The Slap

by Christos Tsiolkas

  She drove them to the courthouse in Heidelberg. It was not yet nine o’clock when they parked but already the steps leading up to the building were full of people, all of them seeming to suck on endless cigarettes. Two bored-looking policemen were speaking quietly in front of the court’s glass entrance. As they approached the steps, the mixture of people waiting seemed to Rosie to represent the whole world. They were white, Aborigine, Asian, Mediterranean, Islander, Slav, African and Arab. They all seemed nervous, uncomfortable in their cheap, synthetic suits and dresses. It was obvious who the lawyers were. Their suits were finely woven, well-fitting.

  Gary was frowning. ‘Where the fuck is our lawyer?’

  ‘She’ll be here.’

  ‘When?’ Gary started to roll a cigarette and a young man wearing a pale blue shirt a size too small for him peeled away from the crowd and walked over.

  ‘Mate, can I scab a rollie?’

  Silently Gary passed him the pouch. The young man rolled a cigarette and with a cheeky grin handed the pouch back to Gary.

  ‘What are you here for?’

  ‘Assault.’

  ‘Ma-ate,’ the boy called out, making the word into a chant, ‘me too.’ He winked again. ‘Course, we didn’t do it, did we?’ With a grin he fell back into the crowd, standing next to an old woman who looked spent. Rosie smiled at her and received a sad, fatigued, frightened grimace in return.

  Sad, fatigued, frightened. That pretty much summed up the faces of everyone around her. She quickly glanced over at her husband. He wore another face, a face that could also be glimpsed on some of the other men in the crowd. Tight, arrogant, tense, as if the day was a challenge they were preparing to take on. Like her husband, these men scowled as soon as anyone looked towards them. A small number of these men had forsaken suits and ties and cheap department-store shirts for their track-pants, hip-hop hoods and leather jackets. She knew that Gary would admire them, respect their refusal to participate in the charade. She could read his thoughts clearly. She bit her lip. But this wasn’t about him or her. This was about Hugo.

  The courthouse doors were opened and the crowd started to move inside. Gary smoked another cigarette before Margaret finally arrived, breathless, apologetic, complaining about the traffic. Gary fixed her with a vicious glare that stopped her mid-sentence. She ignored him and turned to Rosie, who introduced her to Shamira.

  ‘Should we go in?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Gary replied sullenly. ‘I guess we should fucking go in.’

  The courthouse was only a few years old, a grey steel monument to the new century’s economic boom that had already started to develop the forlorn, dissolute air that seemed to attach itself to any government institution. It smelt of cleaning agents and abandoned hopes to Rosie—there was no colour anywhere and the little there was, in the bad landscapes and still lifes on the walls, seemed to be draining away, as if to conform with a monochrome future. Margaret led them down the corridor to an enormous waiting room where a small screen sat high above everyone’s head. There was no sound and the television chef looked ridiculous as he silently instructed the audience how to cook a Thai curry. They found seats and Margaret left them to look at the schedule affixed on the courtroom’s door.

  ‘It’s a busy day,’ she announced on returning, scanning the crowd, not catching their eyes. ‘But we’re not far down the list. Fingers crossed we might get called before noon.’

  Gary cocked his eye up at her. ‘Who’s the judge?’

  ‘Emmett. She’s alright.’ Margaret was still not looking at him.

  ‘What do you mean by alright?’

  Rosie placed a warning hand on her husband’s knee. Don’t antagonise her. She’s on our side.

  ‘She’s good.’ Margaret was about to add something further when she suddenly stopped. They all turned around at once.

