Then came Mark’s things. She felt revulsion about touching anything of his. But it had to be done.
First were his clothes. Each thing she recognised brought her back to the time and place where she he had seen him wear it.
There was a cap that she had did not remember seeing him wear, and yet it seemed strangely familiar, somewhere deep in her brain it rang a bell of association, though she couldn’t think why. It had a picture of a soaring wedged-tail eagle on the front, but the connection was out of reach. She threw it in the fire.
Susan felt a particular pang about the cowboy gear that he had worn on the day he had met her in Alice Springs. A holiday that held such promise. With these memories came new sadness at how those good times were gone. She stopped herself.
Then there was his satchel of papers. She felt obliged to open it, to see what was inside. It was still locked with a combination lock. She had no idea what the number was. So she found a big screwdriver and a hammer in his tools. She smashed the lock open.
She lifted out the pile of papers, and went through them, one by one. Mostly bills and receipts relating to work; she noted the two names Bennet and Butler but not the others. After a quick glance she consigned each to the fire. Now the main part of the satchel was empty, she was about to consign it to the fire.
In a side pocket she felt something that still remained. There were two things inside: a pouch and a book. She removed the pouch and opened it. The contents spilled into her hand. She gasped, here was a pile of coloured stones; glassy, many types, sizes and shapes. She did not know much about precious stones but recognised that indeed this was what she was looking at. There were probably fifty stones, ranging from a few millimetres in size to some as large as a fingernail. She recognised the reds and blues of rubies and sapphires; a golden one, perhaps a topaz; some small glassy ones, maybe diamonds; and some flecked white and blue stones which she thought were opals. Most of all she recognised two milky blue stones, cousins to the ones which he had given her. She took the chain and ring from around her neck and placed these items with the other stones, they all belonged together.
Susan deliberated on throwing them away. There was clearly value here, tens of thousands of pounds she imagined. Some might even belong to other people who had hired Mark to sell them. If so they may represent life savings of miners she had met. While she didn’t want Mark’s ill-gotten gains, she was loathe to destroy the property of others. She decided she would keep them for now. She refilled the pouch and set it aside.
She put her hand back into the satchel and pulled out the second object. It looked like a diary. Instant revulsion rose at the prospect of seeing his deeper self through his own eyes. She held it in her hand, arm bent to cast it into the fire. Then she thought; perhaps there is something in here about me, and why he chose me, that I should read.
Susan flipped quickly through the pages; there were lots of small entries containing dates, places, and items relating to transactions. She saw the name Kate a few times, she realised with a shock that there were notes about the Scottish girl, Kate Rodgers. The others were probably here too. It seemed awful to burn the last record of these lives.
She could imagine her body destroyed and hidden in a remote place, then someone finding this last record and casually discarding it, denying all future opportunity to those who knew her to learn of this last part of her life. While she didn’t want anyone else to see this and read her shame, it was an ultimate disrespect to others to destroy a last remnant of their lives in this way. She decided to keep the book and hide it away.
Flipping to the last page, she saw her name. It must have been written within the last two days, perhaps last night.
Susan has really got to me, there’s something so brave and beautiful about her. Why could she not just leave alone? I don’t want to do this, but now I have to make the choice between me and her. What should I do, I must end it. It will be quick.
Perhaps I should let her go, trust her, see what she does—can I take this chance?
She read it, and she re read it and then she read it yet again. Had he really meant to let her go, or did he just have doubts that he overcame?
She could feel emotions welling up, love, hate, serious gentle eyes; ugly, ruthless psychopathic heart. What did it all mean? Tears pricked her eyes. She hated him, almost beyond thinking, and yet she missed his smile. What a mess.
Susan looked around her. Should she just take this to the police and tell them she had made an awful mistake, it could all be unscrambled, even yet. Here was a record that told of what he was and what he had done. With this no one would blame her.
But then she realised that they would confiscate this book, take it as evidence and she would never get to see it again, except perhaps in court. She needed to have this for herself, whether to read it or not; there may be something in here to help her find herself again.
She decided she would put it somewhere out of all reach, in a bank vault perhaps, maybe left there till she died. But it held a story that she could not just casually destroy—that much she knew. Susan found a handkerchief that had not yet been burnt. She wrapped this around it, to separate it from the rest of her life yet treat it with respect. Then she placed it in the bottom of her overnight bag, along with the bag of gems and covered them with her clothes. Now the rest of his personal effects went into the fire, toothbrush, razor, shampoo, and deodorant.
Then she started on the back of the car. Fortunately the cooler box was almost empty. The inside smelt awful. She carried a couple buckets of water and emptied them inside; the cleaning part could wait.
Susan lifted each box off the back and opened it. She created a pile of non-flammables, to add to the small pile from the cabin. It was all destined for the bottom of the billabong, knives, tools, metal boxes, and cooking things. Steadily the pile grew. She filled a bucket with the contents from the pile and walked one way, almost a hundred yards along the waterhole. She threw all the items out in different directions. She repeated it five more times in different places.
