Richie peeked quickly over at Gary. The man’s lean face seemed severe and unforgiving.
It was Hugo, however, who answered for him. ‘You have to come. You have to.’
‘Of course I will, buddy.’
Rosie kissed him goodbye. Hugo seemed to not want to let him go, holding fiercely onto his hand all the way to the front door. Gary, still silent, followed behind them. Richie was about to wave goodbye when the man gruffly spoke.
‘You’ve got our numbers, haven’t you, mate?’
Richie nodded. Gary extended his hand. There was, Richie was convinced, both forgiveness and apology in their handshake.
It was not exactly happiness that he felt as he walked to Connie’s house. There was still sadness, still shame, and a humbling, keen emotion that Richie imagined might have been regret. He did not feel happy, exactly. But he did feel a lightness, was glad he had seen them.
It was one of the best days of his life. Ali had scored the speed from his brother, Musta, and for the first time in his life, Richie shot up drugs. Ali had the syringes prepared in his pockets and he took Connie and Richie into the bathroom. Connie’s aunt Tasha was making them lunch in the kitchen. Richie panicked, wondered if he was going to die as Ali wiped his forearm with a swab of alcohol, ordered him to flex his muscle, tapped the thick blue vein rising on Richie’s arm. Richie held his breath as the needle slipped under his skin and watched as a slithering scarlet thread of his blood entered the chamber. Then the drug flowed through the needle and into his vein. ‘Let go,’ Ali hissed, and Richie released his wet grip on the belt around his forearm. He was sweating, the world buzzed. Then, his hair seemed to be tingling, an electric current was flowing through his whole body, and he was thrust into a new world: light seemed to dance all around him, brighter than he had ever known, sound rushed through him, he could feel sound. His body was singing, his mind alert, his heart racing, his mood joyous, ecstatic. He watched as Ali carefully, lovingly, shot the magic into Connie’s vein, and when he was finished the three of them looked at each other in stoned wonder. They broke out into such delirious laughter that Tasha knocked on the door. Ali quickly pocketed the syringes, the swabs. Still laughing, they fell around Tasha. She looked at each of them, shook her head resignedly and herded them into the kitchen.
This is what Richie remembers of that day: meeting up with Jenna and Lenin at the bus stop on Victoria Street, the boy wearing a black T-shirt with the Australian flag across his chest except that the Union Jack had been replaced by the Aboriginal flag, Jenna in a baby-doll dress and Goth make-up; Jenna dealing out the pills at the back of the bus, Richie watching the placid face of a veiled Ethiopian woman sitting in front of him as he slipped thirty dollars to Jenna in exchange for the ecstasy; the incessant laughter and talk talk talk on the bus; the crowds of youth walking to the gates of Princes Park, music thumping all around them, the sun bright and burning in the sky; a German Shepherd dog, held tight on its leash by a young blond stud of a cop, the dog’s eyes seeming to follow Richie, making the boy panic, making him raise a sweat, until Richie saw that the dog had turned to look at other humans and that he was forgotten; handing his pass over to a young Indian-looking guy at the turnstile who had dyed his hair albino-white; wandering around the park, peeking into the Boiler Room, listening to music, watching the crowd; Connie holding his hand; rushing to see Lily Allen, he and Connie and Jenna shouting out the words to ‘LND’; Ali sneaking them vodka and cola in a Pepsi bottle, the five of them sitting in a circle, laughing, drinking, smoking; pushing through the thick crowd to get to the front of the Peaches gig, going demented at the end, all in one voice, everyone jumping in one body, chanting the chorus to Fuck the pain away; taking the pill straight after, swarming through to the bright daylight outside the tent, sucking on it like a lolly, scabbing a mouthful of water from Jenna’s bottle to wash it down, sitting on the grass, listening to My Chemical Romance; Ali and Lenin and Connie in the cage, waiting to enter the mosh pit, he and Jenna sharing a cigarette; trying to get in to see The Killers but the cage is full, the light screaming red; he and Connie wandering to the edge of the crowd, lying on their backs on the lawn, holding hands, the first chords of ‘When