by Ally Kennen
Mum was always a bit, I don’t know, delicate. Selby says that when Dad got back from the Gulf war, she burned all his clothes because she thought they were poisonous. I can just imagine her doing that.
I wasn’t dragged off into Care by Mindy, oh no. It was Mum. It was Mum who went mad and said she couldn’t cope. I thought we were fine, all of us living with Gran. But Mum asked Social Services for help. She said I was out of control.
She betrayed me.
It’s a warm night. There’s a bit of wind but it is mild and it’s stopped drizzling. As Eric pulls open the loose wire in the reservoir fence, I notice the warm dampness in the air I’d smelled a few nights before. I’m glad winter is nearly over.
The water is grey with a strange shimmer. I don’t go anywhere near it. I hear Eric talking to Carol clearly, even though they are standing some way off, fiddling with the cage. The trees lining the water are black. I worry that the water is too cold. That he is not swimming and hunting, but is stalking his prey above ground. I have with me a metal poker from Eric’s workshop. It has a sharpened point. It’s heavy but I can’t let go of it. I am listening for the smallest sound. It’s like I can interpret any noise. That splash, that’s a trout jumping. The crack in the distance is a cow rubbing itself against the fence. I will know the sound of the crocodile. I will recognize the slide of his tail over the ground. I will hear his soft grunt. I know the sound of his breathing. I will sense him as soon as he comes anywhere near. He won’t get a second chance. It’s like I have two pairs of eyes and four ears. I am looking everywhere. My head is moving as fast as an insect. And I have another sense; I can feel when something is near. I don’t know about death and God. But if there is any chance of it being real, then Selby is with me right now. He is encouraging me to keep breathing. He is looking into the darkness behind me.
We’re not taking any chances. Once the trap has been set, the meat broken open and piled up, the rope attached and the whole thing pushed into the water, we all climb the tree. Carol and I make ourselves comfortable, sitting close to each other as before, only this time we have coats and blankets and food. Eric is reluctant and comes up last. He is in a funny kind of mood. He makes jokes but he seems pissed off with us.
“We should have brought a card game,” he says. “How about ‘Snap’?”
He sits on the lowest branch. If the crocodile wanted him, Eric would be in easy reach. I tell Eric this but he says he’ll be fine. I tell him he must whisper and he gives a kind of laugh, but he quietens all the same. After about half an hour he informs us he is going to check on the truck and slithers down the tree. I watch him, my stomach feeling like a rock. I can’t be responsible for his death. I am waiting to hear a soft hiss, waiting for Eric to scream when Carol speaks.
“Robert made a real fuss about you leaving,” she says. “He’s really pissed off.”
There’s no noise from the water and Eric’s footsteps have died away. The animals and birds are silent.
“He died from sniffing glue,” I say. “Selby,” I add quickly in case she didn’t realize.
I feel her tense up.
“Stupid bugger,” I go on. “He’d stopped doing it ages ago. He was seventeen for Christ’s sake. He had more dignified ways of getting a buzz. But he was found dead in the car park by the swimming pool. The glue had dried over his nose and round his mouth and he still had the bag in his hand. At first no one believed that was what killed him. Kids are doing it all the time and it’s rare for anything to go wrong like that, usually it’s because they’ve fallen under a car or something, not because of the glue itself.”
I keep talking. I’ve never said this to anyone before. I tell her that after Selby died my mum got ill again. She got so bad she wouldn’t even have us at Christmas any more.
I don’t tell Carol that Selby was also surrounded by cans of lighter fuel. I don’t say that he had vomit all over his coat and face. I don’t say he was lying in a puddle of his own piss. I don’t say that the paramedic had to find a handkerchief to put over Selby’s mouth and nose before he started the mouth to mouth because as he said to his mate in a voice he hoped wouldn’t be heard, “I’m going to be sick and this lad is just scum anyway.”
I don’t tell Carol this because she might ask me how I know.
