‘Better watch your arse, Pappas!’ he called out. ‘Nads and Mullows are down for the fly.’ Pericles and I left them in their poolside posing pen for a spot high at the far end of the bleachers, intending to save our energy for the hundred fly, which was scheduled for mid-afternoon. I thought the absence of Isa and Phoenix might give me a chance of bonding with Pericles, but he hardly spoke until the racing began. Then he fired up and assumed the role of commentator, outlining the strengths and weaknesses of every contender he knew from squad and telling me the Crestfield record before it appeared on the board.
Four hours later, the hundred fly was finally announced. Pericles’ bag vibrated with a danger alert ringtone.
‘Aren’t you going to answer?’
‘It’s my father. I don’t want to speak to him.’
On the way to the marshalling area he kept his head down, slapping and rubbing his shoulders, so I did the same. Nads, Mullows and Starkey joined us at the blocks along with three other swimmers, making it a straight final. Stepping onto my block, I ignited the furnace in my chest, as Pericles had instructed me, and felt the fire spread to my extremities.
>SWIMMERS, TAKE YOUR MARKS!<
I assumed the position.
>BEEP!<
I timed my dive perfectly and streamlined for ten metres.
>FWOOSH!<
I resurfaced and stormed the lane, pouncing and plunging, more leopard than butterfly.
I hit the touchpad and a switch flicked inside my head, illuminating three words that had become lodged there from Simmons’ constant repetition.
POSSIBILITY. INTENT. BELIEF.
I swam the return lap, leaping from the water with wide sweeping arms, feeling faster than before and sensing that I was on a negative split.
My lungs were burning.
Every fibre of my body screaming.
One mighty final lunge, and >BANG!< I smacked the touchpad.
Totally spent, I turned to see Pericles beside me with exhausted disbelief in his eyes. We looked up at the timeboard and waited. My name appeared on top.
L. LOCKE 1.07.07
‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘You won.’ The look of utter dejection on his face drained the flavour of victory before I’d even tasted it. Nads and Mullows swam into my lane and hooked their muscled arms over my shoulders, submerging me in their excessive – and puzzling – jubilation.
We climbed out of the pool. Pericles lurched and collapsed, body heaving as he vomited over the tiles. I went to help but Nads and Mullows pulled me away.
‘It’s not the first time,’ Nads said. ‘And won’t be the last. He can’t fucking handle it. Forget about him and come to mine for pizza.’
Walking away was a betrayal, and Nurse Nola’s timely arrival hardly alleviated my guilt. The stupid thing is that I didn’t even want to go with them, but I was afraid of saying no.
Nads took us by taxi to his place near the end of Darling Point. We got out and he tapped a code into a security console and the gate slid away to reveal a nineteenth-century sandstone mansion fronted by an oval of fine grass and a waterlily-filled pond with a bubbling fountain. We followed Nads up the path, passing geometrically pruned shrubs spaced evenly around the pond.
‘Impressive shack,’ I said to Starkey.
‘They’ve got a bigger place in Moss Vale and a property in the Territory,’ he said. ‘The old man’s in mining.’ He ran his hand over one of the miniature trees. ‘Do you like the way Mrs Naylor has her bush trimmed?’
French doors opened to a kitchen fitted out with industrial-sized whitegoods that were all black, including a fridge that looked big enough to walk into and three identical ovens. A short woman wearing a plastic cap slid into the room on polishing scuffs. ‘Good afternoon, Mister Darvin,’ she said. ‘Would your guests like afternoon tea?’
‘No thank you, Minnie. Has the games room been restocked?’
‘Yes, and the man has fixed the ice.’
‘You can go home then.’
‘First I’ll do the floors.’
‘Don’t bother. Mum wants you to take the afternoon off.’
Minnie frowned. ‘If you say so.’ She skated a lap around the island bench and slid out of the room.
Nads phone-ordered three large Roman Holidays from Big Tony’s™, gave them the address and then turned to us and said, ‘Best pizza in Sydney.’
