by Ally Kennen
I’m sure I’ve seen a wildlife programme on telly, where all these crocs lie in wait in the watering hole, and when the buffalo or whatever come to drink, wham! The croc lunges. I remind myself there is a six-foot metal fence between me and the water.
I think he knows my smell. If he is anywhere near, he might know I am coming. And what is worse is that he associates me with food. Correction. He associates anything with blood in it as food.
It is harder than usual to climb over the fence. How the hell did I do it with a bag of meat each time? I sit at the top for a long time and the metal links cut through my trousers. It feels safe up here. I should have a rope handy next time, just in case I need to make a quick getaway. I drop to the ground and crunch through the dead bracken. I bet he can hear every step. Why didn’t my dad get me a gun? He cares more about making money than his own son’s life. Selby would love this. I can imagine him walking ahead; he always has to be in front. He would have a weapon; a machete or a shotgun or something. He wouldn’t come out here empty-handed. Not like me. He would be making too much noise. He’d be swearing under his breath and cracking jokes to hide his nerves. He’d be stomping down plants and snapping branches off trees.
I reach the path. “Shut it, Selb,” I whisper, stepping over it. It’s really dark and wet down here. My torch makes this pathetic little line of light. But I know where I am going. I have walked down here in blackness hundreds of times. Only tonight it feels different. Every few paces I find I am stopping and listening. I am expecting to hear twigs popping followed by a deep growl. But there is nothing but the wind over the water and my own heavy breathing. I hear a high-pitched squeaking and something tiny flies at me out of the sky and dips away. Bats. They’ve got them at the Reynolds’s too. Carol doesn’t believe I can hear them. She says the noise they make is too high-pitched for the human ear. But like now, sometimes I hear this sound, a bit like rubbing wet glass with your finger, and sure enough, sooner or later, this little monster comes swooping out of the sky.
Frogs, they make a noise too. I’m not talking about croaking. They scream. It’s a horrible noise. I’ve only heard it once. It was because Dudley had hold of it. I heard the screaming and had to see what was going on. I booted Dudley out the way, lucky no one saw, and grabbed the frog. But it moved too quickly and it was out of my hands before I could get hold of it. It slipped into a crack in the wall. I expect everything will scream when it’s in danger. I wonder what noise I will make, when he gets me in his jaws. Will I have time to scream before the death roll?
I’m at the cage. Two bars have broken off completely and lie in the grass. I shine the beam into the water. It is still and black. It’s true. He has escaped. It wasn’t another dream. He is out here, somewhere. I switch off the torch reckoning that it doesn’t really help me to see, but it will sure as hell lead him to me. I don’t know what to do now. It’s too scary to be out here on my own. I don’t want to be reptile food. Leaving the cage behind, I poke about in the place where I last saw him, running down over the bank. There is nothing moving on the shoreline. Nothing coming towards me. If I stay away from the water I should be all right.
There’s a dark hump on the stones. I can’t make out what it is, but it’s still. It could possibly be a large animal. I would have to go closer to see for sure. Now I’ve seen it, I don’t want to turn my back on it in case it does turn out to be something. The torch isn’t any help. I force myself to take a step and then another. No, it’s still not moving. I am walking above it, so it is between me and the water. I’m not going to take any chances. A few more paces and I realize I have been freaking out over a tree stump. He could be anywhere. He could be the other side of the lake by now. He might have left it altogether. Even now he could be munching all the goldfish in someone’s pond.
I don’t know why I am thinking all this. I know full well he’s probably only a few feet away from me. Just waiting to make his move. The ground gets steep and slippery and I smell something really bad.
It’s a severed sheep’s head. There’s no sign of the body. A purple tongue hangs out of the mouth. I step back and my feet shoot out from under me as I fall over. I land flat on my arse in a slick of mud. As I get up I can see a dim pathway of mud leading to the water. It is wet, as if something big has recently crawled out of the water.
I’m going home now. I have found out what I need to know.
He’s still here.
