll just wash up.’

&nbs
p; He lunged at her.

  ‘Forget that. Get into the fucking bedroom.’

  She leapt aside, poking out her tongue, and evading his grasp.

  ‘I’ll be there in a sec.’

  Her room smelt of incense, and of the sharp citrus of her perfume.

  He opened the bottom drawer of her dresser and started searching underneath the T-shirts and singlets.

  ‘What are you looking for, honey?’

  She was standing in the doorway, her singlet off, her bra unstrapped. One enormous tit had loosened, and hung plump and soft. She threw off her bra and came towards him. She took his hand and slid it through her clothes in the drawer, right to the back, where he felt the cold metallic surface of a tin box. She took out the box, which had an image of Tupac Shakur on its top, and lifted out a small plastic bag of white powder. She cut up three small lines on the lacquered wood surface of the dresser.

  ‘Here you go.’

  He kissed her tits, first the left, then the right. He thought back to the child on his mother’s breast and he felt himself harden. He rolled up a twenty-dollar bill and hoovered two of the lines. Kelly bent over and finished the third. She was so good, Kelly, she asked no questions, demanded nothing of him. Why couldn’t all women be like Kelly? The cocaine was good; slowly he felt his head clear and a warm rush sweep through his body. His gums went numb and he sighed. This was what he needed.

  He kicked off his shoes and fell back onto the bed. ‘Come here.’

  He closed his eyes. He felt her hands all over him, underneath his shirt, rubbing at his belly, his chest, softly sucking on his neck. She unzipped him, slipped her fingers underneath the elastic of his jocks. He imagined Rosie’s face, the jutting cheekbones, the cryptic pale eyes. Kelly was kissing him now on the lips, urgently, her tongue darting into his mouth. He opened his eyes. She lifted her head and looked down at him. She suddenly seemed so ugly, so dark, such a wog. She was not Rosie.