This book contains themes which some people may find upsetting.

It is intended for a mature audience only.

The police entered the property first. A woman was wailing within the small, terraced house. The sound of fear and pain within those screams echoed through the building and their souls to a level which would haunt them for the remainder of their lives.

Following closely behind the police, the paramedics rushed in too. Medical kits slung over their shoulders. They were prepared for most states of emergency and yet both teams were completely unprepared for what they were about to see within the lived-in house.

Death’s unpleasant musty scent lingered in the stale atmosphere, making all who entered the house gag on their initial few breaths. They all knew the smell, although they wished they didn’t. It was one of those smells that you wished you could forget but couldn’t, no matter how hard you tried to. Once inhaled, for the first time, it was with you for life.

They all feared the worst as they filed down the hallways towards the room where the sounds came from but none more so than Detective Andrews. He knew the occupants of the house through his job as a police officer. He failed them before and the stink in the air was screaming to him that he’d failed them once more despite his promises to them and himself.

He hurried down towards the room, pushing past the other officers who were slowing him down, and froze when he caught sight of what waited for them.

“Let the paramedics through!” he ordered the following officers. “Now!”

S E E D

Chapter One

Another late night home from the office. It couldn’t be helped. The company, a small family run business, was in trouble and cut backs were threatened if changes didn’t happen fast so everyone, not just Mark, put in extra unpaid hours to try and keep the business afloat. They all figured they’d be repaid for their time when (if) they managed to get things turned around again. Mark didn’t necessarily want to stay later, especially unpaid, but he figured there wasn’t really much choice. Even less when others volunteered to stay on extra hours. If cut backs were on the horizon, the ones who stayed behind and were seen to be doing everything they could to keep the business moving along - well there was a good chance they’d be safe from the initial redundancies. Certainly over the staff members who didn’t lift a finger, choosing to sit back and watch the company crumble around them.

Mark slid the golden house-key into the Yale lock on the front of his modest home’s door. A small, two-bedroom terrace house. The middle house in a set of three, in a clean cul-de-sac which also contained other houses in a similar set up (as well as a couple of detached houses as soon as you turned into the cul-de-sac from the main road which were no doubt there to make the area look more affluent than it actually was). A quick twist of his wrist and he pushed the door open before stepping into the small hallway separating the front door from the lounge where he half expected to see his wife, Becky, sitting down on the sofa watching some trashy television. To his surprise, Becky wasn’t there. The lights were on, television off, but the room was empty.

Must be in bed, he thought. He threw his keys onto the floor where he kicked off his shoes and took his coat off before hanging it over the banister of the staircase running the length of the lounge’s left hand wall.

It wasn’t unusual for Becky to have gone up to bed without him. Even before he started working all the hours under the sun, he’d still come home at a semi-reasonable time and find she had gone up to the bedroom to wait there for him. The only difference was now, when he came in late, she’d be up there fast asleep as opposed to waiting for him, having slipped into something a little sexier. A surprise for him after a hard day at work; instructions to lie down whilst she reached for the baby-oil to give him a nice massage which would then, after a few minutes, turn into something else just as relaxing for him. He was tired, after work, but never too tired to not enjoy the sometimes gentle (sometimes rough) touch of his wife’s dainty hands.

He paused at the bottom of the stairs as though waiting for an invitation to come upstairs. No invitation came so he reluctantly turned away from the stairs and headed towards the kitchen. A small room attached to the lounge, the kitchen was the only other room in the downstairs section of the house. Mark walked up to the sink and ran the cold tap. For some reason, when you first turned it on, the water was always a little warmer unless you ran it for a couple of seconds first. With the water running, he fetched himself a glass from the cupboard next to the cooker. By the time he had a glass and returned to the sink, the water was cool enough to drink.

He caught sight of his reflection in the window in front of the sink. Only in his early thirties, he couldn’t help but think he was looking old. No doubt caused by stress in the workplace and a new worry in his life; a worry that not all was happy in his marriage despite it being only a few months old. Looking back at his reflection, there were a few speckles of grey in his otherwise dark hair. They’re new. Bags under his eyes. No surprise really, considering the thirteen hour working days (minimum) he was battling with each day. He yawned and turned from the kitchen, turning the lights off as he did so.

The lounge lights were turned off too, when he reached the bottom of the stairs where the second of the available light switches was situated. Leaving the darkness, he quietly made his way up the stairs towards the bedroom. Once there, he stopped in the doorway and looked over towards Becky. She was sleeping, just as he thought. He stayed there a moment, watching her sleeping. Part of him wished she’d wake up. Part of him hoped she wouldn’t. After all, he had no idea what he’d say to her. She seemed distant when he spoke about work. She seemed to not want to talk about her own work. Not just work either, she just didn’t want to talk full stop. For two weeks now it had been like this and it made him feel sick to his stomach.

By the time he’d had a quick wash and climbed into bed he’d already decided enough was enough. He’d talk to her tomorrow. He’d get to the bottom of what was going on and why she seemed so distant with him. What had he done that was so wrong? What had he done, if anything, to drive her away so quickly? Unless she had met someone else and had fallen in love with them instead? He turned onto his side, away from Becky, and swallowed down the coming tears. Even if she didn’t love him, he loved her - even with the current situation between the two of them. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d fix it. He’d get their relationship back on track. He’d get it back to how they were when they were first married.

He closed his eyes and hoped that sleep would come quickly; anything to stop the troubling thoughts of his wife slipping away from him. Sleep didn’t come as quickly as he had hoped. He lay awake. The thoughts of Becky in the arms of another man kept his brain ticking over keeping the sleep at bay. Two weeks. That was how long she’d seemed distant with him. Two weeks. Two weeks just happened to be the last time she had gone out with some friends too - a girls’ night out to be precise. Clubs and drink. Was that when she fell out of love with him? Was that when she ended up in the arms of another man? He rolled onto his other side and faced Becky. She was hanging off the bed, in her usual sleeping position, with her back to him. He desperately wanted to wake her; desperately wanted to confront her and find out what happened. He thought better of it. Now’s not the time.

Tomorrow. He’d wake up, get her breakfast and do everything he could to put things right. Whatever it’d take. This was the love of his life, even with her snoring, and he wasn’t going to let her go without a fight.

Tomorrow’s the day.

