Christos Tsiolkas - Barracuda

When the old lady ripped the shiny red paper away from the canvas to reveal the painting, Virginia put her hand to her mouth, her eyes bright, as though the present were being given to her. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she gasped. The old lady looked up, showing them all the canvas. The thick black lines seemed furious to him then, and he thought that the woman’s face was as angry as it was sad.

‘What do you think, Danny?’ The old lady ignored Virginia. ‘Do you like it?’

He shuffled through his words, discarded them, let them tumble back into his throat. ‘It’s b-beautiful,’ he finally stammered.

‘Oh Danny,’ she scolded, taking in the painting, ‘that’s so trite.’

Emma spoke up. ‘It’s fierce,’ she said, and her grandmother nodded approvingly.

‘That’s right.’ She smiled at Emma. ‘That is absolutely right.’

Danny wanted to say, T hat’s what I feel looking at it, that’s the word I wanted to use . He wanted to throw it back at her. If he could have cursed her he would have. He hated her more than anyone else in this room. He wanted to say to Virginia, coiled tight, humiliated beside him, Throw it back at her, give it back to her, tell the old bitch she can stuff her new canvas up her wrinkled old vag. He caught Martin’s eye and mouthed, ‘I’m going to bed.’ Martin looked coldly at him without responding.

The old lady offered her cheeks for Danny to kiss. He didn’t let his lips touch them.

In a sleeping bag on a mattress next to Martin’s bed he let out a series of sharp stinking farts, feeling sluggish, engorged by all the rich food. He wished he was at home, that he could set the alarm for four-thirty and that his mum would drive him to the pool. Swimming in the Taylors’ pool wasn’t enough, he felt caged in. First thing tomorrow he would go to the ocean and swim. He needed the space, the unrestrained power of it, the relief of being in surging, untamed water.

He awoke when Martin came into the room. In the darkness he could hear the boy kicking off his shoes, unbuckling his belt, throwing off his shirt, peeling off his socks. He could smell the mint from the toothpaste that Martin had used. The sheet and the doona were being pulled back, he heard Martin settling into bed. There was his own breathing and there was Martin’s breathing. There were the knocks and shudders and rumblings of an unfamiliar house, the flush of a toilet somewhere down the hall, the groan of pipes. There was his breathing and there was Martin’s breathing, and behind that was something else, a vibration, a slow, steady pulse, getting faster. Martin’s breathing was no longer in sync with his, it was shallow, quickening, and Danny knew that on the bed above him, Martin was beating off, the faint putt-putt-putt of the bedhead knocking the wall, breaths escalating. Danny knew, as Martin must have known, that he shouldn’t be doing it, that it was wasted energy; no one had told him that but he knew it because every time he had given in to the urge he had felt his strength and power drain away, spill from his body, felt that weakness at the end of the frenzied tugging, the slackened muscles, the spent, listless body. But sometimes he couldn’t help it, sometimes he lost the wrestle with himself, and this was one of those times, this once would be OK, and Martin doing it, them both doing it together, that hoarse and shallow breathing, the squeaking mattress, it had to happen. Danny’s hand reached down to his own erect cock and he pushed apart his legs and in the small cavity allowed by the sleeping bag rubbed up and down up and down on his shaft, and there was the putt-putt-putt of the bedhead knocking the wall and there was the whistling slide of his fist against the fabric of the sleeping bag and there was his breathing getting faster and there was Martin’s breathing getting faster and then Danny heard a constricted groan from above and he answered it by choking on his own relief, swallowing it back, as the warm globs of semen flowed all over his fist. He whimpered and then there was silence. He heard Martin’s breathing; he brought his own back in sync with that of his friend.

There was a soft thud and something landed beside him on the carpet. It was a crumpled moist face washer. He unzipped his bag and wiped his hand, his groin, his cock. The wet cloth now smelled of him and it smelled of Martin. He rolled it back into a ball and kicked it to the end of the bag. ‘Thanks,’ he whispered, but there was no reply.

In the morning he was the first up. He slid out of the bag, the stench of his sweat overpowering. He heard a yawn and saw that Martin was also awake.

Embarrassed, Danny pointed guiltily at the face washer. ‘We should wash it.’

For a moment, Martin looked confused; then he laughed.

‘Don’t be stupid, mate, the cleaners are coming right after we leave, they’ll do it. It’s their job.’

They put on their Speedos and headed for the pool. Danny didn’t say anything to Martin about how much he wanted to be in the ocean, how much he needed to be in the turbulent wild sea.

He didn’t want Mrs Taylor to drop him at home. She kept saying it was no problem, that she wanted to do it, but he insisted on being dropped off at Flinders Street. She seemed lighter on the drive back into town, as if relieved that the birthday weekend was over. ‘No, darling,’ she said once more, ‘I’m taking you home.’

‘Mum!’ Martin snapped. ‘He wants to be dropped off in the city. Just do it.’

As Danny got out of the car, as he slung his sports bag over his shoulder, he said to Mrs Taylor, ‘Thank you so much, I had a lovely time.’

The woman smiled sweetly. ‘Oh Danny,’ she said, ‘you are always welcome at our house, come over whenever you like. Remember that: you are always welcome.’

The first thing his mother said to him when he walked through the door was, ‘Shh, your father’s sleeping.’

His father had driven across the country, from Melbourne to Perth, then on to Sydney and all the way back to Melbourne, all within a week. Danny couldn’t imagine being cooped up for such long hours in that cabin that smelled of takeaway food, of stale sweat and cigarette smoke that clung to the surfaces, seeping into the vinyl of the dashboard, sticking to your clothes, seeping into you. His father wouldn’t let his mother come near him when he came back from one of those killer drives, not until he had washed off all the grime and perspiration, the rancid taint of sleeplessness, of greasy food, of too many cigarettes. Only when he’d had a shower, thrown his stinky TWU t-shirt in the wash, shaved off his coppery stubble, trimmed his sideburns, and put on his cowboy shirt with the silver-tipped collars, his clean black jeans, his silver-toed suede shoes, only then would his father grab his wife, grab his daughter, grab his youngest son, hold them and kiss them and vigorously rub his newly shaved and perfumed chin into Theo’s hair until he squealed. Just the way he used to do with Danny. His father would clutch Theo and Regan and their mother and sing, ‘No, I’m never gonna let you go, never ever ever ever.’ But he never did that with Danny anymore, he hadn’t done that with Danny for years.

Danny lowered his voice. ‘I need to train, Mum. I have to go swimming.’