She was filled with terror at both the idea of being killed and how he might kill her. Would she scream as the pig had when the crocodile seized her? Would he smile as he watched her body get dragged under, or torn apart?
What she really needed was a weapon. If she could injure him in some way—any way—then a chance may come. While she knew her ideas were improbable, she didn’t care; thinking gave her purpose and pushed away the fear.
She had to be confident and unafraid, maybe act a little cowed to appear unthreatening. She refused to be a submissive victim, consumed by terror. Slowly it came to her, she knew that she had one weapon over Mark that he could never take away—sex.
She had started to grasp how powerful it could be that day at Robinson River. Until that day she was mostly the recipient, rather than the initiator. But Susan had come to understand the power of her body over him, she knew she could stroke and fuel his desires. He would become reckless in his sexual conquest. The opening she needed.
So it was a plan of sorts; stroke, seduce, satiate, and strike.
Part of her mind, that place called morality, was repelled by the thought; good girls don’t do that.
But there was also a perverse pleasure in taking revenge through an act that also brought her pleasure. She couldn’t deny that even to think of sex with him still brought her pleasure and excitement. Susan felt a sexual thrill as she imagined the hardness of his body within her as she drove her own weapon into him.
The car’s rough passage smoothed, and it felt as if the speed had increased. Susan guessed the texture of the road had changed. It was probably bitumen now.
She became lulled by the more regular motion and began to doze, waking occasionally. She had lost track of time. Was it early or late in the night? Were they going north, east or west?
Susan was extremely thirsty and wished Mark had given her a bottle of water. But, with the thought of water, her bladder began to ache. She tried to hold on and think of other things, but she could feel it leaking and her underwear becoming damp. It went on and on and she could sense no likelihood of stopping anytime soon. She knew she couldn’t hold on much longer, and she realised it was better to do it with some control. It was easier to maintain her balance now that the road was smooth. She managed a squat and, with difficulty, pulled her underwear down her thighs. She then positioned the blanket underneath herself to hopefully avoid it sloshing and wetting everything. As it flowed out she felt both relief and as if she had rescued a tiny piece of her own self-control.
She pulled her clothing back into place and then curled up as best she could in the opposite corner, trying to ignore the smell of urine in the air. Hugging herself gave her a certain comfort and she drifted back to sleep.
When she woke up again the motion of the car had stopped. What did it mean? Were they stopped in a town? Could she try to scream for help? Or were they stopped in the middle of the bush where no one would hear, and screaming would only make Mark angry, or make him gag her again.
She decided to count to one hundred and if nothing happened she would call out to Mark quietly. If he answered she would ask him to let her out, she would ask nicely even though an undercurrent of anger made her want to scratch and bite him.
When the time had passed she called out. There was no answer. She called again, much louder. His voice came back, faint and muffled. “I’ll let you out in a minute.”
She felt a wave of relief.
Even though it was hard to tell he didn’t sound all that angry.
There was a creak as the door opened. He was up on the tray with a torch, looking in. She tried for a smile, and was surprised when he smiled back.
The air coming in was fresh and smelled sweet. But it was cold. Susan had not realised how chilled she had become, immobile in this box for hours. She started to shiver uncontrollably.
“I am sure you’re angry with me,” said Mark, not unkindly, “and I hope your trip was not too bad. Here we are here now, the place I wanted to show you where the big crocodile lives.
“The locals once called this place Point Stuart Station. It is on the Mary River, east of Darwin, half way to Kakadu. It is a place that the people rarely come to. I have come through a fence with a gate that keeps the public out.
“It’s about midnight. There’s no one around for miles, so there’s no point screaming.” Mark pointed, some distance away from them, “There is a big billabong full of crocodiles, just over there, and I will throw you in if you give me trouble. But if you promise to behave you can come out; I’ll fix some dinner and you can sleep out here.”
“Okay.” Susan answered meekly.
He reached in with both hands, grasped her arms and lifted her up. Her legs wobbled as she stood, body poking forward and out the door. She tried to climb over the doorsill, but without arms to steady her, legs tied together, she overbalanced and almost fell.
Mark was quick to grasp her and lift her clear, setting her down on the tray. There was something almost tender in the way he wrapped his arms around her. She was shaking like a leaf, and he seemed to hold her tighter, hugging her to him to give her warmth.
Susan tried to push him away, but it was too hard with her arms trapped, and it felt so comforting.
His hands caressed and stroked her back gently; it was almost as if he had forgotten what had passed.
She wanted to forget too.
She should hate him—she did hate him—but for now, just for a minute, she wanted to be held and comforted. And then she was crying, just tears and little gulps at first, but soon she was sobbing. Mark pushed her face into his shirt, and ran his hands through the back of her hair. She just wanted to die in this moment of human comfort.
But then the fire of control and independence flared in her mind, fed by anger at what he had done. She pushed herself straight, and said, with all the dignity she could manage, “Thank you for letting me out, you can let me go now.”
