A Croc Called Capone Read online

  WHAT THE REAL CRITICS HAVE TO SAY

  Laugh? I thought I’d never start!

  – Sarah, aged 10, VIC

  Amazing characterisations, enthralling plots, vivid

  use of language. You might want to give at least one of those a go

  – Nita, aged 9, NT

  My sister thinks you are a brilliant writer.

  She also believes she is from a small planet

  near Alpha Centauri

  – Jodie, aged 2, NSW

  Hilarious … fascinating … amazing.

  Just three words I wouldn’t use to describe your book

  – Hilary, aged 11, QLD

  You are a master of language.

  Unfortunately, not the English language

  – Bruno, aged 43, WA

  First published in 2009

  Copyright © Text, Barry Jonsberg 2009

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

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  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone (612) 84250100

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  Email [email protected]

  Web www.allenandunwin.com

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Jonsberg, Barry, 1951

  -A croc called Capone

  For primary school age.

  ISBN: 978 174175 668 5 (pbk.)

  A823.4

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  Set in 10/14 pt Lino Letter by Bruno Herfst

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  www.allenandunwin.com

  For Jasmin and Mya

  Here’s an interesting fact.

  Crocodiles are, generally speaking, not fussy about dental hygiene.

  I know this because I’ve stared into a large saltwater crocodile’s gaping jaws. I stared because it’s hard not to. Trust me on this.

  Imagine. I was sitting on a muddy riverbank, soaking wet and filthy. My best friend Dylan was at my side. Next to him was a small, dirty-white dog. Not three metres from my face, a five-metre saltie eyed us as if choosing an entree from a dinner menu. It opened its jaws and slithered closer. Rows of sharp yellowed teeth loomed. Judging by the chunks of flesh-coloured material lodged firmly between its impressive incisors, this was a croc that wasn’t overly bothered about a two-minute brush before bedtime. I’d be willing to bet it never flossed.

  Dyl and I were in a bad position.

  What made it worse was another six crocs circling to our left and right. True, they weren’t as big as the monster in front of us, but you’d have to be amazingly optimistic to take any comfort from that. We were surrounded.

  ‘Well, Dyl,’ I sighed. ‘At least things can’t get any worse.’

  And then they did.

  The dog farted.

  Even the croc blinked and moved back a pace. It might have fancied itself as the most efficient killing machine on the planet, but this fart was a weapon of mass destruction. I was almost hoping the croc would just attack and put us out of our misery.

  How did we get into this situation? I thought. Sitting on a slimy mound of mud, surrounded by man-eating crocs and enveloped in a fog of sulphurated hydrogen?

  I knew the answer to that.

  It all started six weeks ago …

  ‘A little pain never hurt anybody,’ said Rose. ‘You are such a sook, Mucus.’

  At any other time, I might have questioned the truth of both these statements. As it was, I came up with the best reply I could manage under the circumstances.

  ‘Oooooowwwww …’

  The thing is, when you have your head clamped under someone’s arm and that someone is rubbing their knuckles – very, very hard – across the top of your scalp, it’s difficult to find an intelligent response.

  ‘If you mess up this holiday, Mucus,’ continued Rose, ‘I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.’

  I did wish I’d never been born. It felt as if my brain was being beaten with small baseball bats wrapped in barbed wire. The pain brought tears to my eyes.

  ‘I won’t. I swear I won’t.’

  I read somewhere about prisoners of war being tortured for information. Really nasty people stuck slices of bamboo underneath prisoners’ fingernails. Or beat them on the soles of the feet with red-hot paddles. Or gave them electric shocks on tender body parts. In the stories I read, the guys being tortured always kept their secrets. Lying there, on my bedroom floor, pinned under Rose’s sweaty armpit, I knew I would not only give up all information in three seconds flat, I’d make up secrets, just so I could spill them.

  Maybe I am a sook.

