Brown Skin Blue by Belinda Jeffrey

pens with the little crocs. Fully formed and about a metre long. There are so many crocs in one pen I can’t even count them. At least three hundred, I’d guess. They’re all just lying around, layered up over each other. Almost completely covering the ground. It’s sickening. I saw a cockroach infestation once. Layers and layers of the bastards so thick you’d sink to your ankles if you walked through them. That’s what the crocs look like. Only they’re still, unmoving, for the most part. It goes on and on. More and more pens with crocs of different sizes completely filling the pens. Lying in the sun to warm their blood.
    I’ve come to the back of the tour group. The guide is standing at the end of the path in front of a tropical fern garden with a group of people around him. I can hear him talking. He’s holding up a little croc, only the length of his arm.
    â€˜Now these little fellas are really fragile. Don’t get me wrong they’re strong. Their body is like one powerful muscle. So when you hold ’im, he might wriggle and you’ll feel ’im, but he can’t hurt you. But they’re only little, and if you drop one, you’ll injure him. Break his bones or rip his nose. Nasty stuff. I had one little fella broke his jaw this morning ’cause a kid dropped ’im. Don’t want to see that again.’
    Now I’m fascinated. It’s the thought of a huge predatory monster existing in the fragile form of a little body. All the potential for violence inside it. All it needs is time to expand. Except with this little bloke he’ll be some lady’s handbag before he gets a chance to take her leg.
    We’re standing on the path between cages of monkeys and birds. Behind me, back up the way a little in the middle of the path, is a small ice-cream shop. Windows open on both sides. There are monkeys clinging to the bars of their cages. Next to them and behind them are the pens of crocs. It’s suddenly a sad sight. All these wild things in cages where they can be looked at, prodded and poked, trained and fed and watched. I could buy an ice-cream, sit on a seat and watch them all day.
    The image of Blue comes to me. Trapped behind the bars in the big prison. A fat, hungry, male predator caught and contained. Hanging on the bars as people parade past to get a look at him. He’s not scary to look at behind the bars. He’s like the first big croc on the walkway up top. Just a pathetic thing that was only in his element in the wild. Where he could prey and sweet-stalk his victims. I feel sad for him. Blue, that is. Locked up. Another thing I know is stupid, but Ithink it all the same. It was me that put him there. Caught and caged him like an animal. I left him no option but to hang himself. I hate myself for thinkin’ this way, but it takes this bitter feeling I’ve got hangin’ around inside me and squashes it, like Mylanta settles indigestion. I feel better when the rage is flattened into a pool of sadness down deep. I’d dive right in, if I could.
    â€˜So. Who’s gonna hold the little fella, then?’ The guide holds up the little croc and smiles. He’s black. Aboriginal black. I can tell by his face. Angular cheekbones and wide eye sockets. I want to be him. He looks happy and free and home amongst it all. I like him. I want to ask him what he thinks of his skin.
    â€˜Come on. Don’t be shy.’
    There’s a few kids in the front hustling each other, but no one wants to step forward. I’m pushing through the crowd, I’m lookin’ right at him and my hand is in the air. ‘I’ll have a go, mate,’ I say. I have no idea why, but I have to hold it.
    â€˜Remember what I said, okay.’ He holds the croc towards me. ‘Get a good grip and don’t let go. He’ll wriggle. It’ll take you by surprise, but don’t let ’im go.’
    I nod. I know what to do.