Christos Tsiolkas - Barracuda

'You smell of chlorine.'

Danny exhaled, relieved. Her voice sounded normal, or near enough. 'I had a really quick shower, I didn't want to be late.'

'Good,' she sniffed, still pulling the thread, loosening it further.

'Do you want me to put some music on?'

'Nah,' she said, shaking her head vigorously. 'I can't bear any music today.'

Something had changed in her room, she had taken down all her old posters of the Carlton Football Club. Now there was only a small photograph of a sullen Kurt Cobain taped to her bedroom mirror, an advertisement for Hole's Pretty on the Inside ripped from a magazine and glued to the wall; pinned next to it was the sleeve for Nirvana's Bleach. He could see the dust lines on the wall from where the football posters used to be. He didn't understand it and didn't like it but he wouldn't mention it. He knew what she would say: 'You can't talk to me about change, you've gone off to Cunts College and left me behind.' So he just kept hold of her arm.

Then she wriggled away and sat cross-legged across from him, taking his hand. Her palm was sweaty, it felt soapy and sticky, but he couldn't let go.

'I miss you.' She made it a wail.

'I miss you too.'

Their parents joked about it, teased them both about it, how Demet and Danny would get married one day. Demet and Danny belonged together. Not that they were boyfriend and girlfriend, nothing as frivolous as that; he couldn't imagine kissing Demet, even if they were old enough to do that . But he knew that they were right , everyone knew that about them. He would look after Demet forever and she would always look after him. There had to be a word beyond marriage, he thought, there had to be a word that would fit.

'When did you find out? About Cobain. . offing himself?' She meant to sound nonchalant, but she hesitated and stumbled over the word.

'At school, one of the guys told me.' Sullivan: his voice hushed, fearful.

'Like they care.'

'They do. Everyone was really upset.'

Her eyes rolled. She didn't believe him and he knew that for Demet those boys he was at school with would never be flesh, would never be real, would always be alien.

'So they were upset, were they?' Her eyes narrowed. 'You making friends there, are you?'

She was jealous. It was sweet that she was jealous, it warmed him. He would have liked to tell her about Luke, who read books and played chess; he would have liked to tell her about how he had defended him. But he knew not to say anything today.

'Nah,' he said, 'I've got no friends there.'

She was nodding as if to music in her head. He wondered if she was even listening to him.

'I beat the shit out of this arrogant wog today, this total Greek dickhead.'

Demet snorted. 'You? That proves what pussies they must be at that school. Man, I can beat you up.' Then she frowned. 'So there are other wogs at Cunts College?'

'Yeah, but you know, Templestowe wogs, with trust funds and beach houses in Lorne.'

'Yuck,' she said dismissively. 'They are the worst kind of wog.'

He giggled at her exaggerated disgust. She was still glowering, but his giggling started her off and then they were both laughing so hard that tears were forming, so hard that it aggravated the pain in his ribs. But they couldn't stop laughing and that was when Demet said, her eyes opening wide, 'Can you see it, Danny, can you see it?' She was pointing to the space between them, then drew a line from his stomach to hers. 'See, Danny, can you see it? There's this light there, look, it's connecting us! Oh wow, Danny, can you see it?'

He understood it was the exhaustion and the sadness of the day. He had seen her etch the line in the air. But there was no light. 'Yes,' he lied. 'I see it.' He wanted to see it. He wanted it to be there.

Demet clapped her hands. 'We are soul twins!' Her voice was full of joy. 'That means we are soul twins forever. That means we'll be best friends in the next life and the life after that.'

Mr Celikoglu knocked on the door before coming in. He asked his daughter if she was alright but Demet just snarled and looked away. 'Danny,' the man said, 'it's nearly eleven o'clock. It's time to go home.'

'Let him stay.'

'No.' Her father was firm. 'The boy has practice in the morning.'

Danny was grateful that he understood that swimming came first. Demet shrugged.

'See ya,' he said.

'See ya,' she answered, not lifting her head. But as he was walking out she added, 'I love ya, faggot.'

'I love you, ho,' he responded.

'Call me tomorrow?'

'Straight after training,' he promised.

The man and the boy stood at the front door. Mr Celikoglu was wearing a white singlet and blue pyjama bottoms. 'I'll drive you home, wait till I change.'

Danny shook his head. 'Please, no, it's not far. I'll be fine.'

The man reached out and lightly pinched Danny's nose, gently cradling his cheek, as he had done since Danny was a toddler. 'Say hello to Neal and Stephanie. And thank you for helping Demet.' The night was chilly and Danny wished he had brought a jacket. He had to hold himself in tight to ward off the cold.

There was not a soul about. It was just him and the hum of the streetlight above, the sound of traffic off Murray Road. But a song was running insistently through his head. It wasn't Nirvana and it wasn't hip-hop or techno, not a golden oldie or one of his parents' rock 'n' roller songs. He couldn't quite grab at the music, couldn't quite recognise it, but he knew it was there, just above him. He tried to snatch the song out of the air, to recall a lyric, a rhyme, but it was no use. He couldn't remember the words to the song at all.

At the end of the day, at the other end of the in-between, he hummed that song all the way home.

‘HAVE YOU APPLIED FOR THE FUCKEN visa yet?’

I have to tell him. This is the moment I have to tell him . ‘I haven’t had time.’

Clyde looks at me like I am an idiot, as if he is wondering how he could have ever got involved with such a fool. This is when I have to tell him .

‘Dan, the tickets are booked. We need to get ready. Time’s running out, pal.’

‘I know.’

‘Then fucken make the appointment, man. I’m sick of this.’

He charges off to the bedroom. I can hear his shoes bang against the wall as he kicks them off. This is when I have to tell him. I walk into the room and he is lying on the bed, his eyes closed, his tie unloosened. He senses that I have come in and opens his eyes. They are wary, unwelcoming. I sit down next to him on the bed. He doesn’t move.

‘How was work?’

He doesn’t respond.

I blather on, asking after his colleagues, trying to remember the projects he is working on, what campaign he has just finished, which one he has just begun. I babble and stumble until he groans and says, ‘Just shut it, just shut it, I don’t want to talk about my work.’

So I shut it, and I don’t move and I don’t say a thing.

‘How was your day?’

Is he relenting? Is he letting me in?

‘I had to clean up the cache on Stanley’s computer, had to erase what seemed like a million photos of tits. No wonder there was no speed on the bloody thing. I think all he does all day is look at porn and wank.’

‘What else is he gonna do? The man will never be well again.’

Is he baiting me? I try not to get angry, try to let it go. There is a cruelty buried deep in Clyde. It isn’t hot and spiteful, it is rational and cold. He thinks that men like Stanley, the men I work with, are broken and cannot be fixed, that it would have been better if Stanley had died in the car crash. He doesn’t want them in our home, he doesn’t want to think about them. ‘I couldn’t live with brain damage,’ is what he claims. ‘I couldn’t be half a man.’ Somewhere deep inside him, he is cold. I am scared that he is too unforgiving.