Barracuda

by Christos Tsiolkas

  �Yeah,� I answer my great-aunt Rosemary, �I think I miss it.�

  She snorts, loudly. ��Course you do. It�s your home.�

  It is pitch-black when I get home. Clyde is on the phone but he interrupts the conversation��Just a moment, Dan�s home��and kisses me on the lips and tousles the wet hair plastered flat to my brow. I go through our cluttered living room to the kitchen but he calls out, �Hang on, Dad wants to talk to you.�

  He puts the phone on speaker and Alexander�s voice booms, �Hello, mate, how are you?�

  �I�m good, thanks, Alexander.�

  �I�m glad, I�m glad.�

  The conversation is awkward but not unpleasant: distaste for small talk, along with a general reticence and withdrawal from the world, is something Alexander and I share.

  As always when talking to Alexander, I am disconcerted by the careful correctness of his accent. I had mistaken him for English on first meeting him and he had explained diffidently that it was a product of being sent off to an English public school as a young boy. I had expected everyone in the city to sound like my granddad Bill, but in those first few weeks I rarely heard that particular accent. Ruth, Clyde�s mother, also has an accent I had never heard before, a soft and musical lilt that she explained came from growing up in the Borders.

  Except Great-Aunt Rosemary. I walk into the kitchen; a weariness has returned to my step. The landscape of accents has reminded me, once more, that I am a stranger here.

  The laptop is on the table; beside it is an envelope from the Home Office, addressed to me, the Royal coat of arms in its top corner. I open the letter. Its language is brusque, officious and unemotional as it details in a few short sentences that my application for an extension to renew my working visa requires yet another interview. There are still concerns regarding my application for residency. I reread the two short paragraphs. The weariness now rises like a tide, I am flooded by it, the taste of it bile in my throat. I shudder at the thought of having to explain myself once again, to convince some suspicious bureaucrat that I am not dangerous, not a risk. I sit and angrily jab buttons on the laptop keyboard to log on to my hotmail. There is just junk and I am about to click off when I notice that one of the messages is from Theo.

  It is very Theo, dry and concise. He informs me that Regan is pregnant, that we are going to be uncles but that he doesn�t think much of the bloke and doesn�t think he�s going to be around for the baby. Hope you are well, Dan, give my best to Clyde. I hear Clyde saying goodbye to his father, and quickly crumple the Home Office letter into a ball; with the other hand I shut down the computer screen.

  Clyde comes up behind me and starts massaging my shoulders, his chin rubbing my hair. I force myself not to move, willing myself not to give away that I don�t want his hands near me. I use all the skills I learned from that long-ago otherworld of swimming to be still and tame my breathing. I don�t give anything away.

  Clyde kisses the top of my head and leans against the window sill. �What did the letter say?� His voice is cool, but I know he is desperately keen to hear me say that my visa is approved, that it won�t be long before I am a resident.

  I shrug. �Nah, it was nothing, just some guff warning me to advise them if my details change.�

  He says nothing, but the slight drop of his chin reveals his disappointment. I breathe, reach for his hand, squeeze it; then I have to let it go.

  �Dad wants us to go with him and Wanda to the Greek Islands this summer. I said to him that you weren�t into the water�that maybe we should think of somewhere else instead?�

  There it is again, I think spitefully, that damn ease with which the Europeans collect the world. �Yeah. I don�t think it would be right for me to see Greece before Mum does.�

  Clyde is surprised. I can see a belligerent set to his mouth. But all he says is, �OK, we�ll go when your mum and dad come over.�

  I can�t control my breathing, I can�t settle it. I�m not sure where the fury and meanness are coming from. To bring me back, to stay the anxiety, I repeat silently, again and again, Clyde�s too good for me, the man is too good for me.

  �Sorry?�

  He�s said something and I haven�t been listening.

