![]() ![]() Perched above a long jaw lined with teeth sits his yellow eye. ![]() A gnarled, woody reptile, lit by the skylight high above the water. Bernie is alone in there now, submerged and hovering in the centre of the pond. A walkway around the top of the pond means that the rangers can deal with Bernie without having to actually touch him: dropping chickens into the water and knocking him out with a tranquilliser gun if they need to. Up on the dry bit, a little door connects to the outside, sun sliding in through the gaps. ![]() The glass shows a cross-section of pond and land. A small wooden sign says ‘Bernie the saltwater crocodile, 3.5 metres’. Fleshy-lipped rays soar overhead in a domed aquarium - planes through tunnels of water. A freshwater crocodile with sharp, protruding teeth. In the tanks, khaki creatures cling to watery shadows. If Trench’s wife was hiding out in here, she’s not anymore. Kim pulls her mask off, and we grin at each other through the murk. Iridescent fish that shiver behind coral with sleek, silent bodies. The hungry creatures in the tanks list through the dark water. At the aquarium, the generator grinds away over the gurgle of pumps and swishes. We drive the baked roads with the windows up, battered by the smells and rumours and stories that rush in, even through our masks. She blinks over the picture of the emu, nods bravely. I bend my tea towel–wrapped face to take in hers. Me and Kim pop the feed buckets in the campervan and head toward the aquarium. ![]()
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