pubs and restaurants, to go up a sleeping avenue with neat trimmed
hedges and black SUVs. Carl feels the night become heavy again and knows that this time there will be no fighting it, it will
keep getting heavier and heavier as he gets nearer to the house that is his house until it has dragged him all the way into
tomorrow.
‘… genius of diet pills,’ Barry is saying very quickly beside him. He is excited: maybe he is thinking about the US Army jeep
on eBay. ‘You don’t just buy them for a night out. You take them every day. And also, it’s
girls
. When do you ever see girls down in the park, buying drugs off knackers? Never. It’s a totally untapped market. I swear to
God, we’re going to be rich! Fucking
rich
!’ He grins at Carl, and waits for Carl to grin back.
‘Show us them a second,’ Carl says. Barry hands him the tube, chuckling some more. Carl opens it and pours the pills into
his palm. Then, as hard as he can, he flings them away into the air. Pills skitter along the road, bounce off car roofs, pelt
softly into the grass.
Barry is stunned. For a minute he can’t even speak. Then he says, ‘What the fuck did you do that for?’
Carl keeps walking. There is a sour fire burning in him the colour of dried blood.
‘You fucking
twat
,’ Barry says, ‘you spa, now what are we going to say to those girls tomorrow?’
Carl raises his palm and smacks Barry flat on the ear. Barry gasps and staggers sideways. ‘What’s the matter with you, you
psycho?’ he cries, clutching his head. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’
It’s tomorrow. Skippy’s bare-legged at the edge of the pool, chlorine and earliness stinging his eyes. Outside the morning
is a grey fuzz, the first shapes just beginning to emerge from it. On either side of Skippy, boys are lined up, their white
Seabrook College swimming caps making them look like clones with the school crest stamped on their bald heads. Then the whistle,
and before his mind even realizes, his body’s thrown itself forward and into the water. Instantly a thousand blue hands reach
for him, seize him, pulling him down – he catches his breath, fights them off, scrabbles his way to the surface –
Breaking through, he emerges into a commotion of colour and noise – the yellow plastic roof, the crash and foam of the other
swimmers, an arm, a goggled head thrown sideways, Coach like a gnarled tree trunk bending over the water, clapping his hands
and shouting
Let’s go let’s go
and in the lanes around Skippy the boys like disobedient reflections stealing ahead, disappearing behind their wakes. Everyone
hurtling for the wall! But the water grapples against him, the bottom of the pool is magnetic and it’s tugging him down again,
down to where…
The whistle goes. Garret Dennehy comes in first, right behind him Siddartha Niland. In the seconds after, the others slide
up alongside them, lean back against the wall, gasping, lifting off their goggles. Skippy’s still back in the middle of the
pool.
‘Come on, Daniel, for Christ’s sake, you’re like an old granny walking in the park!’
Three times a week, at 7 a.m., training for one hour. Count yourself lucky, the Senior team trains every morning and Saturdays
too. Breaststroke, backstroke, butterfly, crawl, back and
forth through the blue chemicals; repetitions on the tiles, crunches and squats, till every muscle is burning.
‘Being a great athlete is not just about natural ability,’ Coach likes to shout, pacing up and down along the poolside as
you squirm through your sets. ‘It’s about discipline, and it’s about commitment.’ So if you miss a session, you’d better have
a good excuse.
Afterwards, the team huddles shivering by the doorway of the changing room, hands pressed under armpits. When you get out
of the water the air feels cold and nothingy. Your arm moves and it moves against nothing. You speak and the words disappear
instantly.
Coach
hedges and black SUVs. Carl feels the night become heavy again and knows that this time there will be no fighting it, it will
keep getting heavier and heavier as he gets nearer to the house that is his house until it has dragged him all the way into
tomorrow.
‘… genius of diet pills,’ Barry is saying very quickly beside him. He is excited: maybe he is thinking about the US Army jeep
on eBay. ‘You don’t just buy them for a night out. You take them every day. And also, it’s
girls
. When do you ever see girls down in the park, buying drugs off knackers? Never. It’s a totally untapped market. I swear to
God, we’re going to be rich! Fucking
rich
!’ He grins at Carl, and waits for Carl to grin back.
‘Show us them a second,’ Carl says. Barry hands him the tube, chuckling some more. Carl opens it and pours the pills into
his palm. Then, as hard as he can, he flings them away into the air. Pills skitter along the road, bounce off car roofs, pelt
softly into the grass.
Barry is stunned. For a minute he can’t even speak. Then he says, ‘What the fuck did you do that for?’
Carl keeps walking. There is a sour fire burning in him the colour of dried blood.
‘You fucking
twat
,’ Barry says, ‘you spa, now what are we going to say to those girls tomorrow?’
Carl raises his palm and smacks Barry flat on the ear. Barry gasps and staggers sideways. ‘What’s the matter with you, you
psycho?’ he cries, clutching his head. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’
It’s tomorrow. Skippy’s bare-legged at the edge of the pool, chlorine and earliness stinging his eyes. Outside the morning
is a grey fuzz, the first shapes just beginning to emerge from it. On either side of Skippy, boys are lined up, their white
Seabrook College swimming caps making them look like clones with the school crest stamped on their bald heads. Then the whistle,
and before his mind even realizes, his body’s thrown itself forward and into the water. Instantly a thousand blue hands reach
for him, seize him, pulling him down – he catches his breath, fights them off, scrabbles his way to the surface –
Breaking through, he emerges into a commotion of colour and noise – the yellow plastic roof, the crash and foam of the other
swimmers, an arm, a goggled head thrown sideways, Coach like a gnarled tree trunk bending over the water, clapping his hands
and shouting
Let’s go let’s go
and in the lanes around Skippy the boys like disobedient reflections stealing ahead, disappearing behind their wakes. Everyone
hurtling for the wall! But the water grapples against him, the bottom of the pool is magnetic and it’s tugging him down again,
down to where…
The whistle goes. Garret Dennehy comes in first, right behind him Siddartha Niland. In the seconds after, the others slide
up alongside them, lean back against the wall, gasping, lifting off their goggles. Skippy’s still back in the middle of the
pool.
‘Come on, Daniel, for Christ’s sake, you’re like an old granny walking in the park!’
Three times a week, at 7 a.m., training for one hour. Count yourself lucky, the Senior team trains every morning and Saturdays
too. Breaststroke, backstroke, butterfly, crawl, back and
forth through the blue chemicals; repetitions on the tiles, crunches and squats, till every muscle is burning.
‘Being a great athlete is not just about natural ability,’ Coach likes to shout, pacing up and down along the poolside as
you squirm through your sets. ‘It’s about discipline, and it’s about commitment.’ So if you miss a session, you’d better have
a good excuse.
Afterwards, the team huddles shivering by the doorway of the changing room, hands pressed under armpits. When you get out
of the water the air feels cold and nothingy. Your arm moves and it moves against nothing. You speak and the words disappear
instantly.
Coach
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