  �Wanda said that she might have a job for you. It�s just for a few months, working with teenagers with acquired brain injuries; she thinks you�ll be great.� Clyde is rushing through the words, and now I am conscious of his nervousness, his unease. �She knows the people who run it, she says, she�s talked to them about you. They�re fine that you�ve only got a temporary working visa.�

  All Clyde�s friends and family want to make it normal for him and me. They want to find me work, they want me to lead a real life.

  �Sounds good.� I nod. �I�ll talk to her.� I know Clyde, I can tell there�s something more he needs to say.

  �There�s just the wee matter of a police check. They�ll need to do a check as you�ll be working with kids.�

  �Then I�m not going for it.�

  Clyde tries to hold me. �You�ll be alright. Wanda can talk to them, it won�t be a problem.�

  �No.� I say it with such force that he steps back. �I don�t want Wanda to fucking know, I told you. I�m not doing it.�

  Now it is Clyde who is slowing his breathing, reining in his words. I turn back to the laptop.

  �OK, Dan. No bother.� He touches my shoulder again. I let him. �How was Rosemary?�

  I breathe out. �She�s a real nice lady. She wants to meet you.�

  Clyde is smiling again. As he saunters out of the kitchen, he says over his shoulder, �Of course, of course she does, she�ll see me so often she�ll get tired of me. Linda and Brendan have invited us for dinner, that OK?�

  �Sure, that�s fine,� I answer weakly.

  He has turned on the telly in the living room; I can hear the news. I smooth out the paper bunched in my hand, reread the words and then screw it up even tighter than before. I throw it into the bin, and go into the next room to sit on the sofa next to Clyde.

  The wind is howling outside, the rain incessant. I sit next to Clyde, who is happy and at rest in Glasgow, and I disappear into watching the television. And I know, of course I know, that it is time to go home.

  Friday, 8 April 1994

  The start of the day and the end of the day, they were all that mattered. The last thing Danny did every night was to set his alarm for four-thirty the following morning. He did this without fail, even though his body had no need of the alarm; he always woke up before it went off, but setting it was part of the routine. He always set it on buzz: he didn�t want snatches of lyrics or insistent rhythms seeping into his brain and clouding his focus.

  His mother was always up, with a small breakfast prepared for him. If his father was away driving, she would take him all the way into the city to the pool. �I don�t mind doing it,� she�d say to him. �This early in the morning there�s no traffic, it�s a breeze.� When his father was at home, she would drive Danny to the station.

  From six to eight a.m. he was in the water with the squad, Torma marching up and down the side of the pool, bellowing instructions and dishing out insults. And, very occasionally, words of praise. In those two hours, the water and Danny as one, he was flying.

  As he would fly again after school, when training resumed. That was what was real, the substance and worth of the day; the rest was the in-between, a thicket of wasted time through which he had to struggle. The in-between was school.

  It was lunchtime and he was enduring the in-between by playing chess with Luke in the cool dark of the library. Danny�s knees were pushed against the table as he rocked on the back legs of the tilted chair, one eye on the librarian sitting behind her desk. She kept looking over at him, her expression sour, suspicious. She didn�t think he belonged here, he could tell; she thought he should be out on the ovals, or in the gym, not in her library, not in her space. And it was tr
ue: Danny�s body jerked and fidgeted, stretched and twisted; his body could not be contained by the hushed space. The library was for kids like Luke, the kids who walked through the day from first bell to last always looking down. Danny never looked down: he made sure that he always looked every single one of them, students and teachers, straight in the eye. The way he was now returning the librarian�s glare. The woman knew that he didn�t belong there, that his rightful spaces were the ovals and the gym and the change rooms: there with the other boys who never looked down at the ground but who acted as if they owned it. He should have been there with them but they wouldn�t allow it; when Danny approached a lunchtime football game or cricket practice, some silent code was always enacted and the other boys stopped their play and walked away. They had to put up with him in the pool, they needed him in the pool, but that was the only place they would tolerate him. Stiff shit if the librarian didn�t want him, there was no other place for him to go.

