He stepped back from the glass. The girls were now drying off, collecting their towels and bags, but his interest had waned. He took one more look at the world below him, and then turned and dived into the pool. He smacked the water’s surface and entered the blissfully cold world beneath; he emerged for air, grinning. He dived once more beneath the surface and then rolled like the seals Rocco loved watching at the zoo. He turned on his back and stretched his limbs out over the water. ‘I am the king of the world!’ he shouted to the sky.

‘Is his majesty hungry?’

Sandi was standing at the edge of the pool, her skin tanned a rich honey. She too was wearing a bikini, but whereas the girls’ swimsuits had seemed sluttish and vulgar, his wife seemed to him to be as exquisite as the elegant European models on the covers of the magazines she read. He had bought the bikini for her. The pearl-coloured fabric straps were held in place with small coils of gold. He looked up at her and regretted having wasted time fantasising over the cheap floozies on the beach. Sandi was a real woman. She was wearing one of his old denim work shirts over her bikini and she still managed to look spectacular. I am the king of the world, he repeated silently.

‘I’m famished.’

‘Then dinner is served, your majesty.’

The television was on in the kitchen and there was catastrophe on the screen. A bomb? An earthquake? A war? He didn’t fucking care, let the towelheads and the yids wipe themselves out. He punched a button on the remote control, found images of nature and colour on one of the cable stations, and turned down the volume. He poured wine for himself and for Sandi, lit a cigarette and sat on a stool watching her prepare the dressing for the salad.

‘Where’s Rocco?’

‘Watching tele in the lounge.’

Harry belowed out his son’s name and waited for a response.

‘What?’ Rocco yelled back.

‘Get in here.’

Rocco, as if in childish defiance of his parents’ ease with their near-naked bodies, was wearing track-pants, a baseball cap and an over-sized black T-shirt with some garish gangsta insignia on its front. He had his socks and runners on.

‘Aren’t you hot?’

His son shrugged and carefully lifted himself onto the stool next to his father. ‘What’s for dinner?’

‘Chops.’

‘With chips?’

‘You eat too many chips,’ his mother warned.

‘You can never eat too many chips.’

‘Thanks for the support, your majesty.’

Rocco, quizzical, was chewing on his bottom lip. Harry resisted the urge to tell him off. Rocco made himself ugly when he did that.

‘Why are you calling Dad “Your majesty”, Mum?’

‘Because I’m the king of this house.’

Rocco stopped chewing at his lip and Harry playfully tweaked the boy’s earlobe. ‘And one day you will be king.’

But Rocco had lost interest in the subject and instead swivelled around in his seat and stared at the television. He picked up the remote control and started switching channels.

Sandi leaned across the bench and took the remote off him. ‘Leave it till after dinner. You watch too much television.’

‘You can never watch too much television.’

Sandi’s exasperated face made both father and son laugh out loud in guilty, masculine complicity.

Rocco had gone to bed and they were watching a DVD on the new plasma television. It had cost the frigging earth but it was worth it, as large as a small cinema screen, situated in the centre of their feature wall. On either side of the screen sat granite stone slabs, lit by faint orange light, the water a constant softly burbling sheet down the surface of the stone. It all cost a bomb but it was ideal. He was paying the film little attention, some tedious rom-com; it was only Sandi’s head lying on his lap that made him put up with it. He didn’t want to disturb her by reaching over for the remote control. But it was she who suddenly sat up and muted the volume. He groaned out loud at the question.

‘Have you?’

‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’

He watched her warily. Sandi rarely argued with him. She had learned early in their courtship that he reacted to a direct confrontation by a woman with implacable stubborness. She nodded, unsmiling.

‘I’ll call him.’

Fuck. You.

‘I’ll call him tomorrow.’

Her expression was still petulant, unconvinced.

‘I promise.’

Her face relaxed into a warm smile and she leaned over and kissed him on the lips. ‘Thanks, baby.’

He ran his fingers against her neck, her shoulders. She was still wearing his shirt and he rolled it off her. But her question had made him tense, reminding him of the working week ahead, shattering the relaxed comfort of his Sunday evening. ‘Sorry, honey. I’m too tired.’

Sandi moved away from his embrace and slipped the shirt back over her shoulders.

He kissed her brow and she turned up the volume on the television and rested back on his lap. But he was now too agitated to sit still. He rose gently, putting a cushion under her head, and went to the bar and took a Crown from the fridge. He wandered through the house and stopped outside Rocco’s bedroom. The boy was curled up, quietly snoring in bed, the white sheet tangled around his body. The night was still hot and there was only the slightest flutter of a breeze coming off the sea. Harry looked up at the icon of the Mother and Child above his son’s bed and he quickly made the sign of the cross. Thank you, Panagia, he whispered. It once seemed likely that he and Sandi would never have a child. She had difficulty conceiving and the first three pregnancies had ended in the pain of miscarriage. Thinking of his wife’s ordeals, Harry winced and reaffirmed the promise he’d made to God. To protect her and love her always, and as he looked down at his sleeping son, he was grateful for the home and family they had made together.

And that cunt wants to fuck it all up. He couldn’t decide who he hated more: the hysterical wife who had hissed at him with unconcealed contempt, the drunk, weak faggot of a husband, or the whining little prick he had slapped. He wished the three of them were dead. Fuck the lawyer. If he had real balls he’d take his shotgun and fire three quick bullets in each of their heads. He knew these people—freeloaders, whingers, complainers. Victims. They were the clients who weasled and begged for the cheapest deals and then when it came time to pay there was no money in their accounts. It had all gone on bongs or smokes or grog or whatever filthy shit they used to fill up their miserable, ugly lives. They were trash, should’ve been sterilised at birth. He shouldn’t have slapped the child, he should have grabbed the bat off him and smashed it once, twice, a hundred times into the little fucker’s head, made him pulp and blood. Almost tasting the blood, seeing the boy’s face collapse into jutting bones and squashed muscle, Harry felt calm for the first time since Sandi had brought up the subject of the lawyer. He took a swig of beer and walked back into the lounge. Sandi was half-asleep. He switched off the television and lifted his wife into his arms.

‘Bedtime,’ he whispered.

‘Wake him,’ Sandi was behind him, her arms around his chest. Harry glanced at his watch. It was still only seven o’clock and the boy could have another half-hour of sleep. Harry shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

He kissed his wife and headed down the stairs to the garage. He’d have a clear run at this hour all the way to the Westgate Bridge.

‘What?’

Good shot.

‘What?’ mimicked Harry and started laughing. ‘Pull up your dacks, you ox,’ he said in Greek. ‘Who wants to look at your fat, hairy arse?’

‘They don’t fit.’ Alex was incapable of complex sentences. He was still determinately working on the engine.

‘You’re getting fat, mate.’ Alex had gained at least twenty kilos since his divorce. Much of it was the fault of his mother. Alex had moved back to his parents’ house and Mrs Kyriakou was cooking for him three times a day and that didn’t include the greasy take-away lunches that Alex ate at work. Nor did it include the chips and chocolate bars he had on his break. It was not all his mother’s fault. Alex had always lacked ambition and since Eva left him he’d surrendered to the assault of time on his body. He and Harry were the same age—less than a week separated their birthdays—but Alex looked at least ten years older. It was still possible to glimpse in him the attractive youth that Harry had gone to school with, who’d been his best friend for over twenty years and his best man at his wedding, but no girl would bother to look twice at Alex now.

When Harry had first thought of buying the autoshop in Altona he had asked Alex to be a partner. His friend had taken his hand, shook it proudly, with tears in his eyes. But I’m no businessman, mate, he had answered, I’d be bad for you. He was right. Harry would have killed him years before if they had been in partnership together. Alex loved working on cars and trucks, he was an excellent, thorough mechanic, but he hated paperwork and he loathed communicating with clients. He couldn’t stand to be accountable for money, it made him tighten up, made him silent and non-communicative. He had been working for Harry for twenty years now and every year Harry gave him a bonus and steadily and loyally increased his wages. Alex was grateful but Harry was sure that if he had been less than fair to his mate, Alex would not have complained. It was this passive lethargy that had made Eva walk out on her husband. Alex’s parents had put a deposit on a small worker’s cottage in Richmond when Alex had finished his apprenticeship and, steadily over the years, Alex had paid off the house. But even with the arrival of a baby, Alex couldn’t contemplate moving and searching for a bigger home. Harry thought it unlikely that Alex would have even bothered with marriage if his parents had not become obsessed by the possibility of being without grandchildren. He’d married out of duty, as he did everything else. Harry was not surprised by the divorce and did not blame Eva for leaving. Alex would never change. He was happy in his room, drinking with mates who went back three decades, seeing his kids every fortnight and at Orthodox Easter, and working full-time at Harry’s shop. Alex probably thought his life was good. It probably was, thought Harry, there was no stress, but it was also a life that seemed finished. It was as if there was nothing more that the world could offer his friend.

‘You’ve got to lose weight, mate. Those extra kilos you’ve stacked up aren’t good for your health.’

‘You’re right.’

‘You should go back to playing soccer on the weekends.’

‘Sure, mate.’

‘And no more fucking junk food. Salad sandwiches for lunch from now on.’

This made Alex raise his head from underneath the bonnet and look at his friend. ‘Fuck that. What’s the point of living to be an old man if I have to eat like a fucking rabbit to get there? I like my pies and burgers.’

‘What’s up with the engine?’

