The Slap (61 page)

Richie’s back straightened. He stared open-mouthed at the man. It was Hector.

Richie’s eyes followed him as he grabbed his bag, shut the locker again and walked down the corridor towards the change rooms. At that moment, as Hector disappeared around the corner, the jets in the spa fell quiet. The water trembled, then became still. It would be a few minutes before they would start again. Usually Richie would then go into the sauna. Usually. But he did not do that. He took his towel and headed for the showers.

They had renovated the men’s changing rooms in the spring and instead of open showers there were now six cubicles. Hector was showering in one, his cubicle door left wide open. Richie stood looking at the man’s hairy arse, his tall, defined body. Hector looked as if he was about to turn and face him, and Richie quickly ducked into the cubicle next to him. He swiftly turned on the water and let it fall down hard on him, far too cold, but he didn’t care. He could hear the man next door turn off the shower. Richie stood beneath the water. He stripped off his trunks. He decided to count to fifteen. Fifteen was a lucky number.

Fifteen. He turned off the shower and walked into the change room.

Hector was standing across from him, naked, a white damp towel draped across his shoulder. Richie, not daring to breathe, looked at the man, then offered a shy, scared grin. Hector, looking confused, smiled back. ‘Hello.’

That was exactly how Grigorovich D’Estaing would have sounded, a voice rich and resonant and deep, nothing soft about it at all.

Richie just nodded back, not daring to say a word. He would squeak, sound like a girl, he just knew it. He should ask about Aisha, about his kids—what the fuck were their names? Hector continued to dry himself. Richie took him all in, knowing it could be the only opportunity he would ever get. He looked at the man’s neck, his chest, his belly, his thighs, his cock, his balls, his crotch, his knees, elbows, fingers, hands. He would not let himself forget a single thing about him. The dense dark swirls of hair around his nipples, the faint pink scar on his left arm, the fact that his right testicle seemed rounder, larger than the other. Hector was pulling back his foreskin, wiping at it. Richie’s cock suddenly went hard; he had no control over it. It jutted out, wobbly, huge, ugly. Drying his shoulders, Hector glanced over at Richie, then looked away immediately, shocked, embarrassed, but not before Richie had caught that look somewhere between distress and disgust in the older man’s eyes.

Hector made a sound, a grunt, a mumbled indecipherable obscenity. Cold loathing dripped from that sound. He had turned away from the boy, hiding his body from his gaze. Richie burned red. He wanted to cry. He mustn’t cry. Frantically, he pulled on his trunks and rushed out of the change rooms. His cock was still stiff, threatening to slip out of his swimmers, and he held his hands protectively over his crotch as he ran, shaking, pretending to be cold. He almost slid on the tiles as he ran to the pool. He dived in, ignoring the signs forbidding him to do so. He immediately swam, beginning his laps anew, his strokes hard, violent, the water churning around him. Richie was swimming away from what had just happened, trying to race against Hector’s contempt, the fact that Hector must think him a pervert, had no clue who he was, had not recognised him. That should have made him glad: there was no chance Hector would say anything to Aisha, which meant neither his mother nor Connie would ever hear anything about it. But it did not make him glad. Hector didn’t remember him. He was nothing to Hector—just a fag, a freak, all sick, stupid childish fantasies and dreams. Richie swam and swam, lap after lap, churning through the water, punishing himself into exhaustion. Finally, too knackered for another lap, he placed his brow against the cool tiles of the pool. Sick sick sick.

He walked to Rosie’s still cursing himself. He hated his body. It had betrayed him. He shouldn’t have run; he should have stayed and confronted Hector. I know what you did.
I know.
He knocked hard on the door. The bell had stopped working and Gary had not got round to fixing it. He knocked so hard he nearly tore his knuckles.

‘You’re early,’ smiled Rosie as she ushered him in.

He mumbled something unintelligible. Hugo was watching a DVD in the lounge room but leapt up as soon as he heard Richie. It wasn’t until that moment, the child’s arms tight around his neck, that he finally felt some respite, did not feel like tearing himself apart, ridding himself of his useless body, his dirty, sick mind. He cuddled the boy and then carefully disentangled himself from the hug. Richie pulled out the ventolin from his pocket and took two sharp puffs. He could breathe again. He smiled down at the little boy who was looking at him in alarm.

‘Don’t worry, little man, I’m just a bit short of breath.’

