Barracuda

by Christos Tsiolkas

But how he wished it could be Martin and Danny, Taylor and Kelly.

  On his way to bed he popped his head round the living room door to say goodnight to the Coach. There was a blanket spread on the sofa and he wondered how Frank was going to fit.

  �You know, I can sleep here, Coach,� he said. �It�s sweet.�

  �No.� The man�s voice was firm but then it softened. �In two days, Danny, you have two heats to swim. You take the bed.�

  Coach was right, of course he was. The only thing that mattered was the competition. Not only for Danny, not only for Wilco, but for Coach as well. That was the only thing that mattered.

  Danny was freezing in his shorts and t-shirt. He and Wilco were in the back seat of the taxi on the way to the airport. Coach was in front, too big for the cab. But then so too were Wilco and Danny. Wilco�s shaved scalp made him look adult, gave strength to his jaw. He was no longer a boy, he was getting to be a man. Danny hoped that his own shaved head made him look older too. He pushed back his shoulders, held his back straight.

  Wilco was examining the face of his mobile phone. It was new and he was obsessed with it, tapping the buttons constantly, seemingly astonished by what it could do. But then, with a glance at the Coach who was staring resolutely at the road ahead, Wilco pocketed the gadget and leaned closer to Danny. �Mate,� he whispered, �my dad says he can get you an upgrade to business class with me. Want me to organise it?�

  It was no longer Martin and Danny. It was now Wilco and Danny.

  The driver had the radio on, the car was speeding down the freeway�Danny was sure that Coach couldn�t hear them. This would be his first flight. It would be so cool to fly business class. It would impress Martin, Luke would be so envious. But then he thought of his father, of Demet. They�d find something wrong with Mr Wilkinson�s money, something about how he got it or what he did or what he didn�t do with it. And what about Coach?

  Danny mouthed that question.

  Wilco whispered, �No, I can only get one of you upgraded.�

  �Then no, thanks.�

  �Suit yourself.� Wilco took out his phone again, he couldn�t stop playing with it.

  Danny was going to get one, he�d save up and buy one as soon as he could. He wanted a phone like Wilco�s, exactly that brand of mobile phone.

  When the plane started to slowly move along the tarmac, he got scared. That huge and heavy machine of steel and metal�how would it be able to stay up in the air? The Coach was next to him, and there was a woman doing the crossword on his other side. As always the Coach seemed like a giant, too big for the plane. But it made Danny feel safe. He was glad he hadn�t gone up front with Wilco. Next to Coach he was safe.

  The plane had been moving sluggishly but it began to pick up speed as it taxied down the runway. There was a moment when the cabin was shaking and gravity was being betrayed, when Danny felt that his whole body was going to be flung forward, and then there was the rush of flight, of leaving earth, of reaching height. There was no fear, that was what was flung off.

  His face bright, his eyes gleaming, his eyes wide, Danny turned to Coach and cried out, �It feels like swimming! It feels exactly like swimming.�

  The Coach smiled, a rare moment, and he nodded and said, �You are right, Danny. It is exactly like swimming.�

  Danny wanted to keep on rising, going higher and higher and faster and faster until the roof of the sky met the halo of the sun. He told himself to remember the ferocious joy, the inexplicable rightness�it was exactly like swimming�and take it with him all the way to Brisbane, take the experience into the pool. He had to remember that water was the same substance as sky. He would take that feeling into his swim and he would be flying as much as swimming.

  When they landed in Brisbane, they were no longer special. There were competitors from all over the country, from places with names like Esperance and Geraldton, Maroochydore and Tuggeranong. They were met by a harried young woman wearing a grey tracksuit, a Swimming Australia nametag stating her name was Ellen. She carried a clipboard under her arm, and on greeting them, she immediately ticked off their names and gave rushed instructions on how to get to the bus. Coach explained that the boys still needed to get their bags, and for some reason that annoyed her. She ripped out a printed sheet and handed it to the Coach. �Make sure you follow the registration instructions to the letter,� she announced, and then abruptly turned and was gone. Danny was incensed. He�d never heard anyone talk to the Coach like that before.

