A Croc Called Capone

by Barry Jonsberg

  ‘No idea. I guess so. Now, SHUT UP!’

  I did.

  My plan was far from perfect but it was the best I could manage. I explained to Dyl and then, through Blacky, told Al what I wanted him to do and the reasoning behind it. He wasn’t very impressed, but no one could think of anything better.

  We settled down to wait, which was not Dyl’s strong suit.

  He fidgeted. He picked his nose and carefully examined what he’d mined. He whistled. Tunelessly. After a while he suddenly blurted, ‘I spy with my little eye something beginning with “c”.’

  ‘Er, let me think, Dylan. Could it be “crocodile”?’

  ‘Yeah! Your turn.’

  ‘That’s okay. You go again.’

  ‘All right. I spy with my little eye something beginning with “a”.’

  ‘Annihilation?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Amputation?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I give up.’

  ‘Another crocodile!’

  It was just at that moment, when I was seriously considering killing Dyl all by myself, that I heard the whump, whump, whump of approaching helicopter blades. The cavalry had arrived. Time for action.

  There were three helicopters. Two had guys in uniforms hanging out the sides. Even though I had to squint against the sun I could see they were armed to the teeth.

  The third helicopter kept back from the other two. It had a logo of some kind splashed over the side, and I thought I spied a television camera poking from the open doorway. I got to my feet. Now the time had come I didn’t relish this, but those guys would probably open fire soon. The longer I waited, the greater the chance someone would get hurt.

  ‘Now you know what you’re doing, Dyl?’ I said. ‘As soon as I start, you leg it towards Dad, okay? You’ll be safe as soon as you get some distance away. Al has promised you’ll come to no harm.’

  ‘Sure, Marc,’ said Dylan.

  ‘And Blacky? You just slip off. Disguise yourself as a palm tree, or something. Catch up with me later.’

  ‘Fine, tosh.’

  ‘Are you certain Al will keep his end of the bargain?’

  Blacky scratched leisurely behind one ear.

  ‘Well, as certain as I can be. Given that he’s a killing machine with a mind that doesn’t work in ways we could possibly understand.’

  ‘You couldn’t have just lied, could you, Blacky? You know, “Absolutely guaranteed, Marc. No chance of anything going wrong.”’

  ‘Hey, tosh. I’m not human. Lying doesn’t come as easily to me as it does to you.’

  ‘Well, here goes. Wish me luck.’

  ‘You’re going to need it, mush,’ said Blacky.

  And, on that cheery note, I threw myself onto Al’s back.

  I am probably one of the few people in the world who can talk about this from first-hand experience, but a croc’s back is sharp and lumpy. All those ridges down its spine. At least it gave me something to hang on to as Al slipped under the water. As you may understand, I wasn’t in a position to see what went on around me. Only later did Blacky tell me that the other crocs disappeared into the murky water within seconds. Blacky himself melted into the landscape. In the blink of an eye, before the marksmen could react, the muddy mound, previously packed with life, was deserted.

  Of course, according to my plan, Dyl would have been hightailing it back to safety as me and Al sank under the water. But if there is one thing that’s predictable about Dyl it’s his unpredictability. I hadn’t even got a firm grip on Al’s scaly back when Dyl threw himself on both of us.

  ‘Dyl, ya idiot! What are you doing?’

  Actually, I didn’t say that. My mouth was under half a metre of muddy water, remember. But I thought it. Very loudly.

  Al rolled and thrashed in the water. I remembered then something Brendan had told us on the croc cruise. How a saltwater crocodile, when it had live food in its mouth, would go into a death roll to drown its prey before eating at its leisure. It wasn’t a thought I welcomed just then. I expected at any moment to feel Al’s jaws crush the life from me.

  But it didn’t happen. I felt my hand slip from Al’s back. I caught the briefest glimpse of him powering through the water. It was difficult to believe that something so clumsy on land could be so delicate and graceful. But I didn’t think this long. Dyl and I spluttered to the surface. We stood up to our shoulders in muddy water. I flung my wet hair from my face with a shake of my head. I looked around, but no movement disturbed our surroundings. We were alone.

