The Slap (39 page)

‘How are you, cuz?’

Bilal shook hands with the two Aboriginal men at the table. The other white man, a young weedy fellow with a greasy Magpies baseball cap backwards on his head was tapping his finger compulsively on the table. Bilal ignored him.

‘Have a beer, cuz.’

‘I don’t drink.’

The large man started to laugh. The rolls of fat on him bounced, a shimmering dance down the length of his body.

‘Just one drink. Come on.’

Bilal’s refusal was almost imperceptible. Just a slight shake of his head. He pointed to Gary. ‘I’ve come to take this man home. He’s got responsibilities. He’s got a young ’un.’

‘We’ll have a drink and then you can take him home. No problem.’ The large man winked at Rosie. ‘You want a drink, love, don’t ya?’

Bilal didn’t let her speak. He tapped Gary’s shoulder.

Gary shrank away from him. ‘Fuck off. I want a drink. Buy me a drink or fuck off.’

The other men at the table started to laugh. Gary looked surprised, then pleased, grinning at the men around the table.

The large man put up his hand in warning to Bilal. ‘It looks like your mate wants to stay here, cuz. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of him.’ He was directing the words to her.

Rosie was conscious that everyone in the pub was now looking at them, that the publican was leaning over the bar. She begged her husband. ‘Gary, please, come home.’

Gary shook his head, violently, adamant, like a child. He looked like Hugo. ‘I don’t want to go home. I don’t want anything to do with home.’

It happened suddenly. Bilal grabbed Gary by his shirt collar and hoisted him off his seat. She heard the fabric tear and in that moment she let out a scream. She was terrified. Bilal had become Terry again, the young man who liked to drink, who liked to pick a fight, the young man who terrified her. She was scared he was going to hit her husband. With the scream the publican had come rushing over to the table.

The large man struggled to his feet but the publican placed a warning hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ll deal with this, mate.’

Bilal was still holding on to Gary, who looked shocked, afraid, again like a little boy.

The publican was short, but he was fit, barrel-chested; he fixed Bilal with a fierce stare. ‘You leave now or I call the cops.’

For a moment she thought Bilal was going to strike him. Instead, he let go of Gary’s shirt, turned and walked out of the pub. The other white man at Gary’s table hooted with derision. ‘You’re no Anthony Mundine, are ya?’ The two Aboriginal men were silent, stone-faced.

‘Gary, please come home.’

‘Fuck off.’

She had no idea what she should do.

Gary sighed and looked at her with pity. ‘Rosie, just go home. I’m not going to do anything stupid. I just want to get pissed, don’t you get it?’ His eyes were pleading with her. ‘I just want to get so drunk that I forget that you or Hugo even exist.’

 

Bilal was waiting for her in the car. He started the engine as soon as he saw her. She got in and pulled the seatbelt across her.

‘I’m sorry.’

Bilal pointed to a man who had come out of the pub, following her. He had lit a cigarette and was looking towards the car.

‘Do you know what he’s doing?’

She looked over. She had no idea who the man was. She shook her head.

‘He’s being kind to strangers,’ Bilal said quietly, starting to drive away. ‘He’s making sure I don’t do anything to you. He’s letting me know he’s clocked my licence plate. He’s wondering what a nice white woman like you is doing with a boong like me.’ With that Bilal started to laugh, his body rocking back and forth, it was that hilarious, his body bashing again and again into his car seat.

 

He drove her and Hugo home, he wouldn’t let her drive. You’re drunk, he said. She put her child to bed and came out into the kitchen. Bilal was smoking a cigarette. A charge swept through her body. She could smell the night on him, the adrenaline, the sweat, harsh, intoxicating. He filled her kitchen, his face, his rough skin, his shining black eyes, so handsome and so ugly at the same time. What if I got on my knees for you? She suddenly thought. What if I sucked your cock? Would you like me better if I sucked your cock? Flashes of audio from Gary’s porn videos: Do you like black cock? Do you want to suck my big black cock?

Bilal indicated a chair and Rosie sat down opposite him. He pointed to his cigarette packet and Rosie, trembling, took one. He lit it for her.

‘I’m going to say something and I want you to let me finish before interrupting. Do you understand?’

