A Croc Called Capone

by Barry Jonsberg

  The men had gone into the bush a few metres, trying to track the source of the howling. Now they returned.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ asked one.

  Murray shrugged.

  ‘No idea, mate,’ he said. ‘Never heard a sound like that before. But I reckon we should get this carcass in the back of the ute and call it a day. I’ve got a special project on tomorrow. A really big croc. Over five metres. The top dog in the entire area. Capone, they call him. I’ll meet you at nine.’

  The men placed their rifles back against the side of the ute. I was pleased to note the guns could be clearly seen in the camera viewfinder. Then the guys bent down to lug the crocodile skin the remaining metre or so to the ute tray.

  I waited.

  I waited until Murray turned his head to the side to judge the distance, his face almost front-on to my lens. Then I clicked the shutter.

  It was a great photo. The image appeared immediately on the small LCD screen and I knew at once that this was game, set and match. The butchered croc was easily identifiable. So was Murray, his hands gripping the corpse. The rifles were there. Even the ute’s rego.

  The entire operation was perfect in design and execution.

  Apart from one slight detail.

  You see, as I examined the photo, I slipped and crashed through the branches onto the soggy ground, like a piece of exotic fruit. Dylan and I seemed to be making a habit of this kind of thing, but at least Dyl had fallen into water. The ground punched the air from my lungs. I struggled to my feet as Murray and the other two men walked quickly towards me. They didn’t seem thrilled.

  I had three chances, I thought, of getting out of this. One, their limbs might suddenly start to drop off. Two, a snake could bite them. Three, a croc could eat them.

  When they stopped in front of me I had to admit that these had all been very long shots. So I tried a bright and cheery smile instead.

  ‘Hi guys,’ I said. ‘Surprise! Just thought I’d drop in and see how you’re going.’

  One of the men scrunched up his fist in my T-shirt and pulled me close. I was terrified but determined not to show it.

  ‘My mum ironed this shirt this morning,’ I said. ‘She is not going to be happy with you if it comes back creased.’

  ‘Let him go, Mick,’ said Murray. His voice was soft.

  ‘He’s been spying on us,’ snarled Mick. His beard was very impressive in close-up. Not so his teeth, which were chipped and yellow. His eyes were simply hard. ‘Taking photographs.’

  ‘I said let him go, Mick.’ Murray hadn’t raised his voice, but it had authority. It reminded me of parents. They didn’t yell, but you just knew you’d better do as instructed. Mick let go.

  ‘Finish up in the ute,’ Murray continued. ‘I’ll deal with this.’

  The others slunk off, grumbling. Occasionally they looked back at me, as if imagining what they’d like to do if Murray wasn’t around. I made a mental note not to invite them to my next birthday party. If I lived to enjoy it.

  Murray crouched in front of me. I put the camera behind my back and added another name to my birthday party exclusion list.

  ‘No one’s going to hurt you, Marcus,’ he said. ‘It is Marcus, isn’t it?’ I didn’t reply. ‘In fact, I’ll take you back to the resort myself. But … you do understand, don’t you? I can’t let you keep the pictures in that camera. I simply can’t allow it.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I replied. I was pleased to note my voice sounded strong and confident. ‘But this is my camera and my pictures. If you’re going to take them, then I guess you will have to hurt me.’

  Murray sighed and rubbed a hand across the top of his head.

  ‘I don’t want to do that.’

  ‘But you’re good at it,’ I said. I nodded towards the ute where the bearded thugs were tying down what remained of the croc. ‘Isn’t that part of the fun? Hurting things weaker than you? Hey, I’m eleven years old and a twentieth your size. Should be easy.’

  ‘That crocodile is not weaker than me,’ said Murray.

  ‘In a swimming pool, that would be true,’ I replied. ‘But you had a gun. I’m guessing the croc didn’t. Under those circumstances, I reckon you were in a slightly stronger position.’

  Murray fixed me with his piercing blue eyes.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ he said.

  ‘That’s true. I don’t.’

  ‘Marcus, I just want to delete those photographs. Then you get the camera back and I take you home. End of story.’

  ‘I’ll tell everyone what I’ve seen.’

