Taylor bristled at the insult. Good, fetch me another, dog.
Then Martin�s face settled back into a smile. He took the empty glass. �Yeah, mate. I guess if I were you I�d be feeling the need to get smashed tonight too.�
Dan was buried, he had sunk wingless into the earth. Taylor had won and he had lost.
So Dan drinks. He finishes one rum and Coke and then another. Dan drinks and he dances, savage ugly movements, his arms rip through the air, he makes up words to the loud booming techno that pounds through the backyard. And he doesn�t just dance, he leaps and jumps, banging down on the lawn with the soles of his shoes. Sweat flies off him, people move away from him, but he doesn�t care. He dances wildly, twisting and flailing and breaking the night. Your name I remember, like a fever or a flame. He calls out the words again and again, screaming them now so a young woman dancing beside him moves away, her face puckers in disgust. He doesn�t care, he loves the song, bellows out those words: Your name I remember, like a fever or a flame. And as the song fades, a kinetic stuttering beat rushes up from behind it, overwhelming and drowning the song, the song that he believes will be forever his song. He stops abruptly, focuses, his throat parched, all these strangers looking at him. Looking at him as if he is filth, as if he is shit, as if he doesn�t belong.
It is his first day at Cunts College and he doesn�t belong.
He stands still. Couples around him dancing with a polite shuffle of feet, blonde girls with handbags hanging over their shoulders, sandy-haired boys gyrating carefully next to them. Neatness and cleanliness, order and beauty. Dan can smell his own stink, he is lathered in sweat. Slowly, deliberately, he unbuttons his shirt, then tears it off, wipes under his arms with it, dabs his face, his neck, his shoulders. Let them see the full hairy ugliness of who he is, the paunch of his belly, the thick coarse hair matted and wet against his skin. Let them look at him, let them take him in. One of the women giggles, one of the men calls out sarcastically, �Strip, strip, strip,� and someone starts a slow clap. Dan thinks, Why not, I�ll strip, I�ll strip, and I�ll piss all over this lawn, I�ll strip and piss and maybe even take a dump right in the middle of their fucking lawn, that�s what they expect from me. Aussie Aussie Aussie, Oi Oi Oi.
A hand is on his shoulder, a quiet voice says, �Danny, come with me.�
Dazed, he lets Emma lead him out of the marquee, past the faces turning away from him, past the whispers and the jeers. She takes him into the kitchen, she is holding his hand, tight, as she walks him up the stairs and into a bedroom. She gently pushes him onto the mattress and leaves him sitting there while she goes out and closes the door behind her.
Is he meant to stay here? Does she mean him to be locked in here? He looks around the room; it is exactly as he remembers it�the Wilderness Society posters, the school photographs, the chunky mahogany desk, the three walls of bookcases�except that now most of the books that filled those shelves have gone, only a handful of children�s books and school textbooks remain.
Emma comes back and tosses a t-shirt at him. �It�s one of Martin�s old ones,� she explains. �I think it will fit.�
Dan puts on the shirt, sniffs at it. He can�t smell Martin, only detergent and fabric softener.
Emma sits down next to him. She looks around her old bedroom. �Jesus,� she says, shaking her head, �how I hate this room. It reminds me of a poor little rich girl�s room.� She groans. �I wish they�d change it, I wish they would make it a spare room�anything as long as it doesn�t remind me of once living here.�
Unlike the other women at the party, Emma is not in evening wear. She wears a rainbow-coloured smock, which hangs limply over her shoulders. Her skin is as dark and honeyed as the wood of the desk. Without thinking, Dan reaches out and touches the small bump on her shoulder. �You�re very tanned.� Everything he says, everything he does in this house, it seems idiotic.
Emma wears no make-up, her hair is cut short, he can smell cigarettes on her breath. �I�ve been working in Asia for a year, Danny. Didn�t Martin tell you?�
Dan shakes his head.
Emma snorts loudly. �No surprises there.�
The collar of the smock hangs loose around her breasts, the skin is tanned dark there as well. Dan�s finger slowly traces a line from the bump on her shoulder, across the smooth skin of her neck, down to the cleft of her breasts. He can sense her breath underneath his touch. But gently, Emma moves his hand away. It falls, dead, hitting the mattress with a thud.
