Mum and Dad lugged our cases off the conveyor belt and we moved to join the group. Rose and Cy Ob Han were wheeling their own personal mountains. We identified ourselves to the card-carrying dude, who checked our names off a list, looked at the luggage and scratched his chin.
‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘You are the proud owners of the tallest structure in the NT.’
Most sign-toting guys I’d seen at airports sported clean white shirts, ties and designer mobile phones. This man wore very short shorts. Judging by the stains on them, they hadn’t visited a washing machine since 1989. His ripped singlet was decorated with patches of sweat. Scuffed plastic thongs. Compared to him, Dylan looked well dressed.
The scruffbag addressed the assembled throng. ‘Welcome to the Territory, guys. And welcome to the Branaghan Wilderness Lodge Resort. I’m Ted, owner and manager. If you’ll follow me, I’ve got the Resort minibus outside. It’s a forty-minute drive through the bush. No worries.’
Dylan and I kept pace with him as he led us to the car-park. Ted eyed Dyl up and down.
‘Good to see one of you is dressed properly,’ he said. ‘You’re in the Territory, now. Comfort is the key.’ He looked at my clothes and frowned. ‘I hope you brought something lighter to wear.’
‘Do most people dress like you, then?’ I asked.
‘Me?’ said Ted. He glanced down at his ripped singlet, stained shorts and flapping thongs. ‘No worries. I’ve made an effort, mate. Up here, this counts as formal wear.’
Forty minutes of driving, most of it down a dirt track, brought us to the Branaghan Wilderness Resort. I spent the time staring at the back of Goliath’s head. He had taken the seat in front of me. It was fascinating. I’d never seen anyone who had a six-pack on his neck.
The resort looked great. I was relieved. Judging by Ted’s appearance, there was a good chance the resort would be five battered caravans in a clearing with a dripping hosepipe in the centre. I had visions of him waving towards a rusting scrapyard and saying, ‘Up here, this counts as five-star luxury. No worries.’
There was a huge swimming pool in the middle of the resort, glowing blue and casting slivers of reflected light. A large wooden building stood next to the pool and there was a good number of people sitting on the expanse of outside decking, eating. A proper restaurant, with dim lighting and black-dressed waiters.
Ted drove past the restaurant and stopped at a building signposted RECEPTION. Mum and Dad sorted out registration and collected keys. Then we walked up a path past rows of cabins until we found ours. Three in a row. I was relieved Dyl and I had our own. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask before about sleeping arrangements. I couldn’t imagine anyone would’ve thought it a good idea for me and Dyl to bunk down with Rose and Cy Ob Han. Particularly Rose and Cy Ob Han.
Dad gave one set of keys to Rose, another to me.
‘Your mother and I will take this cabin,’ he said. ‘Rose and Siobhan – you’re in the next one. Marcus and Dylan on the end. Look, twenty minutes to freshen up and then we’ll head off to the restaurant, okay? I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m starving.’
Dylan snatched the keys from me and ran to our cabin. He opened the door, flicked on a light switch and stood on the threshold for a moment. I followed him up the driveway.
‘What’s it like, Dyl?’ I said.
But he didn’t have to answer. I joined him and we stood there in the doorway. Neither of us wanted to step inside.
The cabin was fantastic. There was a television in there and a fridge. Two beds. Table and chairs. Through another door we glimpsed a gleaming white bathroom. The furniture wasn’t the problem. It was the smell.
‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘Not again!’
Blacky wriggled out from under a bed, shook himself and scratched behind an ear.
‘Stop it, Blacky!’ I said, wafting my hands in front of my face. You could feel his fart in the air, like a heavy curtain.
‘Please stop it.’
‘Sure, mush,’ said the dog. ‘Which way did it go?’
Dyl and I stepped inside the cabin and closed the door. I would have given almost anything to keep it open, but it wasn’t a good idea to have Blacky in plain view. I turned the overhead fan on full, while Dyl opened all the windows. Then I discovered the control to the air conditioning and cranked it up. The fog began to clear, but it was still like breathing soup.
‘Well, thanks for the smelly welcome,’ I gasped.
