A Croc Called Capone (11 page)

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.

‘W
HAAAT?
' 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 this, 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.

‘Sorry, boys,' he said. ‘But there is a flight late tomorrow and we are going to be on it. This is not something we have decided without careful thought. At least we'll be home by Christmas. And Dylan is welcome to spend it at our house, if his parents agree.'

I could tell Dad was genuinely upset. And it was good of him to offer to have Dylan around. Not many people who weren't in secure psychiatric hospitals, drooling and trying to eat the carpet, would do that.

But it didn't lighten our mood. Me, Dad and Dyl sat around for a while, but in the end we had nothing to say to each other.

It was a gloomy gathering for dinner that evening. True, Rose and Cy had made an effort. In fact, it seemed they were auditioning for
Australia's Top Model
and
Extreme
Makeover Disasters
at the same time. It was scary. Their make-up the previous evening had been over the top. Tonight it was in orbit. Both wore dresses made of lace, ribbons and meringue, their hair piled up on their heads like lacquered elephant dung. A force
5
cyclone couldn't have shifted one hair out of place.

They completely ignored each other. Whenever someone else spoke, they grunted. Seems the effort they made was limited to appearance.

Dyl and I weren't a barrel of laughs either. I hadn't mentioned what Blacky had said about the mission being half over. As far as I was concerned I had done enough. I didn't need to risk sliding down a croc's throat like a human-flavoured
M&M
. But Dyl wouldn't see it like that. This new task could be his only chance to experience a bit of excitement. I felt guilty. But it was wiser to say nothing.

Dad tried to be cheerful, but he wasn't fooling anyone. Mum made a point of beaming at everyone, particularly Dylan. It was beginning to spook me out, particularly when he smiled back. Then she turned her beam around the restaurant. It was like watching a human lighthouse.

‘That poor man is eating by himself again,' she trilled. ‘I think we should invite him to our table. What do you say, gang?'

‘Good idea, love,' said Dad. ‘I'll ask him to join us.'

I looked over to see who they were talking about and realised Murray
had
returned. My heart jumped. He sat at the same table as last night and as far as I could tell he didn't have a care in the world.

‘Dad, no!' I said. ‘He's a …'

‘Come on, son,' replied Dad. ‘Have a little charity. He looks lonely.' And he was out of his chair before I could say anything more. Dyl and I glanced at each other. This could be awkward. Then again, I reckoned I'd be the last person Murray would want to sit with. No chance he'd say yes.

Right again, Marcus
, I thought as Murray stood, picked up his glass and followed Dad back to our table.
It's such
a burden always being right
.

Dad did the introductions. Mum was thrilled to discover Murray was a Consultant Paediatrician. She almost curtsied, which is difficult when you're sitting down. Rose and Cy were less impressed. They grunted. It was as if they were competitors for the title of World's Worst-Dressed Pig Impersonator.

Murray smiled as he shook my hand and then Dyl's.

‘I've already met your sons, Mrs Hill,' he said. ‘It was quite an experience.'

‘Why, thank you, Dr Small,' Mum replied. I would have put money on Mum throwing a fit if anyone suggested she was responsible for Dyl's gene pool. But she didn't bat an eyelid. Murray ran a hand across the top of his head.