It wasn’t normal for Taylor or for Perkins. It was normal for wogs. Normal for ugly wogs, like her.
‘It’s OK, we don’t have to do it.’ His reaction had startled her.
She wasn’t ugly, she was beautiful. She was going grey but she still looked younger and more attractive than any of the other mums at school; those women were all hard sharp lines: the cut of their hair, the jut of their chins and cheeks, the fit of their clothes. His mother was curves and flesh. His mother was beautiful. She would do anything for him. He watched her work the gel into a lather in her hand. He was the one who was ugly.
He turned around, and let her shave him.
It is your race to win. It was the first thing he told himself that morning when he threw back the blanket and looked down at his new smooth body. It is your race to win. He kept whispering it to himself while warming up in the gym. He repeated it to himself as he flexed his muscles in front of the long mirrors, wishing he could strip, wishing it was like the ancient days when athletes competed naked, wishing it were those days so he could stand in front of the mirror loving his new hairless body that allowed him to see every curve and hollow of each muscle. He worked out — nothing too strenuous that could pull a muscle. At one point Danny put down the barbells. He was sweating heavily, it was a shiny casing over his new skin. No one was looking at him, they were all concentrating on their own bodies, their own future. He slowly pulled up the bottom of his singlet to his upper chest. His abdomen glistened, his chest gleamed. He was all muscle and he was clean and smooth. He looked like Kowalski and Perkins and Brembilla.
He would win the two hundred metre freestyle. He would win it because he deserved it, because it was his to win. It was his race to win.
He kept telling himself that with every lap he swam in his preparations that morning. The water slid by his new body, caressed it. In the water, he could feel his speed and power.
He could feel this speed and this power standing on his block, awaiting the signal to dive in. He knew Taylor was in the third lane but he didn’t think about that again. He thought no more about Taylor, who also wanted to win that race. But Taylor wouldn’t win that race because it wasn’t his to win. It is my race to win. He dived and his body entered the water as if he were in one of his flying dreams. Time once again receded. He knifed into the water and then he was slicing the water that bent and shifted and became his. He breathed more freely than he did in the air. He knew that he was at the twenty-five-metre mark, but time did not exist. He was breathing, swimming, bending and being in the water. He was at one hundred metres and he was breathing and bending and shifting the water. One hundred and twenty-five metres and his muscles, his new body, were doing all that he wanted them to do. With every turn he could feel the muscles in his thighs, in his calves, in his shoulders as his arms lifted and broke and shifted the water. It was one hundred and fifty metres but time did not exist and he was shifting and bending and conquering the water. His hand touched the tiles at the end of the pool and he didn’t even need to look up, he didn’t need anyone to tell him that he had won.
He had won.
In the warm-down pool he found that he was shivering and fighting wave upon wave of nausea. Then the pain started, first in his chest, then in his leaden arms which felt as if the muscles were ballooning. They felt as though they would burst through his skin, but he knew that they were in fact constricting, that the pain would come sporadically throughout the day, and would intensify and deepen in the night. The next morning his body would feel far from new, but he would have to get back in the pool and struggle to make his body bend and conquer the water once again. The water would not love him as it had during the race; tomorrow it would once more be a force to battle, to master, to defeat. He exhaled and the pain lessened. Slowly his teeth stopped chattering, his muscles loosened, and his cramps began to subside. He looked around to see Taylor shivering next to him. The other boy was taller, with a bigger chest and longer arms, but his legs weren’t as strong as Danny’s. Danny suddenly understood that he had won it with his kicks, in the water and at the turns. He felt down to his smooth new thighs and almost groaned as the pain kicked into him again. He raised his arm in a mock salute.
Taylor nodded quietly, a half-smile on his face — a loser’s attempt at a smile, thought Danny. Taylor extended his hand. ‘Congratulations, Danny.’
He’d fucked it. He should have been the first to offer the handshake, as Perkins had with Kowalski. That was what a true sportsman did, that was what would be in all the papers that morning, he was sure of it: the handshake. Should he hug Taylor or would that be a loser’s thing to do? He should have been the first to extend his hand. He would never make that mistake again. Being gracious was Taylor’s attempt to get under his skin, Taylor trying to undermine him. Give it back, turn it on him. Danny put an arm around Taylor’s shoulders, looser than a hug. Taylor’s skin was smooth, he still had a child’s skin — he could afford electrolysis but he didn’t need it, he would always be smooth. Danny’s arm over Taylor’s shoulder wasn’t drawing him in, it was just an affectionate jokey touch which said, We both did well, we were neck and neck for a while, but I won.
Taylor shrugged off his arm.
‘We did well,’ Danny said, grinning widely.
‘No,’ answered Taylor, his voice giving nothing away. ‘You won it. I came third.’
I was always going to win it, thought Danny. It was always mine to win.
It was dark when they got home. His dad was waiting up for them and offered Danny his hand. ‘Congratulations, Danny, I’m proud of you. So’s your granddad Bill — he was over the moon when I told him.’
Danny glanced at the clock. It was too late to ring, Granddad Bill would be in bed. He’d ring him from school tomorrow, to hear the pride in his voice.
Before he went to bed, Danny asked his mother to wake him at four-thirty as usual.
His father cut in before she could reply. ‘It’s been a big couple of days, Danny. Why don’t you take the day off tomorrow, sleep in?’
His dad didn’t understand that it was harder not to train — that when he wasn’t training he was walking through the sludge of the in-between. ‘Nah, I’m going to the pool tomorrow.’
His father’s mouth tightened. ‘Fine, but your mother isn’t taking you. She’s driven all the way to Albury and back for you — she’s exhausted. You can train if you want to, but she’s sleeping in.’
Danny breathed in, sensing that he was about to lose it and yell, which would get him nowhere; it would never move his father. He turned to his mother, whose eyes were darting between her son and her husband.
‘It’s OK, Neal, I can take him in.’
The man continued staring at Danny, as if he hadn’t heard a word his wife had said. Then he raised his arms, shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’ He beckoned to Theo and Regan, and they ran to his open arms for a hug. ‘Well, the three of us are sleeping in, aren’t we? And I’m going to cook us pancakes with ice-cream.’
Theo and Regan loudly chorused their delight. But his father wouldn’t look at him and Danny couldn’t look at his father.
Danny watched TV as he brushed his teeth, transfixed by the constant replaying of the Perkins triumph. The commentators kept asking: was Kieren Perkins the greatest swimmer ever? But Danny was focused on the footage of the man who’d come second, the man who was forcing a smile but looked as though he wanted to weep — because second wasn’t winning, second was losing. A heroic effort by Kowalski, they were saying, a great sporting moment for Australia; they were saying that Kowalski swam an honourable race — but second wasn’t winning, second was losing.