by Ally Kennen
“Stephen, for God’s sake,” calls Eric. He is annoyed I have been standing still, just looking at the gently swaying body above me. As the crane swings round towards the truck, I put my hand on the bar and accidentally touch his side. The skin is hard and cold. He doesn’t feel alive. I trace his armour with my finger. I can’t believe he hasn’t eaten me yet. I feel weak and soft. I would tear so easily. He’d kill me in seconds. I hear ringing in my ears. I take my hand away almost reluctantly. I guide him on to the truck and he lands with a clunk and the whole truck shudders.
My fingertips are burning hot.
We drive up through the field of cows, the wheels spinning and spitting out mud. The cows stand well clear of us, but each one is watching. They know.
Eric is driving too fast. He keeps saying how late it is and how we’ll never reach the graveyard in time. He wants us to be gone by seven. We pass the Reynolds’s house and Eric asks Carol if she wants to get out. I think we are both worried about her because she is so quiet. She looks at him as if he is mad even though her clothes are wet and muddy and her teeth are chattering. I want to put my arm round her. It wouldn’t be difficult; we are all cramped together in the front seat. But I don’t know how she’ll react. I give her Eric’s coat to put over her legs. She doesn’t mind that, so I grab her hand and squeeze it.
I don’t let go.
As we approach town, Eric pulls over into a side road.
“We’re not taking it to the sea, are we?” says Carol when Eric is outside, checking the tarpaulin is secure.
“The sea’s too cold,” I say. “It’ll kill him.”
“He’s done all right so far,” says Carol. “He’d be better off free.”
“But he wouldn’t just swim out to sea,” I say. “He’d hang around the coast and eat people.”
Carol puts her forehead on the window and breathes out sharply. I recognize the noise. It means she is annoyed. I get an inkling of worry. I hope she’s not going to start being Carolish. I scrabble in the glove compartment and find the remains of the biscuits and offer one to her. She takes it and crunches hard. I hope the sugar works on her.
Eric stands at the door. His face is muddy and tired looking and his T-shirt is covered in mud.
“It’s no good,” he says. “We’ll have to hide it in the workshop today and dump him at the graveyard tonight.”
I shake my head. There’s no way it will happen like that. The crocodile will make a noise, or die or escape, or someone will come into the workshop. Besides, I’ve got the police looking for me and I can’t do anything about it until I have got rid of him. I don’t need any more trouble. The police are bound to come to Eric’s workshop and ask questions, then the whole lot of us will be in big trouble.
But Eric is determined. “It’s too late for today,” he repeats. I say that if he escapes, they’ll shoot him. But Eric has made up his mind. He asks me to pass him some spring ties and I find them under my seat. He goes round to the back of the truck.
Now you know me well enough to know that I sometimes get these crazy urges. It is like I am in a little rubber dinghy and I’m being pulled out to sea by the tide and there is nothing I can do about it.
Uh oh, I think as I recognize that familiar feeling. I’ve got this massive rush. Something is going to happen.
Quickly I slide across into the driver’s seat and turn the ignition key.
Carol looks up in surprise, then grins.
“Hey,” shouts Eric.
I push it into first and do a Ueey in the road.
“To the sea, to the sea,” screams Carol and I floor the accelerator. In the rear view mirror Eric holds out his hands in disbelief. He gets smaller and smaller.
He should have learned never to trust a thief.
T w e n t y - f i v e
It’s half past six in the morning and we’re driving too fast. The adrenalin is fading and I realize I don’t want to draw attention to myself. I slow down.
“It’s forty minutes to Salcombe sands,” says Carol happily.
She’s dreaming. I’m not going to let this thing free in the sea. I’ll never be rid of it. It will eat someone and then their dad or brother will come looking for me with a knife. Or it will find its way back across country to the reservoir and lie in wait for me. No, I’ve got more definite plans.
