The Slap (30 page)

Yeah, Dad, Radio 2. Mum and I would listen to Radio 2 when you weren’t home. I fucking hated Joy Division, I fucking hated The Clash. I fucking loathed techno. I loved Fleetwood Mac.

Connie folded the letter and put it back at the bottom of the tin. There was a ting sound from the computer. Zara was online. She wiped away her tears and began to tell Zara everything about the party. She didn’t want to think about Hector tonight. She wasn’t going to think about Hector tonight. She told her about the stunning dress she had worn, about Richie and Jenna and Jordan, about taking the E. And she told her everything that had happened between herself and Ali, all she could remember about Ali in the finest detail, how he looked, and sounded, how he smelt and how he tasted. She told her everything.

 

It was midday when she woke. Her head throbbed and she groaned when she looked over at the pile of schoolbooks on her desk. She shuffled into the kitchen. Tasha was cooking lunch and the room smelt of lemongrass and coriander. Fillets of John Dory were sitting on a plate.

‘I can’t eat.’

‘Yes, you can. God knows what you ingested last night, but fish is the best thing for you.’ Tasha tapped the side of her head. ‘Brain food. Good for your serotonin levels.’

Connie sat at the table. She searched the front page of the newspaper, then pulled out the television supplement.

‘I’m not leaving the house today,’ she announced.

‘Rosie rang for you. She wants you to look after Hugo on Wednesday.’

Connie nodded. ‘Sure.’

‘I told her you couldn’t.’

‘I can do a few hours,’ she protested.

‘No. This is your final year, Connie. You have heaps of study, then exams. You do too much as it is. I told her you can’t do it. I don’t want them to get dependent on you.’

‘It’s hard for Rosie. She’s got no family here in Melbourne. They’ve got that hearing case coming up any day now. That’s all she can think about.’

‘Some people make it hard on themselves.’

‘He hit Hugo.’

Her aunt did not answer.

‘There’s no excuse for an adult to hit a child. I hope they put him in jail,’ Connie finished sourly.

Tasha started spicing the fillets. ‘You know, what I don’t like about adolescence is how brutal you can be.’

Connie ignored her. Her head hurt and she didn’t want to get into an argument. She was thinking of Ali. She didn’t have his number and he didn’t have hers. Would he get it off Jordan? Would he ring her or would they just talk at school? She scanned through the television page for Sunday. There was just shit on.

‘Tash, if I do a couple of hours’ work this afternoon, will you drive me to the video shop later? I’ll need a DVD.’

Tasha heated oil in the wok and threw in slices of ginger and garlic. Connie realised she hadn’t really had much to eat last night. She got up and put her arms around her aunt.

‘I’ll just have a quick shower.’

‘Three minutes. This will be done by then. And there’s no point in wasting water.’

‘Three minutes.’ At the doorway, Connie swung around. ‘Is there any chocolate left?’

Tasha bit her bottom lip.

Connie feigned outrage. ‘You ate it all last night, didn’t you?’

‘Okay, okay. We’ll pick up another block when we go and get you a DVD.’

‘Thank you, Tashie. You are a sweetheart. I’ll be ready for lunch in fifteen minutes.’ Connie turned, humming, on her way to the bathroom.

‘Brutal,’ she head her aunt say. ‘Just brutal.’

Rosie
lowered herself into the bath, her hands gripping tight to the rim as her body slid into the scalding water. She slowly allowed her body to slacken in the enveloping heat, sighing deeply and closing her eyes to the world. One ear was cocked for any sound from Hugo. He and Gary were watching
Finding Nemo
. Hugo would be on his back, his legs whirring fast, pretending to cycle. Gary would be on his second beer, his overalls dropped to his waist. She had promised him that she would not stay in the bath for too long, would not allow the water to get cold. She could barely hear any sound from the living room, just the movie’s imperceptible chatter and music. Hugo had already watched it right through earlier in the day. It had become his favourite over the last few weeks and now she too almost knew it by heart. Sometimes she would pretend to be Dory to his Nemo. She wished he could be in the bath with her (except it would be too hot for him, the little fella). They could pretend to be Dory and Nemo, under the water, in the pretty sapphire world underneath the sea. She’d pretend to be Dory, forgetting everything he told her, trying not to giggle as Hugo got more and more excited and frustrated.

Her eyes flung open. Damn. It was around lunchtime that she received the letter, just after she had come back from the park with Hugo. Rosie had gone pale as she read the dry words stating the date and time for the hearing to be held at the Magistrates Court in Heidelberg. She had quickly sat down, feeling faint. Luckily Hugo was watching the movie and didn’t have to witness her anxiety and fear. Rosie immediately phoned Legal Aid and fortunately Margaret, their lawyer, was in the office. This is great news, the young woman assured her, this means it will all be over soon. Rosie put down the phone, in a daze. Four weeks. It would all be over in four weeks. She was about to call Gary on his mobile and then quickly decided against it. It was then that she composed herself. She decided she wouldn’t say anything to him till Friday. It was only two days away and it would be better that they spoke about it at the end of the week, with him having the weekend to look forward to. If she told him today he would just get drunk and not be able to sleep and be in a temper for days.

She had felt calm as she made the decision, but that had not lasted long. She couldn’t help thinking of what lay ahead. Margaret had explained that they would not have to speak unless the presiding judge asked for clarification from any of the parties. She wished she could get up on the witness stand and tell the world how that animal had hurt her child. That’s not the way it works, Margaret kept explaining, over and over, this is a matter between the police and the accused.

