A Croc Called Capone (3 page)

I pointed out I didn't have any other friends.

They suggested I try hard to make one in the next six weeks. Failing that, we could take a complete stranger. An axe-wielding homicidal maniac, at a pinch. Anyone except Dylan.

Mum and Dad have banned Dyl from our home on the grounds that they like the house the way it is. Still standing. I was firm. No amount of bullying from parents would budge me. Dylan was coming.

Finally, Mum and Dad had to rely on their last, faint hope. That Dylan's parents had other plans. That they would cherish the moment when their son opened his presents on Christmas morning. That they couldn't bear to be separated from him.

It was a
very
long shot.

I gave Dad Dyl's home number and he rang and arranged for us to go round that evening to chat about the holiday. He drove Mum and me there with the desperate air of someone looking for a straw to clutch.

Dylan doesn't live in the best neighbourhood. It's the kind of place where even old people with walking frames dress in camouflage gear. We parked outside his house and Dad locked the car. He glanced back at it as we walked up the drive, as if not really expecting it to have wheels when we returned.

Dylan's mum and dad were really friendly. They offered us drinks, but Mum said no. I think she was keen to get this over with. Dad got down to business.

‘Mr and Mrs Smith …'

‘Joe and Mo.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘I'm Joe,' said Dylan's dad, ‘and this is Mo.' Dylan's mum nodded her head and grinned. ‘Joe and Mo.'

‘Well, Joe and Mo,' continued Dad, ‘we fully understand if what we are about to suggest is unacceptable, but we wondered if your son, Dylan, would like to come with us on a family holiday …'

‘Yes,' said Joe and Mo together.

‘The thing is,' Mum said, ‘it's over Christmas …'

‘Yes,' said Joe and Mo.

‘Obviously, you'll want to know a bit about us and exactly where we are going before you entrust us with your son's safety …'

‘Not necessary,' said Joe.

‘Not a problem,' said Mo.

‘It will be for quite a long time, right at Christmas …'

‘Terrific,' said Joe.

‘Two full weeks,' Mum chipped in.

‘No longer?' said Mo.

‘You'll probably want time to think over your decision,' said Dad. You had to give him credit for trying.

‘No,' said Joe and Mo together. They fell on their knees, sobbed and hugged Dad's legs. ‘Thank you so much. Thank you. God bless you. This is the answer to our prayers, right above winning ten million on the lotto.' (Actually, they didn't do this last bit. But I think they might have if Dad had tried to back out.)

We left soon after. The car still had wheels, though a granny was eyeing it up and toying with a wheel spanner. We drove off into the evening haze. Or it could have been smoke from a burning building.

‘They
are
strange people,' said Mum. ‘Entrusting their son to complete strangers without even asking any questions. We might be murderers for all they know.'

‘I suspect they're half-hoping we are,' Dad replied.

Dylan came round after dinner. I'd just made it to my bedroom when there was a rattle of stones against the window. This is Dyl's calling card, even though it would be easier to simply knock on the glass. I opened the window and he slid into the room. Mum and Dad would go nuts if they knew he was around, so I locked my door.

Dyl lay on my bed and opened a can of cola. He's a walking bar fridge.

‘It's sorted, Dyl,' I said. ‘You're coming with us.'

‘Brilliant,' said Dylan, slurping at his can.

‘We are going to have the best time, mate,' I said. ‘Just you and me at Christmas. All that open space. Places to explore, things to see.'

‘Fantastic,' said Dylan.

‘You
are
pleased, aren't you?' I said. Sometimes it's difficult to tell with Dylan.

‘You bet,' said Dylan.

‘Any questions about it all?' I asked.

‘Just one.'

‘Yes?'

‘Where are we going?'

End of term took forever to arrive, but eventually we made it to the last day of school.

It's an age-old custom that the final day of the school year is a muck-up day. So Miss Prentice suspended Dylan on Thursday. No one could imagine what would happen if Dyl was
encouraged
to muck up. The last day was fun, no doubt about it. But I couldn't help feeling it would have been more fun with Dylan there.

After school, I went to his place to help him pack. We were flying out on the Saturday afternoon and Dyl was excited. It was going to be his first time on a plane. I wondered if anyone had thought to warn the airline.

I mean, the last time I'd flown, the security had been really tight. You couldn't get a nail file onto the aircraft. I knew they'd scan Dylan, confiscate a nail file – though in Dyl's case it would more likely be a cluster bomb – and let him on. If the authorities knew him as well as I did, they'd wave through the cluster bomb and confiscate Dylan.

Joe and Mo wore broad smiles when they opened the door. I got the feeling they hadn't stopped smiling since we offered to borrow Dylan, six weeks ago.

Dylan was in his bedroom, sorting through a pile of clothes that the Salvos wouldn't put anywhere near a rack in the op shop. He had a battered suitcase open on his bed. I noticed that most of the space in it was taken up with cans of cola. He glanced up as I entered.