‘The car’s over-heating. Can’t find a leak in the radiator so I’m just checking out the fan.’

‘Whose is it?’

Alex shrugged. ‘Dunno. Con booked it in.’ It suddenly dawned on him that it was unusual for his boss to be at the shop so early on a Monday morning. Harry and Sandi had recently opened a third garage in Moorabbin and for the last few months most of Harry’s time was taken up with the new business.

Harry grinned to himself as if he could see the thoughts slowly taking shape in his friend’s head.

Alex wiped his hands, put down his work towel and offered a cigarette. ‘So what are you doing here so early?’

Harry took the cigarette and Alex lit it for him. ‘I’ve come to look at the paperwork.’

Alex raised an eyebrow. ‘Is there a problem?’

Harry looked down the road. Traffic had started the long crawl into the city. The suburb stretched out flat and monotonous around him, all grey and muted, functional and drab. Even though the beach lay a few blocks south, that too seemed grim and unappealing when compared to the sparkling emerald stretch of sea that lay just outside his front yard. God, he thought, I can’t stand the fucking western suburbs.

‘Yes,’ he answered finally. ‘I think there’s a problem.’

Alex picked up his towel, butted out his cigarette and turned back to the engine. Harry knew that this meant the conversation was finished. Whatever opinion Alex might have—if he did, in fact, have an opinion—the man would keep it to himself.

Harry finished his cigarette in silence, then walked over to the small makeshift office, a lean-to he’d built himself when he had first bought the shop. He searched the filing cabinet, found the account books, turned on the radio and sat down to work.

Sometimes, when the cumulation of life’s responsibilities made him anxious and stressed, Harry wished he could go back to the simplicity of being a tradesman. Unlike Alex, he had never been obsessed with cars, but he’d always had a fierce curiosity to understand mechanical failure. His mother—God bless her departed soul—had been constantly afraid that her beloved only child would be electrocuted as he went about tinkering with faulty toasters, dead batteries and malfunctioning electric toys. Do something, she would scream at her husband, stop him, he’s going to kill himself. Shut up, his father would roar back, leave the kid alone. You want to turn him into a fucking pousti. Leave him alone. Instead, his father—God bless the poor fucker’s soul as well—would assist him in exploring the intricate world of circuits and electrical cords and eventually he allowed Harry to work on the family car. When they were bent over the engine together, father and son had an impenetrable bond which Harry’s mother could not touch. It was only in the kitchen and in the intimate interiors of the house where Harry had felt unsafe. His mother and father could go for weeks without exchanging more than perfunctory communications. Harry learned early on to love these periods of silence. What he could not bear were the occasions when this silence was rent apart by the hatred that husband and wife had for one another. His mother would always start the fights. You’re an animal, she would suddenly announce over a meal. You’re a rapist, a degenerate. Her husband would continue to eat his food silently. You don’t know what your father is like, she would insist to her son. You don’t know his whores, his sins against God and nature. And Harry would wait for the moment that his father would rise and hit her. He’d pray then that one punch or one slap would be enough. Sometimes he’d see his father unbuckling his belt and he’d call out to his father to stop, try to intervene. But Tassios Apostolous was a strong man, and he’d push his son out of the way. One day you’ll understand, he would often say to his child, women are the form the Devil takes here on earth. Harry would go into his room, lose himself in fixing his toys, the radio, the old black and white television his father had given him to work on. When he emerged back into the main part of the house, his father would be sitting in front of the television, his mother would be ironing or sewing in the kitchen. There might be a rip in his mother’s blouse, blood in the corner of her mouth, but the shouting, the tearing into each other had stopped. Harry would be thankful that the silence was back.

Harry crossed himself. He prayed for the souls of both his parents. They had sheltered him, paid for his training, left him enough to get a start in the world. No one could ask for more than that.

Now he had little time for tinkering. He checked his mobile and already there were messages piling up. He rarely worked on cars these days, except for long-standing clients. Alex and Con worked at the shop in Altona and he had three guys working for him in Hawthorn and another three at the new garage. Moorabbin also had a twenty-four-hour convenience store attached to the motor-shop and he employed a roster of young people to staff it. His time was spent managing wages, superannuation, deliveries and ordering. Sandi had always helped out but he had been insistent after Rocco’s birth that she should feel free to give up work altogether. She had for a year but then asked to come back to work part-time. He had agreed and secretly been proud. He loved his new house, loved living by the beach—it had been a dream since childhood—but he had little time or respect for the rich skip bitches who were his neighbours, useless fake-tanned women with plastic smiles and silicon tits who spent their husbands’ money on afternoon teas, endless shopping and personal trainers. He leaned across from his chair and touched wood. Thank you, Panagia, he silently prayed. Thank you for everything.

He heard Con greet Alex. The young man stopped, surprised, when he saw Harry sitting in the office.

‘Yo, Boss.’

The silly fuck had his hair cut in the fashion of the yuppie English soccer players, cut short at the sides and up in a thick bouffant that rose to a point in the middle of his head. There were blond tips in front.

‘The clock needs cleaning.’ Harry glanced around the office. ‘In fact, the whole office needs a clean.’

‘Sure, I’ll do it today. How’s Sandi? How’s the kid?’

‘Sandi’s fine, so’s the kid.’

‘What brings you here?’

Harry’s mobile whirred and beeped.

‘Take the call.’

‘Forget it. I’m looking at the books.’

Con threw a cigarette to his lips and smiled. He was a cocky bastard. ‘Any problems?’

‘Yeah. I got problems. You’re my problem.’

Con’s smile faded and he fumbled with his cigarette. There was an edge to his voice. ‘Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Harry said nothing. He watched his employee.

‘Jesus, Harry. Are you going to fire me?’ The young man’s voice cracked and collapsed and he started sobbing. Harry saw Alex at the pump. A young woman had stepped out of a scarlet Toyota Corolla and was looking around. She was Asian, young and up herself, clutching a handbag with pink and yellow roses imprinted on the cloth, her chin raised in haughty expectation. Wait all you like, darling, Alex won’t notice shit. Harry did not turn back to Con till the man had stopped his blubbering.

‘Sit down.’

Con immediately sat on the chair opposite, wiped his eyes and looked anxiously at his boss.

‘There’s no fucking way I’m going to figure out exactly how much you’ve ripped me off, pousti. You care to name me a figure?’

‘Man, I’ve done something stupid. I know it, man. I’ll pay you back everything, Harry.’

‘You care to name me a figure?’

Con looked wary, afraid. ‘I’ve no idea, man.’

‘Ballpark.’

‘Twenty thousand?’

Harry let out a long low whistle. It was a good answer. Anything lower and he would have taken a club to the silly cunt. ‘Double that, I reckon. You owe me forty grand.’

Con nodded slowly. He stretched out his hands. ‘Mate, I don’t have it.’

‘Where’s it gone?’

Harry knew exactly where it had gone. On the ridiculous mortgage that Con was paying for that piece of shit apartment in the city, on the new Peugeot, on coke and pills and dinner for that stupid skip prick-tease that Con was trying to impress. How long did he think she’d stick around now?

‘I don’t know, I don’t know where it’s gone.’ Con had started crying again.

He was a weak piece of shit but Harry felt sorry for the boy. Not too sorry. He made up his mind there and then. He’d give him a chance. Sandi would disapprove, but Con hadn’t attempted to lie or bullshit him. He’d give him that due.

‘You’re going to give me a third of your wages every week. I’m going to calculate interest on forty thousand starting today. Deal?’

Con was breathing heavily, he was unable to speak. He nodded.

‘And Con, you dare walk out on me or pull this kind of shit on me again and I go straight to the cops. But before I do I’ll put a wrench through your fucking teeth and I’ll fuck you up the arse with a screwdriver like a faggot at a choir boy’s picnic. You understand me?’

The man’s tears had dried. He stood up. ‘Thanks, Harry.’ Con extended his hand but Harry refused to take it.

‘Fuck off and start work. I don’t shake your hand until you pay me back every cent you owe me. I’ll shake hands with you when you’re a man again.’

There was a moment of fierce hatred and resistance in the young man’s eyes. Then it disappeared and Con lowered his head. ‘Sure, Boss.’

His walk was slow, defeated as he went to work alongside Alex.

Harry checked his messages. An old Italian client wanted him to look at his car. He hesitated then rang back and confirmed he’d meet Mr Pacioli at eleven in Hawthorn. There was also a message to call Warwick Kelly. What the hell, he thought, I might as well kill some time till the rush hour is finished.

He punched in the number and Kelly’s youngest daughter Angela answered the phone.

‘Is your mum there?’

‘How are you, Uncle Harry?’

‘I’m good. How are you sweetheart? Are you getting ready for school?’

‘I’m sick.’

‘Really sick?’

‘Yeah, my stomach hurts.’ The girl sounded offended by his doubt.

‘Guess I won’t get you a chocolate then. It won’t do your tummy any good.’ He grinned to himself at the long silence.

‘I can have it when I feel better.’

Kelly came onto the line. ‘Angela’s sick.’

‘So she says.’ He could hear the girl’s protests. ‘I’m coming over.’

‘Did you get me a chocolate?’

‘Yeah, but you can’t have it now. You look too sick.’

‘I am too sick. Put it in the fridge.’

‘Sure, sweetheart.’ He kissed her again. As he was about to leave, she rose and called after him. ‘What kind of chocolate is it?’

‘Cherry Ripe.’

