‘I miss girls,’ Dennis said suddenly, the words tumbling out to the rhythm of the waves crashing on the sand. ‘It’s been so long, so long since I had a fuck. I miss girls. I miss their kisses, their tits, the taste of their pussies.’ Dennis was looking up at the dome of the nocturnal sky, his thoughts seemingly far away, but Dan could sense the closeness between them; the communication felt like the warmest touch. ‘Do you know what I mean?’
And Dan, thinking his heart would stop, announced to the ocean the way that Dennis called to the sky: ‘Yeah, mate, I do know. It’s been too long since I had a fuck too. But I miss guys, Dennis, I miss their balls, I miss their arms around me, I miss the feel of their cocks pressing against mine.’
Even with the pounding of the sea, all was silence. They sat side by side, watching the surf recede and return.
‘Come on,’ said Dennis. ‘Let’s go for a swim.’
Dan didn’t tell him that he couldn’t, that he wouldn’t swim. ‘No, I’ll watch you,’ and he watched Dennis strip to his jocks and go splashing into the waves.
When Dennis came back up the beach, he used his singlet to dry his legs.
‘Come on,’ said Dan, ‘let’s get going.’
Dennis was looking up at the stars, shaking his head. ‘I know a place in Richmond, I reckon it’s still there. Mostly girls but I hear they’ve always got a couple of guys working there if you’re into that.’
And then Dennis was looking straight at him, his eyes gleaming, a sardonic trembling on his lips. Dan, uncomprehending, stared back.
‘Get up, you dumb poofter. We’re going to get laid.’
As Dan dropped Dennis at home, he said quietly, ‘Mate, I have to go home. We’re heading back to Melbourne in the morning.’
Dennis made no answer. But before getting out he leaned over and embraced Dan, folding him in tight, squeezing him. It was a forceful hold; it was all the words they needed. When they finally pulled apart, Dan’s face was damp with his cousin’s sweat.
Dan and his mother stopped at the hospital before they headed home. The Samoan nurse was there. Dan noticed the tag on her uniform: her name was Naomi. She was washing his grandmother’s arms.
‘Can I do that?’
Naomi gave him the sponge. Dan took the old woman’s hand, hardly believing how light it was, like holding a twig that had fallen from a tree. Carefully he washed her right arm, cleaning around her armpits and shoulders; he squeezed the sponge, and returned to gently wiping his grandmother’s neck.
‘He’s got good hands,’ the nurse said to Dan’s mother, who was weeping. Dan squeezed the sponge again over the kidney dish and looked expectantly at Naomi.
‘It’s OK, honey,’ she said softly, taking the sponge. ‘I can do the rest.’
It had felt good to wash his grandmother, it had somehow felt right. But when he kissed the papery skin for the last time he still felt nothing. For there was nothing there.
His phone buzzed as he and his mother were leaving the hospital. It was a message from Dennis. Drive safe. You know I MEAN IT! D. It made him smile.
In Dimboola they stopped for coffee and sandwiches. His mother ran across the road to the newsagent to get the paper. Dan could see that she was crying as she came out of the shop.
‘What is it?’ he asked, thinking it had to be something about Iraq, something to do with what the Yanks and the Poms had done in Iraq. But it wasn’t.
‘Nina Simone has died,’ his mother said shakily. ‘I know it’s silly, but I just burst out crying in the shop when I read it. You know how much I adore Nina Simone.’
Back in the car, his mother searched through the glove box, CDs and pens and paper tumbling out and around her feet. She found the CD, she turned the volume up loud. All the way to Melbourne they sang along to ‘Mississippi Goddam’, ‘Feeling Good’, ‘Obeah Woman’, ‘Put a Little Sugar in My Bowl’. They sang Nina Simone all the way to Melbourne.
He was aching to be alone in his flat, to sit on the sofa, to look out the window, to watch the world outside without seeing it. But when his mother asked to come in, he couldn’t say no.
‘It’s a nice place,’ his mum said. She opened the kitchen cupboards, looked into the fridge. ‘I’m getting you some pots and pans,’ she told him, and wouldn’t allow him to protest. ‘When I come back from up north, I’ll come over with your dad. We owe you a housewarming present.’
She looked around one last time. ‘The walls are too bare, Danny. You need something for these walls. There,’ she pointed above a makeshift bookshelf he had constructed from discarded red bricks and timber palings, ‘I’ve a poster of Irma Thomas that will be perfect there.’ She swung around. ‘And I have a Matisse print that will do very nicely over there.’
She hugged him for so long before leaving, held him so tight that he had to stoop, that his shoulders started to hurt. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you, Danny,’ she said. Eventually she had to let him go.
He couldn’t help it: he sighed in relief when she had gone.
The sun was setting, the sky was slivers of indigo and gold, scarlet and blood. He sat, his back straight, his palms resting on his thighs, looking without seeing, listening to his breathing, as slowly the sounds of the other flats became distinct. The old woman turning on her taps, the children watching television. He sat for a long time, enjoying the bliss of being alone, until he was in darkness and he started to shiver from the cold. He grabbed a jumper from his bedroom and turned on the light. He listened again to his breathing, waiting to feel the warm rush, the salve that came from being alone.
He was breathing in, he was breathing out.
What was he going to do?
Dan picked up his phone. There were only a few numbers in his contact list — his granddad and nan, his parents, Leon the parole officer, the numbers for work. He found Dennis’s number and sent a message: Arrived safe. He hesitated, then quickly typed again. And mate, anytime you need you got a place to stay in Melbourne. My casa is your casa.
~ ~ ~
I SMASHED IT. I ABSOLUTELY KILLED IT. The others didn’t even come close, I was three, four, maybe even five lengths ahead of the guy behind me. Go Kelly, Taylor is hooting — I can hear his voice ringing clear above the cheers and the chants across the pool. The whole school is standing up on the benches, they are stamping their feet, I can’t see it but hearing it is better than seeing it, hearing makes me feel like I am seeing it from on high. I can look down and see all the other schools sitting down, they are silent and sullen, but my school, all of them, from the little pissers in Year Seven to the won’t-deign-to-look-at-you-scum Year Twelves, they have their hands out of their pockets, they are stomping their feet, banging the benches, singing our school song out at the top of their lungs. I have dominated the carnival, I have thrashed swimmers three years older than me. I have broken the Schools Swimming Competition record in two events.
I feel it at this moment, just as the cold tremors begin, just as the shivers start, as the slog of the last few minutes starts to bubble in my blood and in my gut, I feel it, I know it. I can be the best. I killed it. I can be the best.
I can hear Martin Taylor. He’s calling out, again and again and again, Go Kelly, Go. I hear his voice, it rises higher and higher to reach me. I am in the sun, I am higher, further — beyond the sun.