‘He should know,’ Starkey said to me. ‘He gets the same thing every time.’
‘Can I hear an ungrateful arsehole talking?’
Starkey obliged with a volley of obscenely slick armpit farts.
Nads took us down to the games room in an elevator. ‘Welcome to the man cave,’ he said as the doors opened. Starkey made a dash for a game controller on the sofa’s armrest and challenged Mullows to a game of Super Smash Bros. Ultimate: Jigglypuff vs Pikachu.
‘Loser gets blackballed,’ Nads said.
Starkey physically punched Mullows every time Jigglypuff landed a blow on Pikachu, but Mullows swatted him away like he was an annoying fly. Eventually Pikachu killed Jigglypuff.
Without hesitation, Starkey sat on the floor and spread his legs.
‘Do we really have to do this?’ Mullows said, flicking his ginger ponytail.
‘Of course we do,’ Nads said. ‘House rule.’
Mullows reluctantly knelt behind Starkey and held back his arms. Nads took the eight ball from the pool table and slid it with full force into Starkey’s scrotum. He yelped and folded into the foetal position, cradling his cracked eggs. Nads then retrieved the eight ball and challenged me to a game of pool, raising his scarred eyebrow in a way that prompted me to ask if there was a penalty involved for the loser.
‘Only Starkey gets blackballed,’ he said.
‘Isn’t his father a urologist?’ I muttered. ‘He’d be horrified.’
‘Especially if he found out his numbnut son invented the rule. You break.’
I did as ordered, and Nads followed by sinking three solids in succession. Chalking his stick, he said, ‘There’s something about you that’s been bothering me.’ I silently prayed it wasn’t something to do with the nub. ‘You’ve been sniffing around Isa Mountwinter.’
‘Nah.’ I frowned. ‘A hundred per cent not.’
‘Good, because she’s been blacklisted by the Brotherhood.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘She acts like an avenger for justice but she’s a meddling bitch.’
‘Thinks her shit don’t stink,’ Starkey clarified from the sofa, lighting a cigarette.
‘Outside, dickhead!’ Nads threw the chalk cube at him. Starkey skulked out, lit cigarette in mouth, blue dust on forehead. Mullows followed him.
‘Where are you going?’ Nads said.
‘To make sure he doesn’t scoff the pizza when it arrives.’
‘Good call.’ Nads handed him a wad of twenties and, when he was out of earshot said, ‘Mullows’ parents are farmers. Struggling to keep him at Crestfield.’ He sank another ball. ‘Lives with his brother. Do you reckon he’s good-looking?’
‘Is this a trick question?’
‘Yeah, I’m checking to see if you’re a filthy homo.’ He patted my back. ‘Chill, bruh. He could have whoever he wanted but last year he hooked up with Phoenix Lee at a party. No big deal for a one-off, but then they started hanging out, going to the beach and the movies. She sat next to him in every class and wouldn’t let him out of her sight at lunch. She went the full limpet.’
‘Sounds serious?’ I said.
Without explanation Nads abandoned the game. He went to the bar and made two bourbon and Cokes®. I have no idea why I accepted the drink, other than some craven need to impress somebody who didn’t impress me at all.
Nads told me a story about Phoenix turning up to their rugby grand final dressed as a cheerleader and prancing around the sidelines with pompoms. Starkey filmed her and posted it on a site called Most Meddling Mingas.
‘That little bitch Pappas found
out about it and squealed to Isa and Phoenix. Phoenix lost her shit and gave Mullows an ultimatum – her or us. Mullows, the faithful carrot top, chose us. Isa stormed the principal’s office and told him about the post. Dashwood made us write a thousand words on respecting sluts.’
‘Your word, not his?’
‘Whose side are you on?’
‘Nobody’s.’
‘Wrong. You’re on ours now. Here’s to you winning the fly and teaching that slippery wog a lesson,’ he said, holding up his glass.
‘I beat him by a fraction of a second. It was lucky.’
‘Luck played no part. It’s all about preparation and training. You could be a contender if you bulked up.’