E i g h t e e n
On Friday morning I’m eating my breakfast of fried eggs, sausages and baked beans when Robert comes in and sits opposite me. He’s wearing a T-shirt with a cartoon of a woman wearing nothing but a motorbike helmet and biker gloves.
“When are you going then?” he asks.
“Monday,” I say. And I feel depressed.
Robert works at a hole in the plastic tablecloth with his penknife. “Can I come and visit you?” he asks.
I don’t know what to say.
I have only seen the outside of St Mark’s. It’s a converted warehouse near the centre of town. The shape of it and the rows of rectangular windows make it look like a prison. There’s a massive cobbled courtyard in front with a disused concrete fountain that’s full of scummy water. It’s in the area you always hear about in the news, where there has been a stabbing or a drugs raid. I don’t think Robert would like it much.
“We can meet in town,” I say. “Go for a burger.”
“Cool,” says Robert, picking at his scab. Then he stands up so quickly he knocks his chair over.
“I’m staying over at Jerome’s this weekend,” he says.
“So it’s goodbye then,” I say.
“Yeah,” says Robert.
“See you later,” I say.
He’s not going to visit me. Verity would never let him. He’s only eleven. I don’t think he has even been on the bus to town on his own yet. I push my breakfast away.
Suddenly I don’t feel like it.
My dad phones in the middle of the afternoon. It’s a shock to hear from him, even now. He’s not slurring his words or talking shit. He’s obsessed with making some money out of this. I haven’t allowed myself to think too much about what he intends to do with my boy. It’s too sick.
“So?” he asks me. “Have you sorted out a vehicle?”
“Yeah,” I say. “And I’ve got a cage.”
“Good lad.” My dad sounds surprised. “I’ve got the bait.”
I dread to think what that is. He tells me to get some wire cutters and strong rope.
I tell him I won’t do anything unless he promises not to be pissed. To my surprise he agrees and we arrange to meet at the lay-by at eleven p.m.
Eric’s truck sits half on the pavement just outside his house. At quarter to ten I’m parked in a side street and am working myself up. The lights are still on in his living room but the curtains are closed. That helps.
I am trying not to think about what happens next, I mean after tonight. I’ve been done for nicking cars before and I’m still here, aren’t I? I’ll work out what to do about Eric tomorrow. Right now, I’ve got a big maneater to worry about.
The moon is half out. This is good. It will give us light, but not too much.
A man walks past with his dog. He eyes me quickly and walks on. When he has gone I step quietly up to Eric’s truck. My hands feel like they belong to someone else. I watch them as they slide the spare key into the hole and twist. I hear the spring pop and the latch go up. My other hand grips the handle and opens the door. There is a creak and I freeze. But the light keeps flickering behind Eric’s curtains. He’s probably watching some DVD with his girlfriend. I climb up into the driver’s seat and gently close the door. It has caught but is not shut properly. I’ll give it a good slam when I am on my way. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to do all of this without Eric realizing. Who am I trying to kid? I’ll never catch a crocodile, drive it to Birming
ham and drive back and have the truck back here before he realizes it’s missing. I’m in deep shit whichever way I look at it.
The key slips into the ignition and it starts first time. I don’t look at the house. I pull into first and drive gently off the kerb. When I am on the road I try to stay calm. I don’t want to go too fast. I don’t want to draw attention to myself.
I left a side door unbolted at Eric’s workshop this afternoon. Lucky no chancer found it, eh? I switch on the light. I feel like a stranger here now. I can see the hammer I’ve been using and my gloves lie on the bench, but they belong to somebody else now. I’ll never wear them again. I breathe in the rich smoky smell.
I know it is going to be a hell of a job dragging the cage out of the double doors and getting it to the truck. It is bloody heavy. But while I was making it I knew I’d have to do this on my own, so I encouraged Eric to make both side panels detachable so it would be easier for me to manage. I unlatch the tailgate and grab one end of the cage. I am edging it on to the back of the truck when something flies out past me and scampers into the workshop. It is Dog. He must have been asleep in the back. I am so surprised I drop the cage and it lands on my foot. Pure slapstick. Har bloody har. Only I’m not laughing. I can’t even swear in case someone hears me. At least my foot deadened the sound of the fall. I try to ignore the pain and I summon all my strength to lift the frame on to the back of the truck. It fits. Thank God. I go back for the panels and Dog trots at my heels. He isn’t aware that I’ve pissed all over his boss, by nicking his truck and breaking into his workshop. Dog thinks this is wicked. A night-time adventure.
