Christos Tsiolkas - Barracuda

I have to learn how to breathe again.

And after training, when we are all showered and dressed, Coach calls us aside and says he has decided who he will select for the Melbourne heats of the national championships. It is Wilco, of course, and it is even Costello. And then he says, for the two hundred metres butterfly, he says he wants Lensman to swim.

They are studying me, waiting for me to break. I stare straight ahead, not moving, not saying a word. Thankfully, my eyes are dry. I walk over to Wilco, to Costello, to Lensman, and I shake their hands. I don’t dare look at Coach.

Do you trust me, Danny?

Give it back to him. But is there retribution huge enough to avenge such a betrayal?

The following morning I begin to breathe again.

I awake before my alarm, I stretch out my legs, I raise my arms, I flex and I punch the air. But I don’t rise. I turn off the alarm, turn over and pretend to be asleep.

I hear Mum knock on the door. ‘You’ll be late, Danny. What’s wrong, mate?’

‘I’m sick,’ I grunt.

Not long after I can hear Theo in the hall, incredulous. ‘Why isn’t Danny up? Why isn’t he at training?’

I can’t hear my mother’s hushed reply.

At seven o’clock I rise, I eat breakfast. Theo and Mum watch me warily; Regan keeps asking if I am alright. I scoff down my breakfast.

‘I’m fine,’ I grin through a mouthful of cereal. ‘Never felt better. I’m good.’

On the train, on the walk to school, I am cheerful, I have to stop myself whistling. I tell myself I am already changing, I am a chrysalis, I am becoming a completely new entity. The light seems different, sharper and alive, as if I can distinguish the very atoms within it. I have to stop myself whistling.

After prayers at the chapel, Coach finds me.

‘Why weren’t you at training?’

‘Sick, I guess.’

‘You guess?’ He scratches at his head. His disappointment reeks, I can smell it, how foul he thinks I am. ‘I told you, Danny, you are at a crossroads.’

I wait, I am eager, so fired up and ready: Go on, call me son, come on, just call me son . Use that word and I’ll go you, use that word and I don’t care what I do to you, what that will cost me. Come on, cunt, just say it.

‘If you don’t turn up this afternoon you are dropped from the squad.’

I am walking to my locker, first period is about to start, and I see Lensman coming towards me. The little squirt, the little faggot, he has that sly arrogant smirk on his face. He is walking straight towards me; it is a contest, who will move aside first, who will break first. We have both been trained to be fearful of injury, a sprain, a bruise, a graze, that could affect our swimming.

I use my body, my sculpted, moulded and perfect body, to slam into him so hard that he is lifted off his feet and slams head-first into the lockers. I can feel the throb in my shoulder blade but I will not rub it, I will not show that I am hurt.

Lensman is holding his ribs, he is sprawled on the floor, all outrage and fear. I can see the outrage, I can smell the fear.

‘’Sorry, Lensman,’ I sneer down at him. ‘Next time watch where you’re fucking going.’

I am whistling as I walk out into the quadrangle.

I have to learn how to breathe again.

I am standing under the towering pin oak that shadows Coach’s house. There is the broken gate, the heavy blue door, the cracked concrete steps, the ornate bay window, behind which used to be my room. The squad will be halfway through training by now. Oh, how Coach will be screaming at them, how he will be riding them, how he will be ridiculing them.

Do you trust me, Danny?

The stone in my hand is as smooth as glass.

I look up and down the street: there is no one around. I glance around quickly once more and then I walk up to the fence and I throw the rock with the strength and power and precision of my sculpted, perfect body. The crack is so loud I cower; a pane has shattered, shards of glass spray all over the veranda.

I’m running as fast as I can, because someone will have heard, someone will be calling the police, but that doesn’t matter because I can outrun them all. My body is trained, my body is fearless.

I run all the way to the Studley Park bridge, but I am not out of breath. I have learned how to breathe again. I reach the main road and I keep on running. I am gleeful but I know what is on my tail, I can hear it, I can even smell it, the rank aroma of a body that will not listen, a body that betrays, a body that will give up everything and still prove to be useless. It is failure I can smell.

And I understand, I know , it is failure that is evil.

So I run, my strides enormous, not caring who I crash into, who I hurt. I run so fast that I am hurting the ground as I pound it, I run so fast that I am fire. But no matter how fast I run, the Devil is there beside me. The Devil is in me. I am a larva and that which is emerging is something vile, something uglier than what existed before.

He slid the plane across the wood, wisps of shavings falling softly to the ground. Dan enjoyed the steady motion, the tool gliding under his hand, the paint peeling off, the thread-like veins of grain appearing in the surface of the timber. A fine dust settled over his hands and arms, and on his clothes.

His granddad Bill was sitting on a decrepit folding beach chair, its aluminium frame so old that the tarnish on it had weathered to a bronze tint. An ancient transistor radio was perched on the chair’s armrest, tuned to a station that played songs from when his grandparents were young: Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra, Dusty Springfield and Helen Reddy. His granddad Bill called all pop songs Yeah Yeah Yeah music, as in the Beatles, and he meant it disparagingly, but now he was humming along to one of the songs. I ain’t mama’s little girl no more, Baby you’re the first to know . It made Dan want to laugh, the old man with his shock of white hair, both hands clasped over the top of his walking cane, watching his grandson and singing, ‘ I ain’t mama’s little girl no more .’

Dan brushed perspiration away from his brow. The morning clouds had dispersed and the sun was right over the backyard. Dan stripped off his sweatshirt; his blue singlet was damp with sweat. He used the old grey top to wipe his face, under his arms, across his chest. He turned the wood over and started sanding down the other side.

‘Dearie, you’ll catch a cold.’ His grandmother was carrying a tray on which were two cold beers, a jug of water, a glass and some Monte Carlo biscuits on a white plate. She put the tray on the small garden table.

‘It’s alright, Nan, the sun’s out.’

She snorted softly. ‘Summer’s gone, Danny. The weather will change any moment.’

‘Irene, leave our kid be. He said he’s fine.’ His granddad wouldn’t hear a word against Dan, not one word.

Taking a sip of her beer, his grandmother came over and ran her hand over the plank of timber he had been working on.

‘I’ll have the shelves up by tea,’ announced Dan. ‘Promise.’ His nan smiled at him.

Dan downed his water and poured himself another glass. He could feel the muscles in his chest, in his forearms, taut and strong, thick and ropy beneath his skin. He gulped down the water and got to his feet. ‘Righto, smoko’s over.’