The Slap (64 page)

‘I’ll probably do Science at Melbourne,’ he said glumly. Then he brightened. ‘I’ll work really hard, get a good score and apply to transfer into Medicine the year after.’

Nick looked across at him expectantly.

‘Sure,’ said Richie, ‘of course you will.’

Nick’s face fell again. ‘I’ll be in debt forever.’

Richie shrugged his shoulders. ‘What do you care? The world’s going to end before we have to pay it back.’

They got a little tipsy with Mr Cercic and then the boys took the train into town. They met Connie and Ali, Lenin and Jenna and Tina at the Irish pub. No one was asking for ID that afternoon, they all got in. Ali had got 57.8. That was enough for the mechanical engineering course he wanted to do at TAFE. Jenna wasn’t sure what she was going to do. She and Tina had just scraped through, as had Lenin. That was all he wanted. For years he had wanted to be a cabinetmaker and had a promise of an apprenticeship from a Yugo who ran a small workshop in Reservoir. The man had demanded that Lenin get his VCE before he would take him on. Lenin seemed the happiest of them all. Richie was glad he had passed but he realised that everything was about to change. He and Nick would not be seeing each other every day. Jenna received an upset call from Tara who had failed. The others went quiet as they listened to the girl’s despair on the phone. The girls decided to go and look after her, and Ali, Lenin, Nick and Richie got sodden drunk. In the taxi home, squeezed in between Lenin and Nick, he fell asleep for a moment, jerking awake at Lenin’s laugh: he had fallen asleep on the boy’s shoulder. Lenin had a musty locker-room stink, of underarms and football, acrid but arousing; the deodorant could not mask it. He raised himself groggily, and apologised.

‘S’alright,’ said Lenin, winking.

That night, as he tumbled fully clothed into bed, Richie fell asleep wanting to hold on to that smell, to not let it go.

 

On the morning of the Big Day Out he was so excited that he got out of bed before the alarm. He spent an hour deciding what to wear, putting on and taking off every single item of clothing he owned. He decided against a button-up shirt because all of his looked too daggy. But every single one of his T-shirts seemed wrong. Finally, he asked his mother for her old Pink Floyd top. It was ripped at the left shoulder, long-sleeved, a little tight around his chest—maybe the swimming was finally paying off—and the cartoonish logo of an elongated screaming man was faded to a ghostly impression; but he liked the look of it on him, and it was cool without being too cool. Richie protested when his mother entered the bathroom and pushed two twenty-dollar notes into his back pocket.

‘Oh, go on,’ she complained, backing away from him, ‘just go and enjoy yourself.’

‘Thanks.’ He tousled his hair, wanting it to look nonchalantly unkempt but not to lose any of its sculptured form; he leered into the mirror, inspecting his teeth for any goobies or cereal caught between them.

His mother was watching him. ‘You look good.’ She sat on the rim of the bath. She kept opening and closing her mouth, as if she couldn’t get words out. She cleared her throat and suddenly barked out, ‘Are you going to take drugs?’

He looked at her reflection in the mirror. She looked small, a little afraid. Slowly, he nodded.

‘What kind?’

‘Weed, I guess.’

‘What else?’

He shrugged. ‘Stuff.’

‘What stuff ?’

‘Speed. Maybe an E.’

‘Oh, baby.’ She began to reach out to him then abruptly withdrew her hand. ‘I guess you’re all grown up.’

He eyed her reflection warily. Was she pissed off with him?

She stood up and kissed him quickly on the cheek. ‘Just be careful. ’ She stopped at the door. ‘I heard on the radio there’s going to be sniffer dogs. Better put your gear up your arse.’

Up his arse? Yuck. Disgusting.

He heard her chortling in the hallway. ‘You’ll be alright. They’re not going to be busting anyone for one or two pills.’

Fine, fine, fine. Just shut up. Enough.

He took one last look in the mirror, flattened a mutinous, stubborn lock of hair that kept flopping over his left eye, and switched off the bathroom light. He was ready. He was ready for the day.

He glanced at his phone. He had an hour before he was due at Connie’s. On impulse he took the tram into Clifton Hill. He wanted to see Hugo. He thought about the boy’s parents and cringed at the wretched memory of the last time he’d seen them all. It was enough to make him turn back. But he didn’t—he wanted to see Hugo. He decided against ringing the house first. Rosie and Gary might well choose to ignore the phone and he would feel pathetic leaving a message on the machine, knowing that they could be listening to him. He couldn’t do it. He was shaking with nerves as he pushed past their gate. He walked up to the front porch. He took a breath and began counting to fifteen, just to fifteen, and then knocked. He heard Hugo running up the corridor. The boy opened the door and stared up at Richie. His face broke out into an enormous grin.

‘Richie,’ he screamed. Hugo hugged tight around his legs, so tight that the older boy thought he would fall over. Richie steadied himself against the door and then picked up the excited child. He was still standing outside, on the porch. He ignored Hugo’s animated babble and looked down the dark corridor. Rows of cardboard boxes were neatly stacked against one wall; and then Rosie appeared, in the kitchen doorway, half-shrouded in the darkness.

Richie swallowed, lowered the boy, and attempted a smile. ‘Hey,’ he mumbled, shit-scared.

The woman emerged into the light, started running, fell on him and wrapped her arms around him. She gripped hold of him so tightly, with such desperate force, that he thought she would squeeze the very life out of him.

 

They were leaving. A workmate of Gary’s had started a job on a project at Hepburn Springs, the renovation of the spa complex, and had managed to score some work for Gary as well. They had rented a house in Daylesford for a year, Rosie explained, her excitable chatter so similar to Hugo’s, and she was looking forward to leaving the city, to starting Hugo in a country school, to Gary doing more painting. As she was talking, Gary walked into the kitchen. He lit a cigarette, sat down, nodding at Richie but saying nothing. Hugo was sitting on the boy’s lap, occasionally interrupting his mother’s monologue. Richie listened but he had to struggle to concentrate on the meaning of Rosie’s words. There was a buzzing in his head. He kept glancing up to the film poster on their kitchen wall. The man in the poster looked like a better-looking Gary and the woman like a less-beautiful Rosie. He was conscious of the unsmiling man sitting across from him. He couldn’t meet Gary’s eyes. He felt scrutinised, spotlit. He quickly gulped down his tea. ‘I have to go.’

Rosie’s face fell in disappointment, but quickly brightened. ‘You’ll have to come and stay.’ Hugo was nodding wildly. ‘You will, won’t you?’

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.