The Slap

  Hector nibbled at everything but could taste nothing. The amphetamines still rushed through his body and each mouthful he took seemed bland and dry. But he felt proud of what his wife had made possible. He heard the slam of a car door and he eagerly looked up, counted the steps coming up the drive and sprang up to open the verandah gate. Tasha kissed him on the cheek. There was little resemblance between Connie and her aunt; Tasha was short, with a squat body and dark straight hair. Connie was dressed in a blue sweater that was too big for her; it hid her entire body. When Hector went to kiss her she jumped back, bumping into the timorous teenage boy who had walked in behind them. At first Hector didn’t recognise the youth, then realised he was the son of Tracey, the vet nurse at Aisha’s practice. He was all acne and shyness, his eyes almost hidden beneath the navy and red baseball cap that he had drawn tight over his skull and forehead. Hector mechanically shook the youth’s hand. His eyes were on Connie and she was staring right back at him. The challenge in her eyes shot a jolt of heat through him.

  He led the trio into the kitchen. ‘There’s heaps of food,’ he gushed. ‘Here, let me get you something to eat.’

  ‘They can do it themselves, you organise the drinks.’ Aisha kissed them all by turn. The boy blushed a deep scarlet, his rash of pimples flaring.

  ‘Where’s your mum, Richie?’

  Tasha answered for him. ‘Trace can’t make it. Her sister’s across from Adelaide.’

  ‘But I told Tracey to bring her along. There’s certainly enough food and drink. Hector’s parents have made sure of that.’

  Richie mumbled inaudibly and there was an awkward silence. Clearing his throat the boy began again. His sentences were short, confused, a rapid jumble.

  ‘Only one night. Then friends, going to Lakes Entrance. Only has one night. She and Mum have to catch up.’

  Aisha was amused by the almost incoherent statements, but didn’t show it, smiling sweetly at the youth who suddenly beamed back at her.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you came.’ Aisha turned to Hector. ‘How about some drinks?’

  Richie asked for fruit juice and Connie diffidently asked for a beer. Hector glanced over at the girl’s aunt but Tasha seemed oblivious. He looked back at Connie and he couldn’t help but register a hint of disappointment behind the stiff smile on her lips. He had made a mistake in seeking her aunt’s permission.

  His eyes followed Connie. He watched her fill her plate, observed the fine ripples on her pale long throat as she swigged at the beer. She ate delicately, slowly, but with obvious relish, enjoying the rich food. She wiped at her mouth, casually, unconcerned. The boy ate with gusto; in minutes, his lips and chin were shining. Jealousy suddenly erupted in Hector. Connie and Richie had moved to the back of the garden, sitting on the bluestone bricks which bordered the vegetable patch. They ate and drank in silence under the giant fig tree. As quickly as it had occurred, his jealousy was gone. There was no reason to be threatened by the nurse’s son. The boy was still trapped in the awful confusion of adolescence; it was clear in everything he did. The boy had his mother’s fair colouring and freckled skin. One day he would be a striking man. He had strong, fine features, high cheekbones and attractive, kindly eyes. But the poor kid had no inkling of such a possibility. Hector put a cigarette to his mouth. Ari was smoking as well. He, too, had only grazed at the meal. Leanna had little appetite as well. Hector smiled at her and she made a grimace of apology.

  ‘It’s amazing food,’ she whispered. ‘But I’m just not hungry.’

  He sat down beside her on the blanket. Her eyes, with the delicate hint of her Burmese ancestry, were glistening, mischievous.

  He tapped her nose. ‘I know why you’re not hungry.’

  She chuckled and looked across at Dedjan who had gone and filled his plate with a second serve. ‘Nothing stops Dedj.’

  Dedjan was wolfing down his food. It was a running joke at work how much the man ate and how he managed to stay slim. Though time was telling on him as well, thought Hector, looking across at his friend. There was more flesh on his jowls, and perhaps the first evidence of a belly?

  As Hector lit his cigarette he promised himself, now that he was finally giving up smoking, that he would start swimming again. He knew Connie’s eyes must be on him, that she would be wanting a cigarette. He deliberately did not look her way.