* * * * *

Becky looked like a Bond Girl as she stepped from the crystal clear Cuban waters. Long blonde hair down past her shoulders, the tips wet from the sea water. White bikini - sex appeal through the roof despite its plain look. She gave Mark a little cheeky wave to where he was watching her from further up the white sandy beach on one of the two sun loungers they had commandeered earlier in the morning. He waved back, with a proud smile on his face.

“Are you coming in?” she called out. Mark didn’t need asking twice. He jumped up from the lounger and hurried across the burning sands to the shoreline. He didn’t stop there either. He continued to run into the water until it was so deep that he couldn’t help but to fall over with a splash. Becky followed Mark back into the water - laughing at him as she did so. “What are you doing?” she asked as he emerged from under the still waters.

“Winning the race!” he laughed.

“We were racing? I thought this was supposed to be a relaxing honeymoon...”

“I’ve been asleep all afternoon - it is relaxing,” he laughed. “Come here!” He pulled Becky close to him.

“Oh, hello Mr Stephens.”

“Hello Mrs Stephens.”

“And how are you?” she asked.

“I’m good, thank you, and how are you on this fine day in paradise?”

“I’m happy,” she smiled.

* * * * *

Mark woke with a start. At first he wasn’t sure why but then he realised what it was which had stirred his peaceful dreams of a time gone by, not that long ago. Becky wasn’t in the bed. She wasn’t even in the room.

“Bex?” he called out. She didn’t answer him so he climbed from the bed. Slipping a dressing gown on, he stepped from the bedroom and onto the landing. He could hear her in the bathroom, crying. He walked over to the closed door and tapped gently on it so as not to startle her. “Honey?”

She tried to stifle the fact she was crying before answering but this just made it more obvious as to what she was really doing in there. “I’ll be right out.” Mark didn’t wait; he turned the door’s handle and noted it was unlocked. Becky looked up at him - tears in her eyes. She looked pale. “I said I’d be right out,” she said. She turned her back to Mark, wiping her eyes as she did so. He stopped her and turned her back to facing him. “Don’t.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked. There was genuine concern in his voice - perhaps a little bit hidden by an annoyance fuelled by her lack of communication, despite his best efforts of trying to keep it from her.

“Nothing.” She carried on sniffling.

“Please. Talk to me,” he pushed her. She broke down in floods of tears. Mark couldn’t help but feel that was a positive step though. After all - she’d have to talk to him now whether she wanted to or not. “Come on, please, we used to talk about everything. We never had any secrets from each other, we shared everything...Let’s get back to that. Let’s get back to what we had.” He felt sure he knew what was making her upset; guilt and the fact she wanted to be with him (whoever he was) now as opposed to him. He braced himself for the worst even though he didn’t want to hear the words directly from her. His heart ached at the mere thought of her getting the sentence to pass from her lips but still he pushed her. If he was to move on, or stand a chance of fixing it, he knew he had to hear it from her. “Please - Rebecca, what is it? Whatever it is, you can tell me. Just talk to me. Fucking talk to me!” He calmed himself down. Becky was already upset. He knew shouting at her wouldn’t help. If anything, it would just push her away further. He pulled her close to him and put his arms around her - not just to comfort her but also to make himself feel better. “Please - I just want us to talk. Whatever it is that’s on your mind, whatever is upsetting you - we can work through it together...Please.”

She buried herself in his arms - his warm and safe embrace. She loved him and had been desperate to talk to him but she didn’t know where to start or what to say without pushing him away or hurting him. Her actions were enough for him to know that she did still love him on some levels. It wasn’t too late for their relationship. A few obstacles to overcome but, the fact she was hugging him back...She still loved him.

“You just need to talk to me,” he whispered to her as he tightened his embrace.

Chapter Two

The following morning, Mark was up early. The usual routine was to get up, have a wash (teeth, armpits, hair - the usual), get dressed and leave. He never usually bothered with breakfast at home. Instead, getting up an extra half an hour earlier meant he had time to grab something warm (usually a fry-up) from a cafe close to his office. Not today though. Today - the routine was out of the window.

Becky was still sleeping. Mark crawled from the bed as quietly as he could. Becky hadn’t slept well that night, and neither had he. She hadn’t opened up to him when he confronted her in the bathroom but she’d promised him they’d talk in the morning when she was a little less upset. Of course he wanted to talk there and then but he knew better than to push her. He took his mobile phone from the bedside cabinet and crept from the room to make a phone call. The chat with Becky had waited this long, he knew it wouldn’t matter if it waited a couple more hours whilst she caught up on her sleep.

“Hello, Chris?” he quietly whispered down the phone when the other end picked up (after a couple of rings). “It’s me.” He paused a moment to consider his lie. It probably would have been an idea to consider this before making the call. Not that it really mattered - Chris was his friend. If the lie wasn’t up to par, he knew Chris would make it a little better when he relayed it to the bosses. “Anyone else there yet?” he asked. “Could you pass a message on when they come in?” He paused as his friend agreed to do as requested. “I’m not going to make it in today. Becky. She’s not well....What’s wrong?” he paused. “I’m not sure - I’m taking her down to the hospital, though,” he lied. “Just looks like it might be appendicitis.” He regretted the words as soon as he said them. It was stupid. A stupid lie. He knew better. Lies have a habit of catching up with you. He quickly back-tracked, “Hopefully it’s just a bit of food poisoning. Something she ate.” He nodded. A good back-track and one which could ring true the following day when he planned to return to the office. “Can you let them know I’ll make it up to them and if they need to talk I’ll have my mobile on me today but I’m not sure about the signal down at the hospital,” he continued. A further lie but only because it meant he didn’t have to answer the phone if his bosses did try and call him later. They liked you to call them directly if you phoned in sick (only so they could convince you to come in anyway) and yet they were never there first thing in the morning to take the damned calls. You had to leave a message with someone else and then wait for the call back from one of the two big managers. It always annoyed Mark and he often wanted to speak up, If you got here with the rest of us maybe the company wouldn’t be in such trouble now, but he never did. Probably for the best. “Thanks, Chris. I appreciate it.” He hung the phone up and breathed a sigh of relief. A second later and he turned the phone off to tie in with the story of his lack of signal and, more importantly, to give him the necessary peace and quiet to talk to his wife.

“Appendicitis?”

