He had asked his mother to wake him at seven and her voice cut into his sleep like nails screeching down a blackboard. He groaned and tried to toss himself back into sleep. He must have succeeded because he was woken again by his mother coming into his room and clapping her hands close to his ear. He shot out of bed. His mother laughed at him cruelly.
‘What time is it?’
‘A quarter past seven,’ his mother called on her way out of the room, ‘and if you’re not out of the shower and dressed by seven-thirty I’m not driving you to the pool.’
Seven-fifteen. That felt like a school day. Like the old days. He had not woken before ten since school had finished, and most days not before noon. His two shifts at the supermarket were in the afternoon and evening, though Zoran the shift supervisor had intimated that there would be some morning shifts available after the school holidays had finished. Richie loved the liberation of uninterrupted sleep, especially as he realised that it was possibly his last opportunity to indulge in it, that the future would soon grab him and study and work and life would again order his body to a clock. Seven-fifteen. He ran to the shower in his underdaks. As always, he stayed under long enough to quickly wash and brush his teeth. The drought had forced him to change his ways: he used to love spending ages under the shower, ignoring his mother’s tirades over his waste of water. He’d clean his teeth, shave if he needed to—still only once a week—and most often wank. Not anymore.
His mother was already waiting for him in the car. In minutes she had turned into the driveway of the YMCA. Thanks, Mum, he called out, slamming the door shut. She hooted and he waved, not bothering to turn back to look at her.
He didn’t need to be at Hugo’s till nine-thirty, and he was determined to swim for at least forty minutes. Richie had decided at the end of school that he wanted a new body, a fit, strong body. Eventually, like Nick, like Ali, he would join the gym, but he wasn’t ready for it yet. He’d never been particularly good at sports or Phys. Ed. He was too scrawny, felt too weak.
Undressing in the change rooms he eagerly anticipated his birthday present. An iPod. Awesome. That would make the gym bearable. He slipped into his trunks and jumped into the pool.
He was determined to get to one hundred laps, that was his goal. Nick had told him that by swimming he would be exercising all the muscles in his body but that he needed to concentrate on speed and endurance if he wanted to build up his strength. So far, in just under two months, Richie had built up to fifty laps. The first twenty were always the killer—he always found them excruciating to complete; they seemed to take ages. Time passed slowly, and he experienced every boring second of it. He detested the monotony of repetition. He had nearly given up swimming in that first week; it was only the embarrassment of seeing his thin, reedy body in the change-room mirrors that forced him back to the water. But he discovered that if he did persevere, if he reached the twentieth lap, and kept on going, he entered what he-tried-not-to-but-ended-up-calling-it-what-the-fucked-up-jocks-at-school-called-it, ‘the zone’. The zone was a space of timelessness and disassociation. It was like being stoned, but healthier. In the zone, time was not made up of dull seconds and even more tedious minutes; in the zone, time had no markers, no beginning and no end.
Sometimes, not very often, he and Nick would swim together. But it was uncomfortable, and he found it impossible to enter the zone with Nick swimming next to him. He was too conscious of his friend’s body, of the ferocity of his own desire. Not that he ever dared look at Nick when they were changing; they always dressed facing away from each other in the showers. He did take peeks, he couldn’t help it. He could describe every part of Nick’s anatomy, a composite body he had snatched in illicit glances. The light wave of golden hair underneath Nick’s balls, the almost scarlet blotch of the birthmark above his friend’s right nipple, the boy’s stubby, hooded cock, so much smaller than his own.
Richie swam to eighteen laps, breathing heavily, struggling to reach the magical twenty. He tried not to think of his friend’s beautiful cock, of the almost perfect profile of the pool attendant standing bored over the empty kiddie’s pool. Nineteen. He wanted to give up, go home, go back to bed. He touched the cold tiles and tumbled into the next lap. Twenty, he had reached it. He was in the zone. When he touched the wall to finish his fiftieth lap, it felt as if no time had passed at all. He sucked deeply from the tepid warm air, then taking a breath, he folded his legs to sink beneath the water. He’d count to thirty. He reached twenty-one and his chest began to hurt. He refused to panic. He got to thirty and broke the top of the water. Grabbing his towel he dashed for the spa.