  Anyway, I was prepared to say anything Rose wanted, if only she’d stop mashing my head to jelly. But as it turned out, it didn’t matter what I said. She carried on hurting me regardless.

  Rose likes dishing out pain. It’s that simple.

  ‘Swear you’ll behave yourself!’ she said, her knuckles grinding away somewhere just behind my eyes.

  ‘I swear.’

  ‘On what?’

  Good question. What could I swear on?

  ‘A stack of Bibles,’ I gasped.

  ‘You’re not religious.’ I could hear suspicion in her voice. And a touch of vicious glee that she’d spotted the flaw in my answer.

  ‘I swear to God I am,’ I said.

  I have no idea why, but this seemed to satisfy her. It might have something to do with Rose having the brains of a flea. She let go of my head and stormed out of my bedroom, slamming the door. I slumped the few remaining centimetres to the carpet. It smelt very slightly of dog poo.

  I clutched my aching skull in both hands and wished I had never been born.

  Allow me to introduce myself.

  My name is not Mucus. That’s just Rose’s little joke. You see, mucus is slimy, gross stuff. It normally drips from your nose, but in Rose’s case it comes straight from her brain. I am Marcus Hill. I am eleven years old and average in nearly everything. Maths, Science, English, Art. I am slightly below average in height, which makes me a less-than-average goalkeeper in my local under-thirteen soccer team.

  Average.

  It’s not a good word.

  As words go, it’s pretty average.

  But …

  In one area I am not only not average, I am exceptional. You see, I have a super-power. Only one person in four million can do what I can do. It’s nothing to do with X-ray vision or leaping off tall buildings in unnaturally tight-fitting costumes to beat up improbable villains.

  I’m not going to tell you what it is just yet. There are two reasons for this. First, I want to build suspense within the story. Second, I like being annoying.

  So I’ll tell you about my sister Rose instead. You have already met her and probably formed your own opinions.

  I’ll just fill in some of the blanks.

  Rose is fifteen and isn’t average in anything, as far as Mum and Dad are concerned. If Rose sprouted wings and a halo popped up over her head, they wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest. She aces all her subjects in school, which is no mean trick when you have the brains of a flea. She is a talented actress. Her artwork
has been exhibited in a local gallery. There’s a strong possibility her poo smells of violets, but I am not prepared to check this out.

  Where I am average, Rose is perfect.

  Except …

  You know those stories about vampires? How seemingly ordinary people who hold down normal jobs and move among us unnoticed turn into blood-sucking monsters when the full moon peeps from behind a passing cloud?

  That’s Rose.

  I don’t mean she has pointy teeth and sleeps in a coffin, though nothing about her would surprise me. It’s just that when no one else is around, she undergoes a dramatic change. Gone is the golden angel child. The wings crumble into dust, the halo turns rusty. Enter the spawn of Satan. Gleaming red eyes. Head that can spin three hundred and sixty degrees. Pure evil. In other circumstances, she’d probably go on a rampage around town, sinking fangs into the necks of innocent folk. But Rose is interested in only one victim.

  Me.

  This makes my life hard.

  I’ve tied strings of garlic on my bedroom door. Didn’t work. I keep a sharpened stake under my pillow. I’m saving up for a silver bullet.

  As I said, Rose doesn’t normally need an excuse to make my life a misery. This time, though, there was a specific reason. The holiday. The holiday Dad announced at the kitchen table during breakfast.

  ‘Guess what, kids?’ said Dad, peering at us over the edge of his newspaper.

  I didn’t answer. For one thing, my mouth was crammed with cereal. But the main reason I kept chewing was because we’d been through this before. Someone would say, ‘What?’ and Dad would come out with, ‘The Dow Jones index has recovered from a slump in share investment after a bear market futures scare.’ There is no answer to a pronouncement like this. You don’t know whether to say, ‘Bummer’ or ‘Excellent’ or ‘Pass the marmalade.’ ‘Please speak English’ is an option, but I’ve never had the courage to try it.