  As his mother began clearing away the plates, Hector saw Ravi get up and walk into the house. He emerged minutes later with the children forming a conga-line behind him. Adam was laughing, first behind his uncle. If Hector had not been speeding, it was possible that his next thought would have hurt: he loves his uncle unconditionally, in a way he will never love me. In a way I will never love him.

  ‘We don’t have any wickets, Uncle Raf.’

  ‘Use your imagination, amigo. Where’s a bucket?’

  Sava and Adam immediately ran to the garage, Adam emerging triumphant with a green bucket. Sava followed with an old scarred children’s cricket bat, its skin now dotted with green patches of mould, the result of too many winters left out in the rain. It had been Hector’s cricket bat when he was a boy. Melissa had been scrounging in the undergrowth and emerged with a tennis ball. Ravi expertly and quickly assigned the children into teams. The adults drifted into the house. Hector, his hands full of plates, looked back and saw that Connie and Richie had scrambled up the fig tree and were watching the children take their allotted positions. In the kitchen, Aisha had begun to brew coffee.

  ‘No! No no no no no! ’ It was as if the child had become lost in the very word, as if all the world was contained in the screaming of this one negative syllable. ‘No no no no no! ’ It was Hugo. All of them by now, Hector figured, must know that it could only be Hugo. It was the men who rushed outside, as if the child’s screams were somehow connected to the rules of the game and therefore it was the men who should arbitrate in the dispute. Hugo was awkwardly slamming the bat on the ground; he needed to hold on to it with both hands but his grip was strong, he would not let it go. Ravi was trying to plead with the little boy. Rocco was frowning behind the wicket.

  ‘It’s alright, Hugo, you’re not out.’

  ‘He is.’ Rocco was standing his ground. ‘He got lbw’d.’

  Ravi smiled at the older boy. ‘Listen, he doesn’t even know what that means.’

  Gary jumped off the verandah and began to walk towards his son. ‘Come on, Hugo, I’ll explain why you’re out.’

  ‘No!’ The same piercing scream. The boy looked as if he was going to hit his father with the bat.

  ‘Put the bat down now.’

  The boy did not move.

  ‘Now!’

  There was silence. Hector realised he was holding his breath.

  ‘You’re out, Hugo, you bloody spoil-sport.’ Rocco, at the end of his tether, went to grab the bat from the younger boy. With another scream Hugo evaded the older boy’s hands, and then, leaning back, he lifted the bat. Hector froze. He’s going to hit him. He’s going to belt Rocco with that bat.

  In the second that it took Hector to release his breath, he saw Ravi jump towards the boys, he heard Gary’s furious curse and he saw Harry push past all of them and grab at Hugo. He lifted the boy up in the air, and in shock the boy dropped the bat.

  ‘Let me go,’ Hugo roared.

  Harry set him on the ground. The boy’s face had gone dark with fury. He raised his foot and kicked wildly into Harry’s shin. The speed was coursing through Hector’s blood, the hairs on his neck were upright. He saw his cousin’s raised arm, it spliced the air, and then he saw the open palm descend and strike the boy. The slap seemed to echo. It cracked the twilight. The little boy looked up at the man in shock. There was a long silence. It was as if he could not comprehend what had just occurred, how the man’s action and the pain he was beginning to feel coincided. The silence broke, the boy’s face crumpled, and this time there was no wail: when the tears began to fall, they fell silently.

  ‘You fucking animal!’ Gary pushed i
nto Harry and nearly knocked him over. There was a scream and Rosie pushed past the men and scooped her child into her arms. She and Gary were shouting and cursing at Harry who had backed against the garage wall and appeared to be in shock himself. The children were watching with clear fascination. Rocco’s face was filled with pride. Hector felt Aisha move beside him, and he knew, as host, there was something he should do. But he didn’t know what—he wanted his wife to intervene, because she would be calm and fair and just. He couldn’t be just. He could not forget the exhilaration he had felt when the sound of the slap slammed through his body. It had been electric, fiery, exciting; it had nearly made him hard. It was the slap he wished he had delivered. He was glad that the boy had been punished, glad he was crying, shocked and terrified. He saw that Connie had dropped from the tree and was moving quickly to the crying mother and child. He could not let her be the one to assume responsibility. He ran in between his cousin and the enraged parents.