His hands dropped, he stepped back. “OK then.” He sprung down, agile as a cat, and asked. “Shall I lift you down?”
She tossed back her head with dignity. “No thank you. Just untie my legs”
He shrugged. He loosened the knots and removed the rope.
She walked to the edge of the tray. She grasped the side with her shackled hands, lifted one foot over, felt for the side rail. It was precarious but she thought she could pivot and vault if she used her hands for balance. Her feet got in a tangle. She overbalanced and pivoted forward, headfirst towards the ground.
Mark was incredibly quick. As she speared forward, he wrapped his arms around her. He pulled her to him, and set her feet on the ground.
“That was a near thing. I don’t want you getting hurt like that. I know this isn’t easy for you but it is better if we both cooperate.”
Suddenly she was laughing. It was so ludicrous and funny, her likely murderer and lover, tender and careful for her safety while treating her like a wild animal, tied up and confined to a box.
Then he was laughing too; they were both looking at each other and laughing, it could not all be real and true. It was like a circuit breaker, neither could laugh and hate at the same time. When the laughter subsided she held out her hands to him.
“Unlock me please, tonight I will cooperate; I am here to be happy. Tomorrow is for crocodiles.”
She collapsed into another fit of giggles, and Mark started to laugh too, but he was restrained this time. It was as if he had only just started to think through the consequences of his actions.
He ignored her outstretched hands and gazed at her, a bitter smile edging at his lips. “Why couldn’t you leave it alone? I didn’t want it to come to this. But you do know, and that can’t be undone.”
She looked at him earnestly. “Please, can we not talk about it right now”
He shrugged his shoulders, “Well tomorrow is tomorrow, and tonight is now.”
There was a sort of fatalistic sadness in his manner, tender; but it also seemed incredibly callous
. She thought; this is the way he would look at a dog at the vet before the lethal injection was given.
Susan’s bravery quailed under this reality. But she rejected it.
“For tonight I will make a pact with you which I will honour. If you let me go, I won’t try to run away, and I will not try to hurt you. I will help you cook dinner and be your companion in the same way as before.
“But you, in return, have to tell me your story honestly. I want—” she hesitated, “I need the truth.” You must tell me of the life you have lived and what has brought us to this place. This is something I must know for my own peace of mind.”
Mark looked at her sadly. “I am not good at the telling but I will try.”
He released her hands.
They worked side by side. There was something incredibly tender and intimate in this moment. Dinner was simple, bacon, sausages and onions fried up, with a tin of tomatoes mixed through. They ate from the pan, each using a spoon. Once or twice they shared morsels.
Susan lent against his side; he was solid and strong, like a tree. Without quite realising what she was doing she put an arm around his waist, and laid her face against his chest. She felt tears running down her cheeks and pushed her face harder into him. He stroked her hair and kissed her forehead.
She pressed her lips against his, tasting the salt of her tears. “What would you do if we could make this all disappear?” she asked.
“I would do what I am going to do you, make love to you,” he said quietly. Sliding his hand down between her breasts he grasped the ring and locket on the chain. He lifted the chain from her neck and unclipped the ring. With the ring in his hand he looked at her with great seriousness, “But first I would ask you to become my wife, even just for this one night.”
She held out her left hand and he slid it on. “That means ‘Yes’,” she said.
They lay together in the dark night. The fire was gone. They made love, and they made love again. Then when it seemed he could give no more she brought him back to life with her gentle touching and stroking, and this time the loving seemed to go on forever.
There remained only a couple hours before the dawn. He pulled away. “I have to fulfil the remainder of our bargain,” he said, “This is my story.”
Chapter 20 – Marco’s Story – Night 28
“My real name is Vincent Marco Bassingham. Vincent was my father’s name; Marco was for my mother’s brother, who died young. My mother, who was Italian, called me Marco, and at school it got shortened to Mark, Mark B.
“I liked this name better than Vincent Bassingham, because I hated my father, and couldn’t stand being compared to him. He was a big burly man, quick with his fists and his temper. Few people could stand against him. Those who tried came out much the worse.
“He would hit my mother, mostly just slaps but every now and then with a fist. She was terrified of him, she was naturally timid and he was a bully.
“Once, when he was hitting her in the street, a man tried to protect her. My father almost killed him. When the policeman came around to ask about it, he told him to ‘shoot through or he would do the same to him’. The policeman never came back.
“I was seven when my mum ran away, she was too scared too much of the time and had to find somewhere to escape. He was really mad at her for it; he said it made him look bad.
“She never tried to see me again; I think she was too scared of him. Though my father looked for her, it was a long time before he found her. But he eventually did.
“He beat her so badly that she was taken to hospital. Though the police and hospital staff wanted her to press charges she refused.
“The day they discharged her, my father brought me with him to see her again. He told her she had to come back to look after me or he would thrash her again.
“The next day they found her dead. She had swallowed a whole bottle of pills. My father never told me what happened, I only found out years later, he just said she had died and he only told me that long after she was dead and buried. He went on with his violent drunken life without a backwards glance.
