Christos Tsiolkas - Barracuda

He was in the back seat with Martin and they were joking around and gossiping about school and talking about swimming. Mostly they were talking about swimming. The Australian Championships were on in October in Brisbane, and he was convinced that both he and Taylor would be there. He wanted to go to the Pan Pacs, he wanted to prove himself there, but the Coach said that it wasn’t the year, that it wasn’t time yet. But he wanted to prove himself against the world, not just Australia. It had to be the world now, it had to be the world if he was to have a chance of getting to Kuala Lumpur next year, to Sydney two years after that. ‘Be patient,’ said Coach. ‘You’re not ready yet.’ How Danny resented that phrase, hated it. Danny didn’t think it was a matter of patience, he thought it was all about competition, that it was only in the pool itself, in his control of the water and of his breath, in the being in his body not in his head, that he would prove he was ready, that he could beat them all.

‘Be patient,’ said Coach. ‘This is not your time.’

He would prove him wrong. He knew he was ready. First the Australian Championships, then the Pan Pacific Games, then the Commonwealth Games, and then it would be the Sydney Olympics. He was certain of it, he had it all mapped out. He would be there.

Martin flicked him across the thigh.

‘What?’ said Danny. Mrs Taylor was looking at him in the rearview mirror.

‘Mum asked you a question.’

‘Sorry, Mrs Taylor.’ Danny leaned forward. Mrs Taylor’s skin was orange, a colour Danny had never seen on humans until he met Martin’s mother and Scooter’s mother and Fraser’s mother. It was a skin cured like smoked meat by the rays of the solarium, then lathered with lotions and oils and creams.

‘I was wondering if you had been to Portsea before, Danny?’

The house was actually in Sorrento, on the wrong side of Portsea — Emma had told him that. Martin had told her to be quiet. Danny knew from the boys at school that Portsea was better than Sorrento.

‘No, Mrs Taylor, I don’t think I have.’

‘But you’ve been to Rosebud, haven’t you, maaate?’

Danny punched Martin on the shoulder, just hard enough to remind him who had the bigger muscles. Martin’s attempt at a wog-boy accent was pathetic. Danny had been to Rosebud, and to Dromana and Rye, where all the wogs and bogans went for summer. He had loved Rye as a kid, loved that the water stayed shallow for so far that you could go out from shore until your mother and father and sister and brother had almost disappeared from view, become just dabs of colour on the yellow sand, shimmering reflections vanishing in the sun’s haze. Danny sat back in the car, ignoring Martin. His smile felt like it could crack his whole face open, that it could explode, like in a science-fiction movie. All that mattered was that he would swim better and faster and stronger than Martin. Better, faster, stronger.

Sorrento was the most beautiful place he had ever seen. It was nothing like Rosebud, nothing like Rye. It was the green of it, the streets shaded by tall, thick-limbed trees. It was the blue of it, on one side the placid waters of the bay, and then, as the car crested the ridge of the peninsula, the roiling ocean came into view. It was the gold of it, the bright sunshine of early autumn, the tanned shoulders and torsos and limbs of the people sitting outside the cafés and the bars and fish-and-chip shops.

The house was the most beautiful house he had ever seen. The length of the dwelling was hidden by ivy and shadowed by a giant red bottlebrush that towered over the front yard. Room after room after room came off the seemingly endless dark corridor and then suddenly they were in a cavernous open space; one entire wall was floor-to-ceiling glass that looked out to the sea, a black leather sofa ran along the length of the room. There was an expensive-looking stereo system, a large-screen television, shelves crammed with games and books and sports equipment, another sofa in front of the television, and four black leather armchairs spread haphazardly across the space. At the far end of the room, double doors opened onto a dining room and beyond was the kitchen. Danny walked up to the window and looked out to a gently sloping yard. There was a tennis lawn, an immaculately neat garden bed, and beyond that, ocean, miles and miles of ocean.

Emma came up beside him. ‘It’s almost an isthmus,’ she explained. ‘So from the back garden there are steps down to the ocean beach.’ She turned and pointed to the other wall. ‘Behind that is the bay beach, maybe a five- or ten-minute walk.’

‘It’s j-just so incredible,’ was all that Danny could manage to stutter.

Mrs Taylor called from the kitchen, ‘Martin, show Danny where to put his bag.’

‘OK. And then we’re going swimming.’

Mrs Taylor made a peeved sound.

‘We have to train,’ Martin insisted.

His mother came into the living area, absent-mindedly scratching at her white bra strap, just visible beneath the open neck of her light blue linen shirt. She walked over to a cabinet and opened it. ‘I was going to order us some fish and chips.’

‘We have to train. We’ll all eat after practice.’

It couldn’t be, but it sounded as though Martin was giving his mother an order. But Mrs Taylor didn’t seem to mind; she was twisting the silver bracelet on her wrist as she examined the shelves of bottles in the cabinet. Danny heard her say, ‘I told your father to order Bombay Sapphire gin — he knows she only drinks Bombay Sapphire,’ as he followed Martin out of the room.

‘Are we going to swim in the bay or the ocean?’ asked Danny, and Martin gave him a what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about? look.

‘In the pool, of course, dickhead,’ Martin answered.

Standing naked in the bathroom, his Speedos in one hand, Danny looked down at his body. His chest was chiselled and strong, his biceps seemed enormous, and so did his calf and thigh muscles. What wasn’t changing was his height; while Martin was getting taller, Danny wasn’t growing at all. That was all he prayed for, that he would grow taller. That was why Coach said he wasn’t ready, why he had to be patient, why the Coach had changed his training, his workout, even his stroke. ‘The butterfly is your stroke, Danny. Your body dictates your stroke.’ But he didn’t want the butterfly to be his stroke. When he dreamed, when he saw the medal around his neck, the flash of the cameras, heard the anthem playing, it wasn’t for the butterfly. ‘It’s your stroke,’ the Coach insisted. ‘Take heed of your body. It’s your stroke.’ He didn’t want that body, he didn’t want that stroke.

The Taylors’ pool was in-ground and built just below the courtyard; you could sit on the tiled edge and look over the ocean, you could see the sunset from the pool.

Danny said to Martin, ‘I’m doing freestyle.’

‘Suit yourself, Shorty.’

It was only a twenty-footer, so at first it was more exercise than training and at first Danny wasn’t thinking of Martin, wasn’t even conscious of the boy at the other end of the pool. All Danny cared about was the commanding and storming of the water, and then, as he found his rhythm, he had no more need to think of moving and breathing and being stable in water than he would walking and breathing and balancing on land. He was thinking of the white of Emma’s shirt against the flushed pink of her chest; he was thinking about how lucky Martin was to have such a beach house. He felt at home in it already, felt it was his and Martin’s. Danny stopped and rested his forehead against the white tiles.