A Croc Called Capone

WHAT THE
REAL
CRITICS HAVE TO SAY

Laugh? I thought I'd never start!

– Sarah, aged
10, VIC

Amazing characterisations, enthralling plots, vivid
use of language. You might want to give at least one
of those a go

– Nita, aged
9, NT

My sister thinks you are a brilliant writer.
She also believes she is from a small planet
near Alpha Centauri

– Jodie, aged
2, NSW

Hilarious … fascinating … amazing.
Just three words I wouldn't use to describe your book

– Hilary, aged
11, QLD

You are a master of language.
Unfortunately, not the English language

– Bruno, aged
43, WA

First published in
2009

Copyright © Text, Barry Jonsberg
2009

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
The Australian Copyright Act
1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (
CAL
) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin
83
Alexander Street
Crows Nest
NSW 2065
Australia

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

Jonsberg, Barry,
1951
-A croc called Capone

For primary school age.
ISBN
:
978 174175 668 5
(pbk.)

A823.4

Printed in Australia by McPherson's Printing Group
Set in
10/14
pt Lino Letter by Bruno Herfst

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

www.allenandunwin.com

For Jasmin and Mya

H
ere's
an
interesting fact.

Crocodiles are, generally speaking, not fussy about dental hygiene.

I know this because I've stared into a large saltwater crocodile's gaping jaws. I stared because it's hard not to. Trust me on this.

Imagine. I was sitting on a muddy riverbank, soaking wet and filthy. My best friend Dylan was at my side. Next to him was a small, dirty-white dog. Not three metres from my face, a five-metre saltie eyed us as if choosing an entree from a dinner menu. It opened its jaws and slithered closer. Rows of sharp yellowed teeth loomed. Judging by the chunks of flesh-coloured material lodged firmly between its impressive incisors, this was a croc that wasn't overly bothered about a two-minute brush before bedtime. I'd be willing to bet it
never
flossed.

Dyl and I were in a bad position.

What made it worse was another six crocs circling to our left and right. True, they weren't as big as the monster in front of us, but you'd have to be amazingly optimistic to take any comfort from that. We were surrounded.

‘Well, Dyl,' I sighed. ‘At least things can't get any worse.'

And then they did.

The dog farted.

Even the croc blinked and moved back a pace. It might have fancied itself as the most efficient killing machine on the planet, but this fart was a weapon of mass destruction. I was almost hoping the croc would just attack and put us out of our misery.

How did we get into this situation?
I thought.
Sitting on a
slimy mound of mud, surrounded by man-eating crocs and
enveloped in a fog of sulphurated hydrogen?

I knew the answer to that.

It all started six weeks ago …

‘A little pain never hurt anybody,' said Rose. ‘You are such a sook, Mucus.'

At any other time, I might have questioned the truth of both these statements. As it was, I came up with the best reply I could manage under the circumstances.

‘Oooooowwwww …'

The thing is, when you have your head clamped under someone's arm and that someone is rubbing their knuckles – very, very hard – across the top of your scalp, it's difficult to find an intelligent response.

‘If you mess up this holiday, Mucus,' continued Rose, ‘I'll make you wish you'd never been born.'

I
did
wish I'd never been born. It felt as if my brain was being beaten with small baseball bats wrapped in barbed wire. The pain brought tears to my eyes.

‘I won't. I swear I won't.'

I read somewhere about prisoners of war being tortured for information. Really nasty people stuck slices of bamboo underneath prisoners' fingernails. Or beat them on the soles of the feet with red-hot paddles. Or gave them electric shocks on tender body parts. In the stories I read, the guys being tortured
always
kept their secrets. Lying there, on my bedroom floor, pinned under Rose's sweaty armpit, I knew I would not only give up all information in three seconds flat, I'd
make up
secrets, just so I could spill them.

Maybe I
am
a sook.

Anyway, I was prepared to say anything Rose wanted, if only she'd stop mashing my head to jelly. But as it turned out, it didn't matter what I said. She carried on hurting me regardless.

Rose likes dishing out pain. It's that simple.

‘Swear you'll behave yourself!' she said, her knuckles grinding away somewhere just behind my eyes.

‘I swear.'

‘On what?'

Good question. What could I swear on?

‘A stack of Bibles,' I gasped.

‘You're not religious.' I could hear suspicion in her voice. And a touch of vicious glee that she'd spotted the flaw in my answer.

‘I swear to God I am,' I said.

I have no idea why, but this seemed to satisfy her. It might have something to do with Rose having the brains of a flea. She let go of my head and stormed out of my bedroom, slamming the door. I slumped the few remaining centimetres to the carpet. It smelt very slightly of dog poo.

I clutched my aching skull in both hands and wished I had never been born.

Allow me to introduce myself.

My name is not Mucus. That's just Rose's little joke. You see, mucus is slimy, gross stuff. It normally drips from your nose, but in Rose's case it comes straight from her brain. I am Marcus Hill. I am eleven years old and average in nearly everything. Maths, Science, English, Art. I am slightly below average in height, which makes me a less-than-average goalkeeper in my local under-thirteen soccer team.

Average.

It's not a good word.

As words go, it's pretty average.

But …

In one area I am not only
not
average, I am exceptional. You see, I have a super-power. Only one person in four million can do what I can do. It's nothing to do with X-ray vision or leaping off tall buildings in unnaturally tight-fitting costumes to beat up improbable villains.

I'm not going to tell you what it is just yet. There are two reasons for this. First, I want to build suspense within the story. Second, I like being annoying.

So I'll tell you about my sister Rose instead. You have already met her and probably formed your own opinions.

I'll just fill in some of the blanks.

Rose is fifteen and isn't average in anything, as far as Mum and Dad are concerned. If Rose sprouted wings and a halo popped up over her head, they wouldn't be surprised in the slightest. She aces all her subjects in school, which is no mean trick when you have the brains of a flea. She is a talented actress. Her artwork has been exhibited in a local gallery. There's a strong possibility her poo smells of violets, but I am not prepared to check this out.

Where I am average, Rose is perfect.

Except …

You know those stories about vampires? How seemingly ordinary people who hold down normal jobs and move among us unnoticed turn into blood-sucking monsters when the full moon peeps from behind a passing cloud?

That's Rose.

I don't mean she has pointy teeth and sleeps in a coffin, though nothing about her would surprise me. It's just that when no one else is around, she undergoes a dramatic change. Gone is the golden angel child. The wings crumble into dust, the halo turns rusty. Enter the spawn of Satan. Gleaming red eyes. Head that can spin three hundred and sixty degrees. Pure evil. In other circumstances, she'd probably go on a rampage around town, sinking fangs into the necks of innocent folk. But Rose is interested in only one victim.