Becky spoke out from the hallway. She caught Mark off guard and made him jump. He turned to face her and shrugged. “Didn’t know what else to say.” Becky nodded. “So,” he continued, “are you ready to talk to me?” His heart was in the back of his throat, beating hard and fast. He wasn’t sure whether it was the fear of not knowing what she wanted to talk about or whether it was the fear of believing he did know. She had cheated on him on a night out with her girlfriends and had confused feelings.

He dismissed the thought, Let her speak. Let her tell me.

Becky took a deep breath and nodded.  She wasn’t ready. She’d never be ready. There wasn’t a choice though. She knew she had to tell him. Not because he wanted her to but because she needed to tell him. Needed to tell someone. She had kept it a secret for too long now and it was burning into her soul more than she cared for. If she didn’t tell him - she’d go mad.

“So,” he asked, “what is it? What have I done?”

“You haven’t done anything,” she reassured him.

He could see that her eyes were already welling up but he didn’t care if she found it hard to talk or whether she broke down or not. He needed to know what was going on with them. He needed to know whether they’d be okay again. “Then what have you done?” he asked, straight to the point. A direct question which pushed her over the edge (just as he thought it may have done). She started to cry. He wanted to go forward and put his arms around her. Comfort her. Let her know that everything was going to be okay. But he couldn’t make such promises. He wasn’t the one sitting on a secret. Instead he stood his ground and patiently waited for Becky to tell him what had been going on.

“I was raped.”

“What?!”

* * * * *

Two years of saving. One and a half years of planning. A couple of tantrums, a couple of tears but many smiles and happy associated memories which will last a lifetime. And now, finally, the day was here.

Mark shifted his weight as his legs continued to nervously shake, despite his best efforts to stop them, as he waited for Rebecca to arrive. Rebecca. Becky, as he and their friends called her. His bride. Soon to be his wife. She was running late. The clock on the far wall of the church confirmed it as it silently ticked away each passing minute. At least, Mark hoped she was running late. Rather that than had a change of heart and was actually high-tailing it towards the nearest airport with their honeymoon tickets clutched in her sweaty palm. He shook his head as thoughts of his runaway bride started to take a hold.

She’s running late. Probably stuck in traffic, or something. Everything’s fine.

Chris, Mark’s Best Man, leant forward and touched Mark’s arm; a little nudge to get his attention. “Looking a little pasty there, you okay?” he asked. Mark turned to him and nodded. “Okay. But if you feel as though you’re going to pass out give me a heads-up, or something, so we can be sure to capture it on tape. Sell the footage to those home-video shows...”

“Chris...Shut up,” hissed Mark with a faint smile towards the elderly vicar standing in front of the pair of them. Mark took a few steps back. The vicar smiled back; a little reassurance in his smile, to Mark, that everything was going to be okay. Have Faith.

With no warning (at least no warning that Mark noticed) an organ player - sitting to the side of the room - started to play the bride’s march of Here comes the Bride. A choice made, fairly early on, by Becky despite Mark’s best efforts to get her to choose one of their favourite songs - his personal suggestion being Metallica’s Nothing Else Matters.

The congregation rose to their feet and heads turned towards the door behind where they were sitting. Mark turned too but not before the vicar gave him a little wink as though to say I told you so. And there she was. His soon-to-be wife. A few mumbles audibly expressing how beautiful she looked in her figure-hugging ivory dress. And they were right. She did look beautiful. The off-the-shoulder mermaid design of the dress, with its modest flare starting at Becky’s knees, accentuated her near-on perfect hourglass figure with such perfection that Mark couldn’t help but stand there, at the far end of the aisle, with his mouth wide open. Until, that is, Chris pointed out that he looked as though he were trying to catch flies. He then closed his mouth but he still couldn’t take his eyes off his bride as she walked, arms linked with her father, down the aisle towards him and their future together.

“You look stunning!” he whispered when she reached his side, up in front of the rest of the church, his smile still beaming. She blushed and turned towards the vicar who nodded to them both - a sign that they were about to begin the next phase of their lives. Mark took his eyes from his partner and turned his attention towards the man who was about to make it official in the eyes of God.

Two years of saving. One and a half years of planning. A couple of tantrums, a couple of tears but many smiles and happy associated memories which will last a lifetime. And now, finally, the day was here.

With the bride now standing next to the groom, the congregation took their seats once more. The vicar waited for the majority of the fidgeting to stop before starting the ceremony.

“Ready?” he whispered to Mark and Becky. They both nodded eagerly. They had waited so long for this day to finally come around. Of course they were ready. They smiled at each other; neither of them could truly believe the time was finally upon them. The vicar continued with a raised voice to enable all to hear, “Dearly Beloved, we are gathered together here in the sign of God - and in the face of this company - to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is commended to be honourable among all men; and therefore - is not by any - to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly - but reverently, discreetly, advisedly and solemnly. Into this holy estate these two patrons present now come to be joined. If any person can show just cause why they may not be joined together, let them speak now or forever hold their peace...”

The vicar looked to the congregation (made up entirely of friends and family of both the groom and the bride with the bride’s side being slightly bigger). In hindsight, to those who cared, the pause left by the vicar was probably slight but, at the time, it felt like a lifetime of waiting for Becky and Mark. Both of who stood there, with awkward, nervous grins on their faces, staring into the sea of faces watching them. All were deathly silent until one of the anonymous faces sneezed, causing everyone to laugh.

As soon as the congregation fell silent again, the vicar continued with the service much to the relief of both Mark and Becky. “Through marriage Mark Stephens and Rebecca Hartfield make a commitment together to face their disappointments, embrace their dreams, realise their hopes and accept each other’s failures. Mark and Rebecca will promise to one another to aspire to these ideals throughout their lives together - through mutual understanding, openness and sensitivity to each other.” He paused for a breath and to let the meaning of what he said sink into their minds. “We are here today before God - because marriage is one of his most sacred wishes - to witness the joining in marriage of Mark Stephens and Rebecca Hartfield. This occasion marks the celebration of love and commitment with which this man and this woman begin their life together. And now - through me - he joins you together in one of the holiest bonds...” The sounds of Becky’s mum crying hid the pause left by the vicar. The vicar continued regardless, even when Becky turned her attention to her mother to see that she was being suitably looked after by her mother’s own sister, who had chosen to sit next to her at the front. Becky flashed the pair of them a smile, almost to let them both know she was okay - more than okay - she was happy! She turned back to face Mark.

