Christos Tsiolkas - Barracuda

Walking up the drive past the wrought-iron gates with their elaborate crest, he found himself automatically heading for the Great Hall, as if he were still the young boy in the striped blazer running up the drive. Only at the last moment did he veer back and make his way to the other side of the quadrangle: the service was of course going to be held in the college chapel. Heavy fat clouds hung low in the sky and there was a light drizzle falling. Dan walked up the steps to the chapel. A man holding a clipboard nodded as Dan approached. ‘Are you here for the service?’ The man peeled off a four-page photocopied sheet and handed it to Dan. There was the date of birth, the date of death, and there was the picture of the Coach, not smiling, staring defiantly at the camera, as if challenging the world.

When Dan had first moved to the bungalow in Box Hill, his father had driven over in the truck with the cluster of boxes packed with books, the crate of kitchen utensils and his bag of clothes, along with furniture Dan and his mother had found at the Brotherhood of St Laurence on Brunswick Road. Among his things had been a pile of magazines tied up with string. ‘What are these?’ he had asked, and his mother had told him they were from his old school.

Dan had grimaced and untied the string, and his dad had grinned. ‘I always had a look at them when they came,’ he said, ‘just to see what the rich little fuckers were up to. See how they were ruining the world.’

‘Now, now, Neal,’ Dan’s mother had said. ‘Some of them are

doing good things, aren’t they? Working for Medecins Sans Frontieres, stuff like that. They’re not all fat cats.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ his father had snorted, ‘some of them are salt of the frigging earth, aren’t they?’ He had turned to his son. ‘Anyway, they’re all yours, mate, do what you want with them.’

What Dan had done with them was put them in the recycling bin, then ring up the college and ask for his name to be taken off the mailing list.

‘Oh,’ squeaked the flustered woman who’d answered the phone, ‘I’m not sure how to do that, I’ll have to talk to someone and get back to you.’

Dan had replied, ‘It’s OK. Maybe I’ll just change the address you send them to, can you do that?’ He was about to make up an address, some fake street, some non-existent number, a suburb picked out of the air, but then he just recited his own address. They can come here, he thought, and when I move out of here they can be returned to sender or chucked out. They’ll never find me again.

That was how he had found out that Coach had died and the school was planning a memorial service. On page five had appeared the same black and white image that was printed on the prayer card; the grim-faced man in the open-collared shirt, the man he had not seen for over fifteen years, the man who had wanted him to be better, faster, stronger. The man he had failed.

Walking into the gloomy vestibule of the chapel, he recognised a few of his old teachers milling around, now elderly men. They all looked past him, over him and through him. Then there were the younger men, his age, a few had brought partners, one or two had brought their children along, they too looked past him and through him. It wasn’t because of his second-hand suit, it was because of who he was and what he had done. He saw Wilco, recognised him straight away and raised his hand in an anxious awkward wave, but his hand fell to his side as the tall man looked up, noticed him and then refuted him. Danny Kelly did not exist. Danny Kelly had never been there. Danny Kelly should never have been there.

Dan held his breath as Wilco turned to greet someone, and there was Martin Taylor, heftier now, his hair darker, and with dark shadows beneath his eyes, but it was Martin Taylor, lean and elegant and confident, still perfect except for the two scars: the pink crescent tick at his right temple and the long thin line that started just below his left eyebrow and finished at the corner of his mouth. Dan felt his hands shaking as the man looked across and there was just a moment when their eyes locked, Martin Taylor’s eyes still grey and cold. Without missing a beat, Martin continued his conversation. Martin Taylor also seemed to think that Danny Kelly did not exist at all.

So he did not tear up the stairs, he climbed them slowly, humbly, and took a seat in a pew at the back. He was there to pay his respects to the man he had failed. He was doing that. He was there to apologise, to the man and to the boy.

He did not hear the service; instead he spoke silently to the Coach, thanking his ghost, and laying his soul to rest.

You didn’t always have to give it back. And in that cold, sombre chapel, Dan Kelly discovered that there were some things that you could not be forgiven for, and those were the things that you carried into the next life, if there was such a place; and if there was no next life nor any God, the consequence was the same: if you were not forgiven, you would die with regret.

As he crossed the quadrangle to take his last ever walk down the bluestone drive, he heard his name being called. Dan swung around. A man was descending the chapel steps.

There was something familiar about the man now standing before him, overweight and moon-faced, perspiring even in the cold, his head shaved close to hide his waning hairline. The man held out his hand, not looking through him, not refuting him.

Dan breathed out and examined the man more closely. ‘Morello?’

‘Yeah. You remember me?’

Though the man was no longer a boy there was still something youthful in his gleaming dark eyes and the way his face crinkled as he smiled.

‘John?’

‘Yeah, that’s right.’ John fell into step with him as they started down the drive. ‘I’m glad you came, Danny, I’m glad you came to pay respects to Torma. He was a good man, wasn’t he?’

Dan wasn’t sure how to answer that, not sure he knew anything about the Coach except that he’d wanted Dan to be a champion.

‘Yeah, I guess he was.’ They were at the gates and Dan indicated the tram stop. ‘Good to see you, John,’ he said. ‘I better head home.’

‘You didn’t drive here?’

‘No.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Box Hill.’

‘Look, I’m heading off to Frank’s house, there are some things I need to check there. Why don’t you come with me? I’ll drop you off afterwards. I’m in Mont Albert, not far from you at all.’

Dan was trying to remember something about Morello, something more than the fact that he’d been one of the group of boys who’d teased him when he first went to the new school. He remembered then that Morello had always been a follower, always sucking up to Taylor and Wilco, always a little arsewipe. He’d been an average swimmer with little talent or drive, and had only lasted in the squad for that first year. Then he just dropped away from Dan’s memory. He couldn’t think why the Coach would have had any time for him, why Coach would have bothered with him at all.

‘Nah, mate, thanks, but I should get home.’

Morello’s easy grin was widening, becoming a smirk. Dan wished he could wipe it off his face. He wanted to get away from him, from all of them; he’d come to farewell Frank Torma, that was enough. He didn’t want anything to do with that life anymore.

‘Mate, I think you should come with me and see the house.’ Morello’s eyes were still bright, but his mouth was set in a thoughtful serious line. ‘After all,’ he added, ‘a third of it belongs to you.’