  ‘Fair enough. And maybe some might take the word of an eleven-year-old kid against a forty-year-old doctor who’s spent his life healing children. But you won’t have evidence and that’s the only thing of importance to me.’ He smiled. This time I didn’t like his smile. ‘Come on, mate. You can’t win this. Just hand over the camera, like a good boy.’

  And suddenly another voice – one in my head – also told me to be a good boy. It explained why. Now I smiled. I took my hand from behind my back and held out the camera to Murray. His eyes softened as he reached out to take it.

  I knew Blacky could move quickly. I’d seen his spectacular disappearing acts. But this time he outdid himself. He was a dirty-white streak as he launched himself between Murray and me, a blur, a haze, a smudge, a smear across the eyeballs. Before you even knew he was there, he was gone.

  And so was my camera, wedged firmly in his jaws.

  For a moment, Murray was too shocked to move. We stared at each other for a heartbeat or two. Then came confusion. There were shouts, yells and three men running after a small, dirty-white dog as it ducked and bobbed through the bush. It was unlikely they’d catch him.

  I ran in the opposite direction.

  Blacky met up with me twenty minutes later. He said he’d left Murray and the other two in the middle of a very wet and very smelly marsh. I clipped the camera back onto the waistband of my shorts and we headed back to the resort.

  It had been quite an adventure and I was looking forward to telling Dyl all about it. I was also looking forward to a rest.

  You couldn’t call this holiday dull. We’d been here less than twenty-four hours and Dyl had nearly been eaten by a crocodile and I’d completed the mission Blacky set. Once that camera and the evidence it contained was safely secured, there was no way Murray was going to get away with any more killing. True, we were leaving soon and I couldn’t think how to avoid that. But I was pleased I’d achieved something important before the holiday was over.

  But it wasn’t over. It turned out the adventure hadn’t finished with any of us yet. Not by a long chalk.

  I watched as Brendan locked the camera into the safe behind the desk at reception. Only when he turned the key did I give a sigh of satisfaction. I didn’t know if Murray would come back to the resort at all. Maybe he’d make a run for it. It didn’t matter. Once I got the photographs into the hands of the police or the Parks and Wildlife authority, there wouldn’t be anywhere for him to hide. It’s not as if he was a nobody. He was a big man – in every sense of the word – with an important job. He’d be easy to find.

  So it was with a spring in my step that I walked back to the cabin.

  I didn’t make it there unscathed.

  Rose leaped out from a shrub at the side of the path, dragged me off into low-lying bush, clamped my head under her arm and gave my skull a good going-over with her knuckles.

  ‘I hate you, Mucus,’ she screamed. ‘I really hate you.’

  ‘What have I done?’ I managed to croak. I was tired, dirty and hungry. I could have happily given up being tortured by an evil sibling at that particular moment.

  ‘Ruined this holiday, that’s what you’ve done. And I told you. I told you that if you messed this up I’d make you wish you had never been born.’

  It’s difficult to organise your thoughts when your head is being held in a vice and your brain feels as though it’s being eaten by fire ants. I tried to
throw up over Rose’s shoes, but couldn’t manage. I vowed to work on this. It would be very useful to be able to summon vomit at will.

  ‘How have I ruined the holiday?’ I gasped.

  ‘The crocodile, Mucus? Hello?’ She scarcely paused in the rhythm of her knuckle-grinding.

  ‘That wasn’t my fault. Even you said it wasn’t my fault. An accident. That’s what you said.’

  ‘I was lying. It is your fault. That splat of cat poo is your friend. And he’s a moron, an imbecile, a half-wit thicko and a brain-dead drongo. Falling off a boat! And now we all have to go home because of him. It’s not fair, Mucus. You’re responsible and you’re going to pay.’

  Her knuckles picked up pace. At this rate I’d be as bald as Murray by the time I was fourteen. For all that, I was impressed by her range of insults. Rose might be the devil’s spawn, but she’s got word power.

  I screamed louder. With any luck, my wails would attract the attention of Mum and Dad. Maybe Rose thought the same, because she suddenly stopped her torture and let go of my head. I stood up, my hands holding the top of my skull. It felt like it was about to explode.

