The murder and torture of adults was apparently fine and dandy. Go figure.
“A plan.” His parroting of the word gave me nothing. “Why?”
“This…” I gestured through the windshield at the road. “Is aimless and likely to find trouble. Truthfully, I just feel we are going about this the wrong way.” I’d mildly stressed the we to remind him I was supposed to be his helper and not his piñata toy. “We’re leaves on the wind, as Wash said in Firefly. People need roots. If I am to show you anything, we should find a place to stop so you can learn to ummm empathize?”
That was reasonable? My ass and tits begged to differ, reminding me of his tendency to reach for a belt when we had differences.
He grunted, let the car run on for ages with the tires quietly eating road.
For most, that last incident would have made them a little terrified. Me? He’d held back from his worst. There had been a moment when I had felt the swing of his intent from sadistic to… whatever this new Isak had within.
And the fucking at the end had been nice too. Dayum.
A pity that masturbating never worked without him allowing me to go all the way.
Even so, I reminded myself, I should be terrified.
I should be terrified.
I turned that over and over and knew it to be true. The logic was there. Anyone normal would be wondering if they could survive being with him after that flogging. And yes, I did sometimes think that too, but I was not terrified.
What had he made of me?
I shook off those morbid thoughts.
This vehicle had belonged to the lady vet. I massaged the wheel, thinking on that instead. Casual stealing was a part of this road trip. No one else could do this. He could convince a government he was something he was not, given time, opportunity, and access to the right women in bureaucracy. Convince people he was a legal citizen of Australia and get it documented. Computers were driven by people and data propagated once you had a fact altered.
If I wanted to be free of him, I must do this – whatever it was he wished for.
“The woman who was heading west…” Finally he spoke. “The widow. She had a property I can get from her. We can stop there. First though, we go look at that.” He pointed at a huge billboard we were approaching.
It flashed by but I had read it.
“Carnarvon Gorge?” The next exit led there.
“Yes. See some of the country? Isn’t that what normals do?”
“It is.” Tourism, here we come. Ordinary. I’d wanted that. This was certainly ordinary.
The scenery on the billboard had looked made for goats. The mountains off to the side of the highway, poking at the sky, reinforced that notion.
And there was swimming. More billboards filled in the blanks. A gorge, surprise, surprise. Walking paths. Camping.
We left the dog at a small kennel in a town that catered for tourists traveling with pets. The rehoming idea seemed to have been shelved, because next door was the local council’s refuge for strays and unwanted pets, and Isak ignored that.
He held the dog’s leash as we filled in forms with fake names and fake addresses, then paid in advance for the dog’s stay. A toddler with his mother and father emerged from the door that led to the boarding area with the cages and kennels. He sucked his thumb and made googly-eyes at Banjo as the dog sat laughing – wearing a doggy grin – and with his tail swishing to and fro. The family straggled by with their cat in a cage, heading for the front doors. The toddler managed to trail his hand over Banjo’s back.
I moved swiftly, hand out to separate them. Strange dogs bite strange kids.
Not this dog. Besides, Isak had drawn him aside and out of reach of the child.
It struck me.
This… this was like some weird family holiday time. Was I in a horror movie? Would the floor open up and eat us? Were the pets at this very moment turning into zombies? I blinked, taking in our amiable dog and the fact that I had a man by my side, and we were off on some day trip to a tourist attraction.
Twilight zone.
By luck, we finagled a place in a day tour heading to the gorge.
Late-morning, we were on a rickety bus heading toward those mountains, along with about twenty people in family groups and couples. Children had run up the aisles screaming and claiming seats, with suffering parents trailing after them. Isak had shot baleful glares at them.
We sat at the back on worn seats, and the air stayed warm, even as we headed toward what should be a higher altitude.
Empathy, Isak needed to develop that, otherwise we would all be punching those who irritated us. People helped people who were strangers because of it. On news reports we often hear miraculous stories where people risk their lives to save others.
This bus tour represented normal life. A rattling bus, shouty kids, tolerant parents, and an overly cheerful bus driver with weird random facts about koalas, gum trees, and goannas to share with us.
I smiled and relaxed back into the seat.
Except, as the tour guide mouthed off about history and nature, and the kids kept squealing and yelling, Isak greatly resembled stone.
The bus reached the first visitor area where we were to disembark for a walking tour. A mother went by our seats with her son in hand. He gave us that big-eyed treatment children bestow on scary adults as well as on anything else that sparks their curiosity.
We were the last to exit. As I rose, Isak’s hand gripped my