Now only the guns and heavy tools remained. They would go somewhere else, perhaps in different billabong, once she was driving.
One of the last things to do was destroy the food. Susan had left it for near last, knowing that she may need to eat. She thought she must have been working now for over four hours, slowly and methodically, hunger forgotten. It must be past midday and she knew that she must make herself eat; she was starting to feel light headed, her early energy long gone.
The thought of food brought Mark’s face into her mind; they had shared this food together so many times over the days until now, their own private ritual in which they both shared the enjoyment of togetherness.
She couldn’t let herself think of the good times. All that was left was the image of his face, devoid of emotion. She pictured his eyes looking at her in that way once he had killed her. There would be no recognition of her life force gone, no anguish, just cool dispassion as he discarded her from his mind then moved on to the next task.
Then she thought of the large crocodile carrying Mark’s body in its mouth. That awful ripping and tearing sound, as all three crocodiles pulled and tugged, causing body parts to separate, the dismemberment of all that had been once a living breathing person.
A wave of bile rose in her insides; she retched.
Susan found a cup of water and rinsed her mouth. She had to keep going. She systematically started burning the food. The smell was bad, but she pushed on. She emptied the metal tins and glass jars, the plastic she burnt on the fire.
Only a quarter of packet of broken biscuits remained, crushed in travel. She took a piece, her mouth dry, chewed slightly then gulped it down with a mouthful of water. She repeated it with another fragment. Occasionally her stomach threatened to rebel, but each time she paused and calmed herself.
She realised she had totally forgotten about the most important thing, the thing that had started this path to madness: the metal box with the
girls’ passports and Mark’s multiple IDs. Like the diary, she could not burn the passports. That would be like killing the girls a second time.
Susan thought of throwing the box in the water and burning his IDs, then just bringing the passports away with her. But she knew this was a crazy risk. What if she was searched at airport security? Four passports, all of which clearly did not belong to her, they spelt disaster, no possible way of explaining that. By a process of elimination she realised that her only real choice was to hide them.
She carefully examined the area around her, looking for landmarks. There was nothing distinctive close by, only a big waterhole with a partly cleared area along its banks; perhaps where people sometimes came to camp and fish. A few hundred yards away she saw a little rocky knoll, rising a few feet above the surrounding ground. She took a spade and the box and walked across to it.
The hill itself was bigger than she first though, ten or fifteen feet high and about twenty yards across the base. It was also rocky and hard to dig and there were no obvious cracks or crevices to use. On the other side a big flat rock, squarish and about a metre across, sat low on the ground, just beyond the rise. There was clear dirt just beyond it. She walked over and tested the ground with her spade. It was hard but not rocky. She chipped away at the surface. Her hands were blistered and sore and it was hard going at first. But once she was down a few inches the ground was softer, a dark sandy loam. She dug down about a foot, hard up against the side of the big rock, which kept going straight down.
Then she placed the box in the bottom of the hole. She saw another piece of flat rock maybe twice this box’s size lying nearby. She placed it, lying flat over the metal box, also in the base of the hole. She figured that would reduce the risk of rust or water damage. Then she backfilled and pushed the dirt down firmly with her feet. The remaining dirt she scattered around the area.
Not too bad, but a bit obvious if someone came looking over here soon. She laid another flat sheet of rock on top to hide the freshly turned dirt. Now with leaves to make it look a bit more natural, she defied anyone to know that something was buried here. So long as she could find the campsite, she could find this place again if she needed.
It was now mid afternoon as she walked back to the car. Only two tasks remained. The first was to burn their bedding, the last remains of their life together. It was too personal; she did not want to do it, the site of their lovemaking. But she couldn’t stop now. She lifted the mattress, and threw it onto the fire; it smouldered and smelt awful, but eventually the foam burnt through and she pushed the ends together till only a pile of sticky burning goo remained. Then the pillow, quilt and sheets.
As she picked up the bottom sheet her lace knickers fell to the ground. It was a symbol of their passionate lovemaking, even when trust was lost.
At the sight of the white lace, Susan’s shoulders started to shake. The tears came quickly, silently, dripping down her cheeks.
She cried for herself and the loss of her innocence. She cried for him too, the loss of his life, and the loss of belief in his goodness. She had tried so hard to believe he was good, that he could do no wrong. Now it was time to let that go.
Eventually the crying passed, leaving her feeling utterly drained. Susan picked up the knickers, looked at them one last time, and consigned them to the fire.
The light was fading as the sun fell behind the trees. Susan wanted to lie down, she was so very tired, but there was one last task to complete. She had to wash the car, inside and out.
She washed the hateful cooler box first. Five times she carried water, sloshed it around, emptied and wiped it out. Her arms were shaking with fatigue as she lifted the bucket and her legs wobbled with exhaustion as she walked.
She repeated the procedure with the cabin. Then she did the tray and cage, then finally, the outside of the cabin. She scraped and washed the wheel arches and the under-body as best she could.