  And then I saw Dad splashing towards me. I wanted to tell him to go back, that the deal with Al had involved me, not him, and that death could rear up before him at any moment.

  But it wouldn’t have done any good. Dad was coming and he’d have fought through a battalion of crocs to get to me. Luckily, he didn’t have to.

  Maybe Al really did believe in respect for the family.

  The next six days were a blur. Even now, I have trouble sorting out what happened and when.

  Dad hugged me so hard I thought he’d break my ribs. He couldn’t speak. Then we trudged about half a kilometre to where Ted had parked the four-wheel drive and drove back to the resort. Mum immediately had a go at finishing off what Dad couldn’t quite manage. It seemed they would succeed where a bunch of crocs had failed – crushing the life out of me and Dyl. Then, just when I managed to catch my breath, Rose and Cy Ob Han took their turn, Cy trembling throughout. I found out later that as soon as she was away from the crocs she had come out of her paralysis. Apparently, she’d screamed for an hour.

  ‘You’re a hero, Marcus,’ she said again and again, crushing my head into her boobs.

  ‘The Force, with me it was,’ I managed to croak. Yuck. Being hugged by my sister and her friend was worse than getting up close and personal with a man-eating saltie. You’d think me and Dyl had suffered enough.

  Murray just shook me by the hand. Our eyes met, he gave a small nod and ran a hand over his head. Then he walked away.

  Everyone else in the resort wanted a piece of the action. They were forming queues just to hug us. Luckily, the authorities whisked us out of there quick smart. They took us in a helicopter to Darwin Hospital to get checked over. Apparently, crocs’ teeth carry all sorts of stuff that can cause infections. I should have recommended flossing to Al when I had the chance. We didn’t have a scratch on us, but no one wanted to take that risk. The rest of my family followed in another helicopter. I worried Dyl would get another severe bout of his flying phobia but he isn’t that predictable. Instead, he wanted to hang out of the door the way the marksmen had done. The pilot wouldn’t let him.

  ‘No fun,’ Dyl moaned.

  I started to get some idea of the publicity we’d caused when an ambulance took us the final couple of kilometres to the hospital. There were reporters and camera crews everywhere. Just getting out of the helicopter and into the ambulance was like being caught in a severe electrical storm – the flashes from cameras nearly blinded us and reporters were yelling stuff like, ‘How do you feel about being a hero, Marcus?’ This struck me as the dumbest question you could possibly imagine. Was that the best they could do? Still, as me and Dyl were hustled through the crowds, I managed to shout, ‘We must protect the saltwater crocodile!’

  I thought that would be enough to arouse the media’s curiosity. Boy, I wasn’t wrong.

  The hospital gave us a good going-over, but they only found out what me and Dyl already knew. We were fine. Even so, we were in there a few hours. Finally, a couple of taxis took us to a hotel in the city. I have no idea who arranged this or paid for it. Reporters were yelling, flashbulbs going off as we were bustled inside. As soon as we got into the rooms – three with harbour views – the phones rang. Dad picked up.

  ‘No comment,’ he said after a while. ‘Please respect our privacy.’

  As soon as he put the phone down, it rang again. Eventually he had to instruct the hotel not to put any calls through. Even then, I didn’t
really understand what I had set in motion. It was only when we turned on the television that I began to fully appreciate the media frenzy.

  Me and Dyl were headline news. They showed footage of us apparently wrestling a huge crocodile, disappearing beneath the surface of the water and then bobbing up like jack-in-the-boxes. They showed us getting out of the helicopter and I was particularly pleased when there was a big close-up of me yelling how we need to protect the saltie. Later on, of course, I understood this was the tip of the iceberg. That film was shown all over Australia. It was shown in England and America and France and South Africa. There were probably Inuits sitting around sets in igloos who caught the coverage.

  For a time I was one of the most famous people on the planet.

  And then there were the television interviews me and Dyl gave. And You-Tube and magazine articles. The offers of money to endorse products. Dylan became known as CrocoDyl. They couldn’t think of something similar for me and I was grateful. And each time I was interviewed I pushed the same message.