  He held his gaze steady, and so did she; the battle was on. He forced a yawn, opening his mouth wide.

  The librarian sprang out of her chair and rushed over, her face tight with anger. �Kelly, you do that again and I�m going to ban you from here.�

  �Sorry, sorry, Mrs Arnaud.� He picked up the chair and sat on it properly, wishing he wasn�t blushing, wanting to tell her where to go. She walked back to her desk, shaking her head. Bitch, he muttered under his breath, just an expulsion of air, not daring to let the word travel.

  Luke had carefully placed the pieces back on the board.

  Danny tried to focus on his move. Luke would win�Luke always won�but Danny was trying hard to understand the possibilities of the game. He could see his bishop was in a position to take his opponent�s knight, but before he could make that happen his bishop would be taken by one of Luke�s pawns. And then? And then? That was what Luke had been trying to teach him over the last fortnight, to think ahead, two, three or even four moves ahead. But if he did and then Luke did something unexpected, his whole game fell apart.

  The librarian didn�t even bother to whisper. She was on her feet and pointing straight at the library doors. �Get out, Kelly. You are not allowed back for the rest of the day.�

  He banged his chair on the carpet, slammed the chess board onto the desk as he put the pieces away, then slung his bag over his shoulder and marched towards the door.

  �Excuse me.� She sounded appalled.

  �What?�

  Her expression darkened further.

  �I mean, what have I done, Mrs Arnaud?�

  �I am waiting for your apology.�

  She wasn�t going to let him go without it. He could refuse to acknowledge her�but then there would be detention, then there would be no swimming. There would be no chance of exhaling, of escaping the in-between.

  �I�m sorry for swearing, Mrs Arnaud.�

  She sat down without looking at him. He wished that the doors were the kind that could bang shut, but of course they were old-fashioned, expensive, with heavy wooden frames, and a spring attached that did not allow for slamming. He pushed through and was out in the open air.

  �If you had moved your bishop in front of your king then I would have had both my queen and a rook in danger. I was so sure you were going to do that.�

  Danny turned around, dumbfounded. The freaking chess game�he didn�t give a toss about the freaking chess game. But Luke was so serious, so intent on instruction, that Danny had to laugh. He shrugged. �I�m not as smart as you.�

  But I am faster, stronger, I am better.

  �It�s not necessarily about who is the smartest when it comes to chess, though of course it does require a certain intelligence.� Luke looked across the yard to a group of shouting boys on the football fields. �Those idiots out there, for example. They�d be hopeless.� He sat down on one of the stone balustrades. �You�re smart but you don�t have any patience.�

  Danny wanted more than anything to be alone. But he couldn�t shake Luke off. The smaller boy had attached himself to Danny; it had happened so quickly that he hadn�t had time to think. He wasn�t even sure when Luke became visible to him, emerged as a person out of the mass of other boys in his class, in his house. Or maybe it was assumed that they would be friends because they were both half and half. No one had said that to them, they hadn�t said it to one another, but Luke�s mother was Vietnamese and his father was Greek and that was some kind of relief to Danny�it meant he was not alone. Luke wasn�t the only Asian boy in their class and Danny wasn�t the only wog. But Ju and Leung avoided Luke and discouraged his attempts at friendship; and Tsitsas and De Bosco, like the older boy Morello on the swim squad, seemed to detest Danny. He�d heard Tsitsas sneer once, as Danny was walking past, �That fag isn�t even a true wog.� Danny had noticed from his first week that Luke was the boy who always sat alone at recess or lunch, who everyone felt free to pick on. It was because he was so small and slight, and because he didn�t fit in with anyone. Cunts College made it clear that Luke Kazantsis didn�t belong. So one day during his second week, Danny sat next to Luke at lunch. And he was glad he did: Luke was smart and funny and not cruel. But now, every day, Luke was his shadow, convinced that he and Danny were best friends. It wasn�t the case; he couldn�t say it to the smaller boy, but it would never be the case. Demet was his best friend. You only had one best friend and his was Demet.