‘Yay,’ she shrieked, and then, remembering, she lowered herself back to her pillow and let out a weary whimper. ‘Thank you, Uncle Harry.’

Kelly was still on the phone and she mouthed at him to take a seat. He sat by the small round kitchen table and looked over the water, gas and telephone bills. He pulled out his wallet and laid out a hundred and fifty dollars on the table. He paid all the bills except for the telephone. He had given Kelly the mobile that she was to use when calling him and he only paid for that. Kelly was a good woman. She only ever used that phone, never exposed him to danger with his wife. He watched her as she walked around the flat. She was tiny, with a cushiony, fleshy arse and large, low-hanging breasts. She was also dark and plump, a real contrast to Sandi’s tallness and Serbian fairness. The difference excited him. She grimaced at him and he cheekily unzipped his jeans and began stroking at his cock. She threw him an exasperated look, then closed the kids’ bedroom door and came over to him.

‘Sure, Ma,’ she said suddenly in English. ‘I’ll bring them over Sunday. ’ With her free hand, she started tickling his balls, then slowly her fingers tapped along the shaft of his fattening cock. ‘Of course I won’t fucking forget.’ Harry looked up at the Madonna staring down disapprovingly at him on the kitchen wall. He closed his hand around Kelly’s fingers to tighten her grip around his cock, and he thrust up and down on his seat, jerking himself into her hand. He pulled at her nipple, twisting it till she slapped his hand away. He was conscious of the young girl watching television behind the wall. He could smell his lover’s sweat, and he kissed her arm, her neck, her hair as she finished the conversation. He shuddered, stifled his groan and blew into her hand. Kelly put down the phone.

‘Look at me,’ she hissed, showing him her coated hand. ‘You’re a pig.’ Then, expertly, as if performing a routine household task, she grabbed a clean Chux wipe, wet it at the sink, and cleaned her hands. She threw the Chux at him.

‘You want a coffee?’

‘Sure.’

He wiped his cock, rubbed at a spot of cum on his jeans, and threw the Chux back at her. Kelly flicked it into the bin.

‘Van called this morning. His equipment has fucked up. He needs some money.’

Jesus Christ. This was not his morning. ‘How much does he need?’

‘A couple of grand.’ Kelly glanced down at the money on the table. ‘Thanks, honey.’

‘Shut up. You know I adore my Lebo chick.’ He grabbed her and sat her on his lap. He wondered if there was time to get hard again and fuck her. He looked at his watch. No way. Kelly turned off the kettle and poured the boiling water into the cups. She sat down across from him, smiling, scratching at her left breast underneath her sweatshirt.

‘Van doesn’t bullshit, Harry. You know that.’

She was right. Van was an old Vietnamese schoolmate of Kelly’s who duplicated DVDs from home. He was sent the original masters from Shanghai or Saigon, mostly Hollywood new releases and some porn, and like old-style travelling salesmen, he and Kelly went around to people’s houses, hosting DVD afternoons and selling the illegal copies. It was a good, steady business and Harry and Sandi had a cupboard full of DVDs they had scored from Van.

‘He’s got the money.’

‘He’s over-extended. Like the nation. He’s cash poor this week.’

Harry grinned. ‘I want twenty per cent of the next drop.’

Kelly’s reply was immediate. ‘Ten per cent and the full two grand in your hand next week.’

Harry laughed out loud. She had balls, Kelly. He thought of Con an hour ago, blubbering like a bitch. ‘Done. I’ll drop off the money to Van this arvo.’

‘Thanks, honey. When am I going to see you next?’

‘Soon.’ She was not his wife. He didn’t owe her commitment.

He drank his coffee quickly, kissed his mistress on the lips and dropped the Cherry Ripe on Angela’s bed. School had definitely started, and secure in her deception, she was sitting cross-legged on her bed playing with her dolls. She hugged him tight. She smelt like Rocco—they must use the same soap. He was whistling as he walked to the car.

‘Tell him it’s Harry Apostolou.’

There was a pause. ‘Is this about an appointment?’

What’s it to you, cunt?

‘Andrew knows what it’s about.’

The casual use of his friend’s first name did the trick. The girl’s bored, supercilious tone changed in an instant.

‘One moment, sir. I’ll consult with Mr Petrious.’

Harry watched from his office as the guys worked on two cars, a Ford ute, a couple of years old, and a late-nineties BMW coupe. Of the three businesses he owned, he liked the one in Hawthorn the best. The site itself was a solid old thirties brick deco building. They built things to last back then. The garage was down an alley off Glenferrie Road and that meant that it was only a short walk for lunch. Glenferrie Road was always busy and Harry enjoyed strolling down the strip, stopping at the Turk’s coffee shop and sitting down for a long read of the paper, a few cigarettes, coffee and a chat to Irzik. The Altona garage was in the middle of ugly bogan suburbia, and though he was proud of the scale of the Moorabbin yard, it too sat off the wide asphalt hideousness of the Nepean Highway: eight lanes of cars, waves and waves of them, they never seemed to stop. And as for finding a decent coffee, forget it. No, he preferred Hawthorn, even the smell of it. A row of eucalypts stretched above the back wall of the garage, lining the railway track that ran parallel to the alley. The air in Hawthorn smelt clean. Not as good as the sea air in Sandringham—no way near as good as the bracing, fresh air on his balcony at home—but a million times better than the stink of salt and sewage in Altona, so much healthier than the dry carbon-monoxide fog of Moorabbin. When Rocco was old enough, he’d close down the yard and get the site rezoned as residential. He’d renovate the garage so it would become a house for Rocco. It would be close to the city, close to the action, a good, safe, rich suburb. No mortgage. His son’s first home.

Andrew’s deep voice interrupted his reverie. ‘How’s it hanging, Doggy Dawg?’

‘They’re hanging right over your lips, bitch.’

Andrew roared like he was at the footy, at that moment when there’s three minutes before the siren and your team is one goal behind. Harry held the mobile away from his ear.

‘You want to see me today?’

‘Yep.’

‘What are you doing for lunch?’

‘Meeting you.’

‘Too right you are, malaka.’

‘Where?’

‘Where are you?’

‘Hawthorn.’

Andrew named a pub in Richmond. ‘Meet you at one.’

‘Thanks, Andrea.’

‘Shut the fuck up, Apostolou. You’re paying.’ With a chuckle, Andrew hung up the phone.

Harry rang Sandi immediately.

‘Sorry, sweetheart. I was in traffic.’

‘Did you ring the lawyer?’

‘Done.’

He could almost taste her happiness. She liked white roses, he’d buy her white roses.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she gushed. She raised the lid and the inside was lined with a velvet crush fabric the colour of rubies. As soon as the lid was opened a pleasing oriental melody hummed from within the box. Harry pointed to the script.

‘You know what that says?’

‘It’s Sanskrit.’

‘And what’s that?’ He had no concern about showing his ignorance. He knew his education was limited and he saw no reason to hide it from the young girl before him. He had money and that’s all that mattered.

‘It’s the ancient Indian language.’

She had hesitated. She didn’t know what she was talking about.

‘You don’t know what it says?’

The girl bit her bottom lip apologetically and shook her head.

Harry smiled at her and picked up the box. ‘It probably says Fuck You, Yank.’

The girl’s mouth formed a shocked perfect circle and then she laughed out loud. Harry winked at her.

‘Wrap it up for me, honey, make it look nice. It’s a gift for the ball and chain.’

‘Uno, per favore.’

‘Mate, I’m driving all arvo.’

‘We’ll eat, we’ll have a coffee. You’ll be fine.’ Andrew looked at him suspiciously. ‘Don’t tell me the nanny state’s taken your soul, as well?’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

Harry plonked himself on the stool beside Andrew and stared up at the lunch menu scrawled on a blackboard.

‘Food good?’

‘The food’s fucking excellent.’

It was. Harry had ordered a plate of grilled calamari, conscious that there would be no time to get to the gym that afternoon. Andrew obviously had no such concerns. He ordered a burger and chips and a bottle of wine for lunch, most of which he consumed on his own. Harry marvelled at the lawyer’s ability to eat as much of whatever he wanted and yet never add an ounce to his frame. It was because he never could stand still. Andrew had always been that way, since they were neighbours in Collingwood. At school, one bitch of a teacher with a sadistic streak had spent day after day attempting to beat the agitation out of him. If she saw him jittery or fidgeting she would stand him in front of the class and whenever he moved she would bring a metre ruler smashing against the back of his legs. Andrew would flinch, grimace and try for a minute to stand as still as possible. He never succeeded. By the end of class the back of his legs would be crimson and purple from the whallops he had received. The teacher’s vicious punishments came to an end when Andrew’s mother attacked her at a parent–teacher night by grabbing her hair and slapping her. Andrew was not expelled for the simple reason that he was the brightest and smartest pupil at a school that was dependent on his winning the state Mathematics and English competitions to justify its appalling lack of educational success with the other students in the school’s care. Andrew bore no obvious grudge against the teacher who had hurt him. She was an animal, thought Harry, but schools these days could use some of her ferocity. There had to be a middle path. No one back then had thought of going to the police or the lawyers to deal with their problems. Andrew’s mother had apologised and the teacher had—possibly not with good grace—accepted the apology.

‘Remember Miss Ballingham?’

‘Who?’ Andrew asked with his mouth full.

‘Miss Ballingham in grade four.’

‘Jesus, that psycho. She’s probably in a maximum security prison somewhere. Guarding it, I mean.’

