The Origin of Me

by Bernard Gallate

  About the Book

  Lincoln Locke’s fifteen-year-old life is turned upside down when he’s thrust into bachelor-pad living with his father, after his parents’ marriage breaks up, and into an exclusive new school. Crestfield Academy offers Lincoln a new set of peers – the crème de la crème of gifted individuals, who also happen to be financially loaded – and a place on the swim relay team with a bunch of thugs in Speedos. Homunculus, the little voice inside his head, doesn’t make life any easier; nor does Lincoln’s growing awareness of a genetic anomaly that threatens to humiliate him at every turn.

  On a search for answers to big life questions, he turns to the school library, where he spies a nineteenth-century memoir, My One Redeeming Affliction by Edwin Stroud, a one-time star of Melinkoff’s Astonishing Assembly of Freaks. As Lincoln slowly reads this peculiar, life-changing book, the past reaches into his present in fascinating and alarming ways.

  Ways that defy imagination . . .

  Contents

  COVER

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  TITLE PAGE

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  START HERE

  ACCIDENTS DON’T MAKE APPOINTMENTS

  ONE MAN’S JUNK

  RIPPLES OF INFLUENCE

  DRAFTED

  BIRTHPLACE OF CHAMPIONS

  EVERY MAN NEEDS A TALE

  YOU ARE HERE

  THE BURNING QUESTION

  WHAT ARE THE CHANCES?

  LOST AND FOUNDLINGS

  LAMPWICK’S CIGAR

  #BOTTOMSUP

  JUST FOR THE SMELL OF IT

  CRACKED EGGS

  THE DOG TURD MANDALA

  FREAKING DORIAN

  CATCHING STITCHES

  THE NANG-NANG

  FLUSHED WITH SUCCESS

  DESTRUCTIVE AND HABITUAL BEHAVIOURS

  CLAWED NEON

  SLIPPING THE TONGUE

  THE OTHER BROWN SPOT

  MUSIC TO BLEED TO

  SARAH BELLUM

  BUILDING TOMORROW’S MAN

  CLOSE TO THE BONE

  SEE THE WORLD

  HOT OR NOT?

  EVERYTHING TURNS

  TERMINALLY DISCONNECTED

  THE CRUELLEST WORDS

  ALL OF MY PROBLEMS ARE RELATIVE

  WHO RULES THE POOL?

  THINGS THAT BIND US

  ONE MAN’S TRASH

  FILTHY LUCRE

  RICH WHITE KIDS PRETENDING THEY’RE NOT

  BETTER OUT THAN IN

  GOODBYE, PARADISE

  PINK ELEPHANT

  THE CHURCH OF TIME

  MOST BEAUTIFUL

  LOVE YOU, BRO

  LADY IN WHITE

  FAMILY TIES

  THE KEY TO UNDERSTANDING

  REDEEMING MY AFFLICTION

  HERE IS THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  IMPRINT

  READ MORE AT PENGUIN BOOKS AUSTRALIA

  Lincoln Locke

  Gus (dog, staffy)

  Venn (older sister)

  Oscar (cat, Burmese)

  Charis (mother)

  Morgan Brierly (business partner)

  Penny Button, Emma, Jules (employees)

  Vienna Voronova (model), $KiNT (designer)

  Lance (father)

  Steve (business partner)

  Pop Locke, Nana Locke (paternal grandparents)

  Tippi (dog, Jack Russell–Chihuahua)

  Northern Beaches life

  Dr Finster (GP)

  Nicole Parker (ex-girlfriend)

  Maëlle Beauvais (French house guest)

  Valmay and Roger Harris (neighbours)

  Dougal (dog, foxhound)

  Elliot Grobecker (ex-boyfriend of Venn)

  Tom Nugent (best Northern Beaches friend of Lincoln)

  Blake Nugent (older brother of Tom)

  Coops (friend)

  Maxine Partridge (best friend of Charis)

  Crestfield Academy students

  Tibor Mintz (orientation buddy)

  Isa Mountwinter

  Dee (mum)

  Terri, Stef (housemates)

  Delilah (cat)