  ‘So, Marcus, how does it feel to be a hero around the world?’

  ‘That’s not important. What is important is what we are doing to the natural world, the damage we are inflicting. It has to stop.’

  ‘It’s great that you are an eco-warrior. Do you think this will help you get girlfriends?’

  ‘Listen. The saltwater crocodile is a magnificent creature. Yet the government is seriously considering allowing wealthy people to shoot them for trophies. Big-game hunters who aren’t killing for food, but for the fun of it. The fun of it! We think we are the most highly developed animal on the planet, but no other animal kills for pleasure. They kill to eat. They kill to survive. How can we seriously believe we are civilised if we allow this to go on?’

  ‘But, Marcus, the saltwater crocodile is not an endangered animal. It’s not as if we are hunting them to extinction.’

  ‘People are not endangered animals either. Maybe we should allow wealthy big-game hunters to kill people as well. It would be good sport and who’d miss a few people?’

  ‘That’s a remarkable attitude for someone who was nearly killed by a crocodile. I believe you insisted that the crocs who attacked you should not be hunted down.’

  ‘That’s right. They did nothing wrong. I was in their territory. What should I expect from a wild animal when I’m in his habitat? If I go to the zoo, I don’t hop into the lion enclosure to enjoy a close-up. And, frankly, if I did then I’d only have myself to blame if it all went belly-up. Or belly-ripped-up.’

  ‘So you don’t think even rogue crocs who kill people should be culled?’

  ‘Tell you what. You find a saltwater croc in your front room watching TV or raiding your fridge for a bite to eat, then shoot him. But if they respect our space, maybe we should respect theirs.’

  ‘And CrocoDyl. What are your views?’

  ‘I’d never seen a crocodile in the wild before. I would like to think my children and my children’s children might be similarly blessed.’

  My mouth hung open when he said that. But I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. Having Dyl as a best mate should have made me immune to suprises.

  Dyl took to the media like a croc to water.

  He was brilliant.

  He was persuasive.

  He was amazing.

  The support we received was amazing as well. Pretty soon there were questions being asked in Parliament. Pretty soon the Government announced that plans to allow selective killing of saltwater crocodiles had been shelved. One minister even said, ‘How can we believe we are civilised if we allow this? It has taken a couple of children to make us understand an important truth.’

  How cool was that?

  When I’d sat on that mudbank, surrounded by crocodiles and one very smelly dog, I’d thought about Al’s words. The communication revolution. And how I could use it to give Al what he wanted. It wasn’t an unreasonable request. Don’t kill us just because you can. But who would listen? People had tried to get this message over before, but it wasn’t news. So I realised I had to make it news. And what better story could there be than a small boy – two small boys, as it turned out – wrestling a croc and living to tell the tale?

  I thought it would create publicity.

  I never thought it would bring about dramatic change in such a short time.

  It was a relief to return to something like normality.

  Christmas at the Branaghan Wilderness Resort.

  Yes, we had gone back to finish the holiday. To be honest, no one felt like going home. For one thing, we were sick of being under a media spotlight and the resort was out woop-woop. It was quiet there. It was peaceful. We were cut off and it suited us.

  I rarely followed the news, particularly after the fuss slowed down. But I did catch a story in the local newspaper. It was only one small column, tucked away on page seven. A man, a doctor apparently, had announced the establishment of a charitable trust that he was personally funding. The charity would provide sick children and their families with the opportunity to see endangered animals in their natural habitats. ‘I have given up travelling myself,’ said the doctor. ‘But I would like others to experience some of our natural wonders, before it is too late.’

  I smiled. Murray had remembered my Christmas present.

  I was confident that I would eventually be able to delete those photographs on my camera. After all, he had been prepared to die for us. And I believed his hunting days were over. Did I really need to turn those photographs over to the police? There’s good and bad in all of us, I thought. I had no intention of ruining what was good.