I don’t want to think about how Eric is going to feel when he finds that his truck and his dog are missing. I feel like a right shit. I leave Dog locked in the workshop. He’ll be a lot safer there than where I’m going.
Eric’s truck is a devil to drive. I can’t stop crunching the gears and the brakes are shot to pieces. I feel safer when I’ve left the town, too many coppers about. But even on the country roads I freeze up when headlights go past. I really, really don’t want to get stopped. Somehow I manage the twenty-odd miles out to the reservoir. It’s nearly midnight when I get to the lay-by. I park behind a bush and turn the lights off.
I wait in the darkness.
There is a knock on the window that makes me jump out of my seat.
Most people look better in the dark, how can they not? But my dad looks like something that has crawled out of a grave. His beard is wilder than ever and his hair makes this horrible helmet shape round his head. His eyes look black, with no light in them. The moonlight exaggerates all his worst features: the bulgy piss-head nose, the cut-off chin and the big, yellow teeth.
“Where the hell have you been?” he asks as I wind down the window.
I like that. I’ve managed to build a cage and find a truck. I’ve got wire cutters, rope, a kitchen knife and three blankets. And he’s standing there mouthing off at me. But at least he seems sober. I had my doubts.
“Where’s the bait then?” I ask. “Still eating grass?”
He holds out a bag. There is a muffled squawk.
“Chicken?” I say. “He’ll like that.” I don’t want to know where he’s got it from.
“Really we should get us a lamb,” says my dad, leaning into the window. I am engulfed in his stale breath. It makes me want to retch. But at least he doesn’t stink of alcohol, not yet. “And cut it so it bleeds slowly and skips around, baaaing for its ma.”
I wind up the window and get out, roughly pushing him aside.
“Stop messing around,” I say.
We find a gate and drive down through the field. The ground is wet and we’ll be leaving tyre tracks, but I can’t think about that now. I only hope we don’t get bogged in. We have to leave the truck by the fence. It will be a hell of a job dragging the cage back up when it’s full, but I reckon it’s possible. My dad insists on cutting the fence himself and he takes ages trying to get a perfect rectangular hole. I sit on the cage and watch him sever each wire link in turn. The fence gradually slackens and he twangs the wire. I think he’s enjoying himself. But then he moans all the way to the water even though he’s only carrying the frame. I’m carrying two panels and I’ve got the front end of the frame, which is always the heaviest. My dad’s puffing and blowing like an old woman. I won’t let myself get like him, ever.
The half moon shines on the water. Nothing moves. The trees are still and the water is smooth. The visibility is good. Too good. Right now, he might be swimming around, hunting. Who knows where he is? A different mood has come over my dad. He’s no longer cracking sick jokes or taking the piss, but struggles to bolt the panels together. I could do it in minutes but I don’t want to get too close to the water. He has taken control now. He orders me to fetch the other spanner and I do, obedient as a dog.
I’d be lying if I said I’m not scared. I’m terrified. I’ve looked after this thing for years and it’s not like any other animal. You know like with a dog or a cat, you can get a kind of bond. They’ll understand what you mean, up to a point. People can train almost any sort of animal. But you can never train a crocodile. They have one instinct and that is survival.
In the past, lying on the bars and looking into the water I have had the feeling that I am looking at something totally alien to me. Something that doesn’t belong in the modern world. Next time you see a picture of a crocodile, just look into its eyes. You’ll be looking at a dinosaur.
The moon is higher in the sky and a plane flies over. Its red lights flash like a spaceship. I have an urge to run. To get in the truck, take it back to Eric, get my car and go back to the Reynolds’s. At least I’m physically safe there. Out here I am a sitting target. He could be anywhere.