The service took thirty minutes, or so, in the end. The vicar said a little more and then invited both Mark and Becky (or Rebecca as he kept calling her) to repeat their vows to one another (and all who listened). The congregation was asked to join in with the singing of two hymns the couple had chosen and some passages were read aloud from the Bible and that was it. The newlywed couple left via the same aisle Becky had only recently walked up - both of them smiling proudly and excitedly whilst whispering sweet nothings to each other and nodding towards their guests who were shouting out calls of congratulations and good wishes to them as they walked on by but Becky struggled to remember that as she felt herself running out of oxygen.

As the air became harder to gasp at, Becky struggled to keep her thoughts on her husband and how handsome he looked on their happy day. Standing there, at the front of the church...All six foot two of him, in his black suit with ivory waistcoat and burgundy tie (which matched the bridesmaids’ dresses). She always thought he looked as though he were a film star of some description. Suave and sophisticated. Not that it took him long to change back to his usual scruffy - but lovable - self after their wedding had passed. It wasn’t just his hair which made him look scruffy (usually short and messed-up with gel) but also the clothes he liked to wear when he wasn’t working; normally well-worn jeans and tee shirts of some description.

Becky closed her eyes and focused back to how good he looked on their wedding day. The usually scruffy hair was gelled back in a tidier style which reminded her, briefly, of his own father - what with it being the style he tended to sport. The jeans and tee shirts back to being a black suit. She didn’t mind his casual look but she loved his wedding look (as she often told him) and that’s how she wanted to remember him - if this was to be her time to die.

The stranger repositioned his hands around Becky’s neck unwittingly giving her a little room to breathe, much to her relief. He thrust into her again - each additional thrust tearing her insides up that little bit more. She wanted to scream out in pain. She wanted to cry out for him to stop. Beg him, even, but she didn’t. She tried to remain as silent as possible. Only tears spilling from her eyes gave away any hint of emotion and that was only because she couldn’t control them. The stranger’s grunts got louder as he neared climax and increased the ferocity with which he penetrated her. Becky tried her best to ignore the change of tempo. She wasn’t here. She wouldn’t allow herself to be there. She was back at her wedding day. The reception.

People were coming up to her congratulating her again and asking to see the rings. She didn’t understand why people were so interested in the wedding band. She had opted for a plain gold one and it was hardly the most exciting of rings. Engagement rings, on the other hand, she could understand the excitement surrounding those and why people were always keen to see them. But wedding bands - they all look the same.

It didn’t matter though. She welcomed the guests talking to her, their words playing through her mind, blocking out the wheezy grunts of the obese man on top of her (pinning her to the muddy ground where he had originally knocked her as she walked back). If only the words were capable of stopping the beads of sweat dropping from his forehead and onto her own face where they splashed against her cheek, mixing with her silent tears.

And that breath - the rank stink of coffee with a hint of digestive biscuit - if only there was something which would stop her from smelling that. Even thoughts of the aftershave her husband wore (Adventure or Cool Water by Davidoff) - even thoughts of what he smelt like didn’t stop the stranger’s unwanted scent from invading her overloaded senses. With a final push, the man suddenly climaxed deep inside of her. Becky opened her eyes as the man withdrew from within. She felt a bit of him trickle out of her and did her best not to gag. She watched as he climbed off of her. He leant down with his hand towards her face and she flinched away. She slowly turned back to him when she realised he wasn’t going to touch her face. He had picked up her handbag which was next to where she was lying. With no words he ferreted around inside until he found what he was looking for; her purse. Becky didn’t say anything. She didn’t make any noise. She didn’t dare. She just lay there, on the cold dirt with her heart beating ten to the dozen. The man dropped her purse. She saw, in his hand, he was holding her driving licence.

“I know where you live,” he rasped, “if you tell anyone of this...I’ll kill you and whatever family you have. And trust me, I can do that before they find me.” The coldness of his words, the threat in his voice - Becky didn’t cry. She didn’t give him the satisfaction. She just stayed put. The man laughed, thanked her for the fuck and disappeared back into the tree line from whence he originally came.

Only when Becky knew she was safe (and alone) did she let her emotions out. Floods of tears as she rolled onto her front before moving onto her hands and knees. She summoned all the strength she could muster and stood up. Shaking, she bent over and tried to pull her knickers up only to realise they had been ripped; something which must have happened in the initial struggle as the man pulled on them when he forced her to the floor. She stepped out of them and picked up her handbag. Dazed, she looked around wondering if anyone was there to help her or come to her rescue. No one was there. Of course not. The man had dragged her from the main path, into the woodlands, but even if he hadn’t - it was late and most people weren’t stupid enough to come through this way at night. She wanted to scream and even opened her mouth - ready to do so. Only the thought of the man coming back stopped her. She closed her mouth again - keeping the screams to herself - and dropped back down to her knees. The tears flowed more freely now. The stillness of the night making it seem as though her crying were louder than it actually was. She tried her best to stop but couldn’t as the shock of the evening’s events took a hold of her.

* * * * *

Just as Becky had been on her knees crying that night, when the man attacked, she was on her knees crying again. This time she wasn’t alone. Mark was kneeling on the floor next to her with his arms around her - trying his best to comfort her but failing despite his best intentions. Mixed emotions surging through his body; anger that someone had dared hurt his wife and guilt that he hadn’t realised. Too wrapped up in his own self-importance believing everything was about him; he was the one to blame, she no longer loved him, his marriage was over...

Becky continued to tell the story through her tears and broken sentences, “They told me not to go that way. They offered me the chance to share their taxi. They offered but I said no. I told them I’d be fine. I thought...” she stopped. “I’m sorry,” she suddenly said. “I’m sorry.”

“What? No. Stop it. You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I haven’t been here for you but I am now. We’ll get through this,” he said, “I promise. We will get through this.” Mark pulled Becky in close to him. His mind was divided; one part of him wanted to take his wife’s pain away from her and the other part of him could only think about tracking down the man who did this to her - the man who violated her - and taking his life. “Everything will be fine. We’ll get over this. You are my wife and I love you more than anything else in the world. We will get over this and, I promise, I’ll never let anything bad happen to you again.”

Chapter Three

Detective Andrews stood there, in the doorway of the lounge, with a sick feeling deep in his stomach. He had called for the paramedics to come through but now he was the only obstacle in their way from getting to the patient. Regardless, it didn’t take much for them to push him to one side and rush to the aid of Becky, stepping over the cold body lying in the middle of the floor, to do so.