Her next words shock him. �I know he�s my brother, Danny, but he�s not worth it. Martin Taylor is a shit. He�s a shit from a long, long line of shits.�
He doesn�t understand why she is telling him this, he is suspicious of her words. He peeks at a necklace that sits skewed on the plump rise of her left breast.
Emma notices, holds up the pendant for him to look at. It is a swirl of fine silver lines. �This is from Laos, it�s the symbol for charity.� She drops the pendant. �I got it in a hospice where I was working, helping children whose parents had died from AIDS.� She has dropped the pendant but her finger is tracing the swirls. �I used to be sceptical of the word charity, I thought it was some middle-class Christian hang-up. But I�ve learned that it�s a universal quality. I�ve learned to appreciate it.�
He is conscious of how sad she is. He tries to form words in his head, words that will banish the melancholy. Every word this beautiful woman utters, every word floats on sadness.
�I wish there was more charity here,� she says bitterly. �In this house, in this city, in this country.�
Dan blurts out, �Aussie Aussie Aussie, Oi Oi Oi.�
And that makes her laugh, that chases away the sadness. �Absolutely right, Danny. You�re absolutely right.� She starts shouting. �Aussie Aussie Aussie, Fucking Oi Oi Oi!�
They are on their backs on the bed, shaking with laughter. Emma clutches his hand. �It must have been a tough night for you. I know how much you wanted to be there at these Olympics. I know what it meant to you.�
He is rigid. His skin, his heart, his lungs, his whole being, it has gone cold, he is frozen. Her too�all they feel for him is pity. His lips are cracked, his tongue feels heavy. �I need a drink.�
Emma stretches over and opens a drawer in the bureau beside the bed. She pulls out a bottle of dark ochre liquid. She points to the cupboard. �You�re taller than I am. Up there, at the back, there�s an old toy kitchen set, I think you�ll find two cups in there.�
Dan leaps up off the bed and is on his tiptoes: his searching hand unsettles dust and he shifts an old teddy bear, worn patches of faded hessian showing through; he feels an old Walkman, then a small flat disc. He slides it forward. The plate is covered with a film of grime and dust, he can hardly make out the design of the blue finch etched on the white china surface. He pushes it back, far back, and finds the two plastic toy cups.
He hands Emma the cups and she wipes them clean with the hem of her smock, then pours a generous slug of the liquid into each one. �It�s Mum�s bottle,� she explains. �She keeps a bottle of whiskey in here, one in the bathroom and a couple in the kitchen. That way she�s never at a loose end.� The words are hollow, there is no expression in her voice. Emma raises the toy cup. �Here�s to the two fucking thousand fucking Olympic fucking Games.�
And his first whiskey, that was fire. That was certainly fire.
The heat of the whiskey cuts the ice. He drinks a cupful, then another. And another. He reaches to refill the cup but Emma places her hand around his wrist.
�That�s enough, Dan,� she says. �I�m going to call you a taxi. You should go home.�
But he doesn�t. Walking down the stairs, the steps loom large and he has to think, I�m putting my left foot on that one, my right foot on that one; he is trying not to fall, Emma giggling behind him, they are in the kitchen and the bottle of rum is by the sink, it is nearly empty and he says, �Maybe I�ll have another,� and Em
ma shrugs. Dan rinses a glass and pours the drink into it and at that moment Martin slides open the door. Dan is by the sink, he has tilted his head back, he has had the last of the drink, his mouth is wide open and he is shaking the glass for the last drops to fall onto his tongue. Martin has slid open the door and is staring at him. He hears the exasperated click of Taylor�s tongue.
�Mate,� Taylor�s voice is firm, �I think it�s time you were off.�
Dan can recognise a riff and a chug of chords from out in the backyard, from under the billowing clouds of the marquee. He takes Emma�s hand. �Come and dance,� he says. �It�s Nirvana.�
But Taylor has shut the door. Through the glass Dan can see Lauren, her skin a reddish hue from the light of the Chinese lanterns studded through the yard, standing at the entrance of the marquee, looking anxious, her hand to her mouth.