 

As the water released its delicious heat, Rosie allowed herself a small smile as she remembered what Shamira had said to her. Let me get on that witness stand—I’ll tell them all how cruel that man was, the pleasure he took in hitting Hugo. The bastard enjoyed it, I was looking straight at him. He enjoyed hitting Hugo—he got off on it, everyone should know that.

She rang Shamira straight after receiving the letter. Her initial impulse, as always, had been to ring Aisha, but it was early in the afternoon and Aish would probably be still finishing surgery, not able to talk. In any case, it was too complicated to ring Aisha. Maybe Hector already knew; his cousin, that bastard, might have already spoken to them.

So she’d called Shamira. Her friend had responded exactly the way she had wanted her to, with warm, uncompromising, unquestioning support. That was what Rosie needed at the moment.

Damn, she mouthed again, sinking further under the water so it lapped over her chin, her lips, her brow. She could open her mouth, let the water flood into her, take her over, fill her lungs and guts and cells till she exploded. She jerked her body upright, splashing water across the floor and the tiles. Fuck that animal. She couldn’t relax—she didn’t want to. This was her fight, her battle. Fuck him. She hoped he would be crucified, that the world would know the crime he had committed against her son, against her, against her family. The waves of fury and righteousness were intoxicating. She gently squeezed her right nipple and a thin ooze of milk slithered across the surface of the water.

There was a loud rapping at the door. ‘The water’s going to be fucking freezing.’

She dipped herself under one more time and then stood up in the bath. Gary had shoved open the door. She turned around and faced him, her smile innocent.

‘Can you pass the towel?’

She caught the desire on his face. It was like a reflex, animal in its urgency. The water was dripping off her. She flattened her damp hair against her scalp, took the towel he offered her and stepped onto the bathroom mat. She enjoyed him watching as she dried herself.

‘Get in,’ she urged him. ‘It’s just going to get colder.’

He stripped quickly. She pretended to ignore him, bending over the sink, drying her arms, neck and shoulders. His work overalls had dropped to his feet and she could see he had the beginning of a hard-on. He pulled off his singlet and underwear, tossed them on the floor, and stepped into the bath.

Rosie turned around. ‘Warm enough?’

He nodded, a sly, boyish grin on his face. That grin was Hugo’s, exactly the same. And just like Hugo, it came across Gary’s face when he wanted something from her. His cock was jutting out of the water. He touched her hand and pointed towards his groin. From the lounge room she could hear Hugo calling her. She hesitated; Gary’s touch had become a grip, his fingers beginning to twist around her wrist.

She pulled away. ‘Hugo wants me,’ she whispered.

Gary’s fingers uncoiled. She did not look at him again. She wrapped the towel around her, closing the door shut behind her.

 

She was feeding Hugo on the couch when Gary walked back into the room. His damp hair was combed over his head, the wet claggy ends forming a smooth wedge that touched the back of his shirt collar. He was wearing his favourite track-pants, years old now, full of holes. He came and stood over them. He watched his son suck contently from Rosie’s tit.

‘I want some of that.’

Rosie frowned. ‘Don’t, Gaz.’

‘I do. I want some of your boobie.’

Hugo dropped her nipple and looked mutinously at his father. ‘No. It’s mine.’

‘No it isn’t.’

Hugo looked at her for encouragement. ‘Whose boobies are they?’

‘They belong to all of us,’ she said, laughing.

‘Mine,’ he demanded.

Gary plonked himself next to her and lowered her blouse. He pinched at her nipple, hurting her, and sunk his lips over it. There was a jolt of pain and then a numbing, agreeable tingle as his teeth gently slid over her nipple.

Hugo was looking at his father in astounded horror. He began to pummel Gary with his fists. ‘Stop! Stop!’ he screamed. ‘You’re hurting Mummy.’

Gary raised his head. ‘Nah,’ he teased. ‘She likes it.’

‘Stop it,’ the child demanded, his face now twisted with rage. She could tell he was about to cry. She shoved Gary aside and placed Hugo on her lap. Gary shook his head and got to his feet. She could hear him getting a beer out of the fridge. Hugo dropped her nipple and looked up at her. The poor little guy, he was scared.

‘Is Daddy angry with us?’

‘No, no,’ she cooed. ‘Of course not. Daddy loves us.’

When Gary returned with his beer, he sat on the armchair across from them and picked up the remote. The television screen screamed to white noise, then a news broadcast blasted through the room. Turn down the volume, she mouthed to her husband. For a few seconds Gary did nothing, then the volume dipped. Hugo looked up, shocked, as Nemo and his friends had disappeared from view. He looked across at his father, his mouth opening and shutting—just like a fish, thought Rosie—then he settled back in her arms and took her breast into his mouth. She stroked his hair as they all watched the news together.

 

She had wanted to keep Hugo away from television for as long as possible, and for the first few years Gary had acquiesced. Of course he had: he was always complaining that everything on television was moronic, and if it wasn’t moronic it was compromised and capitalist, or compromised and politically correct. When they first met she had thought herself too stupid to keep up with the flow of his intellect. Whether art or politics or love or earthbound ordinary gossip, Gary’s opinions were iconoclastic and impossible. Was he a communist or a wildly libertarian free marketeer? Was art for the good of mankind or was art only good when it was elitist and solipistically self-obsessed? He loved his neighbours or he wanted them dead. There was no middle ground and there was no logic. It was, Rosie now realised, after years of trying to keep up with his ever-shifting opinions, simply that her husband could not separate an intellectual thought from an emotional expression. For the first few years of Hugo’s life television was bad, a deleterious influence. Now that Gary had been working full-time for over six months, television was a benevolent force.