The Slap by Christos Tsiolkas Page B

about when he kicks someone or hits out at another kid? Who gives him permission to do that?
    ‘Yes.’ Connie was nodding vehemently in agreement. ‘That’s right, Hugo. No one has a right to do that.’
    She was so young. It suddenly repelled him.
    ‘Gary’s ready to go home.’
    Rosie picked her handbag off the bed, picked up Hugo, and walked past Hector. They did not exchange a word.
    Hector closed the door, leaving him alone with Connie. He wanted to be kind but he didn’t know how.
    ‘We can’t see each other again. Not the way we have been. Do you understand?’
    The girl looked away, sniffing. ‘I can’t believe he hit him. What kind of arsehole hits a child?’
    He couldn’t believe what he had risked. It was so clear to him. He wanted her out of this room, out of his house. He wanted her out of his life.
    ‘Do you understand?’ He softened his tone.
    ‘Sure.’ She still couldn’t look at him.
    ‘I think you’re so special, Connie. But I love Aisha, I really do.’
    Her response was almost violent. She started shaking. ‘Don’t you know I do as well? I hate what we’re doing to her.’ She took a shuddering breath. ‘It’s . . .’ she was struggling for the word, ‘It’s disgusting. ’
    She was so young, everything was an exaggeration. He wanted to push her out of the room, out of his life. She wasn’t mature. She was a bloody child.
    ‘I’m sorry.’
    You’ll never tell? It was the terror he had been living with for months, always there, beneath the thrill. He’d imagined the shame for months—cops and divorce and jail and suicide.
    She read his thoughts. ‘No one knows.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated.
    She wouldn’t look at him. Instead her foot was swinging, she worried at a lock of hair in her mouth. A child, she was a child.
    She said something so softly he couldn’t hear it.
    ‘What?’
    This time she looked at him, poisonous. ‘I said your arms are ugly, they’re so hairy. You’re like a gorilla.’
    He was shocked. And he wanted to laugh. He sat down next to her on the bed, not daring to let their bodies touch. ‘Connie, nothing really happened between us.’
    She flinched. He could smell her cheap perfume; over-ripe, sugary, it tickled his nose. It was a young girl’s perfume. He wished he could touch her, stroke her hair, kiss her one more time. But he couldn’t bring himself to show any affection. Any touch between them now would be loathsome. He looked up, into the mirror, at a man and a child sitting on the bed, and in that moment she did the same. Her eyes were pleading, tormented, and almost against his will, not wanting to hurt her anymore, he shook his head.
    Connie jumped off the bed, jerked open the door, and bolted. For a moment he sat still, enjoying only the relief. He had done it, he had finished it. He closed the door after her and sat back on the bed. His chest hurt, a cord wrapped tight around his lungs. He tried to breathe but couldn’t. He knew he must not panic, this wasn’t a heart attack, it couldn’t be, it mustn’t be, he just had to breathe. His fucking throat, he couldn’t open his throat. He was dripping sweat, couldn’t see his reflection in the mirror. He wasn’t there, where was he? Where the fuck was he?
    With a gasp that sent him sprawling to the floor he convulsed and drew sweet life into his throat and lungs. He rocked back and forth, remembering again how to breathe. He wiped his face, his neck, with a handkerchief and found himself in the mirror. His face was pale, his eyes red. He looked bloated, grey and old. He realised he was crying. Snot trickled from his nose, tears marking his cheeks. He didn’t cry—he hadn’t cried since he was a kid. He massaged his chest. I will change, he promised. I will change.
     
    When Hector came back out of the house, Richie was the only person in the backyard, still sitting on a limb of the fig tree. Gary, Rosie and Hugo had gone. Wordlessly, everyone else was collecting their gear,