  Phoenix Lee (best friend of Isa)

  Pericles Pappas

  Con (father)

  Helena and Christina (twin sisters)

  Darvin ‘Nads’ Naylor

  Sean ‘Mullows’ Mulligan

  Evan Starkey (‘Starkey’ for short)

  Cheyenne Piper

  Liliana and Ingrid Petersen (twins)

  Heather Treadwell

  David York

  Byron Paget

  Crestfield staff

  Mr Dashwood (principal)

  Mr Simmons (sportsmaster and swim coach)

  Deb Gelber (assistant coach)

  Ms Tarasek (art teacher)

  Mr Monaro (maths teacher)

  Dr Limberg (school psychologist)

  Mrs Deacon (head librarian)

  Mr Jespersen (caretaker)

  Miss Keenan (biology teacher)

  Mr Field (English teacher)

  Mrs Hatcher (history teacher)

  Miss Moreau (French teacher)

  Nurse Nola

  The city

  Sergio (personal trainer)

  Bert McGill (junkyard hermit)

  Blue Lady, Pink Lady, Loose Pants Lenny (other eccentrics)

  My One Redeeming Affliction

  Edwin Stroud (author) a.k.a. Taloo, a.k.a. Harold Hopkins

  Thomas (brother)

  Loula (sister)

  Esther Stroud, née Hunnicutt (mother)

  Walter Hunnicutt (Esther’s father)

  Martha Hunnicutt (Esther’s mother)

  Althea Beauclare (Esther’s stepmother)

  Frederick, Samuel, Arthur (brothers)

  Madame Zora (employer: a milliner)

  William Stroud (father)

  Hannah and Matthias Stroud (William’s adoptive parents)

  Ah To, or Johnny, and Lin Cheong, or Mac (friends)

  Dimitrios (Greek fisherman in Sydney)

  George Pemberton (entrepreneur)

  Edwin’s Pyrmont life

  Deidre ‘Diddy’ Budd (neighbour)

  Neville Sampson (employer)

  Reg McGuffin (local bully)

  Dr Melvin Fletcher

  Melinkoff’s Astonishing Assembly of Freaks

  Irving Melinkoff (showman)

  Ruthie Davis a.k.a. Baby Cakes the Living Doll

  Roy Lister the Human Globe

  Melvina Wellington; Leopold (son): the Fully Bearded Family

  Milton Banks a.k.a. the Whispering Flame

  Serpentina and her diamond python Octavius

  Lloyd Farbridge and leopards Samson and Delilah

  Paulo Esposito a.k.a. Paulo Penguino (best friend of Edwin)

  Hilda Groot a.k.a. Zerodia Nashko the Circassian Beauty, a.k.a. mermaid princess

  According to family lore, exactly forty weeks after my father won the prestigious and fiercely contested GravyLog® Pet Food account for his advertising agency, I was born. Whether his victory had inspired the little guys to swim harder or it had more to do with the favourable new position my parents had found themselves in is a disputed element of the story. But the date of my birth is not. It was the twelfth of February, the same day that Abraham Lincoln and Charles Darwin were born. I know – incredible. Three illustrious figures sharing a birthday. My parents couldn’t decide between Abe and Charlie, so they settled on Lincoln.

  On the origin of the little brown spot, I’m more dubious. I’d neither seen nor felt the thing at the base of my spine before turning fifteen last year, but when I visited Dr Finster he said it was a birthmark. I wasn’t about to ask my mother if it had always been there. She would’ve asked for a look.
The doctor reassured me the matter would remain strictly confidential, and urged me to return if I noticed any changes. Over the following months, its development was gradual enough to deny . . . until late last year, when my first and only girlfriend, Nicole Parker, inadvertently touched the tiny nub. Her crushing reaction set off a series of events that resulted in me being torn from my old public school on Sydney’s Northern Beaches and transplanted into a private institution in the Eastern Suburbs.

