Just Visiting

by Graham Wilson

  Chapter 20 – The Last Night – Night 28

  The bouncing went on and on. At first Susan tried to brace against it, and protect herself from being thrown around. But it was impossible; the car was being driven fast and recklessly. It braked late into corners; it bounced over holes or rocks; swerved roughly around apparent objects. She supposed she should be grateful for the pillow and blanket he had thrown in, as an apparent afterthought; they at least softened a few bumps

  With her hands cuffed in her lap she had only her legs to hold and manoeuvre with. And, as they were tied, even that was difficult. Her bare feet could get no grip on the smooth fibreglass. She tried to sit up; the roof was a few inches above her sitting head. But the box was too wide to rest her feet on the other side and she would find herself slowly sliding back down.

  Then she managed to turn to sit sideways, using her knees and bottom to brace. But a big bump flung her against the roof, bashing her head, and causing her to bite her inside lip. She tasted blood. A second big swerve and bump slid her along and bashed her into the far end of the box.

  So she lay on her side, on the floor, and let herself be flung with the movements. Her head hurt where it had hit the roof, her face hurt where he had hit her, her lip stung, her hands throbbed from being banged against things and her wrists pained where the cuffs caught at and chafed the skin. Her whole body ached from being twisted and flung around, along with being forced into unnatural places and spaces. It really seemed hopeless.

  For a while she let the misery overwhelm her. She cried, almost silently, though she could hear her occasional gulping sobs. Then she lay in a mute and numb state for long time, seeking to remove herself from this time and place. Her mind went off to other places, her safe family and friends, her cousins in Sydney, other people she had met.

  How could it have come to this? How did she end up the next victim of a cold and calculating psychopath?

  Terror twisted her insides; Mark had killed four girls, what was one more? Any feigned softness was just his psychopath’s ploy to disarm his victims.

  She hated the darkness inside this box, around her. It was utterly pitch black; she couldn’t even see her hands in front of her face. Susan wished she had something, anything, to look at, something to help push away the creeping dread that kept rising in her mind, threatening to overwhelm her.

  She feared the loss of her sanity. If she let the terror take over she would be a crazy blathering idiot, fit only for a lunatic asylum.

  A deep and burning hatred rose inside her. She thought of Mark, of his friends that seemed to like him—they mustn’t have any idea who he really was. He charmed the girls too, but it was smooth charm outside, callous and rotten inside, like an apple full of worms.

  But Susan was not dead yet, and she was determined not to die as a passive victim, not make it easy for Mark. Her anger helped focus her mind and push away the pain. She may be lying in the dark but her mind was alight, teasing at the edges of possibilities, openings she might influence, ways to survive, and hopefully stop Mark from ever doing this again. If she wasn’t destined to live through this, she hoped to at least finish Mark off too. Susan swore to herself that she would be the last.

  Could she find some poison and put it in his food?

  Was there some way she could make the car crash? Ideally on a public road where a rescue would be called for? Susan sensed that he wanted her body to go to the crocodiles; he gained perverse pleasure in feeding those monsters; mindless, remorseless consumers of flesh. It had not bothered him in the least to watch the crocodile grab the squealing pig yesterday and drag it into the water.

  She had watched, both enthralled and revolted; but Mark seemed only to gain sadistic pleasure in letting such violent nature take its course.

  If he tried to throw her in perhaps she could pull him in too. There was even a chance the crocodile would prefer him to her—a long shot, but she would think on it.

  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 watching 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 all improbable, she didn’t care; thinking gave her purpose and helped push away the fear.

  She had to appear 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. Perhaps the opening she needed.

  So it was a plan of sorts; stroke, seduce, satiate, and strike.