As it gets later, Eric moves further up the tree, a branch for every hour. Even though he is still sceptical about all of this, it’s easy to let your imagination go mad out here. It’s such a dark night. The clouds are covering the moon and the stars. Of course our eyes have become accustomed to the darkness but it is difficult to tell what anything really is.
My imagination isn’t going mad. I know there is a twelve-foot reptile nearby, unless he has gone. I read they can travel overland to new water sources. But I don’t think he would. This is where he is used to being fed. But I still have this small hope that the cold has killed him. Maybe you think I’m mean. It’s not the crocodile’s fault it was smuggled into this country. It should be in some Indian river with its own kind. And I eat meat, so why shouldn’t it do likewise? But you know I have looked after this thing for years. You know how I’ve spent all my money on meat and made up hundreds of lies to cover its tracks. And what thanks do I get? The bloody thing only tried to eat me! If it were dead I could finally relax. I had the right idea in the first place. I should have got hold of a gun somehow and shot it. Look at me; I’ve got a truck, a girl and a blacksmith. I’ve got a cage and a pile of supermarket meat. I’ve got a hydraulic arm and a thirty-foot rope. If I’ve managed to get these things, why didn’t I get a gun?
Carol’s not asleep. I can tell by her breathing. She hasn’t spoken since I told her about Selby. She can go home and get out her word processor and type out my missing notes now. She can pop them in my file. The tree trunk is biting into my side. I move to make myself more comfortable. I wonder how many days we can keep this up. Now the police are after me it has to be in the next few days. I wonder if Jimmy will turn me in if I go back to get some fresh clothes. And I could do with a shower. I look up at Eric. He is above us now, clinging to his branch. Would he put me up for a few days while we catch it?
You know, I could get out of this tree right now. I could somehow get back to town, get my car and drive, I don’t know where. Maybe up north. I could make a new start in a new place where the police aren’t looking for me. St Mark’s isn’t waiting for me any more, so I’ve got nowhere to go. Correction. I’ve got everywhere to go.
My arse cheek has gone numb. I shift over and Carol complains that I am squashing her.
“This is crazy,” whispers Eric. “What am I doing here?”
I don’t think he wants an answer.
“How’s Terry?” I ask Carol quietly.
“I have no idea,” she says.
We sink back into silence.
My boy has got to be hungry, hasn’t he? Surely he can sniff the meat. I think even I can smell it from here. What’s the matter with him? Maybe he really is dead.
The wind is getting up. Small waves lap round the trap. I realize that despite my coat, the blanket and Carol, I am getting cold. It starts in my feet and hands and the tips of my ears and gradually spreads over my body. A support worker took a group of us up to the Millennium Dome when I was a kid. I don’t know what all the fuss was about. I thought it was cool. I especially liked the machine that you walked through and it reflected your body. The hottest parts of you were red and the coldest were blue. I got embarrassed because according to the machine, the hottest part of me was my crotch. Mind you, I was only about twelve or thirteen and I was pretty obsessed with sex at that age. If I was standing in front of that machine now I reckon all of me would be a pale blue.
Something has changed. I can feel it. The others know it too even though nobody is saying anything. It’s as if all of us have been dragged up from our thoughts back here to this tree, this lake, this cage.
A tiny sound comes out of Eric and I look at the shore.
Something dark is moving out of the water.
An animal crawls and slips over the mud on all fours towards the cage.
T w e n t y - f o u r
There is a small pain in my arm and I realize Carol is pinching me. I brush away her hand and slowly, slowly untie the rope round the trunk which holds the cage open. I don’t take my eyes from the shore.
Eric is swearing under his breath.
I need to keep the rope at the right tension or the door will move and my boy might get scared off. But I need to be ready to let the door fall before he gets away.
Eric has put some clips on the lower bar so that when the door shuts, it is held in place.