‘I’m not the type.’
‘Type’s just one factor,’ Nads said.
Without prompting or warning, he peeled his shirt off and went through a series of Mr Universe–style poses. The narcissistic nature of the display turned a bit homoerotic when he flexed his bicep into a sphere approaching the size of a grapefruit, barely contained by the stretched skin, and kissed it while looking directly into my eyes. ‘You could have guns like that,’ he said. ‘And I could help you get them.’ He went to the fridge, reached to the back of the bottom shelf and returned with a small plastic bottle. He lifted my hand and poured two green-and-white capsules into it.
‘What are they?’ I said. ‘Steroids?’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said. ‘Just amino acids and other natural shit that helps your body produce more of the hormone that grows muscle – not the hormone itself. Over-the-counter stuff. Go on then, down the hatch.’
Against my better judgement, I swallowed the capsules with a swig of the bourbon and Coke®. ‘How long will it take?’ I said, imagining myself bursting from my shirt Hulk-style on the way home.
‘Nothing will happen without serious training. Take two before every session.’ Nads poured half the bottle into a baggie and pushed it into my hand. ‘First cycle’s on me. Make sure you finish it. Doctor’s instructions.’
‘I thought you said it was over-the-counter?’
‘Yeah, well, just finish them.’
The aroma of onion, garlic and spicy-sausage pizza heralded the return of Starkey and Mullows. I pocketed the baggie. The boys each claimed a box and forfeited one of their slices to me, which I wasn’t in a position to complain about.
‘I bet you’ve never tasted anything like this before?’ Mullows said.
I took a bite. ‘You’re right.’ Yet another lie.
The evening was cool on my walk home. Thank God, because my head was overheating trying to process everything. Had I just become a member of their group? Belonging made me feel apprehensive. And it came at the cost of turning my back on Pericles in his moment of need. I pulled out my phone to text him and realised we’d never swapped numbers.
Loose Pants Lenny was shadow-boxing the rolling billboard outside T H E E Y R I E. The Cornetto® girl had been replaced by the image of a boxer advertising boxer shorts. I wonder how much the creative genius was paid for coming up with that idea?
‘C’mon, pretty boy,’ Leonard said to the boxer. ‘Put up your dukes!’ He delivered a series of jabs and uppercuts, letting his dirty trackies slide to his knees. Then he pulled his right arm way back and held it there for a moment. And just as the boxer began to slide away, Leonard drove his fist through the glass with a mighty roar and a crash. A thousand crystal shards caught the streetlights and went skittering over the pavement. Leonard doubled over, wailing. There was so much blood. Blood everywhere.
Frank the concierge ran out.
‘I’ll call the ambulance,’ he said. ‘Go inside now.’
I rode the lift to level twenty-seven. Dad asked about the carnival and when I told him I’d won the fly, he whapped my head with a cushion. ‘I knew you could do it,’ he said.
‘How’s that possible when I didn’t?’
‘I know what you’re able to achieve when you’re challenged. That’s why we invested more into your education. Doesn’t winning feel awesome?’
‘For about a minute.’ I wondered why Dad was more excited about my victory than I was, and decided to ask him the question that had plagued me since I’d started at Crestfield. ‘Did you lie on my student profile?’
‘What?’ He touched his nose.
‘Did you make up my personal best times on the Crestfield application?’
‘You weren’t around when I filled it out, so I wrote down what I knew you’d be capable of.’
‘I was drafted into squad because you made up my PBs. And I probably only got accepted into the school for that reason.’
Dad gripped my shoulders. ‘And now your victory has vindicated me. Everything in life revolves around competition, Lincoln. Sport, business, relationships, survival. I just want you to have the best chance.’ He gave me a shake then released me. ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s not like you took somebody else’s place. We’re paying full fees, unless you reach state level, and then—’
‘Please don’t go there, because it’s not going to happen.’
‘You can achieve anything if you want it badly enough.’
‘All I want is to go to bed now. I’m exhausted.’
‘Okay, champion. We can talk about it another time.’
