Christos Tsiolkas - Barracuda

'We should get back.' Luke was twitching behind him. Danny knew he would be looking at his watch, counting down the seconds. Danny didn't want to move, didn't want to leave the peace of the water and trees and birdsong.

'I can't hear anything from the ovals,' Luke fretted. 'The bell will have rung. We have to go, we have to go now .'

Stop your whingeing, stop your bloody whingeing. In one swift movement, Danny was on his feet and running through the bushes, through the long grass. He slipped quickly through the loose netting, knowing Luke would be struggling to follow, would be carefully trying to get under the wire fence without damaging his jacket or his trousers, that he would be close to crying because he didn't want to get into trouble, didn't want to smear his spotless record. He was a wimp, a dick and a wimp. Let them give Danny detention, let them take swimming practice away from him: he'd go to the Coburg pool instead, go back to his old pool, he didn't need them. He didn't need them at all.

He could hear Luke panting behind him. Friendless Luke; a boy who had no one but Danny.

Danny stopped and turned around, relenting. 'It's OK, mate, tell them I was sick and you were looking after me. You'

re not going to get into trouble.'

Luke nodded, the relief clear on his face.

When they cautiously opened the door to their English class, they could immediately tell that something had happened to upset the inflexible rules and rhythm of the day. Mr Gilbert turned to them, barked, 'Why are you late?' but he didn't even wait for their answer. They took their seats and looked around. The boys were obviously agitated. Danny leaned across and whispered to Sullivan, 'What's happened?'

'Kurt Cobain shot himself. He's dead.' Sullivan's tone was hushed, solemn.

Danny's first thought was, It somehow all makes sense, and his next thought was, I need to speak to Demet.

Mr Gilbert had thrown out the lesson for the day, and was asking them about Cobain and Nirvana and what their music meant to them. The boys were throwing themselves into the conversation, some responses measured, some showing care and even passion. It was all so civilised, so articulate, that Danny wanted to scream at them to shut up shut up shut up. He didn't want to reveal to them how he felt, how deeply gutted he was, how his breath itself felt stolen, he was not going to give them that, he was not going to let them see into him. He had to be with Demet. She would need him, she would be inconsolable.

Shut up shut up shut up. He didn't want to hear those rich kids babble, he didn't give a toss what they thought. The whole time Mr Gilbert was going on about music and art and suicide and death and the importance of talking to someone and not bottling up your feelings and remembering where he was when John Lennon was shot, and all Danny wanted was for the teacher, for the boys, for all of them to shut up shut up shut up, until Mr Gilbert turned to him and asked, 'Danny, how do you feel?'

Mr Gilbert always used their first names, but today he wished Mr Gilbert would call him Kelly, he didn't want to like Mr Gilbert today, he wanted to hate him, and so when he sullenly looked up and saw all the boys waiting, even Luke who didn't know shit about music but looked sad because he knew that Danny loved Nirvana, Danny shrugged and said flatly, 'I don't really care.'

Behind him Taylor was laughing. Danny didn't turn around.

'He's a homie, sir,' he heard Taylor say, and though he couldn't see it he knew Taylor would have thrown a mocking, deliberately clumsy gangsta move. 'You only listen to rap and doof-doof, don't you, Dino? Do you even know who Kurt Cobain was?'

'Doof doof doof doof doof doof.' Tsitsas started the chant.

'Doof doof doof doof doof doof.' The rest of the boys picked it up.

Until Mr Gilbert snapped, 'Quiet!' And because this was not Danny's real school, because of the kind of school it was, all the boys fell instantly silent. Mr Gilbert was looking straight at him, Mr Gilbert was kind, he was a good man, and he said, 'Of course you know who Kurt Cobain is, don't you, Danny?'

And Danny answered, 'Yeah, he was a whingeing white cunt.'

He could feel the shock of it, the word had power and velocity, a gust hurtling across the room. The teacher just looked at him, and Danny knew that he had wounded him, knew that the singer had meant something to him, just as he did to Demet, just as he did to Danny himself, but he didn't know how to let the man know and still keep it from the other boys. So he didn't say a thing, he didn't let on, couldn't let on. This was how he was better than them, how he was harder than them, how he was stronger.

'If I ever hear you use that word again, you will never be allowed back in my class.'Mr Gilbert's eyes narrowed, his face pinched. His voice was hoarse from reining in his fury. 'That is a foul and hateful word. That is a word that only foul and hateful people use.'

No one made a sound.

'Do you understand, Kelly?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You could be suspended for using such a word. Worse!' Mr Gilbert bellowed and it made Danny jump. It made them all jump.

'But these are unusual circumstances.' The man's voice softened. 'Tonight you're back here, after final period. You have detention.'

Taylor couldn't help himself, he let out a gleeful whoop.

'And you, quiet!'

No one made a sound.

'OK, Mr Kelly here thinks Kurt Cobain was a whinger. Does anyone else agree?'

More noise. He would not listen, he would not care, he would not give them anything. Instead he imagined himself back at the river, with the sounds of the birds, the green of the foliage. He thought of water and found the stillness, and their noise dropped away so it was a shock when the bell rang. He slammed back his chair and was the first out the door.

During the afternoon recess he had to find Frank Torma and tell him he had detention, that he wouldn't be able to train that afternoon. The Coach was supervising a footy game being played by the Year Sevens.

'What did you do?'

'I swore.'

'To who?'

'Mr Gilbert.'

Torma glared at him. 'You're an idiot.' The man turned away, ignoring him, watching a small but fearless kid steal the ball and run away from the pack, bouncing it once, twice, three times, kicking it off the left foot. The ball climbed, curved, and just hit the goalpost.

'Why are you still standing here?'

'I know I can't train with the others tonight, but I'm going to the pool near home, I'll go straight after, 'Go away.' The Coach dismissed him with an abrupt gesture. 'With me, you are training, on your own you are just paddling like a puppy.'

And Danny knew the truth of that: without Torma, without his training, he was stuck in the in-between.

The class straight after the break was phys ed. And Danny knew that the boys were out to get him, he could sense it. The air was thick, it carried sound and heat, an electric current transmitted from boy to boy, a living, writhing energy. It was there in the smirk on Sullivan's face, in the slow and careful way Taylor undressed next to him, as if preparing for combat: neatly hanging up his shirt, his tie, folding his trousers. Danny didn't dare look at the other boys as he slipped quickly into his sports gear. The challenge was not only in the air: the crowing magpies announced that Danny Kelly was going to get it; the threat was there in the slow measured tread of the boys around him.

Mr Oldfield ordered them to run around the oval three times, and as Danny set off he found that Sullivan and Tsitsas were keeping pace with him, all the while chanting, making it a beat: 'Doof. Doof. Doof. Doof.'