  Once the humid slush of Brisbane air hit them, Danny was glad he was in shorts. The air was thick here, he could sense that it would slow you down. Coach had told them they would have to adjust to that. They would need to slow down the pace of everything they did: walking, talking, eating, and especially their exercises. �Conserve your energy,� he had said. �Only push yourselves hard when you are in the pool.�

  And then they were on the bus and it was crowded and noisy�it felt strange to be sitting on a bus with girls, he�d forgotten how talkative girls could be, how they whispered close to one another, how they chatted in low voices, as if everything they said to each other was a secret. And there was chattering and shrieking and laughing too�it was deafening.

  And then they were at the convention centre and there were huge crowds and what seemed to be hundreds of adults wearing Swimming Australia nametags, and there were queues and more instructions and coaches and trainers and medical staff and more officials. They were signed in and given a booklet to read and one man said impatiently to him, �OK, you can go now,� and turned around to sign in the next boy and all of this made Coach and Wilco and Danny seem smaller. And then there were the golden boys and the golden girls, the swimmers that Danny had watched on TV winning gold and silver and bronze and breaking world records. Everyone was looking at the golden boys and girls and no one was looking at him or Wilco, no one cared about him or Wilco and no one cared about the Coach. And all of that made them feel small.

  They were assigned their rooms. They were assigned their heats. They were given instructions and then they were dismissed.

  Except for the golden boys and the golden girls. Everyone smiled and was polite and tried to make jokes and conversation with the golden boys and the golden girls.

  Danny couldn�t wait to come back next time, to the next Australian Championships, when he would be one of them. When he would be a golden boy.

  They passed a huddle of men in crisp white shirts sporting the Australian Institute of Sport logo and one of them looked up and nodded at Coach. The man was beanpole tall, with tanned spotless skin and a clipped salt-and-pepper beard. He peeled away from the others and called Frank�s name. The other men looked up, one or two nodding at Coach, but they didn�t come over. They went back to their conversation.

  �This is Ben Whitter,� Coach said to the boys as he shook the man�s hand. �Ben is a coach at the AIS.�

  Ben smiled down at both Danny and Wilco�he was that tall�then immediately turned back to Frank. �I want to say thanks for sending us young Michael Fraser. He�s good, he�s very, very good.� He slapped Coach on the back. Danny couldn�t believe that someone had done that to the Coach.

  �He is good,� agreed Frank. �But keep pushing him. He has a problem with discipline.�

  �Mate, they all have problems with discipline when they come to us. Don�t worry, I�m riding him hard.� Ben winked at Coach and again Danny was surprised at such familiarity. �He just might be your first Olympian, Frank. He just might get there.�

  Danny knew that Wilco was thinking the same thing as he was: Frank Torma had never coached an Olympian before.

  �He won�t be my first,� said Coach, and there was a growl in his voice; Danny could sense the anger there. Coach pointed at him and Wilco. �One of these boys will be my first.� He was gesturing at the two of them but he was looking straight at Danny.

  Ben�s laugh was cynical. He said goodbye without looking at Wilco or Danny.r />
  Danny wanted the Coach to give it back. He didn�t know exactly how but he sensed that Frank Torma had been slighted. Give it back, he said under his breath, Give it back.

  But Frank Torma said nothing at all.

  There was a dinner and a small procession through the stadium adjacent to the swimming complex. There were photographers and television cameras and a speech by the Queensland Minister for Sport and another speech by the CEO of the main sponsor and another by another CEO and then a final speech by someone from Swimming Australia. There were many more handsome boys in much better suits, and the ones who were the handsomest were the golden boys, and they were the ones the photographers were crowding around and they were the ones being asked questions by the reporters and being introduced to the CEOs and the Minister for Sport. When the group photograph was taken, with Danny somewhere in the second row, Wilco in the fourth, Danny knew that he would look small, insignificant.

  The next time he was here, he told himself, after he had won his races, he would be a golden boy.