Even if life does revolve around competition, what if you don’t want to compete? Maybe I did, though. Why had I swum so hard at the carnival? Was I just trying my best or was I afraid of losing? The only reason I managed to beat Pericles was because he’d explained how to swim the stroke in a way I could understand. And I’d thanked him by leaving him vomiting by the side of the pool and going off to celebrate with his enemies.
I climbed into bed with My One Redeeming Affliction, hoping there’d be no mention of competition – I’d had enough of that for one day. I was defeated by the first sentence.
If the greatest fight we face is the struggle for life itself, the second most hard-fought competition – the one that leaves the most wounded in its wake – must surely be the quest for a suitable partner. A battle royale, wherein one man’s self-belief and determination might be vanquished by the ingenuity and charm of his adversary.
Following weeks of her father’s attempts to convince her to meet Newland Beale, Esther finally capitulated and was introduced to the Melburnian barrister by her Aunt Harriet in the fernery of Pemberton’s Magnificent Emporium. Beale was perfectly average, his otherwise benign appearance saved by dark side whiskers that extended almost to the chin. My mother, who possessed an uncommonly keen sense of smell, identified on his person the scents of bergamot, Bulgarian rose and cedar. Assuming that the exotic combination indicated a depth of character, she consented to her aunt’s departure with a pre-arranged signal.
The pair ascended to the Ionian Restaurant on the third floor. Fronted with fifteen-foot columns bearing a frieze of Odysseus’s return to Ithaca, it was the crowning glory of the Emporium. The decor and head chef were Greek, the bill of fare incongruously French, and the maître d’hôtel English. Esther instantly recognised him: the man she’d caught lingering outside Madame Zora’s shop. His moustache, a distinct circumflex, provoked a thrilling repulsion that she stifled by focusing on the panoply of statues as he led her and Beale to their table: nymphs on plinths, satyrs dancing in alcoves and Theseus slaying the minotaur. The couple’s table was in a corner, guarded by a leonine creature with a goat’s head growing from its back and a serpentine tail.
‘He looks set to devour us,’ Beale said.
‘She is the Chimera,’ Esther said. ‘Isn’t she marvellous?’
The meal began with mock-turtle soup, accompanied by the barrister’s lengthy account of defending a poulterer whose lad had absconded after regular beatings and had been forced to sleep where the fowl were strangulated. The deathly silence that followed gave William a chance to intervene and take their order for the mains. Beale selected ragout of lobster, and Esther chose William’s suggestion of oysters au naturel. ‘
I promise you won’t be disappointed,’ he said. ‘They were harvested only this morning by my partner, Dimitrios.’
Waiting for the food to arrive, the pair’s conversation turned to Esther’s interest in taxidermy and her current employment, both of which confounded Beale. ‘The true art of millinery is making an ugly face look pretty,’ he said. ‘Your Madame Zora is an astute businesswoman, employing such lovely shopgirls to sell her wares to those not so blessed.’
A second glass of champagne made the barrister exceedingly delighted with his own cleverness as he delivered a lecture on the desired attributes of a good wife, finishing with the declaration, ‘She should possess only sufficient knowledge to ensure the home is a place of rest and joy for her husband after his daily travail.’ Mercifully, at that point William arrived with the ragout and six oysters on a mound of crushed ice. He drew a silver shucking knife from his apron and, with consummate skill, prised one open and laid it on a gold-rimmed plate before Esther.
‘This can’t possibly be!’ she said on seeing a pearl inside. ‘It’s the most delicate shade of pink.’ She lifted the plate to show the men.
‘I’d lay the odds at a million to one,’ William said. ‘A most propitious omen.’
‘Indeed,’ Beale said, removing the oyster from the plate for a closer inspection of the pearl.
‘It must be immediately returned to Dimitrios,’ Esther said. She folded a napkin on the plate and slid it across the table to Beale.
‘His neck is fat and brown,’ William said. ‘This pearl was destined for a neck as slender and pale as yours.’
The Origin of Me Page 11