  She hadn’t seen him since that awful day he’d come over with Hector to apologise. Not that he had meant it. It was obvious he hadn’t meant it. She could never forget that sneer. He wasn’t sorry; he had come over to look down at them. He had not once taken that sneer off his face. There was a trace of it now, as he looked around the waiting room. He had not yet noticed them. But everyone had noticed them. Rosie’s heart sank. He and his wife stood out from this crowd, stood high above this crowd, not because of any elegance or sophistication or style. There was none of that in the new suit, new dress, new shoes, new handbag, new haircuts. All they were, all they screamed of was money. Dirty, filthy money. But that was enough to raise them up above everyone else in the room. Rosie watched as their lawyer, inhumanly tall, like some mutant insect trapped in a suit, led them towards a seat. It was then that Rosie caught his eye. That sneer, that up-himself arrogant cunt, that sneer was still on his face. But that was not what made her gasp, made her body tighten, as a shock of naked, electric fury ran through her. Walking behind them, escorting them there, was Manolis, Hector’s father.

  She went straight for him. Gary leapt up to restrain her but she shook his hand away. The monster went to say something to her but she refused to look at him, refused to acknowledge him or his trophy wife. She went up to Hector’s father and when she spoke her voice did not tremble but there was no mistaking her fury. You shouldn’t be here. Aren’t you ashamed? You shouldn’t be here. Her spittle landed on his shirt. She didn’t give a fuck. Their lawyer went to say something to her but she was already turned on her heels and walking back to her husband and her friend. She was trembling as she sat down but she had achieved what she wanted. She had shamed him, she’d seen it in the old man’s eyes. She had humiliated him. Good. That was exactly what he deserved. Aisha was the one who should be here, Aisha should be here by her side, but she’d had the human decency to do right by her family. But family was not only blood. She and Aisha were like sisters and Manolis knew this. He and his wife Koula had been there at Hugo’s naming ceremony, and how many wog Christmases and wog Easters and namedays and birthdays had they shared with Manolis and Koula, how often had they been guests in their home? Too many to count. She was glad that she felt no urge to cry. He was in the wrong. She would never forgive him.

  When they finally entered the courtroom she had to stifle her disappointment at how unimpressive it was. A lone Australian coat of arms sat above the judge’s seat and already a stain of weak, lemon-coloured damp was rising in the corner of the hall. They took seats near the front and waited for their case to be heard.

  The pettiness of people’s lives, the mundane sadness of what people did, mostly for money, sometimes for love or out of boredom, but mostly for the desperate need for money, is what Rosie took away from that day. Young men—just boys really, but already with long, tedious prior convictions read out by equally young, bored coppers in hesitant monotonous tones—faced the dock for stealing toys, stealing radios, stealing iPods, stealing televisions, stealing handbags, stealing work tools, stealing food, stealing liquor. There were young mothers ripping off the dole, young girls shoplifting trinkets and mascara and DVDs and CDs and Barbie dolls for their kids. There were contrite men charged with drunk-driving offences or for having beaten up some stranger who looked the wrong way at them outside a pub. The police would read out the charges, a lawyer—they must have all been from Legal Aid, all young, anxious, weary—would make a stab at a defence and then the terse judge would make her ruling. She seemed burdened by her work, handing out fines, suspended sentences, a short stint in prison for a young bloke who was up for his fourth burglary charge.

  After a while Rosie stopped listening. Every so often Gary would get up to go out for another cigarette and she would not look at him. She knew what he was thinking because she had begun to think it as well. What are we doing here? She must not think this way. Their charge was not petty. The crowded, unadorned, windowless room was far too hot, the atmosphere was constricting, claustrophobic. Rosie knew that this was the world Gary had been born into and which he had wanted to escape. It dawned on her that losing money was not equivalent to never
having had money. That was why Gary had been so frightened of coming, why he had been so resistant, so angry. He did not want her exposed to this world.

  Rosie held tight to Shamira’s hand. It would soon be over. She was aware that the monster and his wife were sitting at the other end of the crowded courtroom. Manolis was sitting beside them. She did not glance their way once. She concentrated on the weary face of the judge. It was obvious the woman wanted to be kind, that she was not eager to send these young men and women to prison. But it was equally clear that she had long given up any interest in or passion for the process. Her words, her pronouncements, her explanations of protocol, her summations were all intoned in the same tired, disengaged manner.

  Dear God, she prayed silently, grant me victory, please grant me victory.

