Christos Tsiolkas - Barracuda

Taylor nodded quietly, a half-smile on his face — a loser’s attempt at a smile, thought Danny. Taylor extended his hand. ‘Congratulations, Danny.’

He’d fucked it. He should have been the first to offer the handshake, as Perkins had with Kowalski. That was what a true sportsman did, that was what would be in all the papers that morning, he was sure of it: the handshake. Should he hug Taylor or would that be a loser’s thing to do? He should have been the first to extend his hand. He would never make that mistake again. Being gracious was Taylor’s attempt to get under his skin, Taylor trying to undermine him. Give it back, turn it on him. Danny put an arm around Taylor’s shoulders, looser than a hug. Taylor’s skin was smooth, he still had a child’s skin — he could afford electrolysis but he didn’t need it, he would always be smooth. Danny’s arm over Taylor’s shoulder wasn’t drawing him in, it was just an affectionate jokey touch which said, We both did well, we were neck and neck for a while, but I won.

Taylor shrugged off his arm.

‘We did well,’ Danny said, grinning widely.

‘No,’ answered Taylor, his voice giving nothing away. ‘You won it. I came third.’

I was always going to win it, thought Danny. It was always mine to win.

It was dark when they got home. His dad was waiting up for them and offered Danny his hand. ‘Congratulations, Danny, I’m proud of you. So’s your granddad Bill — he was over the moon when I told him.’

Danny glanced at the clock. It was too late to ring, Granddad Bill would be in bed. He’d ring him from school tomorrow, to hear the pride in his voice.

Before he went to bed, Danny asked his mother to wake him at four-thirty as usual.

His father cut in before she could reply. ‘It’s been a big couple of days, Danny. Why don’t you take the day off tomorrow, sleep in?’

His dad didn’t understand that it was harder not to train — that when he wasn’t training he was walking through the sludge of the in-between. ‘Nah, I’m going to the pool tomorrow.’

His father’s mouth tightened. ‘Fine, but your mother isn’t taking you. She’s driven all the way to Albury and back for you — she’s exhausted. You can train if you want to, but she’s sleeping in.’

Danny breathed in, sensing that he was about to lose it and yell, which would get him nowhere; it would never move his father. He turned to his mother, whose eyes were darting between her son and her husband.

‘It’s OK, Neal, I can take him in.’

The man continued staring at Danny, as if he hadn’t heard a word his wife had said. Then he raised his arms, shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’ He beckoned to Theo and Regan, and they ran to his open arms for a hug. ‘Well, the three of us are sleeping in, aren’t we? And I’m going to cook us pancakes with ice-cream.’

Theo and Regan loudly chorused their delight. But his father wouldn’t look at him and Danny couldn’t look at his father.

Danny watched TV as he brushed his teeth, transfixed by the constant replaying of the Perkins triumph. The commentators kept asking: was Kieren Perkins the greatest swimmer ever? But Danny was focused on the footage of the man who’d come second, the man who was forcing a smile but looked as though he wanted to weep — because second wasn’t winning, second was losing. A heroic effort by Kowalski, they were saying, a great sporting moment for Australia; they were saying that Kowalski swam an honourable race — but second wasn’t winning, second was losing.

The phone rang and his mother answered it. She called out, ‘It’s for you.’

‘How do you feel, champ?’

He swallowed his toothpaste, coughed, grimaced at the burning in his throat. ‘Pretty good I think—’

Demet interrupted, ‘We’re all so proud of you. Boz reckons he’s going to tag your name all over Keon Park station. You’re the champion under-sixteen two-hundred-metre freestyle king! How does that feel, Mr Kelly, how does that feel?’

‘Good, I guess.’

‘Good, you guess? Dickbrain, it’s fucking excellent. Are you free Saturday night? We want to take you out, kiss your arse, rub your nob for good luck.’

‘You’re gross.’

‘You’re retarded.’

The old schoolyard insults made him giggle like a little kid. Then there was a strange awkward silence. Dem’s voice rushed in to fill it.

‘So Bell Street Macca’s on Saturday?’

Macca’s on Saturday. Taylor would be in stitches, Scooter would be on the floor. He could hear them: They’re taking you to Macca’s? To celebrate? Are you serious, fucking Macca’s? He didn’t want that thought, didn’t want Demet to ever know that he could have such a thought.

‘Yeah, yeah, that’s good, Macca’s.’

‘All you can eat, hero.’

He put down the phone, caught a glimpse of the TV. They were playing the race again. Over and over and over. The hero and the loser.

At Flinders Street he fell in with a group of boys from his school but none of them said a thing about the day before, no one asked him about the championships, no one even mentioned Perkins winning gold in the fifteen hundred, even though it was on the front pages of all the papers. No one asked him about his swim. He shrank into a corner of the carriage. So he’d won a pissy all-Australian under-sixteen swimming contest. So fucking what. That wasn’t being Perkins; being Perkins was something a million miles away.

He lagged behind the other boys as they walked from the station to the school. Luke was standing in a crowd and he peeled off and came over to wrap an arm around Danny, but even he didn’t say a thing.

He could see Taylor and Fraser, and Scooter and Wilco and Morello all huddled together. Taylor said something and they all laughed, of course they laughed. But didn’t they know that Taylor came third? Didn’t they care that he was a loser?

Danny went into the Great Hall for assembly. He didn’t hear the morning prayers, didn’t hear Principal Canning ponce on about this great school this and this great school that. It didn’t matter what medals Danny won. They didn’t want him, he didn’t belong there.

But then Luke was shaking him, grinning, pointing him towards the podium. And Principal Canning was looking down at Danny, looking straight at him and clapping. Luke pushed Danny into the aisle and then everyone was clapping, the juniors and the seniors, even the teachers, everyone was applauding and then they were starting to cheer, the whole school was shouting out his name, Danny Kelly, Danny Kelly, Danny Kelly! His school was shouting out his name. He was walking towards the stage and one of the seniors, Cosgrave, held out his hand and Danny shook the older boy’s hand, and then another prefect, Radcliff, came forward and Danny shook Radcliff’s hand. His name was thundering through the Great Hall and as he climbed the steps to take his place next to Principal Canning he looked down to see Luke jumping up and down, cheering like a maniac, like it was the proudest moment of his life, and all the boys, all the teachers, were standing, stamping their feet, cheering and clapping. Coach was there, looking stern, but he too was standing, he too was clapping. Danny searched the sea of faces, looking for Taylor; he was shaking Principal Canning’s hand but all the time he was trying to find Taylor, and when he did spot him, Taylor winked and raised his arms, clapping above his head, and then called out, so clearly and so loudly that he could be heard above all the other cheers, ‘Good on ya, Danny Kelly. Go, Barracuda!’