  All of that was gone as soon as he dived into the pool the following morning. It was the best feeling in the world. The water took his burdens away from him.

  But when he was returning to the change rooms, a young official ran up to him and blocked his way. Danny was about to protest but the man hissed, �Shh, you�re in the frame. There�s an interview going on!�

  One of the golden boys was being interviewed on camera. There were wires and cables and men holding microphone booms. Danny tugged his hand free and made his escape.

  He hated them, he absolutely hated them, the golden boys. He hated their blondness, their insincere smiles, their designer sunglasses, their designer swimmers and their designer sports gear. They made him feel dark and short and dirty. He detested them and he couldn�t wait till he was wearing those sunglasses, till he had those brand names across his sweatshirt, impatient for when those microphones and those cameras were going to be in his face.

  He found Wilco and they headed back to the bus that would return them to the dorms. The humidity made it feel as though they were walking through steam. Danny had made sure not to exert himself too much in the day�s training; he knew that he had to learn to manage the air, the humid damp screen that clung to his face, to his skin, that seeped in under his armpits, slipped into the creases between his legs. He told himself that it was not making him itch, he forced his hands to be still. He and Wilco found a seat together in the middle of the bus. The golden boys were all sitting up the back. Danny could smell the chlorine and the bland floury tang of the locker-room soap. He could smell Wilco�s sweat, the pong of rotting fruit, they all smelled of it. They all stank of chlorine and rotting fruit and floury soap. The official ticked off the list and the bus rumbled and began to move. Danny�s body was bathed in perspiration, his shirt was sticking to the seat. He shifted, he breathed, he told himself that he knew that air, that he did not feel the heat, that there was no itch. He sat still, staring straight ahead. Wilco was saying something and Danny was nodding, but not listening, trying not to think of anyone or anything. He was concentrating on breathing, on the air coming in and the air going out. He was hearing but not listening. There was nothing, no heat, no humidity, no itch, no golden boys, no golden girls, no bodies, no flesh. It was just him. There was no one else but Danny Kelly.

  When they filed off the bus, Coach was standing there. He wanted Danny to wait. Wilco kept looking back, wondering what Torma had to tell Danny. He was jealous, Danny was sure of it. The last people got off the bus just as the women�s coach rumbled to a stop. Coach stayed silent while the girls left the bus, talking and swinging their sports bags over their shoulders. Danny had his head lowered while they walked past. He could look at them clinically, critically, when they were in or around the pool, when they were stripped to their togs, being swimmers. But he wasn�t sure how to be around them when they were away from the pool, when they were in their civvies. There was no breeze, the air was heavy as a curtain, his shirt was plastered to his back and under his arms, he could feel sweat trickling down his arse crack. He breathed in, transformed it into air that he could control.

  The Coach held out his hand and touched Danny�s chest, as though he was testing his breathing, reading his heart rate.

  The Coach dropped his hand. �Are you ready?�

  The words took the boy by surprise. He wanted to snap back, �Of course I am,� but something in the Coach�s earnest enquiry stopped him. The man was not suited to the Queensland climate. His face was flushed, his shirt drenched, there was sweat on his brow, on the ridge of his chin, under his eyes. There was a small wet patch on Danny�s t-shirt, where the Coach�s hand had made contact.

  �Of course,� Danny said quietly.

  �You are a young man, Kelly,� Coach said. �Still a boy, but you are strong.�

  Danny had followed all the Coach�s instructions, he had worked at the gym, strengthening the muscles in his chest, his back, his arms, his legs. He had strength and power.

  �The other competitors will be older boys, but you have the strength to qualify tomorrow afternoon.� The Coach clipped and rolled the final word, making it two distinct words: aftAH noorn.

  And the morning? Danny wanted the Coach to say something about the morning�s heat, the one hundred metre freestyle. There wasn�t really any advice to be given now�it was all up to him. Still, he wanted to hear something, some encouragement. But the man had already started walking away; he turned in surprise that the boy wasn�t following.

