Christos Tsiolkas - Barracuda

Should he laugh? He should laugh.

But Clyde was solemn, his eyes were searching. Dan had to look away.

‘Mate, I don’t understand. Why can’t you swim?’

They had awoken to a glorious day. The sun’s rays through the slatted blinds were tassels of light gently breaking into their slumber. Dan had risen first. Clyde stirred, then rolled over and went back to sleep. The night before had been chilly, but the morning had banished the cold. It was not yet eight o’clock but a soft warmth already bathed the apartment. Dan had just poured the boiling water into the coffee plunger when Clyde stumbled out of the bedroom, yawning. The russet spray of hair over his torso, the thick thatch of copper bush wreathing his cock and balls, brushed gold by the light. Lust, as fierce and insistent as hunger, made Dan shudder.

It was what bound him to this man. The brewed coffee went cold as Clyde fucked him, his body splayed over Dan’s as they screwed savagely, relentlessly, on the floor. Afterwards, as Dan came back from the toilet, he could see Clyde, still naked, standing out on the balcony, looking down over the ocean and the township of Lorne. Dan resisted the instinct to scold, to tell Clyde to put on some bloody pants. Instead he threw the plunger of cold coffee into the sink, and refilled the kettle. He heard Clyde greeting Margarita or Demet, one of them was on the balcony next door. And then he heard: ‘Put some fucking pants on, will ya.’ It was Demet. Through clenched teeth Dan whispered, ‘Thank you.’

‘Come on, pal. Come into the water.’

He had been reading his book, looking up occasionally to watch his lover and his friends swimming. They had driven out of town and found a cove that could only be accessed by a steep descent down a narrow cliff path that cut through a gully. People had already staked claim to the beach on the other side of the rocks, at an estuary. But the hidden cove was blessedly theirs. Dan had given himself over to the glory of the day, the sun beating down on his skin, the words in the book rolling in and out of consciousness. It was Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children , and the halcyon ease of the morning meant that the language of partition and exile and displacement had trouble penetrating, and he had to reread sentences and paragraphs. The lazy hedonistic joy of being on an Australian beach in summer negated the words. So the book had been laid over his face, shielding his eyes from the fierce sun, when Clyde’s shadow fell on him.

‘Come on, mate, come into the water.’

Dan peeked, squinted, from under his book.

‘Nah, I’m enjoying myself. I’m happy just sitting here.’

‘Don’t be a dick, man, it’s fantastic out there, come on.’ Clyde was holding out his hand, waiting.

‘Nah, I’m fine.’

‘Come on.’ The pleading in Clyde’s voice had been replaced by irritation.

‘I said I’m fine.’

‘Come. On.’

‘I. Don’t. Fucking. Want. To.’

‘Just leave him, Clyde. You know he doesn’t like to swim.’

Even with the sun in his eyes Dan could see Clyde’s face change, see how his body stiffened at Demet’s words. It had been the wrong thing for her to say — it claimed an ownership that Clyde would not be able to forgive. They’d been the wrong words, but then any words of Demet’s would have been the wrong words for Clyde.

Clyde walked back into the surf.

Demet spread her towel next to Dan and plonked herself down on it. ‘You OK?’ she asked, teasingly flicking water on his bare arm.

‘Yeah, ’course I am.’

‘Things alright between you and Clyde?’ She asked it lazily but he was immediately wary. He was cautious when talking about Clyde to Demet, and also when Clyde asked him about her. ‘I’m OK, Clyde and I are OK.’ He picked up his book and started reading over the same damn paragraph, the words refusing to settle.

‘Cool.’ Demet was looking out to the water, where Margarita and Clyde were splashing and dunking each other. ‘She’s having such a good time. She really likes Clyde — they have fun together.’

There was affection and warmth in the way Demet spoke of her girlfriend. That lightness wasn’t there between him and Clyde, only the ferocious rush of desire. The lightness and warmth only came to them just after their bodies were spent, the glow of their orgasms depleted. Only then, maybe, was there light between them.

Dan told himself to be kind. He’d promised himself that he would be kind that weekend, that he would be tender with Clyde.

That afternoon, at the café on the esplanade, Clyde had laughed and joked and camped it up with Margarita, and was even teasing and gentle with Demet. The surly adolescent waitress with the nose ring and pink streaks in her hair brightened visibly on hearing Clyde’s accent; afterwards, when Clyde went up to pay, Dan looked through to where his lover was charming the cashier. But to Dan, from that moment back on the beach, Clyde hadn’t spoken a word.

He didn’t know how to answer that question: ‘Why can’t you swim?’ To answer it honestly would be akin to telling Clyde that he didn’t know Dan at all. To answer would be to reveal himself completely to his lover. The risk of it was unimaginable.

He breathed out and made sure his words were offhand. ‘I’ve told you, I spent most of my teenage years training for four hours a day in the bloody pool. I’ve had enough of swimming to last me a lifetime.’

Clyde’s fingers were wavering over his tobacco pouch, itching to roll another. But he pushed it away. ‘And you really don’t miss it?’

‘I fucking hated it, do you understand? I fucking hated swimming!’

Clyde sighed loudly.

Dan looked down at the slow roll of traffic on the esplanade, he was watching the sun spill into the mouth of the ocean. All the vehicles were BMWs, Volvos, massive SUVs. He and Clyde shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have accepted the invitation. The ocean was splendid here, the coldest blue in the world, the sea rising to kiss the undulating green hills was spectacular — but he had no right to be here. This was the world that belonged to the boys from school — they owned that stretch of the coast. It was a world the other Danny could visit, the Danny that Clyde had never met, must never know. They should never have come.

The thought of seeing someone from that world transformed into something solid that filled his throat, threatening to choke him. They’re not here, he told himself desperately. They’d be in Europe or in expensive Asian resorts. Tourist season would be too crowded for them, too plebeian.

He swallowed, and could breathe again.

‘Are you OK?’ Clyde was looking concerned.

His words came out as a plea: ‘Fuck me.’

The men fucked like animals, Dan’s face squashed against the harsh acrylic of the cheap carpet. He forced himself to mentally outline the green and yellow floret patterns on the rug, he needed to fixate on that, but the lines blurred because his teeth were grinding together so hard he was sure they would crack, but he couldn’t open his mouth; to open his mouth would be to let out a howl from the lacerating pain, the buckling and tearing of his bowels, he was convinced he was tearing. Look at the pattern on the carpet, concentrate on that, only on that, he thought, clamping down on his teeth, telling himself, Don’t shit, don’t shit, as Clyde plunged into him with ferocity and fury. It was violent and savage, and within minutes Clyde was bellowing, with such force and exhilaration that Dan could finally relax. Clyde was spasming, grunting as he came, falling on top of him; the room was a furnace from the heat of the day so when their wet skin slid together it sounded like farting. Dan pushed Clyde off him onto his back on the carpet, then straddled him, jerking his cock violently for only a couple of seconds, feverishly chasing that brief moment of light, and three spurts of semen landed on Clyde’s chest and neck.