‘She wasn’t that bad.’

Andrew gulped down his mouthful and looked across at his friend. He put down his fork and sipped from the wine.

‘What’s this about, malaka?’

Harry could hear the tap-tap-tap of his heel on the floor. He made his foot go still.

‘People will think I’m just like her.’

Andrew looked genuinely appalled, then pissed off.

‘You’re no Miss Ballingham.’

‘Of course I’m no fucking Miss Ballingham.’ Harry cursed in Greek.

Andrew wiped his lips and chin with his napkin, scrunched it into a ball and threw it on the table. He grabbed a cigarette, leaned back in his chair and let out a loud burp.

‘I’m done. Let’s get to business.’ He rocked back and forth in the chair. ‘Malaka, I’m taking care of it. You have no record of assault, you have one misdemeanour stretching back to when you were a kid, you’re a good father, a good husband, a good businessman. They’re not going to hang you for belting some little prick kid that deserved it.’

‘Should I say that in court?’

Andrew laughed. Ash had fallen on his shirt and he absentmindedly brushed it off.

‘No, you are going to look contrite, you are going to look like a loving husband and father. Which you are. I’m going to do all the talking. That’s why your pocket is bleeding, malaka, you’re paying for the opportunity to see me shine.’ Andrew burped, again deliberately loud, to shock the tables around them. ‘And if we’re in luck that waste-of-space loser will turn up drunk. Don’t worry about it.’

‘Sandi wants to know when it will be.’

‘Bah.’ Andrew flung his hands in the air and looked unconcerned. ‘It’s months away.’

‘I want a date.’

‘We’ll probably get a notice over the next month. What’s the hurry?’

‘I just want it done. I just wish the whole fucking thing was over.’

Andrew made a contemptuous wave over the food and drinks. ‘Nah, it’s nothing, mate. What’s the worst that can happen to you?’

‘You said I can get a conviction. My second one.’

‘Shut the fuck up, Apostolou.’ Andrew’s tone became urgent and he leaned across the table. ‘You got into a fight at sixteen. That’s it. No judge is going to condemn you for that. You slapped this brat because he was threatening your child. Okay, they can try and make something of it but they’re not going to get far. The charge of assault isn’t going to stick. Worst-case scenario you get a slap on the wrist because the judge is some femo nazi or raving loony survivor type who sees abuse in everything. But even if they are loonies, what you did is nothing, do you understand me, it’s fucking nothing. Nada. Zero.’ Andrew’s voice hardened. ‘You know what the judge will have seen before you, Harry? I’ll tell you because I’ve seen it in court. The judge will have seen two-year-olds with their jaw shattered and their skull caved in because some drug-fucked boyfriend of some drug-fucked sixteen-year-old took her son and banged him against the wall because he couldn’t score his fix that morning. The judge will have seen some sick pervert pig who fucked his five-year-old daughter so often up the arse that the poor girl can’t shit and for the rest of her life is going to have a colostomy bag attached to her. This is the real world. Welcome to Australia in the early twenty-first century. No wonder the Arabs are so envious of us. Wouldn’t you be? Isn’t it fucking great?’ Andrew stopped, embarrassed at his outburst, sniffed, and finished off the wine in his glass. When he spoke again, his usual mocking drawl had returned.

‘You’re gonna be alright, Harry. You, Sandi, Rocco, you’re all normal. You got nothing to worry about. So, tell me what the fuck is really worrying you?’

‘What are you talking about?’

Andrew silently scrutinised Harry while rocking back and forth in the chair. Harry looked across to a table at the edge of the courtyard where three young women were finishing their lunch. The blonde one was a looker. She had long legs, nicely tanned under the thin, tight denim of her miniskirt. Rock and roll, thought Harry, rock and roll. He turned back to his friend. Andrew’s eyes had not moved off him.

‘Sandi’s scared that the television stations will find out.’ For one ludicrous moment he thought he was going to cry. Don’t you dare fucking cry, he threatened himself. He reached for his cigarettes and lit one quickly, inhaling deeply. He felt relieved. It was good to confess his anxieties to his friend. Sandi’s fear had become his, a seed that had sprouted, and slowly, obstinately, it had taken root and flowered in his imagination. All that they had created could be smeared and trashed by that animal manipulating and twisting what had happened to his kid to make out that Harry was some kind of monster.

He had felt it when the cops had come around the day after the barbecue to interview him and Sandi. The female cop in particular. She was blonde, a looker. She despised him, he could tell. You could always tell with the pigs. He had tried to be polite, used all his charm but nothing worked. She had gone off separately with Sandi and left him alone with the male cop. He too had been unfriendly, young, barely out of cop diapers.

‘So you hit a kid?’ he had asked with an ugly sneer, as if Harry was some kind of pervert. ‘You do that often?’

Harry had wanted to murder him. Instead, he laughed it off as a joke. The cunt cop didn’t return the laugh. Harry’s humiliation had deepened. Later, Sandi told him that the female copper had tried to get her to say that Harry beat her, beat Rocco, that he had a violent temper. Sandi politely denied that there was any violence or aggression in her husband’s character, that he’d only hit that child because he was scared that Hugo was going to hurt Rocco. He’s a saint, is he? the copper had taunted. Sandi’s lip curled in distaste as she told Harry about the encounter. Then a sly grin spread across her mouth. I took a chance, she said to Harry, I asked the bitch if she had children. Of course, she didn’t. It shut her up. No, it didn’t thought Harry, what had shut them up was asking to see Rocco. Their child had shut them up because it was obvious to anyone, even to some dim fuckwit copper, that Rocco was a wonderful, sane, normal, blessedly normal, good kid. Thank you, God, that he is normal, thank you, Panagia, that he is a good kid. That’s what shut them up.

‘This case is not going to get in the news.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Why would it?’

‘That loser, Hugo’s father, he told Sandi over the phone that he was going to A Current Affair with it.’

Andrew started to chortle.

‘It’s not fucking funny.’

‘Being concerned about something as stupid and ridiculous as A Current Affair is funny. Who cares what A Current Affair or any of those crap shows say or do? That’s not news, that’s just moving pictures on a screen for morons.’

‘You may not care, but my neighbours care, Rocco’s friends’ parents care, my workers care, my thea cares. We’re the morons that watch that show.’

Andrew’s tone softened, turned apologetic. ‘You’re not going to be on A Current Affair. You’re not a story. You’re not fucked-up enough. If you want to be on a show like that, next time send the kid to hospital.’

‘You know what happened after the cops came that day. None of the neighbours will look at us. Sandi and I and Rocco don’t exist for them. Just because they saw a cop car outside our place.’

‘Your neighbours are the kind of people who expect the police to be on call twenty-four/seven but otherwise don’t want to know they exist.’ The steel in Andrew’s tone returned. ‘I’m sure your neighbours weren’t shocked. I’m sure that’s what they expected to happen as soon as wogs moved into the neighbourhood.’

You sarcastic lawyer cunt. I could do you, I could fucking do you now.

‘I’m trying to make you understand why Sandi is so scared, why we’re so nervous. I spent years building this house. And this arsehole, this nothing piece of Aussie yobbo shit is trying to destroy it all. Why do I have to go to court? Can’t you stop it? This isn’t fair.’

‘No, it isn’t.’ Andrew picked up his cigarettes and pocketed them. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll ring you as soon as the court notice comes through. Tell Sandi not to worry about A Current Affair. That freak probably got on the phone while raving drunk and I doubt he got further than the receptionist. As for your neighbours, better learn to live with them. If you wanted friendly neighbours you shouldn’t have bought a big motherfucking block of land right across the road from Brighton Beach.’

‘How about a fucking hello?’

‘Please, Mr Apostolou, I cannot work Saturday night.’

There was a group of school boys in the back, probably shoplifting. A young tradie pushed through the doors. Harry nodded towards him. But Sanjiv ignored the customer and instead patiently waited for an answer from his boss.

I wish I could fire you on the spot you butt-ugly Hindu cum-rag. ‘No,’ he said curtly. ‘I need more notice. I can’t get anyone to fill in for you Saturday. You’re just going to have to do the shift.’

The boy’s expression did not change. He slowly nodded and turned and walked back to the counter. Harry touched his forehead, his eyes felt heavy and there was a distinct throbbing in his head. He passed the schoolboys and for a moment was tempted to grab one of their bags and tip the contents on the floor. He was sure they were lifting from him. There were four of them, two skips, two Asians, giggling, the tall white one speaking loudly about smut and sex, trying to impress the others. Harry had bitten his lip. He wished he could say to the little bastards, Hey, if you’re not going to buy anything, fuck off from my shop. But he couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t risk one of the little fucks saying something smart-arse in return. The way he felt at the moment, Harry couldn’t risk his temper worsening. He felt horribly, inescapably trapped.

The electric hum of the store, the air, the schoolboys’ voices were a fog around him. His hand was shaking as he fumbled with the key to open the storeroom. He crashed through the door, slammed it behind him, and rested his head on the cool metal of the shelf. He looked up at the clock on the storeroom wall and he shamelessly indulged in a little boy’s fantasy that he could turn back the time, to before the barbecue at his cousin’s, to before hitting that little cunt. He had been so happy. He lifted his head, shook away the world. You don’t deserve this shit, he told himself. You did nothing wrong.

He did the wages, some bookkeeping and then locked up. In passing, he told Sanjiv he’d find someone to do the shift on Saturday night.