Andrews thought he was okay. He thought he was good to return to work after what had happened to him - and his own wife - all those months ago but standing here, confronted by all the blood, he realised it was too soon. He shouldn’t have been there. He looked down to the floor - a pool of blood edging closer and closer to his polished leather shoe. He took a step back before dismissing himself from the scene completely. He pushed past the other officers who had accompanied him and straight out into the street. He bent over and started to cough - half expecting bile or vomit to hit the back of his throat.

I shouldn’t have come back, thoughts kept playing through his mind over and over again. Images of what had happened to his wife mixed with images of Becky, in there, leaning back against the wall clutching at her stomach - her hands painted red and the look of fear in her pale, sweaty face. I shouldn’t have come back, the broken record continued to skip. Back in the day, when Detective Andrews was in his prime, this crime scene would have been just like many others he had the misfortune to see in his line of work. He wouldn’t have been as bothered. He would have simply gone in and done his job. And he would have done it well. He was, back in the day, one of the best detectives at the station. That, and the fact you get used to blood when you’ve been in the game for as long as he had. You get used to blood and you get used to death. But everything had changed since the passing of his wife. His outlook on life in general, his temperament and - as evident here - the amount of violence he was able to stomach. He took out his packet of cigarettes from his inside jacket pocket and pulled one of the white sticks from the box with his teeth. With his other hand, he fished for his gold lighter (found in his left trouser pocket) and promptly lit it. So much for quitting. To think, before the passing of his wife and that case - he had come so close.

An officer came out of the house. At first Andrews thought he’d had more than he could stomach too but it wasn’t the case - as made all too clear when the young officer, a rookie in Andrews’ eyes, asked if Detective Andrews was okay.

He ignored the man’s question and asked, “How is she?”

“It’s bad. They’re saying she’s lost a lot of blood...They’re stopping the bleeding and then I believe they’re bringing them out.”

“Them?”

The officer nodded, “It’s a fucking mess...”

Who else was in the room? Admittedly he hadn’t exactly waited around long to scope out the scene - something he should have done perhaps had he been able to stomach it - but even on first glance it was obvious there were only two people in there. A man and a woman. And the man, lying face down in a pool of blood, wasn’t coming out in anything other than a body bag.

Andrews threw down his cigarette (after a final toke) and headed back into the house, closely followed by the officer who was still mumbling - not that Andrews was listening to him anymore. Now he was more focused on getting back in there and seeing what he had missed the first time around.

Chapter Four

Mark and Becky had moved back into the bedroom where it was comfier. Becky was in bed with the duvets pulled up around her; a safe little nest she had made for herself. Mark was sitting on the edge of the bed, next to where she lay, with a comforting hand resting on her thigh. His mind was still in two places. The first being the wellbeing of his wife and the second fixated upon hurting the man who had done this to her. The man who had dared to touch his wife; the love of his life.

“You didn’t go to the police?” he asked.

Becky didn’t respond. She didn’t have to. She just stared ahead at the wall - her eyes seemingly fixed on one part of the paintwork (a small patch, next to the radiator, which had been missed in a recent decorating exercise the couple had carried out together). Mark knew the answer though - whether she had gone and reported it to the police. Had she gone, he would have known by now.

“Would you recognise the man if you saw him again?”

Yellow, nicotine stained teeth. Pale, almost dead-looking eyes. A couple of inches shy of six foot tall. Stocky. Beer gut. Rank breath. A hairy mole on his right cheek. Messy hair, mostly silver with tints of brown. Thick facial hair above his lip - needing a trim as some of it overhangs. His penis - circumcised. Yes. She’d recognise him. She’d never forget his face again, not that she bothered to answer Mark despite the anger in his voice suggesting it may have been a good idea to do so.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he continued, despite knowing she wasn’t answering any of his questions anymore. The chances of her answering this one were remote too. “You should have just told me!”

She didn’t tell him because she knew he’d be disappointed. Perhaps even look at her differently - once he learned that another man had ejaculated in his wife. She knew it would taint the picture of the perfect wife she so desperately wanted to create for him. She knew there’d be a good chance of the truth turning him away from her - even despite his promises that they’d get through it. By the time she got home, that evening, she just wanted to try and put it behind her. Looking back, she realised it was stupid and she should have said something - for the sake of her own sanity - but then hindsight is a wonderful thing. At the time, she just wanted to come in and put it out of her life. She kicked the clothes off, in the kitchen, and threw them straight into a black bin liner (which was collected by the garbage men that very week) before pulling some dirty clothes from the washing machine she had (luckily) forgotten to turn on before going out - all the time being quiet so as not to wake Mark upstairs. And then she went upstairs, straight past the bedroom door, to the bathroom where she proceeded to scrub herself until her skin was red raw and painful to the touch. She foolishly hoped that, by morning, she’d be able to put it from her mind.

Mark stood up with a determined look upon his face. “We need to tell the police! What if the man is still out there? What if he tries to do it again to someone? What if he succeeds? We need to tell the police everything...”

“Please...” Becky whispered, “...just hold me.”  Mark’s blood was boiling. The thought of that scum walking around free whilst his wife was lying here, on the bed, scared shitless after what had happened and emotionally scarred pissed him off. He heard his wife’s plea begging to be held and knew it was an important one - she needed to feel his strength around her, she needed to be protected despite what she’d already been through - but he couldn’t bring himself to act upon her words. He paced the room, backwards and forwards, until she repeated her request - louder this time on the off-chance he hadn’t heard her. “Please just hold me.”

He stopped pacing and stared at her for a moment, her words sinking in slowly. He suddenly realised that, even though he was raging, he needed to be there for her. His anger could wait. His burning desire for revenge on the dirty fucking rapist could be put to the side, for now, just long enough for him to deal with her emotions. He forced a smile - one to suggest to her, no doubt, that everything was going to be okay just as he’d promised her on the landing - and he climbed onto the bed behind where she lay. He tucked in against her back and put his arm around her, pulling her close to him. His mind flashed to happier times; this spooning position had led to much happier times than where they were leading to now. Holding her so close, it wasn’t long before he felt her shoulders moving back and forth as she silently wept. Opening up to Mark had brought everything she had tried so hard to bury back to the surface again. It was just as raw now as the day it had happened to her. Mark wanted to keep talking about it - so many questions - but he knew the conversations were over. He knew as much as she was willing to share; on the way home from the girls’ night out she cut through the park and was attacked. That’s it. That’s as much of the story as he got to hear. He didn’t get the gory details as to how and where. He didn’t get to know what the man looked like. He just got enough to let him know that his wife needed him and that, on some levels, their marriage was fine. It wasn’t though. He knew it and he suspected she knew it too. Even now, with his arm around her, all he could think about was the faceless man fucking her.