  Danny didn�t know how to ask the question. He thought it was unfair that he had to find the words for it. His mouth drooped, in a sulk.

  �Use your strength,� the Coach said, turning back again. �Use it in the morning and use it in the afternoon.�

  Danny could smile then; he wanted to run after the Coach and hug him. He wanted to hear him say those words again and again. Use your strength. He was the strongest. He could use his strength for both races. He knew the Coach only wanted him to work at the butterfly, wanted Danny to concentrate on the new stroke. He�d been doing that, he�d been mastering it. But he could do both, he knew he could. He wasn�t going to fuck it up, he�d show the Coach that he could do it. The freestyle was Danny�s stroke�it belonged to him.

  Danny was shaking, his body was folding in on itself. He felt as though someone had reached into his gut and squeezed out his entrails, that there was nothing left inside him. He was quivering and hollow, his teeth chattering, his balls had shrivelled and been punched up to his gut and he cradled his shaking frame, telling himself not to throw up, not to shit, not to piss, not to vomit as he limped from the pool. But the air was fighting him and he panicked, struggling for breath, so he forced his lungs to work, commanded his body to work, and he expelled a breath and water streamed down from his nose, spilled from his mouth, he was all snot and all water, a creature more marine than human. But at last he was breathing and he could force his muscles to work and his limbs to move and he was walking and breathing, slowly coming back to himself. As he walked past the tiers of seats he was aware that there were lights flashing and people rushing and that photographs were being taken and swimmers were coming out into the pool area and then he was in the shower and the cold water was raining down on his head and shoulders and he was no longer trembling, no longer thinking that his belly would split, that his bowels would explode. He could think again, he could think and see and hear. A low roar rumbled around the auditorium and all he could think of was that he was third, that he had not qualified in the heat, that the stroke no longer belonged to him, that he wasn�t good enough or strong enough. There were two swimmers better than him, a golden boy, a golden boy of course, but also a young swimmer, a swimmer even younger than he was, with a lanky clumsy frame and massive feet and hands, and that boy had come first and the golden boy had come second and he had come third.

  Third. A fucking lousy insignificant useless bloody third.


  He had not qualified. He had lost. He was a loser.

  Coach was standing there, a towel in his hand, telling him that it had been a good effort, that he had nothing to be ashamed of, that he had to focus on the next race, that the next race was his race, and Danny was listening and nodding and convincing himself that, yes, the next race was his race, but there was a thought forming at the corner of consciousness, he could almost grab it but he knew he must not, he could not. He shook his head, he flicked the thought to the back of his mind. But he knew it would be there; afterwards, after he won his next heat, once he came up on top, then he could reach for it. But not now. He knew that Coach trusted him to place in the next race and he wanted to hear that trust from Coach�s lips, he needed to hear it, so he could believe it, that he was the best, the strongest, the fastest. Now he had to place all his trust in Coach. That was all that mattered.

  Danny sat in the back row of the stadium to watch Wilco come first in his heat for the two hundred metre freestyle. He beat one of the golden boys. No, that�s not right, thought Danny sourly, Wilco was a golden boy. Afterwards, Danny waited till Wilco finally emerged from the change rooms and then he bounced down the steps and went up to shake Wilco�s hand. The older boy punched the air, raised his fist in triumph. He thinks he�s such a hero, thought Danny, the spite so intense it left a foul taste in his mouth. But he knew not to show it, he knew exactly what he had to do.

  �You legend,� he said, pumping Wilco�s hand. �You absolute fucking legend.�

  Wilco couldn�t stand still, his delight had spread across his face, animating his limbs, his whole body. It made him look like a boy again. Danny dropped Wilco�s hand but continued to say congratulations. It was the only word he could think to say. He would show nothing of what was inside him, that some deadly serrated knife was carving right through him. He knew that he would not be able to bear it if he didn�t qualify with his next swim. He couldn�t stand it if Wilco was a champion and not him. If it didn�t happen for Danny, he was sure that it would kill him. The knife would cut right through him, would carve him in half. Would destroy him.