Monday morning, the goons swaggered into the squad briefing session with freshly shaved heads. Their commitment to gaining even the slightest edge over their opponents won applause from everybody except Pericles and me. The look almost suited Nads, but Mullows looked bereft without his ginger mullony and Starkey resembled a newborn ferret. Simmons read the final list of contenders for each event, with Pez in the individual butterfly and me to swim fly in the relay – Crestfield’s glory event.
‘I’m sure your delicate skin can handle thirty-odd seconds of chlorine exposure,’ Simmons said. ‘There’ll be a medical officer present if you have a reaction.’
Nads drew the relay team aside and said to me, ‘Your bullshit scam to get out of training doesn’t cut it. If you don’t show on Wednesday, I guarantee your life won’t be worth living.’
‘Nothing like boosting team morale.’
‘WHAT!?’ He slammed my shoulder with his palm. But instead of intimidating me, it gave me a measure of stupid courage.
‘Look at you three bald clowns. I bet Simmons would be interested to find out what really gives you the edge.’
‘Who do you think supplies them to us, arsehole?’
Deb Gelber came over carrying a pile of blue-and-gold kits. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Nothing, miss. We’re just firing each other up.’ Nads grabbed Mullows’ shoulders and shook him roughly, then slapped his face like a boxing trainer would. ‘C’mon, c’mon, C’MOOON!’
‘Enough of that,’ Gelber said. ‘I want full focus. No shenanigans on Wednesday. Remember, you’re representing the school.’ She handed each of us a Crestfield tracksuit and a pair of Speedos that were blue at the front and yellow at the back. The perfect colour for making the tail really pop. No way could I wear them.
During Art on Tuesday, Isa asked what was bothering me. I wasn’t about to confess that I was terrified of being humiliated by a crowd of people seeing a lump in the wrong side of my Speedos, so I told her I was worried about Bert – which was true. She kept probing until I revealed the Starkey–Barnsdale connection and my suspicion about what was going on.
‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘That’s seriously heavy. Do you realise they’ve committed a criminal offence?’
‘Maybe – but I don’t know what to do about it.’
‘Tell. The. Police,’ she said, tapping the table with each word.
‘Can you even imagine the trouble that would cause? The damage has already been done. Bert’s sold his place and they’ve backed off.’
‘What about that Barnsdale creep?’
‘There’s no way of proving he got them to harass Bert.’
She gave me a look that suggested I hadn’t explored all my options.
After school I tried on the official Crestfield Speedos and the exposure of the tail was worse than feared. The single thin yellow nylon layer failed to hide the tail’s dark hair even with the costume dry – wet, it looked obscene. If I shaved it again tonight, the spikes would be sticking through by morning and the bulge would still be visible, and if I nicked myself shaving tomorrow it could be disastrous. I tried wearing a second blue pair underneath, but it made the yellow look green. So I went into the city and bought a pair of baggy blue-and-yellow board shorts from Lowes, hoping they’d do the trick.
I woke early on Wednesday and had three-and-a-half bouts of exceptionally violent diarrhoea before breakfast. Only the dread of further retribution from Nads stopped me from calling the school to say I couldn’t swim.
On the bus to the Eastside Aquatic Centre, Nads began a chant:
‘WHO IS THE SCHOOL THAT RULES THE POOL?
‘CRESTFIELD! CRESTFIELD! CRESTFIELD!’
It got louder and louder till Starkey, possessed by hysteria, leapt from his seat and performed a dance down the aisle.
‘WHO IS THE SCHOOL THAT RULES THE POOL?
‘CRESTFIELD! CRESTFIELD! CRESTFIELD!’
A car cut in front of our bus and Jespersen stamped the brake pedal, slamming Starkey onto the front windscreen. ‘Sit down, you stupid little bastard!’ Jespersen shouted. ‘You almost killed us all.’