It was the first thing she said to him when he walked into the house and her solicitude, her sensitivity to his mood, her care and her affection immediately routed his headache. He hugged her and Sandi relaxed into him. His grip tightened around her and she submitted easily, without anxiety or fear.

After a few moments she gently pushed him back. She held on to his arms. ‘What’s up, lover?’

‘Nothing. I’m just tired and glad to be home.’

‘What did Andrew say?’

‘It’s all fine. There’s nothing to worry about.’ He felt the buzzing in his head return.

Sandi was about to speak, but she stopped herself. He saw that she was tense and he wished there was something he could say to eradicate all her worries, to take away every single one of her fears. It was at that moment he made up his mind to lie.

‘I tell you, he said there’s nothing to worry about. Some journo from a TV station did contact him but Andrew put him straight. The journo told him he thought that that was the case because the prick was pissed when he phoned up. He abused the receptionist and everyone he spoke to. No one is going to take the arsehole seriously.’ As his story unfolded he found himself enjoying the lie, almost believing it himself.

His wife made no reply. She moved to the sink and began to dry dishes.

He came up beside her and took the hand towel off her. ‘Let me do it.’

‘He’s just going to go somewhere else.’

Jesus Christ, I’m so fucking tired.

‘He’ll get the same response everywhere he goes. Don’t you get it, Sandi, the arsehole’s a loser.’

‘You can’t be sure. Someone’s going to listen to him, someone can smell the story.’

He threw the towel onto the bench. ‘What fucking story, Sandi, what fucking story? I slapped a kid. That’s all. No one’s interested. ’

She was standing very still. It was like an advertisement: his wife in the middle of the expensive, perfect, modern kitchen he had built for her.

He touched her hair, kissed her softly on the lips. ‘I’m not going to let the bastard hurt you.’

She grabbed the towel. When she spoke her voice was small. ‘I don’t care about me. It’s you I care about. It’s what he’s doing to you that hurts.’ She began to sob. He felt paralysed and was suddenly aware that Rocco must be somewhere in the house, in his room. Her sobs were loud, and he didn’t want his son to hear them. He pulled her into his body and held her.

‘Shh,’ he whispered. ‘We are going to be alright.’

Her body gradually relaxed, her sobbing stopped. She kept holding on to him.

‘I could kill him,’ she mumbled into his chest. ‘I could kill him and that arrogant bitch.’

And that stupid cunt of a kid. I could fucking kill him.

‘I’ll put the dishes away. Go say hello to Rocco.’

His son was in his room, on PlayStation. Harry sat cross-legged next to him on the floor.

‘Want to play?’

‘Sure.’ He leaned over and hugged Rocco. ‘How was school?’

‘Same.’

‘What did you do?’

‘We watched a video.’

‘What kind of video?’

‘On Eskimos but they called them another name.’

‘Was it good?’

‘It was okay. A bit boring.’ Rocco was setting up another game and his eyes were fixed on the television screen. ‘It looked really really cold. There was this family and they had to live in an ice house under the ground for months and months and ages and all they had to eat was seal blubber. It looked gross.’

‘Did they have PlayStation?’

Rocco glanced at his father and then grinned. ‘Nah, but they have the internet. How amazing is that?’

As he played the computer game with his son, both their backs resting against Rocco’s single bed, as he chuckled over the boy’s competitive streak, Harry felt his headache fade. He didn’t feel like a drink, a pill, even a smoke. By dinner time he was ravenous. Sandi had cooked steaks and served them with mashed potato and the simplicity and heartiness of the meal was gratifying. As she washed up, he slipped the music box into the bathroom cabinet, next to her toothbrush. He showered, jumped into bed naked and waited. He heard her squeal of delight from the ensuite bathroom. She jumped into bed and straddled him.

‘I love you.’ She was holding the music box, opening and shutting the lid, the tinny oriental music kept starting and stopping. He unhooked her bra and drew circles around her left nipple. Sandi was still playing with her gift, but with her right hand she reached back and softly cupped his balls. She placed the music box on the windowsill and she moved down his body, kissing his chest, licking his belly, teasing him. Her lips brushed his cock and she had him in her mouth. He closed his eyes, and tried to think of nothing but what his wife was doing to him. But suddenly he returned to the moment earlier in the day when Kelly had aroused him in her kitchen. He opened his eyes and raised his head to look at his wife. He tried to pull her up.

‘No,’ Sandi whispered. ‘I want you to come in my mouth. I want you to fuck my mouth.’

‘Are you sure?’

The pornographic words excited him.

‘Fuck my mouth,’ she urged and took his cock once more inside her. He closed his eyes again and this time he thrust his body into her mouth. ‘That’s it, honey, that’s beautiful.’ Silently, not wishing to offend her, he mouthed words to Kelly. Suck me, bitch. Come on, bitch, suck me off. He lifted himself on the bedhead, got onto his knees. He continued fucking his wife in the mouth. He could see her gagging but when he stopped his thrusting she clutched his arse and pushed him deep into her. He blew his cheeks out, stifled his shout and came with savage force. Sandi refused to release him. He spasmed and fell against the bedhead. He didn’t look at Sandi as she went to the bathroom. He heard the tap run and he knew she would be cleaning her teeth again. He smiled sheepishly at her when she returned to bed. She picked up her gift again and lay in bed looking at it. He rolled over and spooned her into his body.

‘That couldn’t have been much fun for you.’

She was examining the music box.

‘I enjoy making love to you. You don’t have to thank me. You’re my husband.’

‘My cock thanks you.’

She was still opening and shutting the music box. He tightened his arms around her.

‘Tell me about your day.’

He stroked her hair as he told her about his warning to Con, told her about Sanjiv breaking his balls, the loan to Van. He told her about the car he started work on in Hawthorn, a late-sixties Valiant that the owner wanted to restore back to its original condition. Sandi listened till he finished.

‘I want to get the girls around on Saturday, look through some DVDs. Do you want to ask Van?’

He murmured an assent. He was falling asleep.

‘And ask Hector. We haven’t seen Aish and Hector for ages.’

He froze, waiting. They hadn’t seen his cousin since the barbecue. But Sandi seemed relaxed, unconcerned. He hugged her close to him.

‘I’ll call them.’

‘Cool. So when will I see you?’

‘Not sure.’

‘Call me when you’re lonely.’

‘I call you when I’m horny.’ He was excited by her giggling on the phone.

‘I hear you’ve got Van coming around on Saturday.’

He was pissed off that she knew. But he was not surprised. Van was the only other person who knew about their affair. He knew the Vietnamese cocksucker would never say a thing to Sandi but he hated that there was a witness to his infidelity. He wished that Kelly was a pure whore, that the transactions were only financial, uncomplicated. He was learning a lesson. Once it was over he’d not repeat the same mistake. He’d find a beautiful hooker, see her once a fortnight and pay his way. Christ, it would probably work out cheaper.

Kelly judged his silence correctly. ‘You can trust Van.’

You can only trust family. Period. And even that can be a risk.

‘Sure, I know.’

He rang his cousin straight after.

‘Yia sou, Ecttora, it’s your cousin.’

‘How are you going, matey? How’s Sandi, how’s the kid?’

Fine, fucking fine, do we always have to go through this bullshit?

‘All good. Everyone’s good. How’s Aish, and Adam and Lissie?’

‘No complaints.’

Harry realised he felt self-conscious speaking to Hector. He knew his cousin supported him but he could not forget the clenched, disapproving face of that Indian bitch that night of the barbecue. She should be ashamed of herself. She wasn’t a fucking witless Aussie, she was Indian, a wog. She should know about family.

‘We’re having our mate over on Saturday arvo, he’s got a heap of new DVDs. Why don’t you, Aish and the kids come over?’

Harry registered the moment of hesitation.

‘Sure, Adam would love to see Rocco. But Aish is working at the Clinic this Saturday. I’ll bring the kids.’

‘No worries, we’ll catch up with her soon.’

Harry waited for his cousin to switch off the mobile then he banged his phone hard on the desk. He lit a cigarette and walked out to the yard. The guys were busy working and paid him no attention. Harry walked to the end of the garage, looked up and down at the unrelenting drone and rush of the highway. He knew exactly what he was dreading, telling Sandi, telling Sandi that Aisha wasn’t coming over.

But his lie had done its job. When he told Sandi that evening she just nodded.

‘That girl works too hard.’

He kissed his wife on her bare shoulder.

‘This is boring.’

Harry held out the remote for him. ‘You can change it if you like.’

‘Nup,’ responded his son. ‘I’m going for a swim in the pool.’

‘Good. I should do the same.’ But the dope had made him lethargic and he dropped the remote and kept watching the screen.

‘What do you think of her?’ he called out to his son. A teenage black girl dressed in a yellow tank top and a denim miniskirt was circling around a fat rapper who was sprouting some bullshit about guns and bitches and crack. Harry liked hip-hop but he thought this particular song ridiculous and ugly. There was no tune, there wasn’t even a proper rhythm. God, it was awful. Rocco stood in front of the television and watched the girl who was now miming an orgasm and rubbing her hands up and down her thighs.

He turned to his dad. ‘It’s okay.’

‘You like this?’

‘Nah. But it’s okay.’

‘What do you think of her?’

Rocco was confused. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘Do you think she’s sexy?’

‘Shut up, Dad.’ Rocco’s disgust was obvious.

