Crocodile Spirit Dreaming - Possession - Books 1 - 3

by Graham Wilson

  Something about the Butler name rang a bell. With a spark of recollection, she realised she had seen it before. It was the name on one of the number plates, written in tiny writing on a stick-on label. The other names came to mind as well, Brown and Brooks, MB, MB.

  This was seriously odd. Four men, with the same initials, but different names; four number plates for the same vehicle. Who was her Mark, was he one of these names? Or were they all fake and he was someone else again?

  It was like all the odd and missing pieces were starting to connect.

  She really liked this guy. In fact, if Susan was honest, she was starting to fall for him big time, getting in way too deep. Before she let herself fall any further, she needed to know who he was.

  Susan knew he kept business papers in an attaché case that he put behind his seat in the cabin. Perhaps there would be something there. She lifted it out and noticed the little copper monogram, MB, just below the handle. The case had a combination lock on the latch. She tried obvious numbers like 0000, 1234 and 9999. No success, so she put it back, it wasn’t going to help her.

  The box she had found the night before last came back into her mind. She got the feeling that it was significant, the way it was hidden. Her instinct said she should look in there.

  Susan was conflicted; she wanted to trust Mark, and she wanted to ask him directly who he was, but she knew that he reacted badly to personal questions like that. Something in the way he looked at her when she tried to probe really scared her, like there was a demon lurking inside waiting to be unleashed. It was like the horror film The Omen, there was the beautiful child with the malevolent core. She shivered. No, this was all nonsense; she was letting her imagination run away.

  But she still needed to know. Susan looked around in all directions; there was no sign of Mark and she didn’t think he would be back for at least another hour.

  Well, she wouldn’t die wondering. She found a torch, went to where she had found the box that night and shone the light in. Sure enough, the bottom screw was still missing. She put her hand in, wiggled the plate out of the way and, with her fingernails caught on to the edge, eased the box out. It was just a plain grey metal box, nothing remarkable about it, but it looked like it had seen a lot of use. The metal had that polished lustre of regular handling.

  She tried to lift the lid but it was stuck tight. She was just about to fetch a screwdriver to lever it when, in the bright light, she noticed something odd. Sellotape had been used all around the edge. It wasn’t obvious unless you looked closely. It was like a wax seal, if you broke it someone would know that the box had been opened.

  However, Susan wasn’t one to let something like this stop her. She knew she had steady hands and good manual skills; this went with the territory for a lab technician. What she needed was a clean place where she could work slowly and carefully. She sat in the passenger seat in the cabin, resting the box on her lap. She looked at the tape closely until she found the end.

  Then slowly and with great care she worked this end up, lifting with her nails, until a centimetre was sitting free. Gently, but firmly, she grasped the end and slowly eased it away; one side, two sides, three sides, four. Now she had half a metre of free tape. Carefully she attached both ends to the dash, making sure it was clean and out of the way so that she would not catch on it as she worked away.

  Inside the box were two tightly packed brown envelopes, both about the same size as the box. Neither was sealed. Each was a couple of centimetres thick.

  She lifted out the first envelope, inside were three bundles of documents, each kept together by a rubber band. She separated out the first bundle, careful to keep order. This was Mark Butler; passport, license, credit cards, and a range of other documents one would need for an identity check, a rates notice, a bank statement, and electricity bill. She put them back together and examined the second bundle. It was largely the same, the Brown documents, different name and address, but otherwise near enough to the same, including photo ID of her Mark. Brooks was almost another clone. So now she knew this was real, not made up in her head. It was creepy, but not really scary. Maybe he worked for the Secret Intelligence Agency, MI5, or whatever they called it here.

  Opening the second packet she discovered four passports: one from the UK, one from Sweden, one from France and one from the USA. She flipped one open, expecting to see another Mark grin back at her.

  Now she was scared, really scared. There was a face there, but it wasn’t Mark. It was a girl, a beautiful girl, she was Swedish. Her entry visitor visa was stamped over two years ago. But there was no exit stamp. What had happened to her? Why was her passport still in Australia? She should have left about two years ago. Had she decided to stay and gone underground, got new identity documents? Had someone stolen her passport and sold it on the black market?

  There was also another explanation that she didn’t even want to think about. She tried to lock it out but it kept sneaking into her thoughts. All those stories one hears about missing backpackers, and sometimes the ones found; rape, abduction, even murder; those were the sort of words used.

  She couldn’t believe that of Mark, the tender, gentle Mark who was her lover, but she also knew that there was something dangerous and unpredictable about him. She couldn’t say it was impossible, be certain it was untrue.

  She realised that this box needed to be put back and quickly, but before she did she needed some details to check on. She found a tiny notebook that she kept in her wallet. On it she wrote the girls full name, nationality, date of birth, and passport number. She went on to the next passport, she wasn’t surprised to find a French girl, similarly young and beautiful. Again she wrote down the details. Then the American one, she looked like a stereotypical all-American varsity girl: freckles, brown hair, big smile, and radiantly beautiful. Finally the English one, well Scottish actually.