She nodded. She felt ridiculously shy.

‘That was the first time I have gone in a pub for years, for a long time now.’ His voice sounded curious, as if his own words had surprised him. ‘I don’t know why I ever liked those places. They’re foul.’ His eyes narrowed.

She must not look away, she must not be scared of him.

‘I don’t want you or your husband or your son in my life. You remind me of a life I don’t ever want to go back to. I don’t want you to talk to my wife, I don’t want you to be her friend. I just want to be good, I just want to protect my family. I don’t think you’re any good, Rosie. Sorry, it’s just your mob. You’ve got bad blood. We’ve escaped your lot, me and my Sammi. Do you get it? Will you promise me that you won’t ring or see my wife? I just want you to promise me that, that you’ll leave my family alone.’

She felt nothing. No, that was not quite true. She felt relief. She was right: he had always distrusted her. He knew everything she was.

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I promise.’

‘Good. I’ll drive your car back here in the morning. I’ll leave the keys in the letterbox.’ Bilal stubbed out his cigarette, picked up his own keys, and left her house without a word. For a long time she did not move. Then she walked over to the fridge, took out the bottle and poured herself another wine.

 

She was a slut. That was what she had become when her father left, when they lost the house. She was sixteen. The girls at school had stopped talking to her—not all at once, not even deliberately; they just stopped inviting her over, and not one friend from school came to visit the new flat. They said it was too far away, that it might as well be a thousand miles from their beach. It was then that she learned about money, how money meant everything.

She got back at them by sleeping with their boyfriends, with their brothers. She fucked their fathers. She continued doing it at the new school, the state school, full of boys to fuck. She had fucked and fucked, one night allowing herself to be fucked by seven of them, each taking turns. She had bled, her cunt had torn. Everyone at the new school knew what she was. The new girl was a slut.

Only Aisha had protected her. How she wished Aish had married Eddie—but, of course, Aish was too good for Eddie. Aish protected her, introduced her to Anouk. She had looked up to the older girls, they had offered her a vision of a life beyond Perth, beyond the desert and the ocean, they had encouraged her to escape. With them she never let on what she was. She hid her real self from them. Then they both left, went east to Melbourne and she was alone. She met Qui. He was only thirty-five, but that made him close to an old man back then. He was her older man, her lover, her businessman paramour from Hong Kong. Qui had looked after her, he was the first to buy her things. She had stopped fucking other boys. She was only a slut for Qui. Then he left. Without a word. She didn’t have a number, an address, she didn’t even know his surname. He just disappeared, bored with her. Qui knew what she was—he could see through her. The people she loved had no idea who she was, what she had been. Aisha didn’t know, Gary didn’t know, Anouk didn’t. Hugo would never find out. She was what Bilal inferred. He had always seen through her, like her mother had. You’re dirty, Rosalind. You’re just trash, Rosalind, just rubbish. You’re a slut.

No. She was a mother. It seemed to take an eternity to get out of the chair. But she had to. She staggered down the corridor, pushed open her bedroom door and collapsed next to Hugo, who had awoken in tears. She cuddled him tight, so tight into her that they became one, were one. It’s alright, Hugo, the bad man has gone, the bad man won’t harm us. Repeating it, over and over, she and her child fell asleep.

The next morning she found her husband passed out on the lounge-room floor. His stench made her retch; he had shat in his pants. She got him up, struggled with him to the bathroom where she stripped him of his soiled clothes, bathed him, put him into bed. She fed Hugo, rang Gary’s boss, told him that Gary was too sick to come into work. She took Hugo to the park and played with him on the swings. When they returned her car was parked outside their house, the keys were indeed in the letterbox. In the afternoon she rang Aisha on the mobile and when her friend started to console her, Rosie burst into tears. He got away with it, Aish, he fucking got away with it.

Gary, repentant, guilty, did not have a drink till Friday evening. On Saturday night she cooked a baked snapper and made french fries for Hugo. They were in the middle of
Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
when Aisha called to tell her that Shamira and Bilal had bid on the house in Thomastown. They got it, it was theirs.

‘I’m so glad,’ Rosie gushed loudly on the phone, and even though Aisha could not see her, she made sure she had a wide, brilliant smile on her face. ‘I’m so glad for them,’ she kept repeating, ‘so glad.’