Now the daylight had faded to a red-pink glow. It was getting hard to see in the guttering firelight. She piled the fire up one more time. The groundsheet and canvass swag cover went on the fire, the oily plastic coating blazing brightly.
Next she stripped off her clothes and threw them in the fire, and used some water from the water tank and a cup to rinse her body, cleaning herself as best she could. She shivered in the cold night air, feeling naked and vulnerable. Quickly she put on the clean shorts and T-shirt she had kept aside.
Finally Susan dowsed the fire. In the dark she needed to be careful near the water. Cautiously she scooped a bucket out, but of crocodiles there was no sign. She repressed a shudder as she thought they wouldn’t need to eat again, they had already feasted today.
She picked up the ends of the burning sticks and threw them in the water. Then she threw her bucket of water on the coals. It exploded with a great hissing. She repeated this several further times until little heat remained. She took the shovel and with it carried the piles of ash, along with any other fragments, to the waters edge and threw them in. Finally only a slightly hollowed out depression remained where the fire had been.
With the fire gone the mosquitoes were thick. She swatted them away, but it was futile. She wished she had kept the repellent. There were noises of animal movements in the night. She desperately wanted to be gone from this place.
Susan made herself do one last walk around with the torch she had saved. She could see nothing that remained. However she tore a branch from a tree and walked around, brushing dirt in all the places where she thought they had walked, trying to hide obvious tracks. She tossed the branch into the water—satisfied she could do no more.
She was engulfed by weariness, driven these last hours by need alone. Now she must summon the strength to leave this place.
Chapter 23 – Escape – Day 30
Susan walked away from the billabong in the dark. It seemed like the longest day in her life and her body was shaking with exhaustion. She had not eaten all day except for those few biscuit fragments.
Now that her work was finished she just wanted to crawl into a bed, under a warm quilt, and lie in a foetal position, and sleep. Susan climbed into the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition. Thankfully, Mark had left the key behind that morning, left it lying on the driver’s seat.
The last time she had sat in this seat had only been yesterday, but it felt an age. Susan knew she needed to start the car and drive away, but waves of nausea and exhaustion flowed over her. She laid her head back in the corner of the cabin, against the headrest, and closed her eyes.
The horror of the ripping crocodiles swam before her eyes. With extreme effort she pushed it away. She stayed there, immobile, her mind numb, beyond thinking. She must have dozed because she woke with her head slumped sideways and an ache in her neck. Her hands stung from the chafing of the restraints and the hours she had spent cleaning, scouring and re-cleaning to remove all the evidence.
She sat up straight now. Her head felt a bit clearer and the exhaustion seemed to have faded. She knew she must get going now while her reserves lasted. So she started the engine. The diesel roared to life. She let it run for a minute to warm up as she checked the gauges.
Everything seemed OK. She looked at the fuel levels. The main tank was down to not much, barely an eighth above empty, but the reserve tank still had a third and the light was on, indicating it was in use.
She found the light switch. With the headlights on she felt like she could push the darkness away for a few hours. She hated this whole place but felt better within the solid mass of the car, engine throbbing and lights bright, while she sat locked in her cocoon.
She found and engaged the gears, let out the clutch and was away. She remembered now all the water she had used to wash the car, and it came to her that there may be tire tracks or footprints in this wet ground. With supreme effort she forced herself to stop and go and look with the torch. Sure enough there were several clear footprints and a set of clear tyre tracks for about five yards, until the dry
ground. She scraped at these with the spade until they were indistinct and then threw some fresh dirt and leaves over them.
Now she really was finished, she knew there was nothing more she could do here. She drove off and picked up the track leading away from the clearing, and drove out slowly, staying in first gear for a while, until she felt that she had reasonable control. She changed up to second and felt the vehicle move more freely. Sometimes the track turned sharply and she struggled to pick the direction in the headlights as she veered to the edge of the road. Once she thought she would scrape the passenger door on a tree at the edge of a sharp corner but she just avoided it at the last minute.
She had only a vague idea of where she was, but hoped that she would be able to follow signs to find her way back to the highway, and then on to Darwin. For the first couple miles there was a single track, which came to a closed gate. This fitted with Mark’s description of a private place. So far so good!
Now there were tracks going everywhere. It was hard to tell the actual road from yet another camping track. A couple times she picked wrong and ended up in a camping area alongside a billabong. A couple times she saw distant lights illuminating tents and turned away. She was starting to feel like she was in a maze, fraying at her fragile sense of purpose.
Then a bit of luck ran her way; she realised she was now on a main road going somewhere. After about fifteen minutes of driving she came to a big gate on the road. She was terrified it would be locked, but it was not. She pulled the gate open, and drove through. She was tempted to drive on and leave it swinging, but she forced herself to stop, get out, and close it properly. She left the engine running; she was terrified of stopping the car and being unable to start it again.
Crocodile Spirit Dreaming - Possession - Books 1 - 3 Page 23