“I hated him, but I was frightened of him too. I could fight well enough at school, but with him I had no chance, he was three times my size and would hit me with anything he could find, belts, walking sticks, a horse whip, a cricket bat.
“Usually he went to the pub after work, and got home too drunk to do anything. Sometimes the lady next door gave me dinner; but mostly I just had to eat whatever I could find.
“I learned how to look after myself. I would shoplift, pick pockets, and steal from store-yards and people’s homes. I was clever and almost never got caught.
“But when I was twelve a policeman saw me stealing a block of chocolate in a grocery store, and told the store manager. Other police were called and I was taken to the station. As my father was drinking, and couldn’t be found, a neighbour was called to take me home.
“When my father got home and found out he flew into a towering rage and whipped me like a dog. My back was bleeding in lots of places. The next day, the police came around and took me away. They sent me to remand school for a year.
“I thought my father was a bully. But he had nothing on the guys who ran the remand school. They would line us up in a row for three hours most evenings. We had to stand still while they sat behind drinking beer. Every time someone moved they would belt him with a long whippy cane. They raped the prettier boys; they would take them to their rooms and often two would have a go together. The boys would come out bleeding and crying.
“They never got me that way, I was a bit smarter. But no one did anything to stop them either. A few times boys tried to run away but they were brought back and beaten, really badly. Some tried to complain but they got beaten as well, even worse.
“One day I was caught by one of the biggest guys, a warden that I really hated. He had taken to hitting me when I wasn’t looking. I was late coming down for school, I had tried to hide away to skip class, but as I came out there he was.
“‘This is my lucky day,’ he said as he saw me, then, ‘I have a big surprise for you.’
“First he took off his big leather belt, then he started to unzip his pants. I knew what he was going to do, first thrash me with his belt, then when I was hurting too much to try and get away, he would fuck me.
“No one else was around and he grabbed me by the ear, right at the top of a big flight of stairs. He was planning to take me downstairs, to his room. He liked boys my age and had already done this to most of the others.
“At the top of the stairs he tripped. I saw my chance and gave him a big shove. He went flying down the stairs. When I got down to the bottom he was lying there at a funny angle with his head facing the wrong way and not moving.
“I didn’t know he was dead, but I was glad I had hurt him because he was such a bastard. As no one knew I was there I just snuck off to school.
“When I came back, after school, he was covered on a stretcher, ready to be taken away. The police were there and they asked a few questions. Had anyone seen what happened? Everyone said no. They assumed he must have had a heart attack or tripped, fallen, and broken his neck.
“After that I realised how easy it was to get rid of people who I didn’t like.
“Later that year I ran away and got a job working on a cattle station. One day I was sent to help a man fixing the windmills, he was a bastard too. He used to hit me whenever something went wrong. This one particular day he dropped a spanner from the high windmill tower. I was up there helping him, holding the bits together. He said it was my fault and laid in to me with a big piece of hard plastic pipe. I was scared he was going to knock me off the edge, he was hitting me so hard. I just kept my head turned away and hung onto the steel frame for dear life waiting for my chance. At last he stopped.
“As he turned his back I gave him a push. He went over the edge, head first, dead as a maggot on the ground below. I told the boss he must have lost his balance and fallen off
while I was below. The boss seemed happy to believe this. I think he was relieved that this man was dead too, to tell the truth.
“By the time I was twenty I had got rid of three more blokes like this. Nobody had asked any questions because each time, deep down, people were happy to see the end of these bullies.
“I heard there was big money to be made in the Middle East, so I got a job running security for the pipelines.
“We would get real smartarse robbers, mostly from African gangs, with no papers. They would try to steal oil and other things to sell. Our job was to make ‘em disappear; the more permanent the better. So we would bump a few and drop them in empty wells, or shafts, places they couldn’t be found.
“The word got around pretty quick to leave us alone, though we would do another one every few months to keep things quiet.
“Then a guy who I was working with got me to go to the Congo with him, to do security there. There, as well as getting rid of men who caused trouble, you could take all the women you wanted and, if they got a bit difficult, you just shut them up for good. I joined in the same as all the others were doing. It was there I killed my first woman; she bit me when I was having her, so I hit her really hard and then she was dead. We threw her body in the river and it washed away.
“I’ve killed maybe thirty people since I was a teenager, mostly blokes, but half a dozen girls. Generally the blokes were bad bastards and bullies and I reckon the world is better without them.
“A couple of the girls were tarts who tried to touch me up for more money, and threatened to cry rape if I went to the police. Once you have done one, the rest are easy, one minute alive, the next dead with a surprised look on their face. Killing people is real quick and easy if you know how and don’t care.
“You just have to be smart to make sure that no one can identify you, keep away from CCTV and all that sort of thing. Then, after, you make sure the bodies and personal effects don’t turn up. That way they just get listed as missing persons, whereabouts unknown.
Crocodile Spirit Dreaming - Possession - Books 1 - 3 Page 20
