The Slap (65 page)

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.

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
.