  ‘What, Daddy?’ said Rose. She actually sounded interested. The sun streaming through the kitchen window reflected off her halo and made patterns on the ceiling. Her snow-white wings flexed. An invisible choir started singing.

  ‘We are going on a family holiday at Christmas!’ he said. He put his paper down flat on the table, the better to see our reaction. Mum stopped washing dishes and placed a hand on Dad’s shoulder. She smiled down at us. If this scene became any more Disney, I’d throw up my Weet-Bix.

  ‘Oh, Daddy, that is soooo exciting,’ said Rose. I swallowed hard. The cereal was keen to make a reappearance. ‘Where? Where?’

  ‘A wilderness lodge in the Northern Territory,’ said Dad. ‘Fourteen days. Accommodation, food, trips out – river cruises, safari guide, the works.’

  ‘It’s your dad’s bonus from work,’ Mum chipped in. You could see the pride oozing from her every pore. ‘He made more money for the company this year than anyone else.’

  I have very little idea what Dad does at work. I know he wears a suit. I also know he spends most of his time on the telephone or on his computer. Buying and selling, he says. But when I push him on this, he says he’s buying and selling money. How do you do that? I mean, if I’ve got a dollar in my pocket, would you buy it for one dollar fifty? You’d have to be a moron. But it seems there are plenty of people out there who do just that. Maybe he only rings up the mentally ill.

  ‘Daddy!’ shrieked Rose. She jumped up and threw her arms around Dad. If her nose travelled any further up his bum she’d suffocate. Mind you, I have to admit I was pleased too. I’d never been to the Northern Territory, but we’d done a project on it at school the semester before last and it seemed like a cool place. They’ve got crocodiles there. With a bit of luck, Rose would get eaten by one.

  ‘Oh noooo!’

  I paused, another spoonful of Weet-Bix halfway to my mouth. Rose had clamped a hand over her mouth, the back of the other hand pressed against her forehead. I told you she was a keen actor, but this was cheesy even by her standards.

  ‘What is it, sweetie?’ said Mum, her voice dripping with concern. She and Dad had matching wrinkled brows. This is the way things are in my house. I could be ripped apart by a pack of dingoes during dinner and no one would notice. Rose chips a fingernail and the emergency services are called.

  ‘Oh, Mummy. Oh, Daddy,’ moaned Rose.

  Oh, puhlease, I thought.

  ‘What, sweetie-pie? What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’d forgotten, Mummy. In the excitement, I’d forgotten I promised to spend a week with Siobhan at Christmas. Oh, Mummy, Daddy. Can she come with us? Please? Can she? Pretty please? If she can, I don’t want anything else for Christmas. I swear.’

  I put my spoon down. There was no way I could carry on eating breakfast. My stomach can only put up with so much. Just as well, because things took a turn for the mushier, though you might find that hard to believe.

  Dad looked at Mum. Mum looked at Dad. Rose looked at both of them. They all smiled. Small, cute, furry animals performed a song-and-dance routine across the tablecloth.

  ‘I suppose so, sweetie,’ said Dad eventually. ‘After all, I’m not paying for the four of us, so I guess we can afford to bring your friend along as well. Sure. Let’s go for it.’

  Rose shrieked. She jumped up and down. She howled with joy. She hugged Mum and Dad. They hugged her back. I watched. Beams of sunlight played around the kitchen. Pearly white teeth flashed. Cartoon chipmunks turned somersaults over the milk jug.

  Time for Marcus to introduce a reality check.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. Three pairs of eyes turned to me. There was faint surprise in them, as if they’d forgotten I was there. ‘If Rose can bring her friend, then I guess I’ll be able to invite Dylan.’

  The sun vanished behind a black cloud. Furry critters disappeared with a pop. A clap of thunder shook the room. Lightning crackled. Everyone except me aged twenty years. There was a silence so heavy you’d need a forklift truck to shift it. I tried lifting an eyebrow expressively.