  ‘I hate you, Mucus,’ she said again. But her voice broke and I could tell she was crying. If I’d had time, I’d have made some guesses why. And probably most of those guesses would have involved Brendan, the chick-magnet waiter and croc-tour guide. But I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. I legged it for the cabin door. And made it safely.

  Dylan was slurping a can of cola, watching television and looking bored.

  I studied him closely for signs of delayed shock, but he seemed the same as always. What was it the doctor had said? The mind takes time to catch up. But maybe that was Dyl’s strength. He lived entirely in the moment. The past and the future were different countries. For Dyl, the mind would probably never catch up.

  ‘How you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Ah, mate,’ he said. ‘Top quality. But bored as. I need to get out of here. Reckon your mum will let me?’

  ‘Probably,’ I replied. A thought struck me. ‘Since when did you worry about getting permission from anyone?’

  Dyl looked slightly embarrassed.

  ‘She’s all right, your mum. I don’t wanna … you know … worry her or anything. Anyway, where have you been, Marc? I’ve been waiting, watching dumb soap operas and you’ve been gone for hours.’

  It occurred to me then that Dylan had missed a lot of action since his attempt at synchronised swimming with a man-eating croc. He didn’t know about the holiday being cut short. He didn’t know what had happened with Murray. It was time to fill him in.

  ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’ I said.

  ‘Good news.’

  So I told him how Blacky and I had stalked Murray in the bush, got the incriminating evidence, managed a daredevil escape. I got right into it, living the excitement and danger all over again. I was gabbling. But the more I talked the longer Dylan’s face grew. When I got to putting the camera in the safe, I thought he was going to burst into tears. He turned away from me.

  ‘What’s up, mate?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, man!’ I don’t think I had ever heard so much pain in his voice before. ‘That sucks. That really, really sucks. You call this good news?’

  ‘I don’t get it.’ I didn’t, though I should have.

  ‘You’re off having fun, Marc. Danger, excitement. Completing the mission. And I missed it. I’m sitting here watching The Young and the Dumb or The Old and the Senile or whatever it’s called, and all the time you’re having an adventure. Without me.’

  I felt bad for him and annoyed with myself. I should have known he’d react that way. Dylan lives for danger. I was tempted to point out that dive-bombing a croc was enough daily excitement for a normal person. Luckily, I stopped myself. Dyl isn’t a normal person.

  I hadn’t got to the bad news yet. Maybe I’d leave telling him for a while. He’d almost certainly forget to ask.

  ‘What’s the bad news, then?’

  I told him.

  ‘WHAAAT?’ he yelled. ‘They can’t do that. I don’t want to go home, Marc. Tell them.’

  ‘I think it’s too late, mate. Their minds are made up. They’re worried about how your parents are going to react when they hear you nearly disappeared down a croc’s throat.’

  ‘Mum and Dad will be okay with it. It’s happened before.’

  ‘What?’ Even though I know Dylan well and nothing about him really surprises me, I found it hard to believe this was an experience he went through with monotonous regularity. ‘So just how often do you have a close encounter with a saltwater croc, then, Dyl?’

  He waved his arms dismissively.

  ‘Not with a croc. But brushes with death? Loads. Like the time I used Dad’s blowtorch to dry my shorts and set the house on fire. Or the time I kept a Western Brown snake in my bedside cupboard. Or the time …’

  ‘Okay, Dyl,’ I said. ‘I get the message. But my olds are not your olds. They don’t realise that swimming with man-eating crocs is just part and parcel of the Dylan Smith experience.’

  ‘I’ll go and tell them.’

  And he was up and out the door before I could stop him. I supposed it wouldn’t hurt if he had a word. But I wasn’t optimistic. In fact, I was downright depressed. The thrill of completing the mission was fading rapidly.

  I turned back to switch off the television and there was Blacky, sitting on my bed and sniffing at his bum.

  ‘Who said the mission was finished, tosh?’ came the voice in my head. ‘Certainly not me.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Half-done, mush. The best bit’s yet to come.’

  ‘I don’t get it, Blacky,’ I said. ‘We caught the serial killer red-handed. What else is there to do?’