  ‘Come on. We’re all going inside.’

  Gary turned to him now. His face was contorted, he was hissing and a spray of spit fell across Hector’s cheek. ‘No, we’re fucking not.’

  ‘I’m calling the police.’ Rosie had her fists clenched.

  Harry’s shock turned into outrage. ‘Go fucking call the police. I fucking dare you.’

  ‘This is abuse, mate. Fucking child abuse.’

  ‘Your child deserved it. But I don’t blame him, I blame his bogan parents.’

  Connie had come up and touched Rosie’s shoulder. The woman swung around angrily.

  ‘We should clean him up.’

  Rosie nodded. Everyone was now on the verandah and they cleared a path for the three to walk through. Hugo was still sobbing.

  Hector turned to his cousin. ‘I think you should go.’

  Harry was enraged but Hector spoke quickly in Greek. ‘He’s drunk too much. You can’t reason with him.’

  ‘What are you saying to him?’

  Gary’s face was right in front of him, nose to nose. He could smell the man’s acrid perspiration and the stale odour of the alcohol.

  ‘I’m just saying Harry should go home.’

  ‘He’s not fucking going anywhere. I’m calling the cops.’ Gary took his mobile phone out of his pocket and held it up.

  ‘See? I’m calling the cops. You’re all witnesses.’

  ‘You can do that later.’ Sandi’s voice was shaking as she walked up to Gary. ‘I’ll give you our details. If you want to make a charge later, then you can. But I think we all need to go home tonight and look after our kids.’ She began to cry.

  Gary looked mutinous, and sneered, as though he was about to turn his abuse on her, when Rocco silently came up and stood beside his mother. His eyes were defiant as he looked up to the man.

  Gary’s next words were quiet. ‘Why are you with that bastard? Does he hit you too?’

  Hector gripped tight on his cousin’s shoulder.

  ‘My husband is a good man.’

  ‘He hit a child.’

  Sandi said nothing.

  ‘What’s your address?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ll give you our phone number.’

  ‘I want your address.’

  Aisha was beside him.

  ‘Gary, I’ve got all the details. Sandi’s right, you should all go home.’ She had her hand on the man’s shoulder and the small gesture calmed him.

  Hector was filled with love for his wife. Aisha knew exactly what to do, she always did. He wanted to kiss her neck, to just hold on to her. Melissa had come up to her mother, she too was crying. Aisha curled her hand around her daughter’s. Adam came and stood beside him. Hector took the boy’s hand.

  What the fuck am I doing? All that I have, all that I’m blessed with, and I’m putting it at risk? The boy’s moist hand felt glued onto his own skin.

  Abruptly Hector dropped his son’s hand and walked into the house.

  As he passed his mother in the kitchen, she whispered to him, in Greek. ‘Your cousin was not in the wrong.’

  ‘Shh, Koula,’ his father warned. ‘Don’t make trouble.’ His old man looked frightened. Or maybe he was just tired of this new world.

  Hector walked into his bedroom and froze. Hugo was suckling on Rosie’s breast and Connie was sitting next to her, stroking the child’s head.

  ‘I can’t believe that monster did that. I’ve never hit Hugo—neither of us have. Never.’

  Hector felt the boy’s eyes on him.

  Hugo pulled away from Rosie’s teat. ‘No one is allowed to touch my body without my permission.’ His voice was shrill and confident. Hector wondered where he learnt those words. From Rosie? At child care? Were they community announcements on the frigging television?

  ‘That’s right, baby, that’s right.’ Rosie kissed her son’s forehead. How about when he kicks someone or hits out at another kid? Who gives him permission to do that?

  ‘Yes.’ Connie was nodding vehemently in agreement. ‘That’s right, Hugo. No one has a right to do that.’

  She was so young. It suddenly repelled him.

  ‘Gary’s ready to go home.’

  Rosie picked her handbag off the bed, picked up Hugo, and walked past Hector. They did not exchange a word.

  Hector closed the door, leaving him alone with Connie. He wanted to be kind but he didn’t know how.

  ‘We can’t see each other again. Not the way we have been. Do you understand?’