‘No worries, mush,’ said Blacky. ‘Think of it as my version of a chocolate mint on the pillow.’
Dyl threw his bag into a corner and jumped onto a bed.
‘Ask him about the mission, Marc. Ask him!’
‘I see you haven’t lost the brain-dead dropkick,’ said Blacky.
‘What did he say? What did he say?’ Dylan was bouncing up and down in excitement.
‘He said he’s thrilled to see you,’ I replied.
‘Your nose is getting longer,’ said Blacky.
‘What’s he saying?’ said Dyl.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I can’t hear myself think. Just keep quiet for a minute, Dyl, while I talk to Blacky. Then I’ll give you a full report, okay?’
‘Sure.’
I flopped down onto the other bed. Blacky curled up on the rug and gave his bum a quick sniff. He didn’t seem disappointed with what he found. I tried to empty my mind. Past experience told me this was the best way to conduct a conversation with the foul-smelling mutt.
‘It can’t be difficult to empty your mind, mush,’ came the voice in my head. ‘It wasn’t exactly crowded to start with.’
I ignored his insults. Experience had taught me.
‘First things first,’ I said. ‘I still have no idea how you knew we were coming here.’ After all, I hadn’t seen the dog for months and we didn’t exchange postcards or keep in touch via Bebo. ‘But tell me how you knew we’d be staying in this particular cabin. Dad didn’t make the decision until about two minutes ago.’
‘Call it a ninth sense,’ said Blacky.
‘Don’t you mean a sixth sense?’
‘Nope. We animals have four more senses than you.’ Blacky flicked his eyes towards Dyl. ‘And six more than him.’
‘You’re still the single rudest person I’ve ever met,’ I said.
‘That’s exceptionally kind of you, tosh,’ replied Blacky. ‘Except I am not a person. Calling me a “person” strikes me as ironic, coming from someone who reckons I’m rude.’
I sighed.
‘So what is it we have to do, Blacky?’ I asked. ‘I mean, I know you told me we have to stop that bald guy. But stop him from doing what?’
‘Well, it’s very simple, really.’
‘Yes?’
‘He’s a murderer, boyo. And you’ve got to stop him killing again.’
My heart did a backflip against my rib cage. My tongue went dry and welded itself to the roof of my mouth. Just as well I didn’t need it to communicate with Blacky.
‘You have got to be kidding me,’ I croaked mentally. ‘A killer? That can’t be true.’
‘You’re right, mush. I’ve misled you.’
I sighed with relief.
‘I should have said he’s a serial killer. That’s much more accurate.’
As you can imagine, I had a whole new set of questions. But I didn’t get the chance to ask them because, at that very moment, Dad knocked on the door to take us to dinner. Once again, Blacky disappeared in the blink of an eye. If he ever decided on a career change from full-time irritating gasbag, I reckon he’d make an excellent stage magician.
I was also getting very tired of Dad’s habit of appearing at my door at exactly the wrong time.
The meal was memorable for three reasons:
1 The food was excellent.
2 Rose and Cy nearly clawed each other’s eyes out.
3 I got to chat with a serial killer.
‘Are you hungry, Dylan?’ said my dad as we walked the fifty metres to the restaur
ant.
‘I could eat a scabby horse between two bread vans, Mr Hill,’ replied Dyl.
Dad blinked. ‘Not sure that will be on the menu,’ he said.
It wasn’t. But other cool things were. I was really tempted by the Croc Burger. I wanted to say to the waiter, ‘Get me a crocodile and make it snappy.’ But since I learned about the way humanity is destroying the planet, I’ve gone off meat somewhat.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a vegetarian.
They eat vegetables and I’ve ruled that out of my life.
But I’m picky now. I want to know where the meat has come from. And I avoid anything with cruelty involved. I won’t eat eggs that aren’t free-range, for example. I’d probably eat the crocodile if I knew it was a volunteer. A croc tired of living. One that said, ‘Dice me, slice me, stirfry me. I don’t care anymore.’
It seemed unlikely the waiter would give this guarantee, so I went for the barramundi special. Yes, I know about hooks and barbs and I don’t buy the argument that says fish can’t feel pain. But I was starving and you can only do so much. Anyway, who’s to say vegies aren’t in agony when they’re ripped from the ground? What about a carrot’s right to life?