  ‘’Fraid I can’t tell you that, bucko.’

  ‘So, what then? It’s a secret? Or am I meant to guess? Perhaps we could play charades? Six syllables, sounds like “A complete waste of time”!’

  ‘You have a nasty tendency towards sarcasm, mush. It’s not attractive.’

  I sighed and swallowed my frustration.

  ‘Help me here, Blacky.’

  ‘There’s an animal who wants to tell you himself. In fact, he insists on it. A personal meeting.’

  ‘And who’s the animal?’

  ‘Friendly guy. Australian icon. Much misunderstood.’

  I was getting a bad feeling about this.

  ‘The animal, Blacky?’

  I think this was the first time I saw the dog look uncomfortable. He made a big deal of examining his bum, scratching around his hindquarters and giving himself a brisk shake. I kept the question looping in my mind.

  ‘You know him as Al,’ said Blacky eventually. And reluctantly. Then it all fell into place.

  ‘Al?’ I said. I almost felt like laughing. ‘Al Capone, the humungous saltwater crocodile? Al, the killing machine? Al, the dude who very nearly snacked on Dyl?’

  ‘That’s not a very flattering portrait, tosh. Be fair.’

  ‘Are you completely out of your mind, Blacky? Forget it. Tell Al to forget it. Thank him for his kind invitation but tell him I’m busy. Tell him I’m washing my hair. No chance, bucko. Zilch, tosh. Thanks, but no thanks, boyo.’

  ‘You thought he was beautiful. Out there in the bush. I read your mind.’

  ‘So’s a volcano. Doesn’t mean I’m going to stick my head down one.’

  ‘Al won’t like it,’ said Blacky.

  ‘Frankly, I don’t care if he has a hissy fit, spits the dummy bigtime and throws himself on the ground in a temper tantrum. There’s no way I’m going near that thing. Tell him to text me. Or, if he wants to talk, then you go see him. Take messages back and forth. There you go. Everyone happy.’

  ‘Won’t work,’ said Blacky. ‘He wants to see you personally. He was very clear about that.’

  ‘I hope he’ll be able to live with the disappointment.’

  ‘You need to think about thi
s, tosh,’ said Blacky. ‘It really isn’t a good idea to turn Al down. He’s used to getting his own way. If you won’t go to him, he might decide to come to you. I don’t think you’d like that.’

  ‘Well, Blacky,’ I said. ‘He’s welcome to try. But I’m locking that door, so he’ll either need a master key or a set of lock picks. I doubt sliding a credit card down the mechanism is going to get him very far. Then there’s the small detail about turning the knob with stubby arms that I suspect weren’t designed for that purpose. However,’ – I waved my own arms about – ‘if he gets through all of that, I’ll make a pot of tea and get out the lamingtons.’

  ‘You owe him,’ said Blacky. ‘And you owe me.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘He had your mate on toast. There, in the water. If it wasn’t for me, Dylan would be passing through Al’s lower intestines right now.’

  That small fragment of memory came into my head. Dylan’s head in the water, the crocodile’s snout behind him and, way off in the distance, on the river bank, a dirty-white shape that flashed in and out of existence. I didn’t have to say anything.

  ‘That’s right, tosh,’ said Blacky. ‘I put in a word. Told Al it would a good thing to pass on lunch. That you would be grateful. And it’s not easy for a five-and-a-half-metre saltie to suddenly adopt a calorie-controlled diet when something small and tasty is dangling there, asking to be eaten. Like I said, you owe him and you owe me.’

  Suddenly, going home lost its terrors. I mean, it had been good enough for all other Christmases. Presents under the tree. Mum’s roast turkey (provided it was a volunteer). And virtually no chance of stumbling across a five-metre saltwater crocodile …

  I didn’t get much chance to think this through because the door suddenly opened. I half expected to see Al standing there with an uzi submachine gun and a bottle of chianti. But it was Dyl and Dad.

  I could tell by the expression on Dyl’s face that his pleas had done no good.

  I glanced over to my bed, but Blacky had vanished. Again. I was beginning to suspect that he’d stolen Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak.

  Dad sat on the edge of Dyl’s bed.