  The girl looked away, sniffing. ‘I can’t believe he hit him. What kind of arsehole hits a child?’

  He couldn’t believe what he had risked. It was so clear to him. He wanted her out of this room, out of his house. He wanted her out of his life.

  ‘Do you understand?’ He softened his tone.

  ‘Sure.’ She still couldn’t look at him.

  ‘I think you’re so special, Connie. But I love Aisha, I really do.’

  Her response was almost violent. She started shaking. ‘Don’t you know I do as well? I hate what we’re doing to her.’ She took a shuddering breath. ‘It’s . . .’ she was struggling for the word, ‘It’s disgusting. ’

  She was so young, everything was an exaggeration. He wanted to push her out of the room, out of his life. She wasn’t mature. She was a bloody child.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  You’ll never tell? It was the terror he had been living with for months, always there, beneath the thrill. He’d imagined the shame for months—cops and divorce and jail and suicide.

  She read his thoughts. ‘No one knows.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated.

  She wouldn’t look at him. Instead her foot was swinging, she worried at a lock of hair in her mouth. A child, she was a child.

  She said something so softly he couldn’t hear it.

  ‘What?’

  This time she looked at him, poisonous. ‘I said your arms are ugly, they’re so hairy. You’re like a gorilla.’

  He was shocked. And he wanted to laugh. He sat down next to her on the bed, not daring to let their bodies touch. ‘Connie, nothing really happened between us.’

  She flinched. He could smell her cheap perfume; over-ripe, sugary, it tickled his nose. It was a young girl’s perfume. He wished he could touch her, stroke her hair, kiss her one more time. But he couldn’t bring himself to show any affection. Any touch between them now would be loathsome. He looked up, into the mirror, at a man and a child sitting on the bed, and in that moment she did the same. Her eyes were pleading, tormented, and almost against his will, not wanting to hurt her anymore, he shook his head.

  Connie jumped off the bed, jerked open the door, and bolted. For a moment he sat still, enjoying only the relief. He had done it, he had finished it. He closed the door after her and sat back on the bed. His chest hurt, a cord wrapped tight around his lungs. He tried to breathe but couldn’t. He knew he must not panic, this wasn’t a heart attack, it couldn’t be, it mustn’t be, he just had to breathe. His fucking throat, he couldn’t open
his throat. He was dripping sweat, couldn’t see his reflection in the mirror. He wasn’t there, where was he? Where the fuck was he?

  With a gasp that sent him sprawling to the floor he convulsed and drew sweet life into his throat and lungs. He rocked back and forth, remembering again how to breathe. He wiped his face, his neck, with a handkerchief and found himself in the mirror. His face was pale, his eyes red. He looked bloated, grey and old. He realised he was crying. Snot trickled from his nose, tears marking his cheeks. He didn’t cry—he hadn’t cried since he was a kid. He massaged his chest. I will change, he promised. I will change.

  When Hector came back out of the house, Richie was the only person in the backyard, still sitting on a limb of the fig tree. Gary, Rosie and Hugo had gone. Wordlessly, everyone else was collecting their gear, muttering muted feeble goodbyes. Out on the street Hector asked where Leanna, Dedjan and Ari were going. There was talk of more drinking, a bar in High Street, maybe some dancing. He felt separated from them totally and finitely: cleaved from their childless lives.

  Back in the house, he could see that Harry was close to tears himself; to see his cousin so wretched was the worst thing. Fury rose within him. He was glad that Gary and Rosie had left. He couldn’t bear to see them, to enact the forced pretences of friendship and compassion. Rocco was standing by his father, close, their bodies touching. Sandi kissed Hector and Aisha goodbye, but it was his parents who walked the family to the car. Hector had gripped tight to his cousin’s hand but he was unsure what Aisha expected of him, where her sympathies lay. He knew that as his mother and father walked Harry to the car they would be soothing him in Greek, that their anger would be directed against the bloody Australians. Hector agreed with them, but he had no idea what Aisha was thinking. He dreaded the argument ahead.

  In the backyard, Connie was calling up to Richie.

  The boy made no move. Hector lit a cigarette and offered one to Tasha.