  Afterwards she realised they never had a chance. The policeman who stood up to read out the charge was the same man who had come to their house the night Hugo was slapped. Then he had seemed mature, direct; he’d been encouraging and seemed to share their outrage. On the stand, he now seemed red-faced, sullen, unconfident. He stumbled over the language of his report. The charge was assault with intention to do grievous harm to a child. The young policeman haltingly read out the details of the incident the previous summer, then Margaret rose and repeated the charges, coldly stating the ugliness of a man hitting a small child of three years of age. In this day and age, Margaret finished, nothing can excuse such behaviour. And then the giant lawyer rose and went in for the kill.

  Though outside the courtroom he had seemed ludicrous, a ridiculous caricature, inside he was good, he was very good. What he did, what Margaret had not done, was tell a story. Her earnestness could not compete with this gift. He made a tale of that day and had everyone convinced of its truth. Rosie had been there at the barbecue, had seen that monster hit her child, but for the first time she was forced to see it through Harry’s eyes. Yes, it was true, Hugo had raised the cricket bat. Yes, it was possible that Hugo could have hit the defendant’s child. Yes, it had all happened so quickly, in an instant, it was over in a second. Yes, it was regrettable, all too human, all too understandable. Yes, it was true, a parent’s first instinct is to protect their child. All of it true, but Rosie wanted to rise, stand up and shout, scream it out to the crowded courtroom: that’s not what happened. That man, that man standing looking innocent up there, that man hit a child and I saw the look on that man’s face. He wanted to hurt Hugo, he enjoyed it. I saw his face, he wanted to do it. He didn’t do it to protect his child, he did it to hurt Hugo. That was the truth, she knew it, she could never forget his sneer. The lawyer was everything she had fantasised about. He was Law and Order and Boston Legal, Susan Dey in LA Law, Paul Newman in The Verdict. He was what money could buy. But he was wrong, he was a liar. She had seen the look of triumph in the man’s eye when he hit her child. Rosie felt squashed, hopeless. The lawyer finished speaking and was now looking expectantly across at the judge. She heard Gary next to her let out a long, slow breath. Shamira was squeezing her hand. She did not need to look at her husband. They both knew it was over. But still, but still, she leaned forward, hoped for a miracle.

  The judge’s pronouncement was precise, intelligent, compassionate and crushing. For the first time that morning it seemed that she was genuinely interested in the nature of the case, as if she knew it did not belong to this overheated, crammed, ugly courthouse. First she reprimanded the police. It is possible, she began, her voice stinging, contemptuous, that you might have been a little too rash in pursuing a charge of assault. The young cop was staring straight ahead, straight into the faces of a crowd he knew hated him. The judge then looked down at the man standing before her. Rosie leaned forward to try to see his face. There was not a trace of arrogance there, no sneer; he looked ashamed and afraid. He’s acting, she was sure of it. The bastard was acting. Violence was never a proper response to any situation, the judge scolded him, and especially never when a child was involved. The monster was nodding respectfully, in full agreement. Fucking liar, fucking wog cunt liar. But, the judge continued, she realised that the circumstances of this particular case were exceptional and that lacking further evidence she had to give him the benefit of the doubt. He was a hardworking businessman, a good citizen, a good husband and parent. His only previous dealing with the law was an adolescent misdemeanour from years ago. She could see no good coming from a conviction. She apologised. She actually apologised for the waste of his time. Then, coldly, the judge looked out to the room. Case dismissed.

  Beside her, Shamira was crying but Rosie had no tears. She looked at her husband. He was staring straight ahead, refusing to catch her eye. The next case was about to be called and he suddenly sprang to his feet and marched out of the courtroom. Rosie and Shamira struggled to their feet.

  They almost had to run to catch up with him as he headed for the carpark. They heard her name, then Gary’s name called, and it was only then that he stopped and turned around.

  Margaret was slowly walking up to them. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Gary gave a harsh laugh. ‘You’re a cunt.’

  Margaret looked as though she had been slapped—by the word, by his hatred.