An old Asian gentleman, his skin a bronze colour, was the only person in the spa. Richie quickly showered, ridding his body of the stench of chlorine, and then slid into the frothing water. The jets pummelled into his back. He quickly turned around, felt the warm punches of water against his stomach. He lifted himself up and let the water throb against his crotch and, turning again, the jets slammed into his arse. It was always a nice feeling, it always felt sleazy and a little pervy. Would a cock up his arse feel like this? Nah, he’d stuck his fingers up himself once and, though kind of hot in a dirty, pornographic way, it had also hurt. A cock would definitely hurt. He turned again and slid into the water, his back against the spa wall, his arms outstretched on the tiled rim. His armpits seemed lewd, gross and hairy, especially compared to the near hairlessness of the Asian man. Richie looked up through the glass. A man, sweaty from a workout, his singlet drenched, was opening a locker.
Richie’s back straightened. He stared open-mouthed at the man. It was Hector.
Richie’s eyes followed him as he grabbed his bag, shut the locker again and walked down the corridor towards the change rooms. At that moment, as Hector disappeared around the corner, the jets in the spa fell quiet. The water trembled, then became still. It would be a few minutes before they would start again. Usually Richie would then go into the sauna. Usually. But he did not do that. He took his towel and headed for the showers.
They had renovated the men’s changing rooms in the spring and instead of open showers there were now six cubicles. Hector was showering in one, his cubicle door left wide open. Richie stood looking at the man’s hairy arse, his tall, defined body. Hector looked as if he was about to turn and face him, and Richie quickly ducked into the cubicle next to him. He swiftly turned on the water and let it fall down hard on him, far too cold, but he didn’t care. He could hear the man next door turn off the shower. Richie stood beneath the water. He stripped off his trunks. He decided to count to fifteen. Fifteen was a lucky number.
Fifteen. He turned off the shower and walked into the change room.
Hector was standing across from him, naked, a white damp towel draped across his shoulder. Richie, not daring to breathe, looked at the man, then offered a shy, scared grin. Hector, looking confused, smiled back. ‘Hello.’
That was exactly how Grigorovich D’Estaing would have sounded, a voice rich and resonant and deep, nothing soft about it at all.
Richie just nodded back, not daring to say a word. He would squeak, sound like a girl, he just knew it. He should ask about Aisha, about his kids—what the fuck were their names? Hector continued to dry himself. Richie took him all in, knowing it could be the only opportunity he would ever get. He looked at the man’s neck, his chest, his belly, his thighs, his cock, his balls, his crotch, his knees, elbows, fingers, hands. He would not let himself forget a single thing about him. The dense dark swirls of hair around his nipples, the faint pink scar on his left arm, the fact that his right testicle seemed rounder, larger than the other. Hector was pulling back his foreskin, wiping at it. Richie’s cock suddenly went hard; he had no control over it. It jutted out, wobbly, huge, ugly. Drying his shoulders, Hector glanced over at Richie, then looked away immediately, shocked, embarrassed, but not before Richie had caught that look somewhere between distress and disgust in the older man’s eyes.
Hector made a sound, a grunt, a mumbl
ed indecipherable obscenity. Cold loathing dripped from that sound. He had turned away from the boy, hiding his body from his gaze. Richie burned red. He wanted to cry. He mustn’t cry. Frantically, he pulled on his trunks and rushed out of the change rooms. His cock was still stiff, threatening to slip out of his swimmers, and he held his hands protectively over his crotch as he ran, shaking, pretending to be cold. He almost slid on the tiles as he ran to the pool. He dived in, ignoring the signs forbidding him to do so. He immediately swam, beginning his laps anew, his strokes hard, violent, the water churning around him. Richie was swimming away from what had just happened, trying to race against Hector’s contempt, the fact that Hector must think him a pervert, had no clue who he was, had not recognised him. That should have made him glad: there was no chance Hector would say anything to Aisha, which meant neither his mother nor Connie would ever hear anything about it. But it did not make him glad. Hector didn’t remember him. He was nothing to Hector—just a fag, a freak, all sick, stupid childish fantasies and dreams. Richie swam and swam, lap after lap, churning through the water, punishing himself into exhaustion. Finally, too knackered for another lap, he placed his brow against the cool tiles of the pool. Sick sick sick.