  �What time is it?�

  Luke glanced at his watch. I bet it�s expensive, thought Danny. It was one of those things that no one at school talked about, but it was something everyone knew, who did and didn�t have money.

  �Twelve-thirty.�

  �Let�s go down to the river.�

  The colour drained from Luke�s face. �We can�t.�

  �Suit yourself.� Danny turned away. No wonder the others teased Luke. He was so gutless. Danny started walking away, but soon he heard Luke�s footsteps behind him. Danny turned around to smile, but he was also a little annoyed. There was no place to hide in the new school. There was no place to be alone.

  A tall wire fence separated the school grounds from the bushland that led down to the river, but Danny knew exactly where he was going. He had discovered the path to the river during that first week at Cunts College. There were points all along the fence where it had been damaged and then repaired, but in a few spots the rusting wire had not been touched and part of the fencing had come away from the palings. Danny crouched down and effortlessly slipped under the loose wire netting. When he looked back, Luke was staring at him from the other side of the fence.

  �You coming?�

  Getting caught meant suspension. There were regular patrols of teachers and prefects. Getting caught was serious, and that was why Luke was hesitating. But then gingerly, fearful of catching his uniform on the rusting wire, Luke crawled under the fence. Danny pounded him playfully on the back and Luke beamed up at him. He�ll do anything I say, thought Danny. He thinks I�m a hero.

  Danny sat on his haunches, looking out at the river. The treacly brown water was flowing gently, and in the blue-grey canopy of the silver gums he could hear the cackling of magpies; on the opposite bank he spotted the rainbow-coloured plumage of two lorikeets in the trees. He could not believe the beauty of the place, how lush and green it was. The parks near his house were not like this; they were dry, parched.

  �We should get back.� Luke was twitching behind him. Danny knew he would be looking at his watch, counting down the seconds. Danny didn�t want to move, didn�t want to leave the peace of the water and trees and birdsong.

  �I can�t hear anything from the ovals,� Luke fretted. �The bell will have rung. We have to go, we have to go now.�

  Stop your whingeing, stop your bloody whingeing. In one swift movement, Danny was on his feet and running through the bushes, through the long grass. He slipped quickly through the loose netting, knowing Luke would be struggling to follow, would be carefully trying to get under th
e wire fence without damaging his jacket or his trousers, that he would be close to crying because he didn�t want to get into trouble, didn�t want to smear his spotless record. He was a wimp, a dick and a wimp. Let them give Danny detention, let them take swimming practice away from him: he�d go to the Coburg pool instead, go back to his old pool, he didn�t need them. He didn�t need them at all.

  He could hear Luke panting behind him. Friendless Luke; a boy who had no one but Danny.

  Danny stopped and turned around, relenting. �It�s OK, mate, tell them I was sick and you were looking after me. You�re not going to get into trouble.�

  Luke nodded, the relief clear on his face.

  When they cautiously opened the door to their English class, they could immediately tell that something had happened to upset the inflexible rules and rhythm of the day. Mr Gilbert turned to them, barked, �Why are you late?� but he didn�t even wait for their answer. They took their seats and looked around. The boys were obviously agitated. Danny leaned across and whispered to Sullivan, �What�s happened?�

  �Kurt Cobain shot himself. He�s dead.� Sullivan�s tone was hushed, solemn.

  Danny�s first thought was, It somehow all makes sense, and his next thought was, I need to speak to Demet.

  Mr Gilbert had thrown out the lesson for the day, and was asking them about Cobain and Nirvana and what their music meant to them. The boys were throwing themselves into the conversation, some responses measured, some showing care and even passion. It was all so civilised, so articulate, that Danny wanted to scream at them to shut up shut up shut up. He didn�t want to reveal to them how he felt, how deeply gutted he was, how his breath itself felt stolen�he was not going to give them that, he was not going to let them see into him. He had to be with Demet. She would need him, she would be inconsolable.