  ‘You know why you’re a cunt?’ Gary continued. ‘It’s not because of what happened in there. They obviously paid good money for their lawyer and he was worth every cent. You’re not a cunt because you’re free, you’re not a cunt because you didn’t do your work. You’re a cunt because you didn’t stop her, you’re a cunt because you let her go ahead with it.’ And for the first time in what felt like hours Gary looked directly at Rosie. A look of spite, of contempt, of utter derision.

  He thinks it’s my fault. Rosie was shocked. He thinks it’s all my fault.

  Margaret had crossed her arms. A small smile was on her lips. ‘I’m sorry it didn’t go your way. There wasn’t much I could do about the charge.’ Her tone, her smile, were glacial as she looked at Gary. ‘You’re the ones who went to the police.’

  Gary’s body suddenly sagged. Rosie wanted to go to him and put her arms around him but she was petrified of what he would do.

  He was nodding, slowly, shamefaced. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I called you.’ He turned and headed towards Shamira’s car. ‘I’m the cunt.’

  He did not say a word all the way home. Rosie too was largely silent, occasionally offering muted assent to Shamira’s rage over the judge’s decision. She was only half-listening. Her thoughts were only for Hugo. What could she possibly tell him? That what happened was alright? That someone had the right to hit you, hurt you, even if you are defenceless? There was only one victim in this whole mess and the victim was her son. He must not be allowed to think that he was to blame.

  Even before Shamira had finished parking outside their house, Rosie flung open the door and scrambled out onto the street. She ran to the front door, hearing Gary’s rapid footsteps behind her. She must get to Hugo first. She turned the key, threw open the front door and rushed down the corridor. Connie and Hugo were in the kitchen, a sprawl of butcher’s paper, pencils and textas covering the tabletop. The girl’s eyes flashed expectantly.

  Rosie could hear her husband pounding down the hall. She gathered Hugo into her arms and kissed him. ‘It’s all over with, honey,’ she whispered, kissing him again. ‘That awful man who hit you has been punished. He got into such big trouble. He’s never going to do such a thing again. He’s going to jail.’

  She swung around. Gary was standing there, his mouth hanging open, staring at her.

  ‘Isn’t that right, Daddy?’ she prompted. ‘The bad man has been punished, hasn’t he?’ Oh, he must understand. He must understand that she was doing this for her son.

  Gary took a step forward and she cowered, thinking he was going to strike her. Instead he collapsed into a chair and slowly nodded his head. ‘That’s right, Huges. The bad man has been punished.’ There was only heaviness, surrender in his voice.

  She just wanted to be wi
th her son. She didn’t want to have to explain anything to Connie, didn’t want any more of Shamira’s consolation, didn’t want her husband’s accusation or defeat. All she wanted was to be with her son. She took Hugo out into the backyard and lay back on the overgrown lawn. She told him the story that she had been waiting so long to tell him. She described to him how the nice policeman who had come to their house that night—did Hugo remember him, how kind he had been—well, he explained to the court what had happened. You should have heard it. The court was full of people and they were all shocked, they couldn’t believe it, they were horrified. She then told him how the judge, she was a lady judge, Hugo, stood up and pointed to the horrible man who had hurt him. Do you think you know what she said to him? Hugo nodded, he looked up at her, smiling. No one can ever hit a child? That’s right, baby, that’s exactly what she said. And he’s going to go to jail? Yes, the bad man is going to jail. Hugo grabbed tufts of grass and pulled them out of the dry, hard soil. He looked up at her again. Will Adam be mad at me cause I made his uncle go to jail? Darling, no, no, of course he won’t be mad. No one is mad at you. No one. Hugo touched her breasts. Can I have boobie? She hesitated. Hugo, she said firmly, next year you are going to be in kinder. You know you can’t have boobie when you go to kinder. The boy nodded, then brightening, he touched her chest again. Can I have boobie now? Yes, she laughed, kissing him, she felt like she couldn’t stop kissing him. They lay on the grass, Hugo sprawled across her breasts and belly. She heard the screen door slam. Gary was standing above them.