Harry cackled and muted the volume. ‘One day you’ll understand, Rocco baby. There’s no escape from the evil clutches of women.’ He pointed to the screen. ‘She’s gorgeous but she’s cheap. Cheap women are never any good.’ Except for one thing and we’ll talk about that in the future.

Rocco watched the model who was now gyrating away in silence. Bored, he turned away. ‘They’re all hos,’ he said to his father as he headed to his room to change. ‘Black chicks are all hos. Everyone knows that.’

‘Why don’t you ring the doorbell, you crazy Chink bastard? That’s what civilised people do.’

Van grinned back. ‘Go screw yourself, you hairy butt-ugly wog dog. But before you do, open the fucking garage.’

He had brought along five large albums of DVDs and Harry helped him carry them up to the living room. Sandi wiped her hands and kissed Van. He smiled at her.

‘You’re a beauty, Miss Sandi. Why don’t you leave this mad wog bastard and come live with me?’

‘And what’s Jia going to say about that?’

‘Sandi, darling, you come live with me, I’ll get rid of Jia today. I promise.’

Rocco emerged from his bedroom and he shook Van’s hand. Van grinned and opened one of the albums, took out three DVDs from a sleeve, and handed them to the boy.

‘You like Adam Sandler, don’t you? I’ve got his new one.’

‘Cool. Can I put one on?’ The boy looked expectantly at his mother.

‘Sure. But you turn it off when the others arrive. Promise?’

‘Promise.’ With a whoop the boy dived for the DVD player. He turned around.

‘Thanks, Uncle Van.’

Within the hour the guests had all arrived. Alex had immediately walked over to the food and then spent the rest of the afternoon playing computer games with Rocco. He had made no effort with his clothes: he was dressed in black track-pants and an Olympiakos T-shirt with a hole under his left armpit. The women paid him no attention at all. Most of them were married, anyway, but Tina was still single and Annalise divorced. But Alex seemed oblivious to the women there. Hector, however, certainly made an impression. Harry felt a smug pride at the attention his cousin received that afternoon. They were a good-looking family, no fucking doubt about it. Here they were sliding towards middle-age and they still turned the chickadees’ heads. As if a deliberate contrast to Alex, Hector was wearing a pressed short-sleeve shirt that fitted snugly across his chest and torso. His cotton shorts were conservative and expensive. After kissing and greeting his cousin at the door, Harry had whispered in his ear, You look so good I could fuck you. Now, outside on the verandah, turning the sausages on the barbecue, he looked through the glass doors of the living room and watched his cousin talking to Annalise on the couch. The woman was staring at Hector with open admiration. Harry grinned. He liked Annalise. She talked too much, but she was generous, friendly and had certainly not deserved that loser of a husband. Maybe she and Hector could get together and he could divorce that uptight bitch of a wife. He heard the squeals of delight, the splashing and laughter from Rocco, Adam and Melissa who were diving and playing in the pool and he felt ashamed. She’s the kids’ mother, and that’s that.

He called out to them. ‘Food is on!’

‘Ten more minutes, Dad.’

‘Out. Now.’ His tone softened. ‘If you get out now maybe we’ll take you guys out to the beach this arvo, what do you reckon?’

‘Fooking A!’

He pointed the skewer warningly at his son. ‘Watch your mouth.’ He turned the sausages one last time. ‘Come and get it!’

‘This is the boss, man.’ Van was excited and pulled out a DVD with a lurid image of a Chinese girl in a bikini kneeling before a leather-geared man in sunglasses holding a rifle to her head. ‘This shit is wild.’

‘I’ll take it.’

Sandi had looked across at him, questioningly. ‘Do you want it, honey?’

Harry shook his head. Some of that chink stuff was alright, but it was all the same. He’d seen enough of it. His cousin was politely sifting through the albums but had not yet made a choice.

‘Come on, Ecttora, seen anything you like yet?’

Hector smiled and shook his head. ‘Sorry. Aish and I prefer seeing films at the cinema.’

‘Fuck that shit, man.’ Van looked outraged. ‘The cinema is dead, brother. What’s your home entertainment system like?’

Hector laughed. ‘It’s called a TV.’

Nadia, one of Sandi’s oldest friends, stopped flicking the sleeves and looked up. ‘Ben and I haven’t been to the pictures in years.’

Van ignored her. ‘What kind of television are we talking about?’

Hector hesitated. ‘Sony. Yeah, I think it’s a Sony.’

‘How old?’

‘Maybe eight years? We got it when Melissa was born.’

‘You’re fucking having me on, man? Get your wife a new television, a flat-screen mother with surround sound.’

Annalise smiled across at Hector. ‘I’m with you, Hector, I prefer going out to the movies as well.’

Van snorted and lit a cigarette. ‘Right, so I pay fucking thirty bucks for me and Jia to see a film, another fucking thirty bucks for popcorn and drinks, and then have some doped-out kid usher me to a seat that some sweaty-arsed motherfucker has been sitting in for hours just so I can watch a movie that I could have downloaded for myself for free.’ Van shook his head in disbelief. ‘I hate the fucking movies.’ He stared at Hector combatitively. ‘Come on, man, there must be something you want.’

‘You got The West Wing?’

Harry rose and walked to the bar to refill his glass, ill-humoured. He loved his cousin but, Jesus, Hector and Aish were wankers. The fucking West Wing? All they did on that bloody show was talk. Talk talk talk talk. And the women were all butt-ugly. He poured himself a long shot of whisky and stayed standing at the bar. Maybe he should take Sandi to the cinema soon. She liked it, and it had been a while. But he agreed with Van. What for? He looked over proudly to the giant plasma screen on the wall.

‘Which series you want?’

Harry grinned. He could tell Van hated the show as much as he did.

‘Aish and I have seen series one and two. We never got to see the rest. You know how it is with television channels these days. They play them Tuesday one week, Thursday midnight the next. You can’t keep a flow going.’

Then why don’t you invest in cable, you cheap fuck? The whisky felt nice going down. Harry walked back, sat cross-legged on the floor next to his wife and began to pack the bong.

‘Bro, I don’t have any of The West Wing with me.’ Van looked around at everyone, winked at Nadia and smirked. ‘I didn’t think anyone would be interested. But I’ll get them all for you next time.’

‘Deal,’ said Hector. ‘Have you got Six Feet Under?’

You had to hand it to his cousin, the cocksucker wasn’t intimidated by Van’s obvious contempt for his loser trendoid taste.

‘Wog man, wog man,’ Van sang out to Harry, in a deliberately Ching-chong voice. ‘I think your cousin’s a pousti-malaka.’

Harry spluttered into his bong. Hector just smiled. He closed the album in his hands, handed it back to Van and got up from the couch.

‘Sandi, I’m going to take the kids to the beach.’

Van took the bong from Harry. ‘Hey, man, I meant no offence.’

‘No offence taken. You’ll get me The West Wing?’

Van inhaled, the bong water spluttered and gurgled, and he exhaled. ‘Sure, man. A deal.’

‘For me too? I’ve always wanted to see it.’

Harry nodded to himself. Annalise definitely wanted to fuck his cousin.

‘You want it too? Sure, darling.’ Van packed the bong and handed it to Annalise. His tone was innocent, charming. ‘You can call Hector, you could get together and discuss which season’s the best.’

Harry burst out laughing and covered it up by pretending it was a cough.

‘Coming with me, Harry?’

He looked up at his cousin. He felt good, stoned and a little pissed, sitting next to his wife, all he felt like was going to sleep soon. He had no energy for the beach. But Hector’s gaze was sharp, pressing. ‘Sure, man.’ Unsteadily, he got to his feet. ‘Let’s go.’

Alex had decided to come with them.

‘Van’s alright.’

‘That slope dickhead is a fucking prick. You let him talk to your cousin like that?’

Harry was surprised. It always looked as if Alex and Van got on fine. He waited for Alex to explain further but true to form, his friend went silent. They crossed the road at the lights and walked down the bush path to the beach. The kids ran ahead of them, in their bathers, with towels wrapped around their shoulders. On the sand, the kids impatiently waited for Hector and Harry to rub them down with suntan lotion and then ran screaming into the water. Harry was proud of his son. Rocco dashed down to the water’s edge and ran into the sea; without hesitation he dived under the soft, small waves. Adam, his fat bulk shivering, took ages to muster the courage to dare the water. Even little Melissa was under the water before him. He lit a cigarette and stretched out on the towel. Alex had taken off his shoes and was standing knee-high in the water, watching the kids, or most probably the two blonde women who were swimming bare-breasted in the water near the kids.

‘Sandi wants me to organise it so you and she can meet Rosie and Gary and have a talk.’

He groaned. The lie hadn’t worked after all. Harry sat up and stared out to the sea. Rocco was fearless, he was further out than any other swimmer. Pride and anxiety battled within him. He nearly rose to call out, then he watched as his son dived under the water, and emerged, swimming towards his cousins.

‘When did she ask you?’

‘Just before lunch.’

How dare she?

‘She’s really worried, Harry. But that guy Gary is an arsehole. There’s no way to make him see sense. I don’t think you four getting together is going to do any good.’

It would if it meant I could fucking murder the cunt.

‘What else did she say?’

Hector was looking longingly at the cigarettes lying at the foot of the towel. Harry took a perverse pleasure in lighting another one even though he had just butted one out. The intake of smoke and nicotine calmed him down.

‘Come on,’ he insisted in Greek. ‘What else did she say?’

‘She’s worried about you. She thinks you’re not handling it. She says you’re angry all the time.’