  ‘’S only fair,’ I added.

  And it was.

  If you can ever say that inviting Dylan to anything could possibly count as fair.

  It’s like this.

  Dylan is my best friend.

  Siobhan is Rose’s best friend.

  At least it’s easy to pronounce Dylan’s name. Apparently, Siobhan should be pronounced ‘Shuh-varn’. So why didn’t her parents just call her Shuhvarn, then? Were they deliberately trying to confuse people? I refuse to have a bar of it. I call her Cy Ob Han, which at least sounds like a minor character from Star Wars. And it really annoys Rose, which is a bonus. Rose, pronounced ‘Loo-za’.

  Anyway, Dylan. I could give you a rundown on Dyl. But it’s easier if you follow me as I leave the stunned kitchen table, go to my bedroom, get into my uniform, have my skull jack-hammered by Rose, walk to school and enter the playground …

  ‘Yo, Dyl,’ I said.

  Dyl sat on a wall, drinking a can of cola. Dyl is always drinking cola. He’s so full of sugar that if he had a bath he’d dissolve.

  ‘Hi, Marc,’ he said.

  ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’

  Dylan frowned. He has trouble with the concept of time. He has no real idea what he is going to be doing in the next thirty seconds. Christmas was six weeks away. Might as well have been six years.

  ‘No idea, mate,’ he said.

  ‘Well …’

  But I got no further.

  A couple of kids passed by, handballing a footy to each other. Dylan jumped off the wall, intercepted a pass and kicked the ball onto the gym roof. It bounced a couple of times and then settled into the gutter. If Dyl had been anyone else, there might have been trouble. But no one wanted to fight Dylan. It’s not that he’s big and scary. He’s smaller than me. But everyone knew that if you picked a fight with Dylan, he never gave up. He’s as mad as a dunny rat.

  ‘Dylan! That’s my footy,’ whined one of the kids.

  ‘No worries,’ said Dyl. ‘I’ll get it back.’


  There are very strict rules at school. No one is allowed to climb onto buildings to get balls back. You must tell a teacher, who will inform the school janitor, who will, when he has a spare moment, take a ladder and clear the roof of all the stuff that finds its way there. This takes time. Normally, if you lose a footy up there, you’re married with grandchildren by the time the janitor gets around to returning it.

  But the rules are very clear.

  Which is one reason why Dyl likes to blur them.

  He shinned up the drainpipe like a greased ferret, hooked a leg over the gym wall, dangled for a second just for the sheer drama of it and then pulled himself onto the roof. Miss Lyons was on yard duty. It took her a moment to realise what was going on. When she followed the eyes of the kids in the playground, hers came out on stalks and a thin jet of coffee spurted from her nose.

  ‘Dylan Smith! Get down this instant!’

  Dylan didn’t. He waved. He smiled. He strutted along the edge of the roof like a tightrope walker, hands out to the side.

  ‘Dylan!’ yelled Miss Lyons. ‘Remember what we have said about this behaviour. You have a choice. You can escalate or you can defuse. Which is it?’

  This was standard stuff. The school’s policy on bad behaviour was to remind kids that they could either make things worse – escalate – or they could make things better – defuse. I have no idea what they hoped to achieve with this. It’s no choice at all for someone like Dylan.

  He escalated.

  He stood on his hands and walked upside-down along the guttering.

  Miss Lyons turned white.

  The rest of us cheered.

  Finally, Dylan flipped onto his feet, picked up the footy and hoofed it into the playground. Then he turned his back, dropped his dacks and mooned us. The cheering escalated as well.

  I didn’t see him again until lunch.

  ‘Dyl,’ I said. ‘Remember I was asking what you were doing for Christmas?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Well …’

  But I got no further.

  Miss Prentice, the Principal of the school, loomed in front of us like a ghastly nightmare. She had a bucket in one hand, a mop in the other.