He walked to Rosie’s still cursing himself. He hated his body. It had betrayed him. He shouldn’t have run; he should have stayed and confronted Hector. I know what you did. I know. He knocked hard on the door. The bell had stopped working and Gary had not got round to fixing it. He knocked so hard he nearly tore his knuckles.
‘You’re early,’ smiled Rosie as she ushered him in.
He mumbled something unintelligible. Hugo was watching a DVD in the lounge room but leapt up as soon as he heard Richie. It wasn’t until that moment, the child’s arms tight around his neck, that he finally felt some respite, did not feel like tearing himself apart, ridding himself of his useless body, his dirty, sick mind. He cuddled the boy and then carefully disentangled himself from the hug. Richie pulled out the ventolin from his pocket and took two sharp puffs. He could breathe again. He smiled down at the little boy who was looking at him in alarm.
‘Don’t worry, little man, I’m just a bit short of breath.’
Rosie too looked concerned.
‘I’m okay,’ he protested. ‘I just overdid it at the pool.’ He slumped on the sofa. ‘Where’s Gary?’
‘Asleep.’ Hugo was giggling. ‘He always sleeps in. He says if I wake him up on Saturday morning he’s going to cream my arse.’ The boy plonked himself next to Richie. ‘That means he’s going to slap my bottom.’
Rosie was shaking her head. ‘You know he doesn’t mean it.’
Hugo ignored her. He was looking up adoringly at Richie.
‘You want to play soccer in the park?’
‘Yes.’ Hugo screamed out his glee and began to run circles around the coffee table. ‘Kick to kick, kick to kick,’ he yelled.
Rosie crushed a ten-dollar bill into Richie’s hand.
‘He wants an ice cream,’ she whispered. ‘But only buy him one scoop.’ The woman hugged Richie close to her. She smelt nice, of soap and sweet floral woman’s smells. She smelt clean. ‘And buy one for yourself.’
Richie nodded, not wanting her to drop her arm from around him. But she did. Soccer, kick to kick, an ice cream, a walk. That’s all he wanted, to be a boy, to be a child again. He wished Rosie could hold him forever.
‘I’ll be finished by eleven.’
‘It’s okay. I like hanging out with Hugo.’
‘He likes hanging out with you.’
‘That’s because he’s a monkey.’ He tussled the boy’s hair. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, buddy? You’re a little monkey?’
‘I’m not a monkey, I’m not, I’m not,’ the boy objected, but the protests were cheerful. Richie waited with Rosie outside on the verandah while Hugo searched for his ball. The sun was naked in the sky, it was already a hot day. He would not think of Hector. Soccer, kick to kick, ice cream. He would not think of Hector at all. He could not allow himself to, because every time he did, humiliation ripped into him so deeply he felt he was being torn in two.
They played in the park for an hour, kicking the ball and occasionally alternating it with some rougher ball play when Hugo got bored. In the physicality of the play, in his alertness to Hugo’s moods and sensitivity, Richie found that he could forget the morning, put it aside.
After playing, Richie took Hugo across the park and into Queens Parade for an ice cream. As they were eating, Hugo explaining about the Lost Boys and Pinocchio, Richie’s mobile beeped. It was a text from Lenin asking if he wanted to walk into work with him. Hugo watched Richie text back. Reluctantly the older boy looked at the time on his phone’s face. It was just on eleven. He had to get Hugo home.
Hugo shook his head violently at the suggestion. ‘No. I want to stay.’
‘Sorry, little man. I promised your mum I’d have you home.’
The boy scowled and drew swirls of ice cream with his finger on the tabletop. ‘No,’ he declared defiantly. ‘I’m not going home.’
I don’t want to go home either, little man, I want to stay here with you forever. ‘How about if I give you a piggyback home?’
Hugo’s face brightened. ‘All the way?’
Richie hesitated. Hugo was now four. He was getting big. ‘Until I fall down.’
The little boy was weighing it all up. ‘Falling down’ meant until Richie got tired.