While we waited for everyone to make up their minds, I whispered what Blacky had told me to Dyl. He drained his glass of cola and didn’t seem in the least concerned. He glanced over to the far corner of the restaurant, where Goliath-in-an-expensive-suit had a table to himself.
‘So what?’ he said.
‘So what? You reckon a serial killer is no big deal, then?’
‘No,’ said Dyl. ‘I’ve murdered the odd bowl of Weet-Bix myself.’
I explained the difference between serial and cereal. He perked up then.
‘Wow!’ he said. ‘This is going to be one cool mission, Marc.’
‘Wrong, Dyl. This is going to be one non-existent mission.’
He seemed genuinely surprised. ‘Why?’
‘Look at him,’ I replied. ‘Two and a half metres tall, the same distance around his neck, probably one hundred and twenty kilos of solid muscle and hands that could snap you in two like a breadstick.’
Goliath snapped a breadstick at that exact moment. I winced. ‘Exactly the kind of enemy I’d choose for two shorter-than-average eleven-year-old boys.’
‘You’re not scared, are you, Marc?’
‘Yes. Terrified. I shake just looking at him.’
‘I don’t.’
‘That’s because, as you pointed out earlier, I’m the one with brains.’
We had to shut up then because the waiter arrived to take our orders. I didn’t really pay attention to him. Call me silly, but a waiter is … a waiter. Stop me if I’m getting too technical here. He gave us his name – Brendan – and rattled off the specials, none of which involved horses, scabby or otherwise. Then he wrote down what we wanted and left. Ten out of ten for efficiency. Zero out of ten for interest.
But then I noticed Rose and Cy.
They were tugging at their tops and sweating. At first I put it down to the heat. It wasn’t particularly hot here. Probably around thirty degrees, which was cooler than home this time of the year. But it was humid.
Rose excused herself and headed for the bathroom.
When she returned, I did a double-take. Instinctively, I checked to see if there was a full moon. Her lips were smeared with blood. My blood ran cold. I could see the scene in my head: Rose entering the Ladies, an unsuspecting woman bending over the washbasin, Rose sneaking up behind, a flash of sharp canines and a piercing scream as a fountain of blood gushed from a severed artery.
Then the penny dropped.
Lipstick.
And not just lipstick. She’d smeared her face with a heavy layer of make-up. Put a baboon’s bum next to Rose’s face and you’d have identical twins. Our table fell silent. Stunned, I guess. Cy Ob Han recovered first. She flashed my sister a decidedly unfriendly look. Then she headed off to the bathroom and returned looking like someone had applied primary colours to her face with a malfunctioning spraygun. Mum’s jaw hit the table with a clunk. Dad choked on his water. Rose and Cy glared at each other and bristled.
I am not without skills of detection. I watch Crime Investigation programs on cable. Something was going on.
Another penny dropped. It was raining Pom currency.
The waiter.
He was about eighteen or nineteen. Now what makes a guy attractive to girls is a mystery to me, and I am happy for it to stay that way. But, judging by Brendan’s appearance, having ears like windsocks and over-gelled hair in spikes is apparently no disadvantage. To me, he looked like a cross between Dumbo and an echidna, but to Rose and Cy he was clearly a chick magnet. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see them leave their chairs, fly through the air and stick to him with a dull clunk.
When he returned with our food, the girls smiled and sat up as if they had broom handles strapped to their spines. They were almost as scary as our giant serial killer.
‘Thank you sooo much, Brendan,’ trilled Rose, giving him the full force of her flashing teeth. Her grin threatened to split her face in two. He smiled back and Cy’s face went in the opposite direction. She looked as though she was chewing cat poo.
‘Maaahvellous, Brendan,’ gushed Cy when he put a plate of something ghastly in front of her. It had yellow peppers and enough salad leaves to make a strong man gag. She had found her smile again and wasn’t afraid to use it. ‘Do you work here full-time, or is this just a temporary job? You know, while you backpack around Australia? And would you like to marry me and have four children?’
Okay. She didn’t actually say that last sentence. But it’s what she meant.