He knew she didn’t want to hear it but he repeated it regardless, “We need to go to the police. They’ll know what to do.” He wasn’t sure how they’d know what to do about it but at least he thought it would open the door to various avenues they could go for help (to try and move on from what happened). And, maybe if she described the man to them, it might stop Mark from going out there and stalking the park at night like some lone vigilante on the hunt for rapists and muggers. Maybe they’d be able to go out there? Maybe they’d find the man responsible and bring him to justice. Mark’s mind shifted to the kind of justice he’d like to give the man if it were up to him; an extremely violent and bloody one. He wondered how long you could keep someone alive for whilst slowly torturing them. He’d try and make it last for weeks, if not months, and then he realised even that would be too quick. After all, Becky (and he, to some degree) would probably carry this for the rest of their lives. He closed his eyes and pulled his wife closer to him. Make the bad thoughts go away.

* * * * *

“Get in the taxi!” Chloe called out to Becky as she continued to drunkenly swagger towards the entrance of the park with her high heeled shoes hanging from her right hand by their straps. “We’ll drop you off first!”

Becky stopped in a pool of light cast down by the overhead street lamp which, with the other lamps dotted further down the street, helped illuminate the pitch black of the cloudy night. She turned back to Chloe and slurred her words that everything was fine and it would be quicker to cut through the park.

Becky was the drunkest of the group but even if she hadn’t been, she still would have tried to go home via the park. It was, as she slurred, the quickest route for her and she knew (even in her current state) it was a pain in the arse for the others to have to give her a lift home. After all, they lived in the complete opposite direction. The walk through the park was twenty minutes at most, allowing time for the extra steps taken due to being so unsteady on her feet after an evening of wine drinking.

Chloe was tipsy but sober enough to know that, at this time of night, the park wasn’t a sensible option. It was a nice enough area but - still - you try your best not to put yourself in potentially dangerous situations. She shouted back to Becky, who had continued her walk towards the park’s entrance, but Becky dismissed her with a cheery wave and a shout back of I’ll be fine. She leaned back into the car where the other two girls, Helen and Sophie, had already strapped themselves in - both of them also a little worse for wear.

“We can’t just leave her,” said Chloe.

“She’ll be fine!” Helen whined. “Come on I need to get home! I feel sick!” The taxi-driver shot her a concerned look (via the rear-view mirror) from the comfort of the front seat. He was used to drunks, working most weekends, and he was fine with handing out cleaning bills if they did happen to soil his car but it didn’t mean he enjoyed it. Helen noticed his glare and laughed, “Don’t worry - I’ll be good...”

Chloe clambered into the front seat of the car. Becky had already reached the park and stepped over the entrance. “She’ll be okay you think?”

“She’ll be fine - she only lives on the other side...”

The park itself was a fairly large plot of land. There was a pond in the centre with a network of paths surrounding it which, during the day, was enjoyed by joggers, dog walkers and people just wanting a break from the city life during their lunch-break. On the one side you had the shopping area of the town which was filled with the offices, cafes and nightclubs and, on the other side, a handful of middle class housing estates (such as the one Becky and Mark lived in). Of course if you took a wrong turning and wandered to where the park-keepers didn’t do quite as good a job with the weeding and general clearing of the park as they did in the other areas then the chances were you’d be heading to one of the other sides which, although by no means a poor area, wasn’t as good as where Becky lived.

As soon as she started to walk through the park - even in her drunken state - she regretted her friend’s offer of a lift home. The park had lights dotted around the main pathways, and she didn’t have any reason to step from these, but it didn’t stop them from being any less creepy in the stillness of the night. The wind was causing the trees around the pond to sway backwards and forward with gentle rustling noises, making Becky think someone was standing out there, watching her, from the darkness. Tricks of the light, from the moon when it did manage to break free from the cloud cover before being swallowed up again, made shadows move giving the impression of things silently stalking her through the park and even when the wind did die down enough to silence the trees and the clouds did keep the moon hidden...The deafening silence was freaky.

Becky quickened her pace as her surroundings started to creep her out. One minute seemingly drunk and the next sobered by the still surroundings of the night life - she couldn’t wait to get home. For a split second she even contemplated turning around and heading back to the park’s entrance; a quick telephone call to Mark and she’d be sure he’d climb from his bed and come and get her. No, that’s not fair, she told herself, he has to get up early for work in the morning. She carried on walking despite the urge to turn around. She realised she was about half-way through now and it would be just as quick for her to continue along the path than it would be to turn around and go back towards the entrance she started at.

“Next time just get in the damned taxi!” she joked to herself. It had less to do with the fact she thought it was a funny thing to say out loud (especially as she was alone) and everything to do with the fact she just wanted to hear something normal instead of the creaking trees and rustling leaves and man coughing...Her heart skipped a beat as she spun in the direction of where the noise had come from. Much to her horror, a man was standing on the pathway, not more than a couple of feet away from her. “You scared the shit out of me!” she said, a smile on her face. She hoped the man was going to apologise. She hoped the man was going to make a joke of it. She hoped the man was going to go his own separate way. She even hoped he was going the same way as her and that he’d offer to walk with her - passing the time with small conversation about nothing in particular. Her heart skipped another beat when the man pulled a knife from his jacket pocket and pushed it towards her face with stern instructions not to make a fucking noise.

* * * * *

Becky woke with a start, the man’s raspy voice threatening her not to move echoing through her mind. She rolled over expecting to see Mark lying next to her (maybe even dozing himself) but he wasn’t there and where he was supposed to be was cold as though he hadn’t been there for some time. She sat up, sweat running down her back from reliving the nightmare of the park in her unscheduled dream. Talking about the incident, even briefly, with Mark seemingly awakened the thoughts enough to dream about them again. Great. She thought about what happened most of the time she was awake - wishing she had gone with her friends, wishing she had called Mark or her own taxi - and now she was stuck with them in her dreams again; something she thought she had more or less got over now.

She climbed from the bed and stepped out into the hallway.

