Christos Tsiolkas - Barracuda

He could read Greene for hours but he needed to get ready for work.

Dan showered, brushed his teeth, and put on his work gear. It took him an hour to walk to work, an hour during which he felt and enjoyed the stretch of his calves, the pull on his muscles, the ache in his tendons. Night came as he walked. He stopped at Hadji’s kebab caravan to grab a falafel and he munched on it standing on the bridge overlooking the dark flow of the Maribyrnong River.

At work, with a nod to Seeav behind the counter, he went into the storeroom to unpack cartons of biscuits and chocolates, boxes of liquid soap and shampoo. He liked the sensation of his biceps tightening as he lifted the boxes, his triceps flexing as he ripped away the tape, his abdomen stretching and muscles clenching as he placed the goods on the shelves. The night was quiet, except for the usual rush of famished taxi drivers at four o’clock in the morning. Dawn had just broken as he started his walk home, stopping only for an orange juice and a bacon and cheese roll at the Bakers Delight in Union Road.

He got home and sat himself on the sofa, looking out to the lightening azure sky. The sun was partly hidden by clouds but its light was already stabbing; he forced himself not to blink, to look without seeing. His palms were flat on his thighs, and he listened to his breathing. It went in, it went out, and slowly he heard the world around him stir and awaken, as pipes throughout the building began to throb and rumble, televisions came to life, cars clicked open and engines started. He listened without hearing; he looked without seeing. It occurred to him that in two days time he would be seeing his parents, his brother, he would be driving with his mother to Adelaide. He could sense the weight of that thought, slung heavy over his shoulder. With a groan he got up and headed to his bedroom, not bothering to brush his teeth, not wanting to shower. He dropped onto his mattress — there was no bed, just a mattress on the floor, a crate of books and a reading lamp bought second-hand from Forges. He kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks, undid his belt but did not get undressed. He read twenty more pages of The Heart of the Matter , then laid the book open on the carpet and pulled the sheet and blanket over him. He could hear more pipes banging, more clamour from radios and televisions. This was what he enjoyed about living in a flat, he acknowledged: being hidden behind his walls but conscious of sound and movement and energy all around him. Life was all around him but he was protected from it. It was that moment when they shut his cell door, when he could breathe freely, when he did not have to think about how to behave or how to protect himself. He listened without hearing. He closed his eyes. In the smallest of moments Dan was sound asleep.

Theo opened the door. He looked sullenly at Dan, then turned and shouted down the hall, ‘Mum! Dad! Danny’s here.’ Without another word he went into his bedroom and slammed the door. The brothers had not talked, not really talked, since the night over two years before when Dan had called from the Prahran copshop. It had been Theo who’d answered the phone. Dan did not blame Theo for despising him or being ashamed of him, but he couldn’t think about it, so instead he reflected on how the cracks in the hallway walls had widened since he’d lived there, how the house smelled more of damp and soil, and how the earthiness of that smell was softened by the aroma of cooking and lived-in spaces.

His mother was rushing up the hall towards him. She wasn’t wearing make-up and he realised how rare a sight that was. She was wearing an old black t-shirt, the lurid gothic script reading The Beasts of Bourbon now faded, she was hugging him, kissing him, on his face, his cheeks, even his lips. She released him from her grasp and he breathed out, but she wouldn’t let go of his hand. He breathed in, she was dragging him past Theo’s bedroom, past his old room; he breathed out, he was being pulled into the lounge, the television was on mute, The Age was open over the coffee table. She led him into the kitchen where his father was standing in a brown polyester top and cream pyjama bottoms, standing rigid. Dan breathed in. His mother let go of his hand and the two men took a step towards one another, went into a hasty embrace, their bodies just touching, but long enough for him to hear his father whisper, ‘Good to see you, son.’

Dan breathed out.

His father’s hair was now completely grey. He still had his Elvis quiff, his rockabilly sideburns, but his hair was a grimy silver, there were deep furrows at the sides of his mouth, and his paunch was now definitely a belly. He was getting old, thought Dan.

‘Will you two sit down? Anyone looking at you would think you were strangers.’

Dan’s mother was busy in the kitchen but her words brought a wry smile to his father’s face, and the men were put at ease. They sat opposite each other, while his mother scurried around them, putting cheese and olives on the table, slicing bread. There was a plate of freshly made meatballs on the stove. She drizzled oil into a pan.

‘I hope you’re hungry, Danny,’ she said brightly. ‘I’m making keftethes . Your favourite.’

He almost blurted out, Are they? Are they still my favourite? But he swallowed the words, knowing they would only hurt her. As the meatballs started spitting in the pan and the aroma of the meat, parsley and onion filled the kitchen, he was reminded of how much he loved her food. He remembered how he would come home from training, ravenous, having flown through the pool, having dominated the water. She’d often have made two batches of keftethes , one for him and one for the rest of the family. He could eat all of his, a half kilo of meat, he could have even eaten double that. She’d have salad for him as well and some roasted vegetables and bread. And then, maybe, his hunger would be satisfied. But it seemed years since he had eaten her meatballs. It could not have been as long as that. But that would have been before prison, and in there, time had become elongated and space had changed him, hemmed him in, made him burrow deep inside himself. He was no longer of the sky, of water, he was now in the earth. He did not know whether her keftethes were his favourite anymore. It was as if he had to discover his taste and his desire anew.

His mother noticed the backpack at his feet. ‘Is that all you’re bringing with you to Adelaide? You’re just like your dad.’

Father and son exchanged a glance, then quickly dropped their eyes.

His father’s nervousness around him was new. There had been awkwardness before, there had certainly been that when he was young. They’d given each other the shits, they would argue endlessly. Dan understood all of it now, or thought he was beginning to: that his father resented the family’s time and energy and expectations all being focused on the eldest child. Swimming and practice and competition and heats — they’d been all Dan ever thought about. And not just him; for many years it had been all Theo and his mother and Regan thought about too. Only his father had been cautious, only his father, Dan now knew, had thought ahead to what might happen if Dan couldn’t swim. Dan winced; his father had thought ahead to what it would mean if Dan failed. Only his father had seen ahead to failure.

The act of violence that had resulted in Dan going to prison had terrified and confused his father. The one time he had visited Dan in gaol, he had hardly been able to talk, had had not a clue what to say. He had sat there, straight-backed and silent, unable to speak a word. Throughout the visit, his father’s eyes had been watery, as if all his rigidity, all his discomfort had arisen from the effort of fighting back tears. When the visit had ended, all Dan felt was relief — and exhaustion, as if he had swum for hours.