�Thanks, Sonia.�
She nods curtly, makes sure I�ve noticed that she�s annoyed, but then she relents, and calls over her shoulder, �The heating has just gone on in the change rooms, mate. It�s freezing in there.�
It is, it�s like walking into an icy vapour straight off the South Pole. But I strip, slip on my Speedos, wrap my goggles around my neck and run to the pool. I dive into the water.
That�s not quite true: there is a moment, a pause. I hesitate, and then dive into the water.
That hesitation is constant, it is the load on my back. It stays with me as I complete one lap, and then another. The water senses it and does not yield for me. I have worked my muscles, I have sculpted them, they are supple and they are strong. Everything is in order, everything is in shape. But the water does not bend, the water resists me, pushes against me. I complete one hundred metres and I have to gulp for breath.
When the rest of the squad arrives, Wilco among them, I am treading water at the east end of the pool. They don�t glance my way, don�t greet me. Only Coach nods, then calls me over. I swim the length, I swim the fifty metres and there is the load on my back. It is the weight of all their eyes on me, it is their clocking of my pace, my time, my stroke. I break the surface of the water and there is a din in my head. I can hear their thoughts: That used to be Barracuda.
I look up. The squad are not paying me any attention. They are doing stretches, waiting for a signal from Coach. A squad from another of the private schools marches into the pool area, and we all warily eye those boys. I have raced against some of them, I have beaten, thrashed, some of those boys. The Australian Championships are in a fortnight, and I must smash those boys again. I slip under the surface of the water to cool my cheeks, my face. I must beat those boys again.
When I resurface, Coach is beckoning me and I hoist myself onto the pool deck.
Wilco says, finally, �Hi, Kelly,� and I am pathetically grateful for his acknowledgement. I breathe in.
Wilco and I are the seniors in the squad now. There is no Taylor, no Fraser, no Scooter. Sullivan has gone and Morello dropped out long ago. The younger ones keep their distance from me, as if I could contaminate them. One of them, Lensman, is old enough to have seen me win. The others, they only know about my failure. I stand at the side as Coach speaks, I am at the edge of the half-circle formed around him. Coach pairs us off; I am matched with a Year Eight, Costello. I see the glance he exchanges with Lensman, a smirk at the corner of his mouth.
I dive cleanly, I do not hesitate. I plough through the water like a threshing machine, I do not think of my breathing, my kick, my stroke. And as if repaying my loyalty, the water carries me and the water bends and shifts for me. I am not consciousness, I am drive and I am body and I am force. My arms hammer down on the water, and effortlessly separate the water. I have no thoughts but I dare myself, the words are inseparable from the water and my body, they are one: I am the strongest, the fastest, the best. I am the strongest, the fastest, the best.
Waves of exhilaration flood through me. I beat Costello, I flog him. The boy is about to say something to me, to accept my victory, but I cut him off and raise my arms, my biceps flexed, my fists clenched triumphantly. I make a sound, somewhere between a grunt and a bray, and I repeat it. So he knows I have beaten him. Costello slips back under the water, he says nothing at all.
I will learn how to breathe again.
As I am about to climb into the minibus with the others to head to school, Coach taps me on the shoulder, pulls me away from the squad. I can see the others looking back at us as they board.
Coach waits until all the boys are on, then he gives the driver a thumbs-up. �Come on, Danny,� he says. �You come with me.�
All the way out from the city we don�t speak. It isn�t until he turns his car onto the freeway that forms the spine through the south-eastern suburbs that he turns to me. �Danny, do you trust me?�
I have to trust you, no one else will take a chance on me now. But I don�t say that. I just nod obediently.
�Good. You have to trust me, son. You have to trust me if you want to be a swimmer again.�
Two thoughts rebound against one another: that he has called me son; and that he knows I am not the strongest, not the fastest, not the best. I have to learn I can�t reconcile the two notions�they confuse me and render me silent.
I pull my bag onto my lap, search for my water bottle and drink from it hungrily. �I think I did good back there,� I say meekly, not looking across at him, looking at the steady flow of cars in front of and around us. �It felt good to beat Costello.�
Coach makes an ugly derisive sound. He is gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles are white. �Costello is fourteen, he�s nearly three years younger than you�he has some talent, but he�s no champion.� His left hand slips off the wheel and his forefinger drums hard at my chest. �Is that who you want to compare yourself to? Is that the best you expect from yourself?�
I can�t speak. I want his fingers to be a fist, I want him to punch me, bash me. Anything but his contemptuous words. They are no worse than the things I say to myself since I came back from Japan�in fact, they are much milder. He hasn�t called me a loser, he hasn�t called me a coward; he hasn�t uttered that one word that is the load on my back, he hasn�t called me a failure.