“Stephen!” shouts my dad, far too loud. “Give me a hand.”
I slide over the mud to the cage. My trainers are filthy and the wet is beginning to sink through to my skin. I roll up my trousers so they don’t get covered. I stand at the back, as far from the water as possible, but I can’t stop staring, imagining I can see pinpricks of light beneath the surface. Pinpricks that might be the eyes of a hungry killer.
We don’t talk much. I want to be able to hear everything, and every crack in the bushes behind, every splash from a jumping fish, makes me want to scream. My breathing sounds too loud. I bet someone could hear it from the other side of the lake. As for my dad, with his stink and his swearing, he might as well light a fire to announce our presence. I feel afraid of everything; every bird that flies past, every car that goes by up on the road. Everything is a threat. Everything is against me.
The cage is finally built. I tie my rope to the door panel and pull it open. I have no idea if this will work but I don’t have a choice. I don’t know how to trap crocodiles, do I? I’ve only read about it on the Internet. My dad grabs the chicken out of the bag. Its legs are tied together but it flaps and flaps and squawks a little. He throws it to the back of the cage and it flops round on the bars in the mud.
And I think I’m having a crap time!
Now the bit I’ve really been dreading. At a nod from my dad, we push the cage a little way into the water so that it is half submerged. I skip back from the water as soon as I can, and tie a second rope to the base of the cage. We trail the rope over the shingle back to the bushes. I check behind me carefully and decide that I will be safest if I have my back to a tree. I settle into the grass; my arse gets soaked immediately but I don’t care. This whole thing is a nightmare. My dad ties the base rope to the tree and flops next to me. He checks I am holding the rope that is holding open the door and grunts.
“I got the address,” he says. “We got plenty of time.”
I haven’t got plenty of time. I have this little hope that we’ll do the whole job tonight. Maybe things will go exactly according to plan. The beast will smell out the chicken, crawl in the cage and I’ll let go of the rope ho
lding the door open. Then we’ll drag it back up to the truck, take it to Birmingham, be paid a thousand pounds each and be home by morning. I’ll spend my money on the first few months’ rent on a nice flat and I’ll work for Eric. He’ll never know the truck was missing.
Don’t laugh, I told you it was a small hope.
But this ought to work. He must be hungry. He’s never hunted in his life, he doesn’t know how to feed himself. If I was him I would hang around in the usual place waiting for me to come along with a hundredweight of pork.
I am getting cold now, and the wet is beginning to piss me off. I grab a handful of ferns to sit on. I think my dad has nodded off. He is making these horrible snoring noises anyway. You’d think he’d be scared, wouldn’t you? Maybe this is all just a big laugh to him. His head drifts on to my shoulder and I push it off and move away. I sit for ages and nothing happens. I get pins and needles in my foot and have to walk around a bit. The wind has got up and waves lap around the cage. The night seems to be getting darker. The chicken doesn’t seem to be moving and I wonder if it has died of shock. I realize that there is a good chance we won’t catch him tonight. I don’t want to think what I’ll do if that is the case. I look at the stars. Some are brighter than others. I don’t know the names of any of them. Who cares anyway? There are big clouds drifting across the sky. They slowly knock out the stars and the moon and it gets even darker. I check my watch. 2.15 a.m. I’ve been here for two hours and nothing is happening. I reckon I have, at the most, four hours left. My dad is definitely asleep now. He’s breathing out through his mouth and making all these horrible snorting noises. I wish Selby was here. He’d know what to do. I’d love to call him up and tell him to come and help. He’d be well up for it. He’d love it. He’d be swimming the lake with a snorkel and a torch looking for the bugger. Gran says Selby doesn’t have any sense. It’s not true. He just doesn’t have any fear. I wonder how long you can be scared for. I’ve been on edge for hours now. My guts have turned to liquid. How long before I do myself an injury? I wonder what it’s like for some prisoner in a cell. Somewhere where they allow torture. You’d be scared every second of every day. Can you die of fear?