There’s an old quarry close to the meat factory. The bottom is full of water and in summer all the kids swim there and the lads dare each other to jump off the highest ledge. I’ve never jumped. I don’t like deep water. Do you blame me?
I remember there is a long, sandy road of about four miles leading to it and a sheer drop before the road winds down to the water.
That’s right, a sheer drop.
Crocodiles need to breathe. If, for example, one was dropped from a great height, in a cage, into a deep lake, it would drown even if it survived the fall. And he’d probably die of the cold before he drowned. So I’m offering him three ways to die.
He would sit looking like a pile of stone in an old cage at the bottom of a deep lake. I reckon a dead crocodile looks pretty much like a live one; all that hard skin must take some breaking down. It will be so still and quiet down there, he’d sit like that for ever, back in fossil-land where he belongs.
Yes, of course I’ll go through with it.
I turn off the main road and start up towards the quarry. We drive past the meat factory entrance. Thank God I’m not going back there again.
“Is this a short cut?” asks Carol.
I don’t say anything and she grunts and curls up in her seat, her knees against the dashboard.
A few miles from the quarry I notice a red light is on. It’s the petrol light. How long has it been like that? We haven’t got enough petrol to get to the quarry. Bloody Eric, why can’t he be more organized?
Carol notices me looking at the light.
“Ah,” she says.
I stop the truck and get out, taking the keys with me just in case Carol is as mad as I am. Eric may carry spare petrol in his truck, but I’ll have to look for it.
There is no noise coming from the back. I decide this is a good thing and I lift a corner of the tarpaulin. Oh God! There he is. Staring right at me. He has me fixed in his eyes. I imagine I can see my reflection in his pupil. He knows what I am going to do with him. His throat is moving up and down really quickly. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was frightened, but we’ve all heard of crocodile tears have we not? There is more blood than there ought to be. I see a gash down the side of the body. It is oozing red. He breathes out and I get a waft of his stale, warm breath. How did he get hurt? It must have been when he rolled the cage over, or maybe it happened before and it was too dark for us to see. Whatever it was must have been pretty sharp to puncture that skin.
There is no petrol in the back. But if I can find another car I can borrow some petrol from it.
Cars out here? I’m out of my mind; there are only cooking-oil farmers and red-diesel tractors. No, the only place I’m likely to find a nice petrol vehicle which I can tap is at the meat factory.
I look at my watch. It is ten to seven. The first workers will arrive in forty minutes. I don’t know if I have enough time but I have to do something. I start up the truck and reverse back down the road. Carol is talking to me but I don’t hear what she is saying.
The meat factory car park is deserted except for a solitary vehicle. It’s a Ford Fiesta and it’s very clean, inside and out. From this intelligence and the fact that it’s so early I decide that it’s the cleaner’s car. I am about to set to work when there is a hiss from the back of the truck and I have an idea.
Throwing him in the quarry isn’t an option any more. I’m out of time. I’m going to abandon him in the meat factory car park. It’s as good a place as any. Someone might even give him a chicken.
My boy is going to
die. He has an evil wound in his side. He is bleeding to death. He’s a condemned man. I, on the other hand, have nothing wrong with me. I just need to get shot of him and get away before I get in even more trouble.
The grey walls of the factory loom over us. A door has been left open. That must be the cleaner. I hope she is too busy with her newspaper to look out at the car park. In just over half an hour the drones will be arriving and I am going to give them all a day off. I knew I’d be running the place one day. I’m getting a bit of a kick out of this. Imagine Naomi’s face! I wish I could see it, but I’ll be long gone by then.
I strip off the tarp and the crocodile gives this massive shiver. I hope he doesn’t die yet. It would be less fun for them all to find a dead crocodile in the car park. A live one will be much more interesting.
I knock at the truck door.
“Come on,” I say to Carol. “I need your help.”
She is sulking and won’t look at me.
“What’s going on?”