‘No,’ replied Brendan. ‘I’m the owner’s son. I wait tables, do a bit of maintenance, tour guiding, odd jobs.’
‘How interesting,’ burbled Rose who seemed annoyed she hadn’t thought to ask the same questions as Cy. ‘What tours do you guide?’
‘Actually, there’s one tomorrow. A crocodile cruise. Meet up at reception at ten, if you want to come along.’
‘I’ll be there,’ said Rose and Cy in unison. When Brendan turned away to serve another table, they glared at each other. They bristled. I swear, if they bristled any more, they’d turn into paintbrushes. I almost expected Cy to whip out her light sabre. Rose would have been in trouble then.
Girls! If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times. A waste of space.
All of this went straight over Dyl’s head. He was busy getting himself on the outside of a large burger and fries and wouldn’t have noticed if someone had set off fireworks in his shorts. But as soon as he’d finished eating, he pushed back his chair.
‘Where you off to, Dyl?’ I asked.
‘Need a quick word with someone,’ he replied. ‘Back in ten.’
As soon as he said this, I knew. Sure enough, he headed straight for Goliath’s table. I bolted down the rest of my food and followed him.
Look, I said I was terrified of this dude. And I was. But Dyl is my mate. What’s a small matter of confronting a mammoth serial killer when it comes to looking out for your mate?
Well, a lot, actually. But I went anyway.
‘Hey, Marc,’ said Dylan. ‘Meet Murray. Murray Small.’
Small?
I couldn’t help myself. I automatically put my hand out and the colossus shook it. This was a worrying moment. Murray appeared very capable of leaving me with a bloodied and mashed stump where my fingers had been. Either that, or he would whip out a chainsaw and carve his initials in us. That’s a popular choice among serial killers – at least, this is what my research of horror flicks suggests. But when he let go, my hand was still in one piece. I flexed my fingers and found, to my surprise, that they still worked. I sat.
‘How ya going, mate?’ said Murray. He had piercing blue eyes set among a nest of wrinkles. I could see the reflection of the overhead fan sweeping over his shaved head. It was vaguely unnerving.
‘Good.
How are you?’ I replied.
What was going on here? I had no idea of the correct way of conversing with a mass murderer, but I suspected ‘How are you?’ was not in the book of etiquette. But, when I thought about it, ‘Do you prefer dismemberment or acid baths in the disposal of corpses?’ was unlikely to hit the right note either.
‘I’m really good. Isn’t this a terrific place? I was just saying to your mate, here, that I come for a holiday at this resort every year. Can’t keep away.’
‘It’s great so far,’ I said. ‘But it’s our first time and we only arrived today.’
‘I know. Saw you on the bus. But, trust me, you’ll love it here.’
I hate to say this, but Murray appeared to be a very nice guy. He had a ready smile and he apparently wasn’t bothered by two kids inviting themselves to his dinner table. Then again, killers must be able to put on a good front to the world. They live next door to someone. Hold down jobs. For all I know, they do volunteer work and video their kids at school performances.
‘Can I ask you a personal question, Murray?’ said Dyl.
Now. You never know with Dyl. It was fifty-fifty he’d come out with something like, ‘Do you need good marks at school to be a serial killer?’ So I held my breath.
‘Go for ya life, mate,’ said Murray.
‘What do you do for a job?’ asked Dyl.
Murray took a long drink from his glass, ran a hand over his scalp and pushed his plate away.
‘Guess,’ he said.
‘Wrestler?’ tried Dyl. ‘Bouncer, maybe. Hang on, I know. Bodyguard to the stars. You’re an enforcer.’
Murray laughed. In fact, he laughed so hard he doubled over, his forehead almost touching the table. After a few moments he straightened and wiped tears from his eyes.
‘Well, mate,’ he said. ‘I can’t blame you. I sure look the part. Enforcer, hey? I wish. No, mate. ’Fraid it’s nothing as glamorous as that. I’m a Consultant Paediatrician.’
Dylan’s eyes widened. ‘A what?’
‘A doctor for children,’ I explained. Dylan appeared to be relieved.
‘So what do you do in your spare time?’ he continued.
A Croc Called Capone Page 4