Rosie too looked concerned.

‘I’m okay,’ he protested. ‘I just overdid it at the pool.’ He slumped on the sofa. ‘Where’s Gary?’

‘Asleep.’ Hugo was giggling. ‘He always sleeps in. He says if I wake him up on Saturday morning he’s going to cream my arse.’ The boy plonked himself next to Richie. ‘That means he’s going to slap my bottom.’

Rosie was shaking her head. ‘You know he doesn’t mean it.’

Hugo ignored her. He was looking up adoringly at Richie.

‘You want to play soccer in the park?’

‘Yes.’ Hugo screamed out his glee and began to run circles around the coffee table. ‘Kick to kick, kick to kick,’ he yelled.

Rosie crushed a ten-dollar bill into Richie’s hand.

‘He wants an ice cream,’ she whispered. ‘But only buy him one scoop.’ The woman hugged Richie close to her. She smelt nice, of soap and sweet floral woman’s smells. She smelt clean. ‘And buy one for yourself.’

Richie nodded, not wanting her to drop her arm from around him. But she did. Soccer, kick to kick, an ice cream, a walk. That’s all he wanted, to be a boy, to be a child again. He wished Rosie could hold him forever.

‘I’ll be finished by eleven.’

‘It’s okay. I like hanging out with Hugo.’

‘He likes hanging out with you.’

‘That’s because he’s a monkey.’ He tussled the boy’s hair. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, buddy? You’re a little monkey?’

‘I’m not a monkey, I’m not, I’m not,’ the boy objected, but the protests were cheerful. Richie waited with Rosie outside on the verandah while Hugo searched for his ball. The sun was naked in the sky, it was already a hot day. He would not think of Hector. Soccer, kick to kick, ice cream. He would not think of Hector at all. He could not allow himself to, because every time he did, humiliation ripped into him so deeply he felt he was being torn in two.

 

They played in the park for an hour, kicking the ball and occasionally alternating it with some rougher ball play when Hugo got bored. In the physicality of the play, in his alertness to Hugo’s moods and sensitivity, Richie found that he could forget the morning, put it aside.

After playing, Richie took Hugo across the park and into Queens Parade for an ice cream. As they were eating, Hugo explaining about the
Lost Boys
and
Pinocchio
, Richie’s mobile beeped. It was a text from Lenin asking if he wanted to walk into work with him. Hugo watched Richie text back. Reluctantly the older boy looked at the time on his phone’s face. It was just on eleven. He had to get Hugo home.

Hugo shook his head violently at the suggestion. ‘No. I want to stay.’

‘Sorry, little man. I promised your mum I’d have you home.’

The boy scowled and drew swirls of ice cream with his finger on the tabletop. ‘No,’ he declared defiantly. ‘I’m not going home.’

I don’t want to go home either, little man, I want to stay here with you forever. ‘How about if I give you a piggyback home?’

Hugo’s face brightened. ‘All the way?’

Richie hesitated. Hugo was now four. He was getting big. ‘Until I fall down.’

The little boy was weighing it all up. ‘Falling down’ meant until Richie got tired.

Hugo pushed his ice cream aside. ‘I finished,’ he announced and got off his chair.

Richie knelt and Hugo jumped on his back. ‘Shit,’ Richie groaned, ‘you are getting heavy.’

‘You said the “S” word.’

‘You’re lucky I didn’t say the “F” word.’

Hugo scrambled up higher on Richie’s back, gripped his arms tight around the older boy’s neck. He leaned into Richie’s ear and whispered, ‘Fuck.’

‘Shh,’ Richie laughed. He held the boy’s hands. ‘You ready?’

‘Ready.’

Richie made a neighing sound and scampered off, Hugo’s jubilant hollers in his ears.

 

It was at the traffic lights on Gold Street that Hugo spat at the old man. He was one of those elderly gentlemen who would soon become extinct. He looked like he’d stepped out of an old Australian movie, wearing a tie and an ironed white shirt, a jacket, even in the heat, and an old-style brimmed hat on his head. They were standing next to each other, waiting for the light to go green. The old man’s back was straight, even though he looked ancient. The old man looked up at Hugo, and smiled.

‘I’m bigger than you,’ the boy called out.

The old man chuckled. ‘I think you have an unfair advantage.’