“He’s hurt,” I say. “The sooner someone official finds him, the better.” I watch her face carefully. I don’t want her getting upset now. “If we leave him here, they’ll get a vet out, who’ll tranquillize him, and sort him out.”
Obviously I have no idea if this is true.
“But we’re taking him to the sea.”
I admit I nearly give way then, she looks so sweet and sad. And so unlike Carol.
“It’s too late for that now.”
I think she sees we have no other choice.
“Carol.” I haul open the door. “Please.”
“All right, all right.” She climbs stiffly out of the truck and yawns. “How is he?”
“Come and help me work out the crane,” I say. I want her to work it while I guide the cage. I don’t want her too close to his jaws. If anyone is going to lose a hand it should be me.
I unscrew the control panel and look at the knobs. It looks simple enough, I’ve never driven a digger but it reminds me of those arms you get in the arcades, where you put a quid in and never win the cheap watch. I practise moving the gears without the chains on and when I’ve got a rough idea I get Carol to come and look. Then I fix the chains to his cage. I have to stretch right out over him to do it. He is very still and I work quickly.
“Up,” I say. The chains lift and go taut and the cage moves off the truck.
The cage goes higher and higher until I tell Carol to swing it round away from the truck. She moves it the wrong way and a corner catches on the cab. He is hissing now. I know what this means. He is going to kick off again. But the hissing dies away. Carol swings it back. There’s a new dent in Eric’s truck.
“Down,” I say. The cage comes crashing down. “Slower,” I shout, but she can’t hear me. It comes down as fast as falling and hammers into the concrete with a loud clang.
“Sorry,” says Carol.
I think he is winded or something because he doesn’t move, but lets out this horrible squeaky noise. At the same time I feel this massive pain in my side, like I’m the one who’s been hurt. Then the pain goes away. I think we’ve injured him really badly this time. But I haven’t got time to see if he’s all right. I’ve got to get us away.
I fetch Eric’s tool kit and a half full bottle of lemonade and run over to the Fiesta.
I empty the drink on the ground and fish around for a suitable tool. I find a hammer and chisel. Carol looks confused so I tell her to get in the truck where it’s safe.
Look, I’m not a good boy, OK? I’ve not cut any fuel pipes for years. I didn’t think I would be doing it again but I’m bloody grateful I learned how. It’s one of the sneakiest types of car crime. You come back to your vehicle and can’t work out why it won’t start. It’s only the AA man who susses it out. Sorry about that, I say to the car. I feel calm. It’s nice to be doing something I actually know about for a change.
I’m lying under the car when I hear the banging and I nearly knock my head off as I sit up. The cage is rocking. He has got the mesh in his teeth. He’s going to roll. I sit there, with petrol pouring out over my trousers and I can’t move. He’s mad now. He lets out this bellow, then another one. He sounds horrible, like a lion. But the roar is deeper than that; it’s like the lowest, meanest sound I’ve ever heard. His tail thumps against the cage and it tips right over. He scrabbles around, getting upright, getting a new grip. I check to see Carol is still in the truck, and I see her face pressed against the window at the back, looking down on him. I’m glad I took those keys out. If I was her, I’d drive off now.
He pushes back and the door clangs open. I can’t believe it. The clips must have come undone when we dropped him. He doesn’t know it is open yet, he’s still beating at the sides. The cage turns again and again, rolling towards me.
It is just a matter of time before he gets out but I can’t move. I’m frozen, like in a nightmare. Everything is happening so quickly I can’t get a grip on it. All I can do is watch. Somehow he manages to tip the cage right up on its end. He’s nowhere near death yet. He’s more powerful than ever. The cage crashes to the ground.
He isn’t in it any more.
I’m silent as I watch him run towards me, his jaw gaping open, showing me his thick yellow teeth and bloody mouth. I wish I was the sort of person to pass out, but I’m not. You know that.
“Selby,” I say as he rushes at me, knocking me flat on the ground. I’m being pulled over the tarmac, but I can’t feel anything.