  There was something in this face that made the blood drain from her face, and her hands feel numb. Susan had seen this face before—she was almost certain. After digging deep in her memory she remembered. The Scottish girl in the picture had disappeared in Adelaide without a trace. There was no conclusive evidence to suggest where she may have gone; but the parents were beside themselves with worry. Susan remembered reading it in the local Scottish papers on a visit to her cousins. Looking at the name, Susan was surprised to see it wasn’t the name she recalled from the papers. This girl’s name was Fiona. She was nearly sure that the name she had read in the papers was different, or at least the Christian name seemed wrong. Perhaps she was mistaking this girl for a look-alike?

  Susan recorded these last details, then she carefully—making herself move without haste—replaced all the documents and the tape. It was hard to go so slowly, knowing that Mark might appear at any moment. But she knew she must. She took a deep breath, trying to force calm into her flustered mind, and felt a slowing in her racing heart. Her trembling anxiety eased a notch.

  At last it was done. The box looked the same as when she had first taken it out of its hiding place, maybe a bit shiny. She found a dusty rag, and tried to create the right patina. It would require extraordinary observation and memory to note that there was anything out of place. Before she hopped out of the cab she checked Mark was not in sight. Not seeing him she replaced the box, checked the cabin had no tell-tale marks, and walked the short steps back to their camp.

  Susan was shaking. She needed to think. This was not something she could ignore. While it didn’t have to be bad, she needed to know the truth.

  She thought of just getting up and leaving now, walking back to the road and waiting for someone else to come along. Only she didn’t know where she was going, and she wasn’t really sure of the way out. It had been dark when they arrived last night, and, while she could follow the wheel tracks back to the next road, she didn’t know if she could find her way back to the main road. And if she ran off Mark would know she had found something and might start tracking her. She had seen him tracking animals,
he was good and she knew that the aborigines could track people almost anywhere.

  Susan realised that she had to stay, and she had to try to act the same as before. She knew they were driving to Borroloola today. The way people talked about it, it must be a proper town, with police, shops and things. She expected it would have phone reception for her mobile and a place to plug it in and charge it.

  She would send a text to her friend Anne in England. Anne was a legal secretary and was good at finding things out. Even though it would be the middle of the night there she would get the text the next morning and could find out who these people were and text her back if there was something to worry about.

  Then, the next day, when they came to the next town, she would get Anne’s text back. After that she could decide if she needed to leave. So long as Mark didn’t suspect that she knew anything she didn’t think there was any real danger.

  But she’d have to be careful. Mark was smart and a great observer, he would notice if she suddenly went cold on him. Susan would have to maintain the pretence and be warm and affectionate. But what if he wanted to have sex, what would she do? The thought of being intimate with someone who did bad things to others made her shudder with revulsion. But when Susan thought of the way he held and touched her, she didn’t believe he was a monster.

  Susan decided she would have to turn it into an acting performance, like what she had done in the University Dramatic Society. She thought. When you act, all the things that you would never do in real life are possible, because it isn’t the real you who is doing them.

  She found the idea of this almost exciting. If he wanted to make love to her she would play along, but as another person, a stranger who looked like Susan. Before she knew it she was fantasising; making love to Mark in the skin of another girl that looked, sounded and acted just like her. She almost wanted him to come back right now so she could try it.

  But first there were things to do. She stoked up the fire and put the billy on to boil. She would make up some breakfast for them both, and she would put on fresh clothes, her favourite floral summer dress. She would wash her face, put on her makeup, brush her hair and make herself look good. Then they would go off together and have another fun day.

  In her mind it had a dreamy, romantic loveliness. She filled a basin with warm water from the billy, then found soap and a washer and sponged herself all over. Teeth cleaned, hair brushed, she could almost feel herself glowing.

  She lifted the dress out of her pack. Next to it she saw her most sexy lace knickers. In for a penny in for a pound, she thought, donning the underwear.

  Finally she found her makeup, not much there. She was out of the habit of using it. But there was some pink lipstick, natural but bright. She applied it in front of the mirror in the cabin. Suddenly she saw the billy was boiling furiously, bubbling over. She jumped out and ran over to make tea, dropping the lipstick behind her onto the seat as she went.

  She would tidy up her makeup later, but first she needed to eat, she was starving. She made toast and covered it with butter and golden syrup. It was delicious, just the pickup she needed. She was just starting on a third slice when she heard a distant shout. There Mark was, walking along the edge of the river, a hundred yards away.

  Now the play-acting seemed phoney; she was just plain scared again. Mark would see through her and know. He would wonder why the change. But it was too late to back out now. She had rolled this dice and now had to follow the numbers.

  So she stood up and waved back. As she did her playful spirit returned. It was easy; she skipped across to him, a bright smile on her face.

  “Hello stranger,” she called. Susan didn’t need to ask about his success, she knew, with such a big grin on his face, that it had gone well, “So my victorious hunter, where’s the trophy, or the game for the pot?”

  As she drew close Mark stopped walking and looked straight at her, staring. Susan suppressed a flash of panic. Had she given something away?

  He whistled. “You look gorgeous, come here.”