It might be the bad light, but I swear the crocodile is tired. He moves slowly and cautiously and seems to be dragging his legs. Carol has my arm again. I can’t breathe. I know something is going to go wrong. He will suspect us and swim off. Or he’ll smell me and come hunting for fresh meat. There is a cough building in my throat but I keep it down and my eyes stream.
The crocodile stops at the mouth of the trap. We hear his breathing as he smells the night air. He knows there’s meat inside.
Go on my son.
He’s hungry and cold. He needs the food to survive.
There is a loud rattling noise and he lunges forward. Hardly knowing what I am doing, I yank on the rope and the door slams shut. I scramble out of the tree, half falling to the ground and run towards the cage.
“Stephen, wait,” Eric shouts at me but I ignore him. Have I got him? Have I? Have I caught him, Selby? Of course I have. I have to. I slip over the mud and come to a sudden halt.
He thrashes against the sides of the cage, roaring and fighting. I step back. His body seems to bounce off the metal panels, making them shake. I don’t see how they can possibly contain him. He smashes into one side then the other. Then I see something which turns me cold.
His tail is still sticking out the end of the trap.
The door has not closed properly. If he backed out at the right angle he could escape.
I don’t know what I am doing now, but it feels like jumping off a bridge. I get this mad surge of energy and I run to the cage.
“Here I am,” I shout. “Come and eat me.”
The animal rushes forwards and his snout crashes into the end of the cage and for an instant his tail sweeps inside. I sprint to the back. I slam down the door and jam it against the bars. I hear a double click. He’s trapped.
He’s mad now, smacking himself around, his massive jaws gnawing at the bars, trying to get a grip. Every bit of his energy has returned. I step away from the cage and watch. I want to run but I can’t. My brain is telling me there is no need, but my body wants me back up that tree, or in Eric’s truck and driving fast.
The clouds have cleared now and I can see him better. He stops struggling and eyes me, panting and clawing one webbed foot into the floor of the cage. His long, lower tooth juts from his jaw. I can’t take my eyes off him. I am face to face with my worst nightmare.
“Get back,” shouts Eric from a long way away.
The crocodile stops panting and goes as still as stone. We watch each other. Now he’s like something dead and fossilized, he’s so still. He could be a pile of rocks. Only a small area under his chin pulses up and down, letting me know he is still thinking of me.
I don’t know how long we’re like this, caught up in each other’s eyes. Listen to me, I sound like I’m in love with the thing. But I’m not. I hate him. At least, I think I do. It’s getting lighter and I can see more of the markings on him, the grey-black spots and the thick ridges on his skin. And I can smell him too. He smells of dirty water and blood.
I hear footsteps. Eric comes first, followed by Carol. In the morning light I can see the expression on Eric’s face. He is wide-eyed like a kid on an E. Carol hangs back. She looks ready to run.
“Has the latch worked?” asks Eric softly. I nod and we all jump back when the animal lets out a massive breath, sounding like the bin lorry when it pulls up outside your house.
We all look at it for a long time, gradually edging closer.
“It’s huge,” says Eric. As we stand there, a flock of geese fly overhead and I notice the crocodile’s eyes flicker. He hasn’t touched any of his meat. He’s scattered it round the trap. He has a pork chop on his shoulder and his front claws rest in a mound of sausages.
This ought to be funny but it isn’t.
Eric’s watch beeps the hour and it’s like we all wake up.
“Five o’clock,” says Eric. “Move.”
I am weak now, I can only take orders and though I carry the wooden stakes to the shore and fetch the winch from the truck and attach one end to the tree, it is Eric who ties the rope to the trap and lays the stakes in a line in front of the cage. He gives me the signal to start working the winch. He made that cage himself so he knows how strong it is. But I know how powerful my boy is and I am wary. He’s quiet now, even when he is winched up on to the stakes. He scrabbles with his legs but there is no major movement.
When I’ve watched crocodiles being caught on telly, they tie up the jaws. I suggest this to Eric and he tells me to go ahead because he’s not stopping me.
