The Slap by Christos Tsiolkas

garage, Adam emerging triumphant with a green bucket. Sava followed with an old scarred children’s cricket bat, its skin now dotted with green patches of mould, the result of too many winters left out in the rain. It had been Hector’s cricket bat when he was a boy. Melissa had been scrounging in the undergrowth and emerged with a tennis ball. Ravi expertly and quickly assigned the children into teams. The adults drifted into the house. Hector, his hands full of plates, looked back and saw that Connie and Richie had scrambled up the fig tree and were watching the children take their allotted positions. In the kitchen, Aisha had begun to brew coffee.
     
    ‘ No! No no no no no! ’ It was as if the child had become lost in the very word, as if all the world was contained in the screaming of this one negative syllable. ‘ No no no no no! ’ It was Hugo. All of them by now, Hector figured, must know that it could only be Hugo. It was the men who rushed outside, as if the child’s screams were somehow connected to the rules of the game and therefore it was the men who should arbitrate in the dispute. Hugo was awkwardly slamming the bat on the ground; he needed to hold on to it with both hands but his grip was strong, he would not let it go. Ravi was trying to plead with the little boy. Rocco was frowning behind the wicket.
    ‘It’s alright, Hugo, you’re not out.’
    ‘He is.’ Rocco was standing his ground. ‘He got lbw’d.’
    Ravi smiled at the older boy. ‘Listen, he doesn’t even know what that means.’
    Gary jumped off the verandah and began to walk towards his son. ‘Come on, Hugo, I’ll explain why you’re out.’
    ‘No!’ The same piercing scream. The boy looked as if he was going to hit his father with the bat.
    ‘Put the bat down now.’
    The boy did not move.
    ‘Now!’
    There was silence. Hector realised he was holding his breath.
    ‘You’re out, Hugo, you bloody spoil-sport.’ Rocco, at the end of his tether, went to grab the bat from the younger boy. With another scream Hugo evaded the older boy’s hands, and then, leaning back, he lifted the bat. Hector froze. He’s going to hit him. He’s going to belt Rocco with that bat.
    In the second that it took Hector to release his breath, he saw Ravi jump towards the boys, he heard Gary’s furious curse and he saw Harry push past all of them and grab at Hugo. He lifted the boy up in the air, and in shock the boy dropped the bat.
    ‘Let me go,’ Hugo roared.
    Harry set him on the ground. The boy’s face had gone dark with fury. He raised his foot and kicked wildly into Harry’s shin. The speed was coursing through Hector’s blood, the hairs on his neck were upright. He saw his cousin’s raised arm, it spliced the air, and then he saw the open palm descend and strike the boy. The slap seemed to echo. It cracked the twilight. The little boy looked up at the man in shock. There was a long silence. It was as if he could not comprehend what had just occurred, how the man’s action and the pain he was beginning to feel coincided. The silence broke, the boy’s face crumpled, and this time there was no wail: when the tears began to fall, they fell silently.
    ‘You fucking animal!’ Gary pushed into Harry and nearly knocked him over. There was a scream and Rosie pushed past the men and scooped her child into her arms. She and Gary were shouting and cursing at Harry who had backed against the garage wall and appeared to be in shock himself. The children were watching with clear fascination. Rocco’s face was filled with pride. Hector felt Aisha move beside him, and he knew, as host, there was something he should do. But he didn’t know what—he wanted his wife to intervene, because she would be calm and fair and just. He couldn’t be just. He could not forget the exhilaration he had felt when the sound of the slap slammed through his body. It had been electric, fiery, exciting; it had nearly made him hard. It was the slap he wished he had