  She walked over to him, more sedate and demure now. She felt a bit like a naughty schoolgirl caught copying from her friend’s book. But she could feel her power over him; it was there in the way he was looking at her, it was like she had him on a string.

  She stopped in front of him and looked up. She found herself mesmerised by his eyes. He put his hands on her shoulders, and pulled her in close, hand coming around her back and pulling her in. His hands were on her bottom now, feeling it through the flimsy fabric. It felt exquisite. He was so hot and hard.

  “I was looking forward to breakfast, until I noticed you, now you’re all I want.” Sweat beaded on his forehead and she wanted to kiss it away.

  She made herself pull back, “Not so fast, you’re all hot and sweaty and you’ll make my dress smell. You will have to wait until we get back to camp and I can take it off. It’s my last good dress, and a girl has got to dress up to go out on the town, particularly a big town like Borroloola. So paws off for now.”

  She walked back, alongside him. Every now and then she would let a hand brush against him. She knew he was as acutely aware of her as she was of him. It was like a jolt of electricity every time their skin touched.

  When they were close to camp she skipped away again. She picked up her half eaten slice of toast and slowly and luxuriantly ate it, bite by bite.

  He looked at her with desperation in his eyes. “I want you so much. Right now.”

  She flicked back her hair like a playful kitten, “Soon, but not now; breakfast first, then me. While you’re waiting why don’t you fix our bed? It needs to be straightened.”

  She stood, with her arms crossed, regarding him as he worked.

  “How’s that?” he said, stepping back, a half smile now playing at his lips.

  She looked at it, considering. “A little more fluffing of those pillows I think,” Mark obliged, “Yes that’s perfect now.”

  Susan came over to Mark, took his hands, and led him to one of their camp chairs. Hands on his shoulders she pushed him down onto it.

  She took two slices of bread and placed them over the coals. While they toasted she poured two cups of tea. She passed him his tea and took a leisurely sip of her own. When the toast was cooked she covered it liberally with butter and syrup and brought it over.

  Then she stood in front of him, an arm’s length back. She tore a piece of toast off the corner. With great delicacy she placed it into his mouth, then another, and another. Each time she fed him she licked her own lips, savouring the taste in her mind.

  When all the toast was gone, she passed him the second piece. “Now you can feed yourself. I have other things to do.”

  Susan stepped back two paces. She placed her hands on her hips, feeling her own soft roundness. She slowly ran her hands up and down the silky fabric of her dress, accentuating the shape of her body underneath.

  She lifted off one shoulder strap, and eased her breast free above her bodice. She paused for a minute to let him feast his eyes. Then she pushed down the second shoulder strap and lifted out her second breast. She tipped back her head, gazing up at the sky. Then with a quick flick she tipped her head forward, hair framing her face.

  She gazed intently at her nipples, how she ached to touch them. Susan cupped each breast and stroked each nipple until it was swollen and cherry red. Finally she put her hands on her hips, and eased her dress down to the ground. She stepped out of it, now all she was wearing was her lacy knickers. She walked towards him and stopped just out of reach. She slowly pushed down her knickers until her mound was exposed, and gently stroked this place with her fingers.

  Then she continued closer, until they were almost touching. Susan rubbed her nipples against his lips, first one, then the other. She felt incredibly aroused; her breasts were in his face and she ran her hands through his hair, feeling her favourite place, that muscular hollow where his hair met his neck.

  “Now you can fuck me,” she said.

>   It was like a dam burst between them, their mouths were all over each other. Then Mark stood, lifted her to his waist and carried her to the bed. He kneeled down and laid her back on the ground. He tore off his clothes and, with an aching sound from his throat, Mark’s body was on top of hers as he pushed into her.

  She climaxed as he entered, and he soon made her come again, then again. It was sex like she had never had it before, totally wild and uninhibited. It went on and on; when Mark came in violent shudder he just continued thrusting, as hard as ever, coming again seconds later. Susan felt that he would overwhelm her. Then finally they were both spent.

  She lay with her face in his chest. “You know I am really nuts about you, I’ve never been with anyone like this before, but I just need to know who you are.”

  Susan knew she had pushed too far, careless in their intimacy. She could almost see the wall crashing down in Marks’ eyes.

  “Why?” he asked, anguished. “Isn’t this moment enough?”

  In that moment, she knew that there was a terrible secret to be told, but one he could not share. Susan felt a deep compassion for him.

  “It’s alright,” she said, “You are who you are. It is not for me to ask anymore.”

  But deep down she knew that she needed answers if she was to get to a place where she could be at peace with herself.

  Forcing a break in their seriousness, Susan said, “I think it is time to go, aren’t we expected for morning tea somewhere.”

  He laughed. “You know, you so enthralled me that I forgot to tell you about my hunting success. I have three fine young porkers down the river to collect, and I also have something else to show you. The pigs were too heavy to carry, so we’ll go in the car.”

  After five minutes of driving, they had found the pigs. The place was marked by a flock of birds, some perched around in the trees and others circling overhead, feeding on the pig innards that Mark had discarded earlier. As they approached, the birds reluctantly abandoned their feast, squawking and squabbling over last bits as they flew off.