Hector was looking straight ahead, out to the kids, they could hear their laughter.

‘I’m handling it, mate. She’s the one not handling it.’ He butted out the cigarette in the sand; he had only had a few drags. ‘She can’t stop thinking about it.’

‘I understand. Charging you with assault, that’s all bullshit. He can’t live without drama in his life. It’s the way he is.’

‘And she’s innocent?’

Hector hesitated. ‘No one’s innocent in this.’

You fuck.

‘You mean me.’

‘You shouldn’t have slapped him.’

‘Fuck off, Hector. That little bastard deserved it. I was looking after my child. I was protecting him. That’s what fathers do.’

Harry’s fists were clenched. He felt the heat of the sun, the stretch of the sky, they were heavy weights descending onto him. There was a hammer at his chest. He felt his cousin’s hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off.

‘Harry, listen to me. You’re a good man. You don’t deserve this.’

‘But?’

‘But you shouldn’t have hit him.’

He wanted to cry. Take back that moment, fix that moment, change that moment, so that he had never hit that child. That fucking cunt of a child, that fucking animal of a child. Panagia, he whispered to his God, I want that child dead. He was back on the sand, the warm sun on the back of his neck. He could hear Rocco’s laugh. Rocco brought him back, as he always did.

‘Okay. Sure. I’ll go and apologise to them. Can you organise it?’

Hector was shaking his head. ‘I know him, mate. It’s not going to do any good.’

‘I’ll give it a go. For Sandi’s sake. But she’s not coming with us—I don’t want her to have anything to do with that vroma, that filth. Will you do it?’

Hector slowly nodded.

‘Are you going to tell Aish?’

Hector’s face was grim, determined. ‘Of course I’ll tell her. She’ll find out from Rosie. Don’t worry about Aish.’

Harry looked out to the water where the three children were playing. ‘I’m glad they get on so well.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It’s good for Rocco, he doesn’t have any brothers or sisters. It’s good he has Adam and Lissie.’

‘They’re family,’ Hector answered simply.

Harry laughed and indicated the sea. ‘Don’t they remind you of us when we were kids?’ He reached for his cigarettes. ‘You sure you don’t want one?’

‘Don’t tempt me, you evil bastard.’ Hector turned and faced Harry. ‘You ever going to give up?’

‘When I stop enjoying it. I still love it.’ Harry lit his cigarette. ‘Man,’ he said, putting on a fake gangsta accent. ‘All my money goes on alcohol, nicotine and gasoline.’

‘Yeah,’ replied Hector with a laugh. ‘Who’d have guessed it’s probably the gasoline that will finish us all off.’

Harry groaned. ‘Jesus fucking Christ, cuz, you think too much.’ He placed an arm around his cousin’s shoulder. ‘Don’t think about all that shit, global warming and terrorism and the war and the fucking Arabs and the fucking septics. Fuck them all. Fuck them up the arse.’ Harry nodded out to the dazzling sea, the brazen, endless sky. ‘We got it good. Just think about how fucking good we’ve got it.’

They sat, in silence, watching their children play.

‘Sandi’s so lucky,’ she called out as the cab reversed, screeched out onto Beach Road. Annalise leaned her head out of the window.

‘But you’re the real lucky one,’ she yelled. ‘Don’t you forget it.’ He could hear the rush of waves from the beach and her voice sounded ugly, a squawk, like one of the seagulls. He smiled again, waved a goodbye, nodded in pretend agreement. He watched the cab drive away. He was no longer smiling. He walked slowly back up the drive.

‘That was lucky.’ She shrugged good-naturedly and stooped to pick up the mug. He could kick her in the face right now. She stood up, a delirious smirk on her face. ‘That was a fantastic day.’

As she spoke she must have become aware of the danger in his eyes because she took a step back, bumping the back of her knee on the open dishwasher door.

‘Honey, what’s wrong?’

‘How dare you go to Hector behind my back?’ He saw fear spread across her features and a surge of excitement flooded through him. He grabbed her hair and tilted her head towards him. ‘How fucking dare you?’

She went limp. She did not struggle. ‘Harry, I was going to tell you.’

‘You stupid bitch, you don’t talk to anyone about our business. Not to Hector, not to your mother, not to your sisters, not to your girlfriends. Our business is our business and nobody else’s.’ He kept his voice low. He would not awaken his son. He pulled again at his wife’s hair, a thick strand was now curled tight around his fist. ‘Do you want that stuck-up Indian bitch of Hector’s knowing your business? Do you? You don’t think she’ll run straight to that slut friend of hers and tell her everything? What the fuck were you thinking?’ Now he wanted to scream, he wished he could yell, that he could slam his fist into her face. He pulled at the coil of her hair around his fist and brought her face right up next to his.

He could see the terror in her eyes. She was petrified, shivering like a desperate animal, and he realised, looking into her eyes, that he had failed her. She would never be able to forget his violence, never forget the slap. He could hit her now, he could, like his father would have, to see how far he could go, how far she’d let him and how far he’d let himself.

He freed her hair from his hand, pulled her into his arms and hugged her hard, tight through her confusion, her crying, that blessed moment of relief when her tense body collapsed into his and he realised that her fear had gone.

‘I’m sorry,’ she kept repeating. ‘I’m so sorry, Harry.’

‘It’s alright.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘I’ll go and see that bastard, I’ll go with Hector. I’ll go and see him and that bitch of a wife. Fuck! It will cost me, but I’ll apologise to the cunts. I’ll do that, sweetheart, I promise. But you’re not coming with me. You and Rocco are going to have nothing to do with them ever again.’

She nodded, eagerly, glad of his love. Again, he was reminded of a faithful dumb animal.

Hector turned into another street and Harry was sure that they were passing that very same park. Back then there had been no swings for children, no benches, nothing. It had been more of a vacant lot than a park. When they had returned to the house at dusk, he remembered that heaps of wogs had been sitting outside on the porches of their houses, drinking coffee, smoking, yelling across to the neighbours. Evening was falling now but the houses they passed were all silent.

Hector braked and parked the car. Harry looked out of the window and his cousin pointed to a small weatherboard house sitting desolately between two newly renovated red-brick ones. The weather-boards were originally painted white, God knows how many decades ago, but years of rain and wind had stained them a murky jaundice. The small front garden was overgrown with weeds, and the one lonely rose bush was dying.

‘That’s their place?’

Hector nodded.

It figured, thought Harry, the fucking pricks didn’t even have enough pride to look after their home. He would be ashamed to have his neighbours think that he was so lazy or indifferent or hopeless that he could not even manage to maintain this small shitty excuse of a garden.

‘Do they own it?’

‘They rent.’

Of course. Perfect. They were the types that would be renting all their lives. Still, it was their home for the moment; were they so degenerate that they did not care at all for having a beautiful place to come home to? And how about the kid? What example did they want to set for him? Or didn’t they care about such things either?

‘Come on, let’s do it.’

Harry hadn’t even unbuckled his seatbelt. He sat still for a moment, then nodded.

‘Sure.’

The house smelt of incense. Harry was the last in the file down the corridor and he peeked into the rooms. They were all darkened, dishevelled. He noticed that the bed was unmade and he couldn’t see a room for the child. They walked into a brightly lit kitchen. A wide table dominated the space. She was sitting at one end of the table, her child in her lap suckling on her bosom. She did not even acknowledge his smile.

‘Hello,’ he growled. ‘Thanks for seeing me.’

Her voice was cold, distant. Was she stoned? ‘I didn’t want to see you.’

She was ice-bitch beautiful, a stunner blonde with crystal blue eyes. But he did not find her attractive at all. There was something sly, something he did not trust in her eyes. They were serpent’s eyes.

The child looked up at him and Hector, quizzical but friendly eyes. There was something both obscene—and possibly because of that—something erotic about seeing such a grown child still drinking from his mother. A quick thought came to Harry. What would she do once the brat started school? Would she be sticking her jugs through the school fence?

‘How are you, Hector?’

Her tone was cool towards his cousin as well. Gary had returned from a small room, adjacent to the kitchen, holding three stubbies of beer. There was no room in the kitchen for a fridge. How did people live like this? She had not offered them a seat and Gary indicated that they take a chair.

Harry sat, took a sip of the beer, but he found he had no thirst.

‘Do you remember this man, Hugo?’

The boy had inherited his mother’s fairness, the uncanny opaqueness of her eyes. There seemed to be no bile or fear in them as he looked at Harry. The boy slowly nodded.

‘This is the bad man who hit me. He’s going to go to jail.’

The men all laughed, as if the boy’s innocent words had allowed them to confront and therefore relax into the situation. The boy, surprised at the reaction to his statement, looked from man to man with glee. Rosie’s face remained stony. She shifted Hugo on her lap, capped her breast into her bra, and then flopped out her other tit. Hugo immediately turned and fell upon it. You stupid bitch. Harry couldn’t bring himself to look at them. He glanced over at Gary. The man didn’t approve of this. The man obviously didn’t approve of this at all but didn’t have the fucking balls to do a thing about it.

‘Why are you here?’ Her tone was contemptuous.

‘I’ve come to apologise.’

‘Not fucking accepted.’

‘Rosie, at least hear him out.’

Christ, the man was a whiner. Harry noticed that he had nearly finished his stubbie.

‘I have. He’s come to apologise.’ She turned back to Harry. ‘Well?’