The individual events were swam in the morning. Nads and Mullows won their races convincingly and got out of the pool without showing any sort of excitement – as if coming first was the only possible outcome. In the hundred-metre fly, Pericles led all the way but was pipped at the finish by a guy from St Eugene’s with massive lats and feet like flippers. Oddly, Pez didn’t seem too disappointed when he got back to the stands.
‘It’s all about steady progress,’ he said philosophically.
The medleys and long-distance events were scheduled after lunch. As each race was contested and the medley relay drew closer, the knots in my stomach tightened. The plan to protect my modesty with board shorts was far from foolproof.
At 2 pm all competitors in relay events were called to the marshalling area.
‘That’s you,’ Pericles said. ‘Get down there and show those bastards what you’re really made of. Smash it, bro.’
We fist-bumped. We man-hugged.
Simmons rallied the team before our race. My brain, buzzing with thoughts of impending humiliation, scrambled his pep talk. The goons peeled off their Crestfield tracksuits while I removed only the top. Nads and Starkey followed a marshal to the other end of the pool, and I stayed with Mullows.
‘Good luck, mate,’ he said, with a pat and a glint of something approximating camaraderie in his eyes. He dropped into the pool, adjusted his reflective goggles and gripped the bar. The whistle blew and he steadied himself.
‘On your mark!’
The photograph from the Hallway of Champions – Mullows the snarling backstroker – came into my mind.
>BEEP!<
He catapulted backwards and surged down the pool.
I peeled off my pants and left the board shorts on, hoping Simmons and Gelber had their gaze fixed on Starkey. Evan Starkey, teen reprobate, was now breaststroking towards me – his movements lopsided from hurting his shoulder when he hit the bus windscreen – trailing the competition. I mounted the block and shook myself out. Starkey was swimming through treacle. Time divided into milliseconds – nanoseconds. Starkey was close – closer – so close – almost there – only a metre away – a reach – two hands. GO!
I was a submarine.
Homunculus was my captain, controlling every limb and digit, every fibre of every muscle. ‘Rigid, rigid and release!’ he commanded.
My black metal hull dissolved.
I morphed to amphibian, exhaled and surfaced.
‘Ignite the furnace!’ Homunculus commanded. Fire blazed across my back, chest and arms. Energy rippled through my entire body as I rose and plunged, driven by my tiny extension – guided like a ship by a rudder.
There was no drag at all.
‘Have I lost my shorts?’
‘Focus on the end of the line.’
‘What if they’ve slipped off?’
‘Finish butt-naked.’
‘God, please no!’
>FWOOSHKA!<
>FWOOSHKA!<
>FWOOSHKA!<
I slammed the pad with both hands.
Nads dived over the top of me. The other freestylers followed.
We were in the lead. I felt for my board shorts. Still on, thank God.
Nads was overtaken by a guy from Clovelly College and we were beaten by 0.34 seconds. My time was a personal best, Starkey’s probably his worst, but Simmons directed his anger at me when he met us poolside.
‘What the hell are you wearing those for?’ he shouted. I wrapped my towel around my waist. ‘You were issued with regulation Crestfield Speedos.’
‘But these are the right colours still, sir.’
‘Don’t be a smartarse, Locke. Just tell me why.’
‘I couldn’t find my swimmers this morning. I left them at Avalon, sir.’
‘We have spares. You should’ve told us.’
‘You cost us the relay,’ Nads said. With veins pulsing in his shiny bullet-head he’d never looked more menacing.
‘Naylor’s right. You cost us the relay and the points we might need to win the meet.’
‘But I took us into the lead.’
‘You would’ve dropped three or four seconds without the drag of those shorts.’
‘But—’
‘Don’t “but” me. You have piss-all regard for the team and you won’t be swimming at zones. As of this moment you can consider yourself thrown out of squad.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Oh, don’t thank me. Because you won’t be swapping to another sport. You’ll be on garbage patrol for the rest of term under Mr Jespersen’s constant supervision, and you’ll do whatever he requires. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now get out of my sight, worm!’