Richie had laughed politely. It was then he noticed the look of abrupt shock on the man’s face. Panicking, he wondered if the old guy was about to have a heart attack. He was ready to order Hugo to the ground when he saw the old man wipe away foam and spit that was sliding down his cheek. The shock had left him, there was only disappointment on his face now, and an unbearable, condemning resignation.

Hugo let out a peal of laughter. ‘Got ya,’ he taunted.

The old man made no reply.

Richie reached up and gripped the boy’s arm. ‘Hugo, apologise.’

He turned to the old man. ‘I’m so sorry, sir.’

‘No.’ The boy on his shoulders was still laughing, still thought it a joke.

‘Hugo, you apologise now.’ He tightened his grip.

‘No.’ Hugo was trying to tug his arm away.

Richie would not let him; he was twisting his neck, trying to get a view of the boy. Both of them scowled at one another.

‘Say you’re sorry.’

‘I don’t have to.’

‘Now!’

The boy was wriggling, and Richie let go of his arm and gripped his leg, fearful that he would fall. He saw Hugo’s other foot kick out and strike the old man across the shoulder. Again, the old man just stood there. It was a weak kick and would not have hurt, but there was that same shock and puzzlement, the weary, resigned acceptance.

Richie felt judged. He grabbed Hugo’s waist and pulled him off onto the ground. He held tight to the boy’s hand. Hugo realised he had crossed some kind of line, and was beginning to sniffle, to protest. Richie pulled at Hugo’s hand. He wished he could pull it right out of its fucking socket.

‘Sir,’ Richie said again his voice shaking. ‘I’m so sorry.’

The lights had been green but had now turned red again. The old man, confused, dazed, looked down the street and suddenly stepped off the kerb and began crossing the road. Brakes screeched, and a horn sounded violently. Richie wrenched Hugo’s hand and they began to cross as well. Richie ignored the outraged honking and yells. The boy was now in tears.

‘It hurts,’ he whimpered.

‘I don’t fucking care.’ He yanked him forcibly across the road, quickly passing the old man. Hugo was trying to free himself and Richie quickened his pace. He was now dragging the boy along, who was screaming, his face going purple, ‘It hurts, It hurts!’

Richie knew the whole world was watching him: the old man behind him, the shoppers on Queens Parade who had looked up at the boy’s cries, the drivers and passengers in the cars. He did not care. He was worried that if he stopped moving that he would turn on Hugo and belt the boy into oblivion, bash the little monster’s face in for what he had done to the old man. He was impervious to the boy’s screams. They passed the pool, crossed North Terrace into the park, the boy stumbling, wailing, trying not to fall. In the shade of the park Richie let go of the boy’s hand. He turned around to him, his anger still boiling, to yell at him, I want to kill you, you fucking arsehole. But his words froze. Hugo was stricken, his cries hysterical, his body shaking. The boy’s face was scarlet, he looked as though he couldn’t breathe. Fear and shame flooded through Richie’s body. He knelt and put his arms around the boy.

Hugo clung to him, not letting him go. Richie held onto him, waited for the howls and shaking to subside. Soon Hugo’s sobs were intermittent but he had not loosened his hold on the older boy. Richie gently pulled away and began to wipe at Hugo’s face. He wished he had a tissue. He squeezed the boy’s nose. ‘Blow,’ he ordered.

The boy obeyed. Richie wiped the snot off his hand onto the grass.

Hugo was looking up at him, still apprehensive. He was massaging his arm.

‘Does it hurt?’

Hugo nodded firmly.

‘Sorry, buddy. I was so angry at what you did. That was so wrong, you know it, don’t you?’

Hugo kept massaging his arm, resentment gathering, then losing its potency, his head dropping in shame. ‘Sorry, Richie.’

Richie took Hugo’s hand. ‘Let’s take you home, buddy.’

As soon as Rosie opened the door, Hugo started to cry again. His mother immediately picked him up and kissed him again and again.

‘What happened?’

Hugo was groping for her breast.

Richie shrugged, avoiding her, not wanting to see her release her breast.

Gary came to the door, wearing a singlet and his pyjama bottoms. ‘What happened?’ he demanded.

Hugo grabbed Rosie’s nipple from his mouth, then released it. He pointed at Richie. ‘He hurt me.’

Richie backed away, onto the verandah. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ he protested, wanting to point at Hugo, needing them to know how unfair all this was. ‘Hugo spat at an old man. I told him off. That’s what happened.’