There is a grey sky. Out of the corner of my eye I see the lemonade bottle half full of petrol. Enough to start a fire, enough to scare him off. But I haven’t got the time. It’s all over.
I’m not moving any more. I wonder where he is going to bite me first. My head is the obvious choice; he could twist it off in seconds. Or maybe an arm. He’s been dying to eat me for years, ever since he tasted my blood all those years ago when I moved him from the lock-up to the reservoir. It must have driven him crazy, having me so close, when he knew exactly how I tasted, how warm and rich my blood is. Close to the stuff of his dreams but unable to have it.
The taste of paradise.
I don’t know why I think that. I think I’m trying to make my death easier. It’s nice that I’m going to make someone happy at last.
“Stephen,” screams Carol.
I don’t think she’d taste good. She’s too skinny and mean.
“Stephen, look.”
She wants me to look, Selby. She wants me to look when I’m about to die. What does she want me to see? A hot air balloon? A flock of geese? A crazy man in a microlight? Nothing is important enough for me to look, nothing. The woman is off her mind. She’s not the girl for me you know. She’s mental.
Something grabs my arm and I wait patiently for it to rip off. I imagine my head banging on the tarmac as I am rolled over. BANG BANG BANG. It’s quite funny really. I will look like a piss-head falling down the stairs. How am I doing? I’ll see you soon anyway. You can tell me face to face. That is, if I have a face left. I’m quite good at this death thing. Maybe it wasn’t so bad for you after all.
“Stephen. Look.”
It’s Carol. I can’t have died because she’s definitely not an angel.
I sit up.
He’s running down the slope to the meat factory. His tail slips through the scrubby low hedge. He moves easily across the concrete. He knows exactly where he is going. I bet he can smell the meat. I bet it’s driving him crazy. There’s nothing wrong with him now. He effortlessly climbs the few steps to the open door and slides inside.
T w e n t y - s i x
I stare at the factory wall. I can’t breathe. Then I get this rush of air in my chest and I let out this explosion. It’s half a laugh and half a scream. I sound like an animal. I’ve definitely lost it now. Weird noises keep coming out. It’s like my brain has lost control of my vocal chords. Carol
is all pale like she’s about to pass out.
I finally manage to speak English.
“Let’s go.”
I grab the bottle of petrol and try to open the fuel cap on the truck. Like my mouth, my fingers won’t work properly and I drop the keys. The second time I drop them, Carol picks them up and unlocks the cap for me. She unscrews the lid, takes the bottle and feeds it in. A lot of petrol comes right back out again and splashes on the wing.
“Stephen,” says Carol. She’s examining the back of my jacket. I twist round to look. There’s a long rip in the fabric.
“Whoa,” I say. “Check my back.” I lift up my jacket and top and feel Carol’s fingers run over my skin. I wouldn’t be surprised if I was badly hurt. I probably can’t feel the pain because of the adrenalin.
“It’s OK,” says Carol. “There’s nothing.”
I pull back my clothes and grab Carol’s hand. I just need to hold it for a few seconds. I think I might be sick.
“We have to go,” says Carol.
We get in the truck and I manage to turn and we burn off up the drive. As I steer out of the meat factory turning, my head clears a bit and I no longer have the retching feeling.
He dragged me along the car park with his teeth. And he let me go.
Why?
“Concentrate,” snaps Carol as we hit a bend too fast and swerve over the road.
We are bombing along the lane towards the main road when we pass the minibus full of my factory pals. The driver stares but I don’t think any of them recognize me. They’re all too busy trying to stay awake.
“Oh God,” says Carol.
She’s right. This is definitely the time to be talking to the man in charge.
Ten minutes later we’re heading to town on the main road when a police car flashes past, sirens howling, then another. I imagine the cleaner trying to convince the coppers to come.
Police please, there’s a crocodile rampaging round Marshall’s Meat Factory. Can you come quickly only he’s eating my leg? Thanks.
