Just Visiting

by Graham Wilson

  Part of her mind, that place called morality, was repelled by this 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 had become easier to maintain her balance now 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 curled up as best she could in the opposite corner, trying to ignore the smell of urine in the air. She wrapped her arms around her body. 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, face lit by reflection. 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 as 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. 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. This is my story.”