London is still rebuilding after the second world war, though more than a decade has passed. Some areas are still sealed off, but beyond the plastic barricade were new buildings; some nothing more than metal scaffolding, others a mixture of brick, concrete, wood and glass, reaching for the clouds. Construction workers flutter around in their reflective vests, trying to clean up clutter or gathering in small groups to discuss further developments.

A giant stone tablet in the heart of the city holds the names of everyone who had died in the war, soldier and civilian. Clouds of smoke from nearby factories roll over the top of the towering brick buildings; soot darkens the windows that face the streets. Clothing racks filled with drying garments wait on outdoor balconies; occasionally, the breeze will tug something free, usually a sock, and send it spiralling to the street below.

Here, in the lower-class dwellings, everyone is packed closely together. There are so many sounds, honking cars, screaming children, double-decked buses squeaking to a halt, policemen blowing their whistles, and street performers playing their instruments over empty cases, it leaves you feeling dizzy.

But, it is one of the few places I feel like one of the crowd, less of an oddity. The upper sphere would always spit on me, but no one here cared who my father was as long as I could work or spend money in their stores.

Colourful photographs wait on the sides of buildings, advertising chilled glass bottles of Coca-Cola, fresh haircuts for men, and dresses for women.

I walk into the barber shop near Dove Street, where Blake lives and works. It's a neat place. Red tile covers the floor and half the wall— the rest was a dirty white, which hadn't been cleaned in years. The studio had been in their family for a few generations.

Blake's British grandpa had travelled to Canada long ago and fell in love with a young lady from the Iroquois tribe. He brought her here, opened this hair studio, and purchased the apartment above it, where they lived relatively in peace for the rest of their lives.

Despite his rich heritage, Blake knows nothing of his grandmother's tongue or past and wears his bluish-black hair long, almost shoulder length. The white light falls on his golden skin. His dark eyes watch the floor as he pushes crescents of hair across the chipped tiles with his broom. The air is thick with the scent of greasy bodies covered in cologne and the faintest stink of sewage coming from the back where they keep the bathrooms.

Blake's father, a tall, muscular man who had served in the last great war, tosses scrunched-up paper at Blake's head, and Blake, turning around, notices me and smiles. He almost glides across the floor to get to me and wraps his arms around my shoulders. "So, you're interested in my proposal after all?"

"Not exactly. I thought you might want to play tennis."

"If you're paying," he says, spinning me around and pushing me toward the door. "Well, Father, I'm off. Call Davie if you need help because I know he's not doing homework." Near my ear, Blake whispers, "The asshat locked himself in his room to," he points to his groin and finishes, "Elizabeth. Thanks to that fucker, I'm stuck looking after this mess." Blake nods to a bald man with a thick mustache that looks remarkably better after Blake's sister, Tiffany, places a wig on his head.

"And some of these customers," Blake murmurs, shoving me out the door, "expect you to be at their beck and call. 'Boy, get me a glass of beer—boy, this beer is too cold. Can you hold it till it gets warm?' Now, honestly, the name 'Blake' ain't too hard to learn, is it?"

I shrug.

Blake studies the side of my face. "So... what did you want to talk about?"

"I think my mother has been lying to me about my father."

He hums. "Carry on." Blake swings himself around a light post, his free hand parting the air like a scythe before he jogs over to my side, a gleeful smile on his face.

"Well, I have never met the man my mother says is my father or his family. And I have never seen her work, so where does she get our money from?"

"People say she...." He clucks his tongue and mimes jerking himself off.

"No, she hates most men she meets. Says they're gross bastards with bloated egos."

"That it is weird."

"That's what I think."

"People do say you look like Earl Dwyer... so maybe."

"Right! What if the rumours were right all this time, and my parents were the ones lying to me?"

He nods. "It would be quite the betrayal. Then you would really be someone's bastard son. Here's the thing... some secrets are better left unturned. Once you flip it over, things will never return to what it was in the past. You can choose to ignore it; just go about your life like usual without asking any questions. But once you start asking questions, then things will get difficult for you."

I sigh. Blake is right; Xavier and I can pretend we don't know who the other is. Who our parents are. I could continue to be the butt of everyone's jokes until they grew up and moved on to something else. If we did that, the lies would eventually become the truth, and there would be no need for Xavier or me to change.

***

Instead of tennis, we sign into a private club using Earl Dwyer's name. One of the greeters, a young man with slicked-back hair, takes us to the changing rooms. The space is nearly empty except for a middle-aged man with a large gut that spills over his towel. Though he is a member of the parliament, he tends to be quite hands-on with the young men who work here and was known to leave a hefty tip for their attentive service.

Not wanting any trouble, Blake and I go to another aisle with another set of identical lockers. There we change into our swimwear and lock our stuff away.

***

Since I was born after the war, I remembered the occasional food shortage and the fear that another would happen, but after a decade of stillness, aside from the occasional bomb drill, people had returned to their previous enjoyments. The summer Olympics had ended a few days ago; my mother, me, and everyone else in the world had watched it on TV for the first time. We saw the athletes, bronzed by Italy's sun, sprint around a track, carrying the hopes of their countries on their backs.

My toes dangle over the edge of the tile as I stare at the shimmering blue pool water, watching ripples spread across its surface. I lean forward and let myself fall, hands pressed together over my head until my feet lose their grip, and my body drives through the liquid like a spear.

As I move forward, bubbles stream out my nostrils, and I imagine a crowd cheering me on.

I swim eight hundred metres, hands alternately shooting out the water, pulling me forward. I don't need to inhale often. My mother has always said I was like a fish. The water was my second home.

I start my last lap, take a quick breath, cocking my head to the side and pressing my ear against my straightened arm before putting my face into the water and finishing my final lap.

My hand touches the wall on the other side, and my head pops free of the tense surface. Hair clings to my forehead as water slides down my skin. Blake waits on the tile, squatting with a stopwatch. He squeezes a button, and the hands freeze. "Eight hundred metres in twelve minutes isn't too bad. It would take me twenty minutes."

My goggles hang around my neck as I catch my breath.

A dull ache in my ribs makes me want to throw up. My coach is right; my stamina has gotten worse lately. Instead of practicing, I had spent too much time fooling around with Blake. I pull myself out of the pool and sit on the edge. I see the slender body of John Devitt moving beneath the water as swiftly as he did on TV as he stole first place and everyone's hearts. Could I be like him?

Real swimmers swim at least twenty hours a week.

I still had a long way to go before I could call myself one of them.

My swim team has a few matches coming up, but I have a hard time focusing. The familiar scent of chlorine lingers in my nostrils as my eyes sting. My relationship with Xavier has turned everything upside down. Before him, I could swim without any issues and focus on my goal. But now I think of his hand on my chest and his lips grazing my nipples.

This should have never happened. We had crossed the line twice. The first time as two men who aren't allowed to have sexual relations. And the second as blood relatives.

We had done terrible things before, but nothing like the game we are playing now. And that scares me.

Blake places his cold hand on my forehead. "You're knitting your brows again."

"Sorry."

"What's bugging you?"

"Xavier and I were talking...."

Blake frowns. "You really shouldn't be talking to that asshole."

"I know, but if our parents are lying to us and we have the same father, he says maybe we should prank them or something."

Blake chuckles. "What you need to do is stay far, far away from the bastard. He knows how to manipulate you, and I'm tired of propping you up when he hurts you. I won't always be there when you need someone to save you."

"He has changed."

"He hasn't. I don't care which of your parents slept with you, but I don't like the games you two play with each other. You might think it's innocent now, but I know the damage it's done. You have changed since you started talking to him."

***