It’s
a terrible thing, just terrible, he thought to himself, glancing at the black and white portrait, to die so young. He adjusted his glasses, squinted, and refocused his eyes. The boy was only thirty-two. There was a short obituary. Stephanos Chaklis, thirty-two years of age, loving son of Pantelis and Evangeliki Chaklis. Our precious loving son. The funeral service was to take place in Our Lady’s Church of the Way, Balwyn. No wife, no children. No indication of what had caused the young man’s death. Manolis scrutinised the photograph again. The young man was smiling lazily at the camera, his hair neat, short, like a soldier’s. It must have been taken at a wedding or a baptism. The boy looked uncomfortable in the high collar and tight squeeze of his shirt and tie. Such a good-looking lad, gone before he could father a child. It is a terrible thing to die young.

Manolis peered over his glasses this time and looked up at the sky, to where they said the heavens resided. If there is a God, You’re a fool. There is no logic or fairness in this world You have created; how can You be a Supreme Being? He immediately and silently apologised to the Virgin for his blasphemous thought, but he felt no compulsion to take it back, or be ashamed of thinking it. Now sixty-nine years of age, still blessedly fit except for the occassional pain of rheumatism, Manolis felt himself further removed from religion and the Church than at any other point in his life. As a young man he had not dared risk God’s wrath by questioning His purpose. Now he did not give a damn. Fuck it. There was no Paradise and there was no Hell and if there was a God, He was worse than inscrutable. What did exist was the cold, cruel truth of a young man, dead—from cancer or a car accident or suicide or God knows what—at the obscene age of thirty-two. Manolis shivered—a ghost had walked across his spine—and he folded the paper to read the rest of the death notices. The young man’s face haunted him. He wanted to forget it.

Anna Paximidis, seventy-eight. That was more like it. Anastasios Christoforous, sixty-three. Not a grand age, but he looked fat and unhealthy in the photograph. Too much of the good life, Anastasios, Manolis admonished the photo. Dimitrios Kafentsis, seventy-two. Fine, fine—that was a decent age, enough to experience something of old age, but not too old to have the body fall apart into useless dependency. That was his greatest fear.

His wife’s voice suddenly screeched and he dropped the paper. ‘Manoli!’ she called out in a shout loud enough to frighten the dead souls trapped in the newsprint. ‘Do you want coffee?’

‘Yes,’ he grunted.

Another screech. ‘What?’

‘Yes,’ he called out this time. He went back to the paper.

Thimios Karamantzis. There was no photograph. Just the age at death. Seventy-one years old. The funeral was to be held in Doncaster. He was mourned by his wife, Paraskevi, his children, Stella and John, and his grandchildren, Athena, Samuel and Timothy. Manolis laid down the paper again and made some quick mental calculations. The age seemed right; Thimios would only have been a couple of years older than he was. As for Doncaster, who the hell knew where people had ended up? They had all scattered to the far ends of this too-huge city. But of course it must be Thimios. The same family name, a wife called Paraskevi. Of course it was him. How long had it been since he had last seen him? Manolis cursed his slowing mind. Think, he berated himself. Was it Elisavet’s baptism? My God, my God, over forty years ago.

His wife brought out the coffee and sat on the old kitchen chair that had been banished to the verandah when the children still lived at home. The vinyl back and seat had been ripped to shreds by generations of cats, the legs appeared almost gold from the rust, but he and Koula could never bring themselves to get rid of it. It had been with them since their first house in North Melbourne. She picked up the front page of
Neos Kosmos
and started reading it while softly blowing across the surface of her coffee. She could never bring herself to drink it hot.

‘What are the papers telling us, husband?’

He grunted. ‘I was just looking through the death notices.’

‘Read them out to me.’

Manolis began to read, slowly, one eye cocked towards his wife.

She clucked sadly on hearing about the death of the thirty-two-year-old lad. Unlike Manolis she did not curse God, but proceeded to lament the inequity of fate. He read out Thimios’s name and at first her face registered nothing. He began to read out another notice when he suddenly heard her gasp. He stopped, and peered at his wife over the rim of his spectacles.