Crocodile Farm

3.

"I couldn't help but notice your tattoo," says Suit, nodding to Neckless to lock the gate behind him. He stands with his back to the bars. "It's unusual to see anyone your age with something like that," he adds.

Tattoos went out of fashion in the Twenty Teens; anything which involved skin-to-skin human contact did. The tattoo parlours all closed down from lack of business.

"A drunken mistake." Elliott knows better than to try for the rueful smile; he says it clearly, without shame. He is not ashamed of his tattoo.

"The flag of the formerly United States seems an interesting choice."There is warning in the man's voice; a lot hinges on Elliott's response.

"I can't remember getting it done," Elliott admits. Sober, he would never have chosen the Stars and Stripes – it's too obvious, too bold, not like him at all – but now, he finds the choice slightly thrilling, like even he doesn't know what he is capable of. "But I guess I chose it because I like what it symbolises."

"A nation at war," the man comments. His voice says he wants to understand, but the furrow in his brow is a rebuke: Elliott has said the wrong thing. "A world power, a formerly great nation, brought to its knees in a matter of weeks. A cautionary tale?"

Elliott finds it hard to explain himself. "Kind of. I mean, I like to be reminded that we're powerless, really. Whatever control we think we have, whatever we take for granted, that could change at any minute."

The man nods, like Elliott doesn't realise the irony of what he's just said. "So. You're not American, then?"

"No one is American." Elliott does not bat an eyelid. He knows he must be careful here. You'd be better to claim convict heritage than American. And even if he were to tell the truth, there are too many questions; questions that Elliott himself cannot answer. The flag usually hangs in bikie halls, or in museum collections: a curiosity, a relic of the past. To have it permanently inked into your skin is a bold move.

"There are fifteen million people who would beg to differ," the man says,waving a hand as though a miniature landmass of the Former USA might materialise in the corner of the cell.

"I mean, no one in Australia is American," Elliott says. "I might have something like that in my past, long ago – I mean, I don't know, it's possible, I never knew my parents – but I would never call myself American." The difference between the Americans and Australians was made abundantly clear in the slogans nearly twenty years ago, the year Elliott was born, some of which still adorn March Australia T-shirts now. "Keep Our Borders Safe", "The U.S. Is Not Us", "America Dug Its Own Grave."

This is not what the man wants to hear. His eyes narrow, and Elliott can feel the tension in the room as he visibly restrains his anger.

"Forgive me," the man says. "When I was young, I always told myself that I wouldn't turn into one of those adults who bemoaned the youth of today. But really. The youth of today." He throws his hands up in mockery of his own naivete. "You sentimentalise a nation which has eaten itself alive – a population decimated, a government collapsed, descended into chaos. You sentimentalise it so much that you decide to make your love for it permanent. And meanwhile, your own nation soldiers on. Our government has kept us safe, our lives have been largely uninterrupted, and we go from strength to strength. Yet it is America -" he spat the word - "that you think is brave."

Elliott can feel the damp of the wall wetting his T-shirt, making it stick to his body. He straightens himself. He thinks, A patriot. Self-preservation prevents him from saying it aloud. Instead, he says, "I've never thought of it that way before." He tries to keep his voice meek, to make it sound genuine, but he fears his face is betraying him.

Suit visibly relaxes, and nods to Neckless, who struts back over to the door. He keys a combination in to the keypad and the door opens. Suddenly, Elliott hears the noises from outside: a scrape of a chair, and a voice, contrived with frustration: "Let me go!"

"Belle-" he steps up to the bars, holds tight, but they won't come away.His mind is whirring, no, no no no no no, he turns to Suit, who is not smiling now. "What are you doing with her?"

"Your sister is helping us with our enquiries," Suit replies. "You would do well to do likewise."

"Belle!" he shouts, but Neckless does not bring her in, and he can only hear her voice.

"Are you alright?" Belle shouts from behind the door. "Have they hurt you -" And then there's a whack and a thud and a whimper, and Elliott feels his guts clench and he cries out in frustration, "No! Belle!" and Neckless slams the heavy door shut and the keypad beeps and there is silence.

"Now. We can co-operate," Suit says. "You will help us, won't you?"

Elliott glares at him.

"What do you want from me?" he asks, hoarse.

The man smiles again. "Excellent, we can get down to business. Goodman." He steps up and looks Elliott in the eye. "What do you know about Crocodile Farm?"

Crocodile Farm? "The song? Well, I wrote it, if that's what you mean."

The man considers him for a second, and then whacks him across the face.

Elliott crumples against the bars, his shoulder bashed, his head in his hands. The adrenalin courses through his body. He wants to fight but the man has all the power and he doesn't want anything to happen to Belle.

"I am not in the mood for games," the man says.

"I'm telling you the truth," Elliott says. "I don't know anything."

"Taz and Darcy beg to differ."

Taz and Darcy are here too? Elliott tries to picture their faces, the drummer, the guitarist, but nothing comes to mind but a face with teeth where the eyes should be. "They don't know anything," he says. "I write all the lyrics. I make them up." He feels tears in his eyes and looks down, refusing to cry in front of this man. "I have these weird dreams. I've always had weird dreams. I write songs about the dreams. It's why we're called The Sleepwalkers." He feels that he's rambling, but he's hoping to say something – anything – to get them to let him out.

His throat is parched. He tries to swallow, but the lump in his neck won't let him. He says, softly, "Do you think I could have a glass of water?"

The man ignores him.

"I wish I could help. This is some kind of mistake," he says. He can hear the pleading in his own voice. If he could just have a glass of water, if he could just eat something,if he could just get the throbbing dehydrating pain in his head to subside, he might be able to figure a way out of this. But how? He needs to get himself out, and now he needs to get Belle out – and now he finds out that they have Taz and Darcy too?

"Of course, the real question," the man is saying, "Is how did you even get a tattoo – and at short notice, as you claim - when all the parlours closed down years ago?"

Elliott doesn't know the answer to this, either. It was one of the first things Belle wanted to know, the morning after he woke up with it. Where did he get it done, who saw him, how many people know about it? Her paranoia – what he had always thought was her paranoia – but what is quickly becoming apparent was actually sensible caution.

And with that thought he realises – these are the men, this is the place. This is what Belle has been frightened of, all these years, this was why she jumped at shadows, why she kept her face hidden when they walked in public. And with a jolt, the next thought comes to him: the man in the suit had not known about Belle until Elliott mentioned her. If he had clicked earlier, if he had just realised where he was and what was happening, he would have kept her out of it. And now she is out there, in the corridor or the stairwell or wherever that door leads, and she is possibly hurt and definitely captive, and probably scared and alone, and it's all his fault.