Christos Tsiolkas - Barracuda

'Thank you so much for coming and picking up Danny. I know it is very much out of your way.'

'It is not a problem at all, Mrs Kelly.'

'Please call me Stephanie. Mrs Kelly makes me sound very old.'

Now she sounded like his mum again. There was an uncomfortable moment of silence, and then the Coach said quickly, 'And yes, please, please call me Frank.'

His mother came up to Danny, rested her head on his shoulder. 'Oh baby, I wish I could be there.' She smiled up at the Coach. 'He looks so handsome in his suit, he's going to be the most handsome boy in that opening ceremony.'

Danny pulled away from her, mortified. 'Just shut up, Mum, don't say a word.'

Then the Coach did something unexpected. The Coach winked at him and smiled back at his mother. 'Yes, I am sure he will be.'

Danny had to get out of the house right now. He swiftly kissed his mother goodbye and then leaned down to give Regan an awkward squeeze, told her to tell Theo that there would be another medal for his collection when he got back from camp.

The strength of Regan's responding hug took him by surprise. 'Good luck, mate,' she whispered.

She felt lumpy, she was getting fat.

As they walked to the car, he turned to the Coach and said, politely, carefully, 'Thank you, Mr Torma, for picking me up.'

Did he sound fake?

'It's OK,' said Frank. 'As I said to your mother, I am happy to do so.'

As soon as the Coach opened the door, Danny rushed past him and straight into the front bedroom, straight to his room. It was really the Coach's bedroom, but when the squad were staying over it was always Danny's room. He placed his suitcase on the bed and looked around to make sure nothing had changed since the last time. There was the double bed, the wardrobe with the thin mirrored panel down one side, and the white chest of drawers next to the bed, on top of which sat the one photograph in the room, the one of Coach's elderly parents, the stern, sad-looking couple. As always, the Coach had vacuumed and dusted the room, had changed the bedding, in preparation for the boy's visit; it was tidy and immaculately clean. Danny pushed his suitcase aside and lay down on the bed, dangling his feet over the edge so his sneakers wouldn't dirty the blanket. He stared up at the high ceiling, a sea of pressed iron panels painted white, except for the central plaster rosette in the middle of which hung the red cubed lamp. Danny couldn't touch the ceiling, even standing on the bed; he tried every time: it was that high. There was space in Frank Torma's house; he wouldn't ever feel trapped in that house.

It wasn't huge or ostentatious like the Taylors' house, the other boys' houses. There was space but it wasn't extravagant, you didn't get lost in it.

He heard his name being called. Danny smoothed the creased blanket and rushed down to the kitchen.

The Coach had ordered pizzas and told Danny to wait for Wilco while he went to pick them up. As soon as Coach was gone, Danny opened the fridge and found a salami. He cut five thick slices off it and gobbled them up hungrily. He wandered into the lounge room, flicked through the scattering of CDs. He was sure that the last time he was there Beethoven's Fifth Symphony was the disc in the player. He turned on the stereo, pressed a button and the CD holder slid out. He read the black lettering on the silver face of the disc. Again, it was Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. Danny didn't know if this meant the Coach listened to it all the time or that the Coach hadn't listened to music since the last time Danny was there. They'd watched television, movies, eaten pizza and played cards at Coach's house. But they'd never listened to music.

A sharp drilling sound ripped through his reverie. He switched off the stereo, tore down the corridor and opened the door. Wilco was standing there, looking sheepish, holding a full sports bag in one hand, his mother standing behind him.

'Hi, Danny,' he muttered. He'd had his head shaved, with a number one razor, just like Danny had. It made him look older.

'Hi, mate. Hi, Mrs Wilkinson.' He returned the kiss Wilco's mum planted on his cheek. He liked Mrs Wilkinson. She had a lean, narrow face with deep furrows in her cheeks and forehead. Her hair was thinning, grey and messy, and her teeth protruded a little. But she looked like a real mum and was always kind.

She peered down the corridor. 'Is Mr Torma here?'

'He's picking up pizza.' Danny stood to one side to let Wilco and his mother in. He was enjoying pretending it was his house, that he was welcoming guests to his home. He led them through to the kitchen.

'Oooh,' said Mrs Wilkinson, rubbing her hands, 'these old houses are so cold. Where's the heating?'

Danny was put out, he didn't want to hear the house criticised. He switched on the small white radiator on the wall behind the kitchen table.

'Good God,' Mrs Wilkinson exclaimed, going over to examine the heater. 'I haven't seen one of these since I was a girl.' She pulled her coat tighter around her body. 'That will take ages to heat up.' She smiled at Danny. 'Sweetheart, you'll freeze. Go and grab a jumper.'

'I'm alright.' And he was, he was fine in this house.

Mrs Wilkinson pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. 'I don't think anything has been done to this house for over thirty years. But it is a gorgeous little terrace, and in wonderful condition. It would cost a fortune to buy now.'

Danny warmed to her again. 'Would you like a glass of water?'

'You're right at home here, aren't you, darling?'

Danny blushed. Wilco gave him a sly grin, then turned to his mother. 'You can go.'

'I'm going to wait till Mr Torma returns, John, and then I'll go. And don't use that tone of voice with me. I always think you're bloody channelling your father when you speak like that.' She turned back to Danny. 'And yes, darling, I will have some water. Thank you.'

Danny poured water for her and another glass for Wilco. He didn't look at the boy as he handed him the glass. He knew Wilco's parents had recently divorced. He could bet that Wilco was furious at his mother, that he just wanted her to get the hell out of there. Then they heard the front door opening, and Coach's steps coming up the corridor. Danny looked over at Wilco and saw the boy's relief.

Every time Coach returned with pizzas from the Macedonian shop at the end of the street, he would roar proudly, Boys, these are the best pizzas you will ever have! He said it every time. Every time.

There were four large pizzas, one with a base of roasted eggplant topped with a layer of wafer-thin slices of potato: that was Danny's favourite. Another was covered with yogurt and mint-flavoured mince. There was a hot salami pizza, and a vegetarian one with anchovies. The boys and the man ate them ravenously. They were the best pizzas Danny had ever had.

After they'd finished eating, Danny and Wilco listened to Frank. Of course, it was all about swimming, all about the Australian Championships; of course it was, that was all that mattered, all that any of them could think about.

'You have to listen to everything I say,' he kept repeating, and they both nodded emphatically that they would.

He pointed to Danny. 'You can do it, you can win the two hundred metre butterfly, if you stay focused. If you work, it is yours.' He then pointed to Wilco. 'And the two hundred freestyle is yours if you want it. You want it?'

'Yes!' Wilco almost shouted it, pumping his fist.

'Good,' said Frank. 'Then it's yours.'