He was unsure of her taunt, confused. He realised what she was demanding. ‘I’m sorry I hit Hugo. I shouldn’t have done it. You’ve got to understand it was because I was scared for Rocco . . .’

She interrupted him. ‘Your son is twice his size,’ she sneered.

And thank you Panagia that he is my son rather than that little faggot you are breeding on your tittie there. Why had he come? He just wanted to belt the silly cow.

‘Harry’s really sorry, Rosie. Trust me. It happened so fast, he was scared for Rocco.’

‘This is none of your business, Hector.’

None of his fucking business? This had all happened at his cousin’s barbecue. Of course it was his business.

‘I know this is not my business, but I’ve come here today to see if I can help resolve it. I am affected, I can’t help but be. Harry is my cousin, you are my wife’s best friend. I’m fucking involved.’

‘No,’ Gary called out from that back room where he had gone to get more grog. ‘You aren’t involved. The only people involved are me, Rosie and this arsehole here. It’s simple.’ He returned holding three more stubbies. Harry and Hector had hardly drunk any from the bottles in front of them.

Gary slammed them down on the table and sat, grinning. ‘Simple,’ he repeated, looking across at Harry. ‘It’s between us.’

‘And Sandi.’

‘Sure.’ Gary’s grin disappeared. ‘She’s involved too.’

‘We don’t blame her at all.’ Rosie’s voice was steel. She hated him as much as he hated her. ‘It’s not her fault she’s married to a pig.’

That was it. Fuck them, let them do their worst. He looked around the room. The lazy bitch hadn’t even started dinner yet. In a few years Hugo would probably be joining his old man in an after-school stubbie. He’d make one last attempt, just one.

‘Whatever you guys think of me, Sandi is so messed up by all of this. Please don’t take it any further. It’s a waste of money, a waste of all our time. It’s unfair. It’s unfair on her.’

The sneer had not left Rosie’s face. She sat in silence when Harry had finished, not taking her eyes off him. He forced himself not to blink, he kept his gaze on her cold blue eyes. Gary, the kid, his cousin, they had all disappeared. There was only the battle with Rosie. The child dropped the nipple and hiccoughed. A flash of concern crossed the woman’s face and she dropped her gaze. Harry breathed out. Rosie was stroking Hugo’s hair. She sat him on her lap and the child started playing with his father’s keys.

‘I am sorry for your wife. But she’s made the choice to be with you. You hit my child. Do you hit her?’

Harry sat still, breathing in, slowly breathing out.

‘I bet you hit her. Do you hit your kid? How often do you hit your kid?’

Breathing in, breathing out.

‘I hope all this makes her leave you. I hope she has the sense to walk out on you, you disgusting sexist pig.’

It was the sniggering that did it. Gary’s drunk, nervous giggle, as saliva dribbled from the edge of his mouth.

Harry jumped up and the force of his chair hitting the wall was so loud that the child began to howl. Rosie shrank back in her seat.

‘Mum!’ The child was terrified and his wailing would not stop.

Rosie hugged him to her and stood up. ‘Gary,’ there was a triumphant smile on her face. ‘Call the police.’

The bitch. She had trapped him.

‘Gary. I said call the cops.’

‘Calm down, for God’s sake, it’s alright. Hugo’s just frightened.’

Rosie ignored Hector. ‘He’s threatening us. He’s made Hugo scared. Call the bloody cops.’

Gary was on his feet, staggering, looking in confusion from his wife to Harry. Harry did not take his eyes off the cunt. If he could only smash his fists into her pretty face, if he could only bruise her, hurt her. The boy was still howling, enfolded in his mother’s arms, but he stole furtive glances at the angry stranger and then immediately curled back into the protection of his mother.

‘Should I call the cops?’

What a fucking pussy-whipped creep. What a fucking lame excuse for a man. Harry saw the opportunity, saw what he could do. He could reduce the man to pulp, he could beat him senseless, here in this room, in front of the man’s son. Hector would not be enough to stop him. He could smash the man right in front of his son and that bloody useless child would never ever forget it. That would be one of his earliest memories, forever. He would never be able to forget it, to forget what a coward his father really was.

He breathed in.

Then they would have him. Then they would crucify him. What a world, what a lousy, ugly, unjust world that allowed the weak and fucked-up and hopeless scum to survive, to have the upper hand. A bullet into each of their heads, three sharp pops.

He picked up his jacket and walked calmly down the hall. He heard the witch shouting that she would call the cops, he heard his cousin clammering to follow him. He heard the child’s howls, now almost hysterical, as if he was choking, gasping for air. He kicked the front door open and emerged into the clear cool night.

He breathed out.

‘Aish doesn’t want anyone to smoke in the car.’

Pussy-whipped. They were all fucking pussy-whipped. He butted out the smoke.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Forget it. It was a stupid idea to talk to those scum anyway.’

They drove to Hector’s place.

‘You want to come in?’

Can I belt the bitch you’re married to?

‘Nah, I’ll head off. I’m too wound up.’

‘They’re . . .’ Hector could not find words to describe the night.

‘What the fuck are you doing hanging out with degenerate trash like that, cuz? Why the fuck do you do it?’

He left Hector staring at him open-mouthed, embarrassed. Harry started up his own car, pushed in the cigarette lighter, drove off without a wave and lit his cigarette. He’d allow the car to fill up with smoke if he wanted, let it burn if he wanted, smash it up and drive it in the river if he wanted. He drove carefully, steadily. The smoke felt good. It felt real fucking good.

‘Baby, what’s wrong?’

Without answering he barged into the flat, and started dragging her into her room. Kelly pulled away from him and looked into the girls’ bedroom. Harry stood in the living room, he could hear their voices but he could not make out the words. Kelly emerged and shut the bedroom door firmly behind her.

‘You scared them. Are you drunk?’

He looked at her without answering. She seemed so dark, so dark and small and fat after the poised brittle aloofness of that Australian bitch.

‘I’m not drunk.’ He started pushing her towards her bedroom. ‘I’m horny, I want to fuck you.’

Kelly resisted him again. But a smile started spreading across her face.

‘You are horny, aren’t you? I’ll just wash up.’

He lunged at her.

‘Forget that. Get into the fucking bedroom.’

She leapt aside, poking out her tongue, and evading his grasp.

‘I’ll be there in a sec.’

Her room smelt of incense, and of the sharp citrus of her perfume.

‘What are you looking for, honey?’

She was standing in the doorway, her singlet off, her bra unstrapped. One enormous tit had loosened, and hung plump and soft. She threw off her bra and came towards him. She took his hand and slid it through her clothes in the drawer, right to the back, where he felt the cold metallic surface of a tin box. She took out the box, which had an image of Tupac Shakur on its top, and lifted out a small plastic bag of white powder. She cut up three small lines on the lacquered wood surface of the dresser.

‘Here you go.’

He kissed her tits, first the left, then the right. He thought back to the child on his mother’s breast and he felt himself harden. He rolled up a twenty-dollar bill and hoovered two of the lines. Kelly bent over and finished the third. She was so good, Kelly, she asked no questions, demanded nothing of him. Why couldn’t all women be like Kelly? The cocaine was good; slowly he felt his head clear and a warm rush sweep through his body. His gums went numb and he sighed. This was what he needed.

He kicked off his shoes and fell back onto the bed. ‘Come here.’

He closed his eyes. He felt her hands all over him, underneath his shirt, rubbing at his belly, his chest, softly sucking on his neck. She unzipped him, slipped her fingers underneath the elastic of his jocks. He imagined Rosie’s face, the jutting cheekbones, the cryptic pale eyes. Kelly was kissing him now on the lips, urgently, her tongue darting into his mouth. He opened his eyes. She lifted her head and looked down at him. She suddenly seemed so ugly, so dark, such a wog. She was not Rosie.

He pushed her off him, got up, buckled his belt and zipped up.

Kelly did not rise from the bed.

‘What’s up?’

‘Must be the drugs. I’m not into it.’

Kelly reached for his crotch. He slapped her hand away.

‘I’m not into it.’

‘Okay.’

He looked down at the dresser. ‘Can I have another line?’

‘Sure, honey.’

As he was leaving he looked through his wallet. He took out two hundred dollars and he handed it to her. She stared at the money. ‘Harry, I’m not a whore.’ She took a fifty from him. ‘That’s for the coke.’

She was good. She was very good. Why couldn’t all women be like Kelly?

Stepping outside, the night felt fantastic as it wrapped itself around him.

He drove. He drove south, heading towards the water, heading towards home. He thought of his house that he loved, with the pool and the new kitchen, the double garage, the sound system, the plasma television, he thought of his barbecue and fishing lines, and then he thought of his beautiful wife and his beautiful son. He drove urgently, in silence, the windows up. Music and the noise of the world outside would only spoil his thoughts, his pure thoughts of happiness and contentment. He was a lucky man, he was such a lucky man.

The car seemed to fly down Hotham Street and then he turned and could see glimmering lights on the dark water of the bay. He was nearly home. The moon’s rays sparkled on the water and he pressed a button, the window slid down, and he could smell the sea. He filled his lungs with the sea and the moon and the night and the cleansing air. As he slid into his driveway he looked up and saw that his bedroom light was still on. Sandi was waiting for him. She probably had a meal waiting. He would eat, he would slip into his son’s room and kiss him goodnight. He would then get into bed next to Sandi and fall asleep with her nestled in his arms. Thank you, God. He parked the car in the garage, he pressed the remote and the garage door began to roll down. Thank you, Panagia. He was home.