“Mark?”

“I’m downstairs,” he called out, “in the sitting room.” Becky felt a little light relief at the sound of his voice. She thought, when she woke up alone, he may have stepped out of the house (perhaps to go to work?) for a while and she didn’t want to be by herself. Not now. She needed him nearby - just for now - to make her feel a little safer. She hurried down the stairs and towards the sitting room where Mark was waiting. When she got there, she stopped dead in the doorway. He was there, on the settee, sitting with a police officer.

The police officer jumped up and introduced himself but Becky didn’t catch his name. She didn’t even look at him. She was staring at Mark who was staring back at her.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

Mark told her to sit down and offered her and the officer a drink. The officer ordered a tea but Becky said nothing. She just sat down on the sofa, a feeling of betrayal building within her tired body. She had told Mark about the rape because she felt as though she had to. Deep down she knew she needed to talk to the police about what happened too but - not yet - she wasn’t ready. And when she was ready it was going to be up to her as to when she’d do it and how. This wasn’t right.

“Your husband’s been filling me in,” the officer said. She noticed a small notepad in his hand, the once blank page filled with various scribbled notes.

“They’re here to help,” Mark told her. He gave her a wink and a reassuring smile but Becky didn’t register them. He stepped from the room and closed the door behind him to give the two of them some privacy to discuss what needed to be spoken about. He wanted to stay - of course he did - but he felt Becky might open up a little more if he wasn’t there. No doubt there were things which happened which she didn’t want to share with her husband and, although he wished she felt she could share everything, he understood.

Chapter Five

Mark waited in the kitchen until Becky escorted the police officer from the house. She closed the front door behind him after thanking him for coming over. Mark moved to the kitchen doorway, half expecting Becky to break down into tears again, having had to relive the night’s events with the officer. She didn’t though. She turned from the door. She was pale and looked as though she’d been crying but there was something else there - she looked angry.

“You okay?” Mark asked. It was a stupid question. He just wanted her to say something to him. Anything. Let him know that she heard him at least. Her eyes fixed onto him. A glare. “We had to call the police,” Mark said, “they can help.”

“You had no right to do that!” she said quietly. Instead of having it out with him, she simply went up the stairs towards their bedroom again.

Mark moved to the bottom of the stairs and called up to her, “What was I supposed to do? That man could still be out there! What if he does it to someone else? More to the point - why should he get away with doing it to you?” He stopped talking when he heard the bedroom door shut. It wasn’t a slam - it was just gently pushed too. Fuck. He hesitated for a moment before following her up the stairs to the bedroom. He opened the door. She was on the bed with her back to him

“I did what I thought was right. Okay? I’m sorry if you think I overstepped the mark but that wasn’t my intention.” He didn’t understand but he did his best to hide his confusion. He couldn’t see why she was trying to protect this scumbag from being caught. Had the shoe been on the other foot, he was sure he’d have wanted justice. And he was sure she would have been pressing him to get it just as he was pressing her now. He waited for her to talk to him - respond to what he said - but she didn’t say a word. She didn’t even look at him. He knew it was probably best to leave her, let her cool down a while, but didn’t want to. Not whilst she was upset. He continued despite the silent treatment, “What did he say?” he asked. “Are they going to look for him? Did they give any indication whether this was an isolated incident?”

He pushed too far. Becky asked to be left alone. She said, in limited words, that she’d talked enough and just wanted to put the whole thing behind her now. She said the continued questions were just upsetting her and that, if he loved her, he’d let it go. For now at least. Mark didn’t argue with her, nor did he go to her side and remind her that he’d be there for her. He paused a moment and then went to say something. He stopped himself. Another hesitation as his brain processed his next move. He wanted to get to the bottom of what had happened, he wanted more details than she was willing to give but he knew none of it was in his power. He stepped backwards onto the landing and pulled the door shut. A hope that maybe, after a rest, she’d want to discuss it further.

He went down the stairs and stopped in the hallway. The house, although a fair size, seemed to be closing in around him. The walls were coming in and the air becoming stale. He turned and left via the front door. Once outside he put his head between his legs and took some deep breaths. What the hell was that? A panic attack? The feeling he had let his wife down, the feelings of wanting to find the son of a bitch responsible...All closing in around him. He sat down. before he fell, on the bottom step of the porch tears welling up in his eyes as he struggled to shake the image of his wife being violated from his mind. What she had been going through? What she had felt? The pain. The fear. The isolation afterwards. All thoughts running through his tired mind. To think - he was worried she had been cheating on him and that she’d fallen out of love. That would have been easier for him to handle. He wouldn’t have liked it but at least he’d have had options on how to fix it, or move on from it. How’d you move on from this though? Is it even possible?

Without a second though, he jumped to his feet and turned back to the house. He didn’t go in though. He merely leaned in and took ahold of the car keys hanging from the hook on the wall. He leaned back out of the house and closed the front door behind him before heading towards his car (thankfully not blocked in by Becky’s own vehicle for once). He unlocked the door with the key fob as he approached and jumped in as soon as he could. A second later and the key was in the ignition and the engine was purring like a kitten. Another second and reverse was selected and his foot on the accelerator. As he backed down the driveway he couldn’t help but notice Becky was standing there, at the bedroom window, looking out at him. He screeched the car to a halt only when it was in the road. His eyes fixed on her. Her eyes fixed on him. She was shaking her head as though she knew what was going through his mind. And she was right. She did know what he was thinking. Another second and first gear was selected, the clutch was dumped and accelerator pressed harder than strictly needed. The car wheel-spun down the road - half on purpose (showboating) and half because his temper had gotten the better of him. He wasn’t sure what else Becky was going to do about what had happened to her. He wasn’t sure what the police was going to do for her. Neither fact stopped him from not seeing the harm in going to the park himself. It would be getting dark soon. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d bump into someone lurking in the trees.