You Were Young’ seeming to rip through into his body as he and Connie belt out the words; the first wave of the drug kicking in, starting to shiver, freezing, thinking he might be sick but then concentrating on the blue sky above, the music all around him but seeming to be coming from so far away, the cold and the fear deserting him and he suddenly submitting to the warm, lush seduction of the chemical; his arms around Lenin and Ali, the boys walking off to see The Streets, the girls going to Hot Chip, trying to walk normally, without stumbling, knowing that everyone could tell he was on drugs, grateful for Lenin’s firm arm around him; standing at the entrance of the Boiler Room, listening to the band, the hard beats of the music entering his body through the soles of his feet, suddenly drunk on the beats, rushing to the front of the stage, Lenin right behind him, pushing past bodies, the crowd parting for them, everyone all smiles, no anger, no hate, all smiles, and then they were there, right in front, the music exploding around them, he and Lenin in a new world, dancing, jumping, thrashing; closing his eyes as The Streets break out into ‘Blinded By the Lights’, hearing Lenin’s voice, distinct, clear, rising above the song, above the crowd, above the music, Lights are blinding my eyes, people pushing by, they’re walking off into the night, and as the rap reached its climax the crowd, as one, dropping to its haunches, and then the tent is drenched in light, the beats break into a ferocious, frenzied crescendo and him leaping up into the air, weightless, beyond gravity, beyond his body, it is his soul dancing, at one with his body, lights are blinding my eyes, people pushing by, they’re walking off into the night, and Lenin dancing there with him, their arms around each other, the boy has taken off his shirt and his pale chest, studded with thick black curls is wet, shiny, how had he never seen how sexy his friend was; Ali finding them and the three boys now a circle, their hands punching the air, going spastic to the music and when it finally stops they stand cheering, Richie thinking he will lose his voice, and then they are walking, shivering, back out into the park, Ali screaming in his ear, What did you think of that, and him screaming back, That was fucking amazing, Lenin laughing, uncontrollable, delighted laughing; night falling, watching the stars, seeing half of Tool, not enjoying it, the drug beginning its slow reversal; going with Connie into the mosh pit to see Muse, his arms outstretched, bringing the night into himself, the stars, the moon, the boys and the girls, the music and the band, all of it through him and with him and about him; dancing to the close of the night, dancing to anything, not caring, just wanting the movement to never stop, dancing with Connie, their eyes never leaving each other, feeling her body next to his, leaning over to kiss her, her kissing him back, then apart again, dancing, Ali there, Lenin there, Jenna, but what is most important is that kiss, a kiss that feels like an apology and also like forgiveness; and then the night is over.
It is one of the best days of his life.
They ended up back at Ali’s house, sore from the dancing and the long walk to Royal Park station. His parents had a bungalow at the back, where Ali lived. It had its own kitchenette and shower. Mrs Faisal was up, waiting for them. She had prepared them a meal of roasted vegetables, a whole chicken floating in a rich almond sauce, a spicy potato salad. Richie had not thought of food all night, but as soon as he sat at the table he began to attack the food voraciously. Mrs Faisal watched him eat, laughed, and said something in Arabic to her son.
‘Mum says you should come over more often. She’ll fatten you up.’
‘Sure,’ Richie beamed. ‘Any time.’ He grabbed the last drumstick, and then, realising his rudeness guiltily put it back. Mrs Faisal placed it back on his plate. ‘Eat, eat,’ she commanded.
‘Shokrun,’ he mumbled and attacked the meat.
At the end of the meal Mrs Faisal kissed them all goodnight, waved them out to the bungalow and got
them to promise that they would keep the noise down. Richie sat on the bungalow stoop. He wanted to ring Nick. Nick should have been there.
‘How was it?’
‘Fantastic.’
‘Who was the best?’
‘The Streets.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
Richie touched the sharp needle of a cactus. ‘We’re in Coburg, at Ali’s. You want to come over?’
‘Nah, mate. I’m off to bed.’
‘Sweet.’