But he and I, we both know what I am.
�Answer me, boy. What is it you want?�
I am too frightened to speak. I don�t dare say the words.
Coach again takes one hand off the wheel, and says, �I can train you, boy, I can build your muscles here��and as he spits the words he punches, hard, his own chest��I can make you strong here��and he smacks the palm of his hand to his bicep��I can work you so hard that every part of your body will be perfect. Here,� he yells, and slams his fist into his chest again, �Here,� punching his bicep, and �Here,� he delivers a blow to his thigh. �But what I can�t do, Danny,� and his finger is pointing at my head, �I can�t do anything about here.�
He indicates to veer off the freeway, we are nearly at school. I know that I have to say something, that he has taken me aside to give me an ultimatum, he is asking whether swimming is over for me. And I can�t believe it, my body is betraying me again, I can sense the shudders going through me, the tears about to flow from my eyes. I shut them tight, I inhale, I rein myself in. I can�t break that promise, that promise that I have made to myself: that I will never ever ever cry again.
I have to learn how to breathe again.
I open my eyes: the world in my vision is dry. I turn to Coach. �I want to be an Olympic swimmer.�
We are in the school car park. Coach turns off the car and looks at me.
And I look at him. I don�t see the drooping jowls, the fat face, the bulldog neck. I see large and dark and limpid eyes, a sheen of moisture there in the blackness.
�You are at a crossroads, son, but I have faith you can be a great swimmer. Do you have that faith?�
All I can think of is that he has called me son again. He is about to say something else. But he swallows the words.
I have to stop myself saying, Tell me, tell me what to do, what to think. Tell me. I have to trust you.
It comes to me, it is a story my father used to tell me when I was a child in my flannelette pyjamas. Sometimes he would read to me but more often than not he enjoyed telling me stories. Of how a young Presley was taken up to Memphis or how a son of slaves called Lead Belly grew up in a whorehouse and discovered his genius for singing in prison chain gangs.
�Music�s the best education, Danny,� I remember him saying. �A true education, not like the manufactured crap on the radio these days.�
And he told me about Robert Johnson at the crossroads. That night he showed me the sleeve of a record, Johnson smoking a cigarette, clutching the neck of a guitar. He didn�t look old enough to be called a man.
Robert Johnson met the Devil at the
crossroads, my father told me, and he wanted to play the blues so bad that he made a deal with the Devil. He sold his soul. That was how much the music meant to him, that was what it cost him to play.
The water rushes past me, a flock of yellow-tailed cockatoos fling from the trees and their squawks fill the day.
You are at a crossroads, son.
I didn�t get raised with God so I am not acquainted with the Devil. But looking out across the river, I am sure that I have felt them both in the water. Poseidon was the god of the ocean and Poseidon carried a trident. I remember that.
Mum didn�t want me to learn about God�she said God is just goodness. And evil? I never asked her about evil.
How much do I want it?
I look around me; the bush is empty, there isn�t anyone else around. So I whisper, �I�ll sell my soul.�
The river, the birds, they are the only ones who hear me.
And I don�t know God and I don�t know the Devil. What would He want in return? What would be a sacrifice?
The thought rushes through me; and now I feel the cold, now there is only cold.
I�d give up my father. I�d give up my mother.
I see it, I see it clearly, a truck crashing off a highway.
I will give up my father and I will give up my mother.
And I�d give up Luke, I�d give up Martin.
And it feels right, it is right. Martin remains young and handsome and beautiful for eternity.
I will give up my mates.
And Demet?
I will give up my best friend.
And the cold is my blood and my blood is ice.
Now I understand evil. The shaft that is light between us, from her heart to my heart. I will break that light. That�s how much I want it.
And Regan?
That shy little girl, hiding behind her long sandy hair, waiting patiently for my training to finish, who can�t bear my father yelling at me, who can�t bear anyone hurting me. Who adores me.
I will give up my sister.
And Theo?
Who is there in the morning and who is there in the evening, trusting me, believing in me. What would anything mean without Theo? I can�t give up Theo.
What is it you want?
I have been holding in my breath and now I exhale.
The birds have stopped their song. Even the river is silent.
I will give up Theo.
The trilling returns, the rush of the water.
I get to my feet, but a thought is pounding, it is current and wave, it is coursing through me: is it worth it? All I am is shame. But there isn�t a God and there isn�t a Devil because in the pool that afternoon my legs are leaden, my arms are dead weights, my lungs gasp for air; I swallow water. Coach doesn�t have to say a word, I don�t have to look at him. I know the disappointment that will be there in his eyes.
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.
Easter 2003
He slid the plane across the wood, wisps of shavings falling softly to the ground. Dan enjoyed the steady motion, the tool gliding unde
r 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.