Christos Tsiolkas - Barracuda

'Ca-cum inn, Da-nee.'

'No!' The force of my vehemence hurts him as much as if I have smacked him. He looks down, distressed and ashamed.

I apologise, hug him. 'Come on, Kevin, you know, mate, you know I can't swim.'

I watch Sean lead Kevin down the slow lane, watch Sean try to teach Kevin how to tread water again. I sit as far away from the water as I can.

I don't swim.

I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna.

I won't swim.

I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna .

I can't swim.

'You look very handsome, Danny. Don't you agree, Regan? Doesn't your brother look handsome?'

Danny's top lip curled wryly at his sister. She didn't answer their mother, slouching deeper into the sofa, her canary-yellow hoodie stretched over her knees. She was intent on the TV screen, watching actors who just seemed to be shouting at each other. The yelling was interrupted every ten seconds or so by a crack of gunfire which was the laugh track. From time to time Regan sniggered. Danny knew the show was called Friends , of course he knew, everyone knew that, but all that shouting and yelling was giving him a headache.

His mother was down on one knee before him. She had pins in her mouth and was turning up the ends of his suit pants. He was impatient to get the thing off him, the new metallic-blue suit that his mum had bought for him from one of the seconds warehouses on Albert Street. It was a good suit, a top Aussie label, and it did look good on him. But the collar of his shirt prickled and the jacket was heavy around his shoulders and he was sick of modelling it.

His mother wanted him to look just right for the opening ceremony. He just wanted to be back in his shorts and sweatshirt. He was packed, ready. Why did she always have to find something else to do?

'Done,' said his mum, satisfied. 'You can take it off.'

Danny carefully laid the jacket on the arm of the sofa, undid the tie, started unbuttoning the shirt.

'Don't! Regan was scowling. 'Don't strip off in here.'

'Sorry.'

He kept forgetting that Regan was turning into a teenager; unlike him she wasn't used to bodies in various stages of undress. He never thought of those things. He bundled his sweater and shorts under his arms and went into his room to change. When he came back his mother was sitting in front of the sewing machine on the kitchen table. She had earphones on, connected to the Walkman that sat next to the machine. She didn't like the shouting either, thought Danny. He knew she would be lost in rock and roll, something old and in mono. He plonked down on the sofa. 'Move,' he said, pushing back Regan's feet.

'No, you move,' and she kicked him. 'Go sit on the chair.'

He snickered. She was becoming an adolescent, a mean surly bitch of a teenage girl.

He heard a noise, his ears cocked, it must be him , and Danny bolted from the sofa and was running down the hall. But when he threw open the door it was an old woman standing there, beaming at him, a young woman standing next to her, unsmiling, with a lazy left eye and her arms full of magazines.

'Good morning, young man,' the old woman said cheerfully, in a thick accent but very precise English. 'Do you have a moment for us to talk to you about the coming of the Lord?'

They were God-botherers. The cheap acrylic cardigans and the determined defensive politeness were a dead giveaway. Probably Joeys. The Mormons were always men in white shirts and thin black ties. Jehovah's Witnesses were usually women.

Danny looked past them. Why wasn't he here yet? They were going to be late.

He would have liked to slam the door in their faces. But he knew he couldn't, his mother wouldn't allow it. 'Don't let them in,' she had counselled all her children since they were toddlers. 'Don't let them in, don't listen to their God-bothering, but be polite to them. You must always ask them if they'd like a drink.'

He was surly as he asked, 'Would you like some water?'

The young woman nodded gratefully. 'Thank you, that's very kind.'

The old woman started to walk inside but he raised a hand in warning. 'Please stay here.'

His mother stopped her sewing and took off her earphones.

'They're Joeys,' he said. 'I think they're your lot.'

His mother attempted to flick his behind with her measuring tape. But she was laughing. 'I am not a Joey anymore,' she said.

'I haven't been one for a long time, mister.'

Danny had two glasses of water. 'I didn't mean that,' he called. 'I think they're Greeks.'

The old woman took three small sips and handed back the glass. The young woman gulped down all of hers.

'Have you heard about the Lord?' the old woman began. 'Have you heard about Jesus Christ?'

'Yes,' answered Danny shortly, 'I have and I'm not interested.'

He kicked shut the door behind him and fell back onto the couch, trying to concentrate on the sitcom.

He couldn't sit still. He heard a car, he was sure he could hear a car parking outside. This time it had to be him.

'Mum, he's here.'

She couldn't hear him. He rushed into the kitchen, pressed the stop button on the Walkman.

'He's here.'

'Well, go and invite him in.'

It was the first time Frank Torma had been to Danny's house, the first time the Coach had seen where Danny lived.

Danny was speechless when he opened the door. The Coach was wearing a shirt, a red one that was too snug for his balloon belly; patches of white singlet were visible where the shirt was gaping between the buttons. He was wearing a red shirt and black trousers and held a small box wrapped in white paper. Danny had never seen the Coach in civvies, never out of trackpants. All he could think to do was reach out to accept the gift.

Coach wouldn't let him have it. 'It's not for you,' he said, but there was a lightness to his voice showing he wasn't annoyed. 'Well, Mr Kelly,' he continued, 'are you going to let me in?'

Regan was sitting up straight now, and she nodded to the Coach as Danny introduced them. His mother stepped forward, holding out her hand in greeting, and Coach took it but he also leaned in and kissed her, first on one cheek, then the other. Danny could see that his mother was surprised by the first kiss but that she readily accepted the second.

The Coach handed her the wrapped parcel. 'These are some pisk'ta and some kr'mes,' he said diffidently, a little embarrassed. 'They are Hungarian sweets.'

Danny's mother was delighted. She gave the Coach another two quick pecks on his cheeks and he blushed. He seemed taller somehow, larger now that he was in Danny's house. He seemed too big for their small living room.

'Are you ready, Danny?'

'I've just got to pack his suit and we're done. Please take a seat,' insisted Danny's mother. 'And can I please get you a drink?'

Can I please get you a drink? She was trying too hard, being fake.

Coach shook his head. 'Thank you but no. The other boy will be arriving at my house in just under an hour. We must be off as soon as we can.'

Wilco. The other boy was Wilco. Now it was Wilco and Kelly, they were the only ones left. Scooter had started VCE and made the decision he would never be a champion. He was no longer training. And Fraser was at the Australian Institute of Sport, and Morello, well, he had always been useless, he hadn't come close to qualifying. Nor had Taylor. It was Wilco and Kelly going to Brisbane.

Oh, how he wished it could still be Taylor and Kelly. That was what it should be.

His mother returned with the small black suitcase she had bought especially for the occasion. She was about to hand it to her son but Frank Torma took it from her.