The Best Australian Stories 2014 by Amanda Lohrey Page A

two, one, two . He reached the swamp’s outskirts, jogged for a while before entering the shallows. As the foggy water sprayed his ankles, he did not feel the midges and sandflies or see the mudskippers hop away or notice the crabs retreating with their pincers raised.
    The wind between the swamp trees sounded like the faint singing of old ladies who knew all the hymns. Soon he was in a world of shadow, mangrove branches above him, occasional blades of light piercing gaps between the trees. Standing cormorants, their prehistoric wings held out to dry, flew from him whenever he neared.
    He’d go deeper, out to where the bogs stopped and you could swim if you were gutsy enough. But his feet sank, plunging up to his calves in mud. He made to move and it swept up higher. Again he stirred and this time it climbed to his knees. Be still. That way it’ll take longer to sink. Move and no one will arrive in time.
    He yelled, a wordless noise. If anyone were searching for him they would be a while yet.
    To stem his breathing rate, he counted the air in and out.
    His thoughts fled briefly to hopes of a vague future. To finding a wife who wanted to stay on the island; to becoming a fisherman like Grandpa and a better family man than his dad.
    The mud rose slightly. Concealing his knees, he yelled once more. This time his mind sank into the past as if the mud laid claim on him. Sam remembered fragments from as far back as four. His mother, with eyes like warm coals and hair that fell in waves like the night ocean. He remembered when they all slept together, sandwiched on that same bed with Grandpa alone in the other room.
    He remembered the UN men who came with countless sandbags, instructing the islanders on where and how to lay them to keep the ocean back. Sam could recall their words but only one face, John’s, a Welsh UN officer with a mop of red curls and a moustache that flamed down his face to his chin. ‘Nice place,’ John said and his lagoon-like eyes gazed at Sam’s mother. Sam, even then, knew something was askew, and grabbed his mother’s hand to lead her away. But their eyes stuck like the eyes of competitors. Who knew where they disappeared to on the island? His mother abandoned them all for Wales soon after. He wanted more from her than farewell, more than tears.
    The mud gradually crept up to his thighs. By the time Sam was five, his father, defeated, no longer fished with Grandpa. He became flabby like a seal. It was Grandpa who allowed Dad to leave. When they came into the house that afternoon, it had reeked of that overly sweet stench of coconut left to rot. Dad had not cleaned at all but sat by the tinny radio, listening to the stories of others. Grandpa switched the machine off. Dad stood up, swung at Grandpa and missed. Another side of Grandpa unveiled itself as the old man’s hand snaked out and grabbed his son’s throat. Dad’s cheeks turned to the colour of a bruise as Grandpa spoke. ‘Don’t let this hurt swallow your life.’
    The mud climbed, tickling Sam’s testicles. ‘Help!’ he screamed as loud as his lungs permitted.
    He recalled his obsession with his teacher, Miss Rodanui, in Year Three. Drawing attention to himself by leaping onto a desk in class and reciting the opening of a Revolting Rhyme by Roald Dahl. He remembered those stinking hot days. Sandy-coloured grass, no breeze, giant hornets terrifying them. He trailed her around the tyre-swings in the dirt playground to hear her voice and glimpse her face.
    Muck seeped up to his nipples.
    He remembered rafting with Caleb, way out past the breakers. The wind turned, slapping the raft, stirring the water. Shadowy clouds jostled overhead. They toppled and were caught in the white foam, twirling. Sam’s arms thrashed until he found the raft’s edge. He clambered aboard in a splutter and heaved Caleb – who was gripping the raft – back on as blood streamed from a gash in his