Taylor has shut the door and is standing there, arms crossed, shaking his head. �Kelly, you�re going home.�
And Emma has pulled her hand away from his. �Danny, Martin�s right, I�m going to call a taxi.�
But he can still hear the relentless riff of the guitar, the hypnotic bass, the simple propulsive drum pattern. It is calling him. �I just want to dance to this one, I�ll dance to this and then I�ll go.�
�For fuck�s sake, Kelly, you�re a bloody loser. So you didn�t make it to the Olympics. So you weren�t good enough. Get over it.�
Dan has to touch his own face. Those words, he saw them fly through the air and cut at his face. He has walked up to Taylor, he can see the sheen of sweat on the man�s upper lip. No, not a man�they are boys, together, competing. Who will be the strongest, the fastest, the best? �You wanted it too,� says Dan, and as the words are said, he feels the blessed release. They have both failed. They will always be together, he and Martin, for both of them have failed.
But Taylor is shaking his head. �No, mate. I never wanted it like you. Not like you and Wilco.� Taylor has moved forward, his breath is caressing Dan�s face. �You didn�t see it tonight, did you, the opening ceremony? You didn�t see Wilco there, his head high, proud because he�s in the swim team? You didn�t see it, did you?�
The music has disappeared, Emma isn�t there, Lauren isn�t peering anxiously out from the darkness. It is just Kelly and Taylor. And Taylor knows, Taylor knows that Dan was stronger, faster, better than Wilco. Taylor knows.
�Of course, he won�t make it past the heats but the bastard was smiling like he couldn�t believe his luck. And too right, I reckon. He shouldn�t be there.� Taylor�s voice was almost�not quite, but so close to�disgusted. And like they were still kids in the change rooms, Taylor is poking a sharp stabbing finger into Dan�s chest. �You should have been there. Not him.�
Dan smacks Martin�s hand away, so hard that Emma starts. Through the glass, he can see Lauren walking towards them. �And you. How about you? You wanted it just as much.�
Martin is scowling, rubbing his wrist; Dan�s blow had hurt. �No, I was never hungry for it. I liked beating you but once I knew you were better than me I just didn�t care. You can�t get anywhere if you don�t care, can you? You�re the one who really wanted it.� Taylor drops his hand to his side in distaste. �Why am I bothering? You know what you didn�t do. You know exactly what I�m talking about.�
If he could just close his eyes, if he could shut out Taylor�s taunts and the noise and light and the crowd.
�Martin, stop!� Emma�s voice cuts through the night, and for one moment she alleviates the harshness of the light. But Dan can�t bear the way she is looking at him. His mother looks at him like that, it is the way Demet and Luke look at him, as if all they can muster for him is pity and compassion.
Lauren is sliding open the door, asking, in a frightened high-pitched voice, �Is everything alright?�
He hates her, he hates her most of all.
He responds to Emma, ignoring Lauren, �Nah�let him say what he�s got to say.� He faces Martin. �What didn�t I do, Taylor? Tell me.� Stare him out, give it back to him, give it right back to him. �Come on, cunt, what didn�t I do?�
It feels so good to say that word, to hear Lauren gasp, to see Emma shrink back.
Taylor looks away, Taylor can�t look at him. Then he says it all with a limp tilt of his shoulders�that says it all, that he can�t be bothered. It says that Dan isn�t worth it.
Lauren has squeezed in between the two men, faces Dan. �Can you please go? You�re upsetting Martin.�
Like she owns the house.
Dan is shaking his head. The song is ending, he�s going to dance, he�s going to dance and leap and fly. He darts towards the door but Martin grabs his sleeve, pulls him back. And as he does, Dan pulls his arm away from Martin�s grasp and the back of his hand hits Lauren in the face. There is the shock of silence, and then she is crying, a thin trail of blood coming from her left nostril.
That�s when Taylor shouts it to the night and to the world. �You fucking loser!�
Martin is holding Lauren, Dan is repeating over and over I�m sorry I�m sorry I didn�t mean to but Martin is pushing him away.
Emma has wet a dishtowel and Martin lets her clean up Lauren�s bleeding nose. He faces Dan, the two men so close that their chests, their noses, are nearly touching.