  Today marks the end of my first week at

  CRESTFIELD ACADEMY FOR THE EXCEEDINGLY GIFTED AND DANGEROUSLY PRIVILEGED

  If Aunty Beryl filled her tank with unleaded petrol at $1.65 a litre and stopped once on her way from Sydney to Dubbo, how much would it cost Uncle Barry to reach Coonabarabran if he drove twice as fast in his V8?

  Today Mr Monaro wrote that and nine other absurdly challenging questions on the board and barred us from leaving until we’d solved them. All I could think about was the fact that Uncle Barry wasn’t helping to reduce global warming. I chewed my pen and waited for inspiration. Nothing came except the taste of ink, so I prayed for a small natural disaster to pull me out of the room. The answer arrived in the form of Tibor Mintz, who’d been performing the role of my personal Orientation Buddy with excessive enthusiasm all week.

  He approached Monaro and whispered something behind a cupped hand. Monaro nodded and tilted his head away, obviously not enjoying Mintz’s breath humidifying his ear canal. Mintz scanned the room, sucked air between his disorganised teeth and said, ‘Lincoln Locke. You had an appointment with the school psychologist Dr Limberg in Student Welfare at fourteen hundred sharp. The time is currently fourteen twelve.’

  The guys up the back laughed. I stashed away my junk and made a snappy exit – though not snappy enough to evade Mintz, who was waiting in the hall outside.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ I said, thrilled at having mental instability conferred on me in front of my new classmates.

  ‘Would you like me to escort you to Student Welfare?’

  ‘You’ve helped enough already.’ I turned and headed off.

  ‘Wrong way!’ he called out, but I kept walking till I was out of his sight then checked the school map on my phone. Let me get this straight: Crestfield is a maze, I’m the new lab rat, and Limberg . . .? Well, you get the picture. Only problem being, this little rodent wasn’t hungry for cheese.

  Student Welfare was not some poky room in the admin block but an entirely separate wing accessed by the HALL OF CHAMPIONS, an inclined passageway hung with black-and-white blow-ups of students performing sporting feats. The first was a runner breaking through a finish tape; next was a back-arching high-jumper, then a Becks look-alike demonstrating his ball skills. All were blond except for the final student, a backstroker with a shaved head about to release himself from his starting block, snarling with dental perfection. Above the shots on one side was a blue banner with gold lettering that said, AUDE ALIQUID DIGNUM. And on the other, a banner with the translation: DARE SOMETHING WORTHY. Frankly it was all a bit too Leni Riefenstahl for my liking. I watched her film Olympia in History last year – epic but with sinister overtones.

  The sound of pan pipes, rushing water and assorted bird calls greeted me at Student Welfare. The carpet and three of the walls were moss green; the fourth was papered over with an enormous rainforest print, with the word

  B R E A T H E

  superimposed on it. The receptionist sat beneath, following the instruction but not doing much else. She was wearing a natty cape and a cap with a red cross on it, the kind of gear a kid playing hospital might wear. In the centre of the room was a massive fish tank surrounded by leather sofas, one of which was occupied by a miserable squirt with a precision bowl cut.

  ‘Lincoln Locke?’ the receptionist said.

  ‘That’s me.’ Approaching the counter, I realised that except for the thick-framed glasses, which curiously had no lenses, she looked very much like one of my classmates, Isa Mount-something, who’d been absent from Maths.

  ‘You’re twenty-five minutes late. Take a seat. The doctor will be with you shortly.’

  Instead of sitting, I checked out the fish: three big silvers and one small pink guy hovering near the coral. Whenever the silvers approached, the pink guy took refuge in a miniature ruined castle. I tapped the glass to say hello, accidentally causing him to dart into open water. The big silvers surrounded him and nipped at his tail. I rapped the glass again and they swam away, but it was too late. Little Pinky was paralysed and started to sink.

  The receptionist was throwing me a stink eye, so I sat and perused an old copy of the school magazine, E X C E L S I O R! Crestfield’s first eleven had won the cricket, and Alakazam Smallgoods was sponsoring the jazz band’s trip to Tasmania. Exciting times – free cabanossi for the horn section! I pulled out my leaking pen to have a crack at the cryptic crossword.