Hugo pushed his ice cream aside. ‘I finished,’ he announced and got off his chair.
Richie knelt and Hugo jumped on his back. ‘Shit,’ Richie groaned, ‘you are getting heavy.’
‘You said the “S” word.’
‘You’re lucky I didn’t say the “F” word.’
Hugo scrambled up higher on Richie’s back, gripped his arms tight around the older boy’s neck. He leaned into Richie’s ear and whispered, ‘Fuck.’
‘Shh,’ Richie laughed. He held the boy’s hands. ‘You ready?’
‘Ready.’
Richie made a neighing sound and scampered off, Hugo’s jubilant hollers in his ears.
It was at the traffic lights on Gold Street that Hugo spat at the old man. He was one of those elderly gentlemen who would soon become extinct. He looked like he’d stepped out of an old Australian movie, wearing a tie and an ironed white shirt, a jacket, even in the heat, and an old-style brimmed hat on his head. They were standing next to each other, waiting for the light to go green. The old man’s back was straight, even though he looked ancient. The old man looked up at Hugo, and smiled.
‘I’m bigger than you,’ the boy called out.
The old man chuckled. ‘I think you have an unfair advantage.’
Richie had laughed politely. It was then he noticed the look of abrupt shock on the man’s face. Panicking, he wondered if the old guy was about to have a heart attack. He was ready to order Hugo to the ground when he saw the old man wipe away foam and spit that was sliding down his cheek. The shock had left him, there was only disappointment on his face now, and an unbearable, condemning resignation.
Hugo let out a peal of laughter. ‘Got ya,’ he taunted.
The old man made no reply.
Richie reached up and gripped the boy’s arm. ‘Hugo, apologise.’
He turned to the old man. ‘I’m so sorry, sir.’
‘No.’ The boy on his shoulders was still laughing, still thought it a joke.
‘Hugo, you apologise now.’ He tightened his grip.
‘No.’ Hugo was trying to tug his arm away.
Richie would not let him; he was twisting his neck, trying to get a view of the boy. Both of them scowled at one another.
‘Say you’re sorry.’
‘I don’t have to.’
‘Now!’
The boy was wriggling, and Richie let go of his arm and gripped his leg, fearful that he would fall. He saw Hugo’s other foot kick out and strike the old man across the shoulder. Again, the old man just stood there. It was a weak kic
k and would not have hurt, but there was that same shock and puzzlement, the weary, resigned acceptance.
Richie felt judged. He grabbed Hugo’s waist and pulled him off onto the ground. He held tight to the boy’s hand. Hugo realised he had crossed some kind of line, and was beginning to sniffle, to protest. Richie pulled at Hugo’s hand. He wished he could pull it right out of its fucking socket.
‘Sir,’ Richie said again his voice shaking. ‘I’m so sorry.’
The lights had been green but had now turned red again. The old man, confused, dazed, looked down the street and suddenly stepped off the kerb and began crossing the road. Brakes screeched, and a horn sounded violently. Richie wrenched Hugo’s hand and they began to cross as well. Richie ignored the outraged honking and yells. The boy was now in tears.
‘It hurts,’ he whimpered.
‘I don’t fucking care.’ He yanked him forcibly across the road, quickly passing the old man. Hugo was trying to free himself and Richie quickened his pace. He was now dragging the boy along, who was screaming, his face going purple, ‘It hurts, It hurts!’
Richie knew the whole world was watching him: the old man behind him, the shoppers on Queens Parade who had looked up at the boy’s cries, the drivers and passengers in the cars. He did not care. He was worried that if he stopped moving that he would turn on Hugo and belt the boy into oblivion, bash the little monster’s face in for what he had done to the old man. He was impervious to the boy’s screams. They passed the pool, crossed North Terrace into the park, the boy stumbling, wailing, trying not to fall. In the shade of the park Richie let go of the boy’s hand. He turned around to him, his anger still boiling, to yell at him, I want to kill you, you fucking arsehole. But his words froze. Hugo was stricken, his cries hysterical, his body shaking. The boy’s face was scarlet, he looked as though he couldn’t breathe. Fear and shame flooded through Richie’s body. He knelt and put his arms around the boy.