�You always wanted to know what people thought of you, Kelly.� Martin�s voice is low, unemotional and cool. �You know what we thought? We thought you were a loser. You didn�t have the balls then and you don�t have the balls now. That�s why you�re not there tonight, that�s why you�ll always be a fucking loser.�
The truth. He hears Martin tell the world the truth.
And Martin is now pushing at him, saying coldly, repeating, �Get out, get out of my house,� and Dan shoves back, so hard that Martin slams against the glass door, it trembles, it bends, there is a loud crack, and Martin scrambles to his feet, he comes rushing at him, and Emma is between them and Dan can hear Mrs Taylor�s outraged voice screaming from somewhere and everyone is running up the lawn towards the kitchen and Lauren is still crying and Martin is pushing him back and the music is screaming out that one word, loser, again and again, all denial, loser, again and again and Dan�s hand tightens around the empty glass in his hand and he thinks I can crush it, it will shatter into a million pieces and it will cut my hand and then Martin pushes him again and Mrs Taylor is screaming and Emma is crying but he doesn�t care, she�s one of them, he remembers the discarded plate, his forsaken gift. All of them are the same, just pity and mockery, how they must have laughed at him through the years, how they must have made jokes about what a clumsy, awkward, ugly, ill-mannered buffoon he was; so Emma is crying, let her cry, and Lauren is howling, let her howl, and to make it all stop to make it all go away to make himself disappear he raises his arm and as he lifts it he thinks for a moment that he has been lifted himself, that he is towering over the bodies coming to claim him and he can see straight over their heads through the windows to the night outside except that it is not night but a screen and in the screen he can see that a woman with white skin is relinquishing the torch to a woman with black skin and he thinks I�m somewhere there in between, I am in the in-between of my father�s paleness and my mother�s darkness, and as the woman holds the Olympic torch aloft ready to light the flame and as Martin is pushing him back and those behind Martin are grabbing at him, reaching for him, he knows that they are both there, he and Martin, that they are both there in the stadium that had been bronze with desert and silver with sea and gold with dreaming and that the glass in his hand is the torch in her hand and as he brings it down on Martin�s face he hears the veil of the screen rip and through that tear the same woman�s voice is now pleading and they fight and struggle as if the woman is guiding Dan�s hand, she is guiding his fate, and the blood falls like hot rain on his cheeks and as he slices the man�s face Dan raises the glass again and again and brings it down again and again and as his p
unches fall across the man�s head and face and neck and throat and chest and belly and arms and legs and the man doubles over and falls, Dan sighs with relief because he has fallen with him through the crack of the sliding door and through the crack of the house and through the crack of the city into the nothingness in which he belongs. Martin Taylor�s blood is on his lips, he can taste him. He falls into the darkness, and just before a boot crashes into his skull, he savours the moment in which his and Martin�s blood and sweat are joined together: he and Martin, once again together, they are as one.
part two
BREATHING OUT
I HAVE TO LEARN HOW TO breathe again.
I am standing under the towering pin oak that shadows Frank Torma�s house. I force my body to banish fear. The stone on my palm is as smooth as glass. My grip on it is strong. It is as smooth as glass but ancient and indestructible.
I have to learn how to breathe again because Frank watches me�I know he is watching me all the time. He watches me as I swim, but he also watches the way I walk towards the change rooms, how I undress, how I carry my sports bag over my shoulder. He takes note of everything I do�and everything I do, I do wrong.
�Stop slouching,� he bellows, coming up behind me, resting one hand at the bottom of my spine, the other pushing my stomach so my back straightens. �When did you start slouching?� he roars. �When, tell me when?�
I don�t answer. He must know, he must know the burden I carry. I push back my shoulders, I force one foot in front of the other. I inhale, try not to be conscious of the workings of my lungs, the forward thrust of my body. But I breathe too soon, I lose rhythm. Even something as simple as walking causes me fear. I don�t trust the machine that is my body.
I have to learn how to breathe again.
There is a fog floating on the river, the city over the ridge is ghostly through the blue and grey mist. Through the glass doors I can see the staff at the front desk, a cleaner carrying a bucket and a mop. I am the first at the pool, I am outside, hopping on one foot, then the other, blowing into my hands, rubbing them together to keep warm. One of the women inside takes pity on me and though it is not yet six o�clock she comes over and releases a switch. The doors slide open.
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