‘Whatyareckon, Marc? Two pairs of underdacks do me?'

‘Dyl,' I said. ‘We're going for two weeks, mate.'

‘Yeah, you're right,' he said. ‘One should be enough.'

I lent a hand with the packing. It took a while to persuade him, but eventually he got rid of the cola cans. I had to swear that cola existed in the Northern Territory. This left plenty of space and not very many clothes to fill it. The last thing he put into the case was a Christmas present – a small, not very well-wrapped package. I could see my name on it.

For some reason this made me sad.

I made a mental note to add a couple of pairs of decent boxer shorts to the presents I'd already got him. I'd stop off at a shop on my way home.

When I left, Dylan wasn't so much wired as plugged directly into the local electricity substation. He paced. He twitched. His eyes flicked constantly over his bedroom walls, as if judging the best angles to bounce off them.

I didn't envy Joe and Mo the next ten or so hours.

‘Cy Ob Han,' I said. ‘May the Force be with you.'

I nearly tripped over her as I walked up our drive. She had come round for tea. Again. For the last four weeks Cy had been a regular at the dinner table. Apparently she and Rose needed every available second to plan for the holiday. What clothes to buy, what type of make-up to wear, which
CD
s to take along and a million other completely stupid things. I mean, what's there to think about? Stick some clothes in a bag and away you go. Better still, get your parents to stick some clothes in a bag for you.

This time, though, she was staying over as well. I deduced this from the small mountain of luggage she was wheeling. It crossed my mind – briefly – to offer help.

‘Get stuffed, Mucus,' said Cy, thus putting paid to the already slim chance of me helping out. She wiped sweat from her brow and gave me the finger. She and Rose graduated from the same charm school. I reckon it's good that they're best friends. This way only two people are miserable, rather than four.

‘Rude, you are,' I replied in my best Yoda voice. ‘Swivel yourself you should.'

I opened the front door which, unfortunately and entirely accidentally, swung closed behind me. I could hear Cy cursing faintly on the other side. Naturally, I would have opened it for her, but I was in a hurry. I went straight through to the kitchen where Mum was preparing dinner.

‘Mum?' I said. ‘If Rose can have a friend round to stay tonight, why can't Dylan?'

‘Dylan
can
have a friend to stay,' Mum replied. ‘It's only you who can't.'

I opened my mouth and closed it again. Sometimes it's difficult to have a proper conversation with Mum.

When I made it back into the hall, Rose and Cy were hugging as if they hadn't seen each other for forty years, instead of the forty minutes since school had finished. I don't understand girls. Their brains are wired wrong. Or it could be just a general design flaw. Rose glowered at me over Cy's shoulder.

‘Mucus, you squirt. Get Siobhan's luggage in!'

‘Love to help,' I replied with a cheery smile. ‘But I've got a bone in my arm. Sorry.'

I was in an extremely good mood as I opened my bedroom door. Time for a bit of relaxation before tea. Listen to some music, maybe read a book.

I hadn't taken a step inside before the smell hit me like a fist on the bridge of my nose. The grin on my face froze. For a moment I was tempted to find Rose and ask her to knuckle my skull, just to take the edge off the pain. The paint on the walls blistered and peeled. I peered through the brown fog in my room. Visibility was down to a couple of metres, but I knew what I'd see.

A small, dirty-white dog sat on my bed. It raised its head from where it had been buried in its bum and gazed at me with pink-rimmed eyes.

‘Wotcha, tosh,' said the dog.

You know how I said earlier that I have a super-power and that I was going to keep it a secret to build suspense?

Well, I've decided to cut you a break and fill you in right now.

About six months ago I was visited in the middle of the night by a scruffy dog taking a dump on my doona. This was the first of many surprises, very few of them pleasant. But the biggest shock, bigger even than waking up to find a smelly brown mound steaming under my nose, was when the dog talked to me. Okay, I know what you're thinking. Poor Marcus. Nutty as a fruitcake. That's all right, I thought that myself. But it turned out I wasn't loopy as a loon – no more than normal, anyway.

I have a gift.

According to Blacky – that's the dog's name – I am one of a rare breed of humans who can communicate directly with some special animals. It's like telepathy. I hear his voice in my head and I can talk back to him just by thinking the words. Doesn't make for a lot of privacy. If you believe Blacky's statistics, there are only four other people in Australia who have similar powers.

Blacky is not a pleasant dog. He's not the sort of hound to sloppily lick your face and then roll over to get his belly rubbed. More likely to chew your nose off and then roll over to get a better angle for gnawing your ankles. Man's worst friend. And rude. Rose is sweetness and light in comparison. To make matters worse, Blacky also has a fart problem.

I don't mean he has a problem farting. He doesn't. That's the problem.