  Dyl’s parents, Joe and Mo, gave their blessing to us staying on at the resort. They’d been interviewed a number of times on radio and television and really enjoyed themselves. When Dad asked over the phone if they were mad about their son being nearly eaten by a crocodile, not once but twice, they shrugged it off.

  ‘Worse things happen at sea,’ said Mo, though she didn’t offer any evidence.

  ‘Could have happened to anyone,’ said Joe.

  He was wrong, of course. It could only have happened to Dylan.

  Cy Ob Han’s parents weren’t quite as casual, but Cy pleaded with them over the phone and they finally gave in. Maybe old Cy used her Dark Side powers.

  Mum was worried sick about going back to the resort. As far as she was concerned, saltwater crocodiles had proved to be as common as flies. Shoo one away and another takes a nosedive into your drink. All the time we were in the Territory she made Dad check under beds just in case one was napping among the dust bunnies. It was all I could do to persuade her not to check the dunny each time I sat on it, in case a saltie hurtled round the U-bend and took a chunk out of my bum. To this day she gets nervous lowering herself into a bath. Of course, she insisted that none of us left the resort in case a croc was nesting in a tree and dropped on us from a great height. We were happy to oblige. I’d had enough of Nature for a while.

  Rose and Cy were firm friends again. The tensions between them had blown away, now they no longer had the hots for Brendan. They cooled off when they discovered he already had a girlfriend – Julie, the chook-dunking chick on the cruise. For some reason Rose and Cy took this as evidence he was a creep and curled their lips whenever he was around. I could only imagine Brendan was relieved not to have them hanging around his neck constantly.

  Girls’ brains are weird. They don’t work the same way as ours.

  If you want further proof, Rose’s attitude was changing towards me as well. Cy was fine. I’d saved her life and I was a media star. She smiled at me all the time, which was slightly creepy. I almost expected her to ask for my autograph. But Rose …

  Mum said Rose was jealous. For years, she had been the golden angel child and I’d been a piece of poo. Suddenly, she was in my shadow and she resented it. Whatever. All I know is that, whenever no one was looking, she would suddenly fix me with narrowed eyes and rub a palm over her clenched knuckles. My scalp
tingled.

  You know what? I preferred that to the possibility of further hugging. It was good to have my sister back. Rose being nice to me? More than slightly creepy.

  We opened our Christmas presents on the verandah of Mum and Dad’s cabin. After Dad had swept it for lurking salties, naturally.

  I got some great stuff. I always get great stuff. But the best part was Dylan’s reaction when he opened his pressies. I mean, they weren’t really expensive or anything. But he got loads of them. Even Rose and Cy had bought him stuff. They’d got him a cool model of a crocodile on a stand. And the stand had a little plaque on it. CrocoDyl, it said. They must have got it done while we were in Darwin.

  I’d wanted to shop in Darwin, but the price of fame was that I had to stay in the hotel. However, I’d given Mum firm instructions. Dyl opened my presents – the boxer shorts, T-shirt and other stuff with cola logos on it. I kept one present back and gave it to him last. He ripped the paper from the small gift and sucked in his breath.

  ‘Cool,’ said Dyl. ‘This is totally cool, Marc.’

  The Swiss Army knife was top of the range. It had dozens of gizmos, though I‘d no idea what most of them were for.

  ‘I bet it’s got something for taking stones out of horse’s hooves,’ said Dyl.

  ‘I think,’ said Dad, ‘it’s got a blade for taking boys out of crocodiles’ throats.’

  ‘Really?’ said Dyl.

  ‘No,’ we all said together.

  ‘It’s brilliant. Thanks.’ Then Dyl’s face fell. ‘How am I going to get it back home, though?’

  I handed him an envelope. It had stamps on it. And Dyl’s address.

  ‘Ted says he’s happy to stick this in the post when we go. Actually, he said “no worries”.’

  Then something really strange happened. Dylan produced a clumsily giftwrapped present. He shoved it at me, his face twisted and he ran. He blundered off the verandah, down the path and into our cabin. I was so shocked, I’d got halfway to my feet before Mum’s hand pressed me back into my chair.