‘I’ll catch up with you this week.’
‘Sure.’
Richie stayed sitting on the cold concrete of the step, looking out over the Faisals’ garden. There were tomato plants struggling to survive the drought, zucchini flowers running across the vegetable patch. He heard the door open, smelt the marijuana. Lenin sat beside him and offered him the joint. Richie was conscious of the boy’s salty, sweaty tang. Lenin’s leg was twitching, pressed hard against Richie’s, the space tight, constricted on the small step. Richie did not move. Warmth spread from his stomach, seemed to descend into his crotch. He moved his leg away from Lenin.
‘It was fucking awesome, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ Richie’s mouth was dry.
Richie turned to look at his friend. Lenin was staring straight ahead, sucking on the joint. Richie wanted a drink. He was about to take the joint when, there, in the dark, Lenin kissed him. It was quick, it lasted a moment, a fleeting touch of lips, but for Richie it tasted of all the longing and fear and desire he was feeling. Richie took the joint. The boys moved away from each other, embarrassed.
‘I’m not working Tuesday,’ Lenin mumbled, his voice a little shaky. ‘How about you?’
‘No.’ He was going to count to ten, hold his breath. The muted stars in the suburban night sky seemed to tease him, the faint hum of the traffic on the Hume Highway was the only sound in the world. They were both holding their breaths.
‘Do you want to come around? Hang out, watch a DVD?’ Lenin’s voice nearly broke. ‘Only if you want to.’
‘Sure.’ Richie’s voice did squeak.
A shadow fell over them. Ali was standing in the doorway, his arms crossed. ‘You going to share that joint?’
They went inside.
Jenna had put on Snow Patrol. The five of them were on Ali’s bed. Connie and Richie were next to each other, she curled up against him as he stroked her hair. Jenna, next to Connie, had her eyes closed and was singing along to ‘Chasing Cars’ which she was playing for the third time. Lenin and Ali were talking at the end of the bed.
‘She’s thinking of Jordan.’ Connie’s whisper was low, almost inaudible.
Richie listened to the girl singing. Jenna had a good voice.
‘I think I’ve got a date,’ he whispered back.
‘Who with?’
‘Shh.’ He nodded towards Lenin. He and Ali were still involved in their animated, stoned conversation.
Connie curled up closer to her friend. ‘He’s nice.’
‘Yeah, he is.’
Jenna’s voice sang out, broken, sad, pretty.
They watched dawn spread slowly over Coburg. They had taken a blanket from Ali’s bed and spread it on the lawn. Soon after day arrived Mrs Faisal woke up. She shook her head in disapproval to find them all awake. She made them coffee and tea, cooked them breakfast, and ordered each of them to ring their parents so that they knew they were all safe. After his shower, Mr Faisal drove them all home before he headed off to work.
Richie’s mother had left him a note. It was simple, two lines: I hope you had a great night. I love you. He kicked off his runners and jumped into bed. He couldn’t even be bothered taking off his clothes, brushing his teeth; his limbs weren’t capable of anything, he just wanted to sink into unconsciousness. He wondered if he would, if the drugs were not still wickedly working their magic inside him.
As he closed his eyes he ran through the only certainties in his life. There really were only two that mattered. Two. That was an alright number. That his mother was the best mum in the world, and that he and Connie would be friends forever.
Soon, unexpectedly, like the future that had begun to creep up on him, sleep did come.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to Jessica Migotto, Jeana Vithoulkas, Spiro Economopoulos and Angela Savage for first pushing me in the right direction.
Thank you to Shane Laing, Alan ‘Sol’ Sultan and Victoria Triantafyllou for the feedback on earliers drafts.
Thanks to all my colleagues at the veterinary clinic for being so flexible and understanding.
Thanks to Fiona Inglis, Michael Lynch and Sol (again) for keeping me solvent.
And to Jane Palfreyman and Wayne van der Stelt, your faith, encouragment and honesty are so very greatly appreciated. Havla. Bedanki. Euharisto.
Christos Tsiolkas, The Slap
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