The cage edges forwards, rolling on the stakes. It is my job to keep winching and Eric’s job to replace the logs ahead of the cage, one by one as they are rolled over. It’s slow work and I get hot. I worry that what we are trying to do is impossible.
We are pulling him up off the shore and on the grass when he starts hissing.
“Watch it,” I call. “He’s building up to something.”
“Keep going,” shouts Eric through his teeth. He is breathing louder than the crocodile as he pushes and shoves. Carol has obviously decided that being a girl has its advantages and is staying well clear. I thought she had more guts than this, but I can’t really blame her. This is my problem, not hers.
Then the crocodile starts bellowing and I am so surprised I let out this noise, like a girl’s scream. In any other circumstances it would be embarrassing. He grips the mesh at the front of the cage and tries to turn himself over. He’s trying to do his death roll.
“Get out of the way,” I shout, but Eric is already backing off. The tail lashes round the cage, slamming into the bars. The noise echoes across the water. It’s so loud I expect the Dam Man to turn up at any minute.
The cage rocks as the crocodile slams into the mesh. I back off fast, hoping to hell the door clips will hold. There is a thud as the cage tips off the stakes and on to the grass. For a couple of seconds the crocodile is upside down, and I look at its pale belly. If I had a knife or a spear, that’s where I’d stab it. The fall seems to have knocked the breath out of it and it goes still again. Eric shouts at me to help him move the cage back on the stakes but my feet won’t move.
“Stephen, come on. It’ll be light soon.”
He’s bloody mad. I don’t understand how he can’t see the power of the thing. How can he stand to get so close?
Carol slides down the mud to help and together they wedge the stakes under the cage and signal for me to start winching again.
Mud and exhaustion. Heavy breathing. Pushing, pulling, straining with every bit of strength in my arms and legs. Slipping over once, twice, then cutting my lip on a stone. Blood in my mouth. Carol taking my place at the winch, me pushing the cage from the back, checking the clips. It’s getting lighter. Fear that someone will find us. Move the winch to a further tree. Move the crocodile past his old pump cage. He hates moving, he is calmer when we have a rest. Jump clear as he starts rolling again. Move back in when he stops. Pulling him and rolling him up through the trees to the fence. Watching the meat smear over his body and roll against the mesh. Pink mud beneath him. Winching him right up to the truck. Carol touching my arm. She take
s off and goes to sit in the truck. She’s not going to help any more. Nobody saying anything except Eric who shouts instructions. A feeling of relief even though it is now nearly six o’clock and we can hear cars on the road.
Eric leans into the side of his truck. I can smell his sweat. He has taken off his jumper and shirt and is working bare-chested. I find this strange. I want as much between me and those teeth as I can.
I lean towards Eric. “Where are we taking him?” I speak in a low voice, though Carol has the windows wound up.
“St Matthew’s,” says Eric, unclipping the sides of the flatbed. “In Bexton.”
I must have looked surprised.
“Good road access, massive graveyard, no security cameras, unlikely to be populated first thing in the morning.” Eric wipes the sweat from his face with his arm. “And I expect the first person to find him is either going to be a grave digger or the vicar.”
Eric attaches a hook to either end of the cage. “And if he does get out of the cage, I know the railings are good and strong.” He clips on the chains. “Because I made them myself.”
Eric operates the mechanical arm. The cage wobbles and leaves the ground. I hold my breath as it climbs higher into the air. I hope he doesn’t kick off now.
The cage swings in the air and I have to guide it with my hands. For a few minutes I have a live crocodile swinging over my head. I will not forget it. I am constantly stepping away from his jaws. I only touch the cage where his tail is rammed against it. I don’t want him to see me. I can see his underside clearly and his webbed feet and claws. The plates in his tail get smaller and smaller towards the tip, in a perfect pattern, each plate interlinking with the next. I get a strange feeling that everything is going to be all right. In just a few hours this thing will have gone out of my life for ever.