  1 Across: Brad idly arranged insect displays (8 letters). So . . . Brad’s a lazy entomologist, but that has twelve letters. I read all the across clues and none of them made a lick of sense, then the sick kid next to me started rocking and whimpering, obviously in dire need of distraction from his pain. So I said, ‘Pssst, kid! I think I might’ve killed that pink fish.’

  His head sank between his knees, and he groaned.

  ‘Please don’t upset the other patient,’ the receptionist said.

  ‘I wouldn’t classify myself as a patient,’ I said. ‘I’m just here to—’

  ‘He killed the fish!’ the kid blabbed.

  ‘Don’t worry, Byron. He’s just in shock,’ the receptionist said.

  ‘Poet or parents’ preferred holiday destination?’ I whispered.

  Kid didn’t answer.

  A lady in a cream suit and a powder-blue shirt came out of her room, spoke briefly to the fake nurse/receptionist then turned to me and said, ‘Hello, you must be Lincoln. I’m Dr Marion Limberg. Please follow.’ Rectangular glasses, shiny black bun, slight European accent – she could’ve been an SBS presenter.

  Her room was mostly white, with monochrome farm photos and frosted windows, vast white desk, iMac, potted white orchid and a scent diffuser producing a fine mist that smelt of lavender and something woody. ‘Would you like some water?’ she said. ‘It’s filtered.’

  ‘No, thank you. Am I in trouble?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She leant forward, steepling her pinkies. ‘It’s customary for new students to receive a personal introduction to our counselling services. You’ll come across many exciting challenges on the road ahead, and we’re here to help you. Crestfield Academy is so much more than a school, Lincoln. We’re your second family.’ She handed me a tissue.

  ‘Thanks, but I won’t be needing that.’

  ‘There’s ink on your face.’

  I wiped my mouth and checked the stained tissue. ‘Wow! It looks like a map of New Guinea.’ I showed her and she almost smiled.

  ‘Interesting observation – perceptive. Perhaps we could do a small exercise? When I hold up the image, tell me what you see – whatever pops into your mind.’ She pulled a card from the drawer then checked her watch. ‘I hope you don’t mind me recording the session for later analysis?’ I shrugged. She tapped her phone and placed it between us. ‘Subject: Lincoln Locke. Visual recognition: level three. Commencing two-forty.’ She flipped the card to reveal a black-and-white graphic. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘A sad Japanese princess blowing a kiss.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘The head of a praying mantis, or maybe a space alien. A frying egg and an eight ball. Could I please hold the card?’

  ‘Certainly . . .’ She craned her head towards the phone. ‘Subject now revolving card.’

  ‘A pirate’s been shot in the head. Or is that King Henry?’

  ‘There are no correct or incorrect answers.’

  ‘There’s a rabbit and a chicken laying an egg.’ I didn’t mention the underpants in case it revealed some latent fetish.

  ‘Anyt
hing else? Anything at all?’

  ‘Underpants?’

  ‘Thank you.’ She returned the card to the drawer. ‘So, your parents have separated and you’re currently living with your father?’

  ‘Did you glean that from my answers?’

  ‘The information was in the student profile questionnaire they completed. Here at Crestfield, we take a holistic approach to our students’ wellbeing. We encourage parents to be actively involved in their children’s schooling.’

  ‘My parents run their own businesses, so don’t expect to see my mother making devon sandwiches in the canteen.’

  ‘The school café doesn’t use processed meat.’

  ‘But Alakazam Smallgoods sponsors the jazz band.’

  Limberg frowned and wrote something in a folder – possibly ‘combative smartarse’.

  ‘Do you ever experience feelings of animosity towards your parents?’

  ‘Never,’ I said, denial curling my top lip.

  My mind raced back to midway through last year. Following months of sniping and standoffs that had culminated in the perfect shitstorm of my mother’s fiftieth birthday, my parents began a trial in-house separation. Intended to foster a calmer atmosphere for my sister Venn’s HSC preparation, it only made the place crackle with unresolved tension. And not wanting to exclude me from exam thrills, they made me sit the Crestfield Academy entrance test – six gruelling hours. I gave it a good shot, never thinking I could possibly make the grade.