'I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna.' Kevin is standing in his shower recess, while I am trying to pull down his pants. He's shat and pissed himself. 'I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna.' I try to get his pants out from underneath his feet, and the shit and the piss smear on my hands, my arms, my shirt. 'I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna.'
'For fuck's sake, Kevin, stand still!'
The shouting works. I don't like doing it but yelling at him is the only thing that quietens him down. I know why he shouts, why he chants over and over and over, I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna, I know all about that. You repeat, you repeat, you repeat to block out the shame, to block out the voice screaming at you, What a mess, what a monster, what a no-hoper, what a disgrace, what an idiot, what a fuckup, what an animal, what a douchebag, what a freak, what a loser, loser, loser, loser, the voice that won't stop, can't stop, that mocks and taunts and jeers and fills your head till you just repeat the words over and over and over to make them music, to make them rhythm, to make them just sound, bam bam bam bam bam bam bam bam. The shame, like a piston ramming right into me; the memory of it flaying me, stripping the skin off me. The shame still cuts me in two, in four, in eight. I am hung and quartered and skewered on it.
'It's alright, Kevin, it's fine, mate, it's fine, I understand.'
'I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna.' But the voice is getting quieter. I carefully guide his feet over the trousers, and he is naked, cupping his dick and balls in his hands.
'It's OK, Kevin, it's fine, mate. I'm just going to turn on the shower.'
The pipes knock, scream, and then the water cascades all over him. I grab the yellow sponge and scrub his body. I don't mind getting wet, it washes my shame away, as I rub his belly, his groin and his thighs. The shit turns runny as it swirls around the plug hole, turning liquid, disappearing till it is just clear water.
Kevin is silent now, Kevin is calm now. His cock is half-erect and he points at it.
'OK, mate, that's enough.' I turn off the water and start to rub him down. His cock is fully hard now and he can't stop chortling.
'I'm sor-ry, Dan.'
'That's OK.'
He sniffs, his face contorts. 'You. . you. . you smell, Da-Da-Dan.'
I finish drying him and then point to the door. 'Out. I have to shower too.'
I shower, quickly, scrub my skin. The rush of hot water on my back, it finally relaxes me.
My pants are fine, but my shirt is soiled. I find a plastic bag and place the soggy mess in it. I then search under the sink, find some disinfectant, a Chux, and finish cleaning up the bathroom.
When I go back to the living room, Kevin's sitting on the end of the sofa, drinking a beer and watching porn.
'Is it cool if I borrow one of your t-shirts?'
He is ignoring me, he's fascinated by the athletic contortions of the two women and the man on the screen.
I take a plain blue t-shirt from his room and put it on. I should be scolding him: You shouldn't drink, you know that. If you drink too much you'll lose control of your bladder and your bowels, you know that, Kevin.
There's no washing machine in Kevin's flat, so I put the bag of soiled clothes in the car boot for us to do later at the laundromat. I lock up and we begin the slow shuffle to the Sunshine Pool. Sometimes I have to remind him: this foot, I point, bring it forward; that foot, I point to the other, now move that one. This foot, that foot, we shuffle, we crawl, I catch his arm when he stumbles, we reach the pool.
He doesn't want me to undress him, he wants to do it himself. The smell of chlorine, of toilet soap, the humid air, the stripping bodies. I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna.
At the pool a cheerful young man in Speedos takes Kevin's hand and starts pulling him away, trying to lead him to the shallow end.
'No. I–I-I wunn wunna, Dan.'
'Come on, Kevin. You know Sean is going to swim with you.'
'No.' Kevin pulls at my t-shirt, trying to get me to go with him. I don't budge. The chlorine is thick in my nose and in my mouth, the heat and the steam is seeping into me. I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna.
'Ca-cum inn, Da-nee.'
'No!' The force of my vehemence hurts him as much as if I have smacked him. He looks down, distressed and ashamed.
I apologise, hug him. 'Come on, Kevin, you know, mate, you know I can't swim.'
I watch Sean lead Kevin down the slow lane, watch Sean try to teach Kevin how to tread water again. I sit as far away from the water as I can.
I don't swim.
I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna.
I won't swim.
I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna, I dunn wanna.
I can't swim.
Australian Swimming Championships, Brisbane, 20–23 May 1997
'You look very handsome, Danny. Don't you agree, Regan? Doesn't your brother look handsome?'
Danny's top lip curled wryly at his sister. She didn't answer their mother, slouching deeper into the sofa, her canary-yellow hoodie stretched over her knees. She was intent on the TV screen, watching actors who just seemed to be shouting at each other. The yelling was interrupted every ten seconds or so by a crack of gunfire which was the laugh track. From time to time Regan sniggered. Danny knew the show was called Friends, of course he knew, everyone knew that, but all that shouting and yelling was giving him a headache.
His mother was down on one knee before him. She had pins in her mouth and was turning up the ends of his suit pants. He was impatient to get the thing off him, the new metallic-blue suit that his mum had bought for him from one of the seconds warehouses on Albert Street. It was a good suit, a top Aussie label, and it did look good on him. But the collar of his shirt prickled and the jacket was heavy around his shoulders and he was sick of modelling it.
His mother wanted him to look just right for the opening ceremony. He just wanted to be back in his shorts and sweatshirt. He was packed, ready. Why did she always have to find something else to do?
'Done,' said his mum, satisfied. 'You can take it off.'
Danny carefully laid the jacket on the arm of the sofa, undid the tie, started unbuttoning the shirt.
'Don't! Regan was scowling. 'Don't strip off in here.'
'Sorry.'
He kept forgetting that Regan was turning into a teenager; unlike him she wasn't used to bodies in various stages of undress. He never thought of those things. He bundled his sweater and shorts under his arms and went into his room to change. When he came back his mother was sitting in front of the sewing machine on the kitchen table. She had earphones on, connected to the Walkman that sat next to the machine. She didn't like the shouting either, thought Danny. He knew she would be lost in rock and roll, something old and in mono. He plonked down on the sofa. 'Move,' he said, pushing back Regan's feet.
'No, you move,' and she kicked him. 'Go sit on the chair.'
He snickered. She was becoming an adolescent, a mean surly bitch of a teenage girl.
He heard a noise, his ears cocked, it must be him, and Danny bolted from the sofa and was running down the hall. But when he threw open the door it was an old woman standing there, beaming at him, a young woman standing next to her, unsmiling, with a lazy left eye and her arms full of magazines.