* * * * *

The burly man punched Becky in the face again. Her nose split open and she fell back to the muddy floor, from where he’d just picked her up having just hit her the first time. This time she didn’t try and get back up. It didn’t stop the man’s frenzied attacks though. A swift size twelve boot to her gut took the wind from out of her just as he’d planned. Gasping for air, like a fish out of water, he knew she’d stop with the struggling now. He quickly took the opportunity to look around him. Just because it was nighttime and late, it didn’t mean more people wouldn’t necessarily come on by. No one was there though. It was just the two of them - witnessed only by the park’s wildlife (which was out of sight anyway). He grabbed her by her throat, almost crushing it in the process and lifted her to her feet. She went with his direction until she was standing on tiptoe. Blood pouring from her broken nose, into her mouth. She tried to force the words past his hands, to her vocal chords, so she could beg for mercy but couldn’t. She braced herself for another punch or kick but neither came. Instead, the man marched her backwards towards the tree lines. She didn’t fight him. She’d learnt her lesson. As soon as they’d past the first of the trees, the man shoved her back. She tripped over her own feet and landed hard on the mud. Before she could even think about standing up and maybe making a run for it, the man was standing above her. His fists clenched. She didn’t try and run. She didn’t even try and scream out or beg for mercy. She knew none of those actions was going to help her.

The man dropped on top of her with one hand on her neck, squeezing hard enough to cause her eyes to bulge, whilst his spare hand went up her leg under her skirt and ripped violently at her thong, the flimsy material ripping with ease under his brute strength. He lifted his hand to his mouth and spat in it. A yellow ball of spit which he then rubbed into her cunt. He pushed her skirt up until it was bunched up just under her waist. Everything happened so quickly. He only loosened his grip on her for a second, when he was struggling with the buttons on his jeans. He freed his penis and pushed himself inside of her. She wheezed out in pain - a full moan wasn’t possible due to the hand tightening once more around her scrawny neck despite her own hands trying to loosen it just enough to let her get some air in.

The stranger didn’t care for her actions against his hand. He preferred that to her trying to claw his eyes out or scratch up his face. He concentrated on fucking her hard and fast. He wanted to savour the feeling of being inside her spit-lubed pussy but, at the same time, he wanted to be done quickly so as to be able to disappear back into the night before anyone else came along, if anyone else was going to come.

Mark closed his eyes as he stepped back from the trees, onto the path. It didn’t happen like that. It couldn’t have. She didn’t have any bruises - at least none on her face anyway. He couldn’t be sure about the rest of her body. The late nights and the mistaken atmosphere between the two of them meant he didn’t get to see her in a state of undress. When he was home, as opposed to being in the office, she came to bed with nightwear on which covered everything. Looking back, he couldn’t help but wonder whether these were hiding some marks of some description. He felt his eyes well up as his thoughts returned to what she had been feeling - whether there were bruises or not; the feeling of despair she must have been going through tore him up inside.

He cast his eyes downwards to some mud which looked as though it had been recently disturbed. Is this where it happened? he wondered. The chances of it being the exact spot were remote but he still managed to picture his wife lying there whilst a stranger fucked her. He shook the thoughts from his mind again. Fucking asshole. The street lamps, situated on the pathway, flickered into life as day time continued to turn into night. Now Mark was at the park, he had no idea what he was going to do. He couldn’t very well stand around all night, in the hope of bumping into someone who may or may not have raped his wife. Yet  at the same time,  he felt as though he had to do something and with his wife’s reluctance to talk to him, he felt this was his only option. He noticed a park bench, further down the path, next to one of the forks - one leading to the pond and the other leading to the city-side exit - and headed towards it. Wouldn’t hurt to sit down whilst he decided on what to do and where to go from here. And at least it stopped him from staring at the muddy floor, imagining his wife there helpless and alone.

He fished in his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. He hadn’t turned it on all day. He had meant to, after having the heart to heart with Becky, but her news (not being what he expected) took the wind out of his sails and he’d forgotten. He turned it on. Not because he wanted to talk to his bosses - if they called he wasn’t going to answer it - but because he wanted to see if Becky had tried to get hold of him. She saw him leave the house. She was there, shaking her head, so she must have known what was going through his mind. Maybe, seeing what he was thinking, now she wanted to talk more? Explain exactly what had happened so he could try and come to terms with it too? The phone found its signal. Full bars. Funny how he can get full signal in the middle of the park and yet, at home, he usually has one bar of service. Two at most. No messages came through. Neither voicemail or text. His heart sank a little. He knew she found it hard to talk about the events but she must have known it was important to open up about it; not only to help him understand what she was going through but also to get it off her own chest where it was obviously weighing heavily. He slid the phone back into his pocket, unsure of what his next move was going to be.

“Evening.”

The voice came from the darkness to his right. Mark twisted his neck and jumped when he saw a man was practically standing next to him - walking along the path with his hands in his long coat’s pocket. The middle-aged man smiled at him as he continued to walk down the path. He didn’t stop and wait for acknowledgement from Mark nor did it seem to bother him that he didn’t get any. Mark watched him for a while, as he continued down the path, before jumping up and following at a distance. This man, walking through the park alone, was he the one who had attacked his wife? Was he the one who’d fucked her whilst she lay there, in the mud, helpless? Mark quickened his pace as he felt his left fist clench.

Chapter Six

Detective Andrews jumped into his car and followed the ambulance as it sped towards the hospital. There was still work to be done at the crime scene but his partner was more than capable of taking care of it. In some respects he was probably more capable than Andrews himself as he continued to struggle with the violent images of the evening. So many thoughts were racing through his mind: the disappointment at failing the couple, remembering what his own wife went through and a general feeling that perhaps it was time to take retirement from the force. Find something else to do with his life. Something which didn’t haunt his dreams when he went home from a hard day or make him feel useless in a seemingly Godless world where he had no real say as to whether crime took place or not. Worse yet is when he does do his job and he does capture the bad guys, the justice system fails him and releases the bastards back onto the street where they - usually - continue doing what they were originally taken down for. The whole business made him feel sick to his stomach.

The ambulance took a left turn at the next street. Andrews tapped the brakes of his own car and followed,catching the back end of the car as he did so when it started to drift. Slow it down, Andrews. With his car back under control, his mind drifted back to Rebecca and Mark and the first time he had met them. More specifically, the first time he’d met the husband.

He was a state when he had walked into the police station that night. He was shouting the odds at everyone, demanding to know what was happening with his wife’s case. Andrews had introduced himself and suggested that he calm himself down so that they could look into it for him and talk things through. He offered him his hand to shake but he declined - just as he declined the hot drink on offer. Andrews wondered whether he’d declined to shake hands because of the state of Mark’s own hand; knuckles split open with drying blood over the top of them. He asked if he needed someone to take a look but Mark declined and slipped his hand into his trouser pocket; out of sight, out of mind. After that, he took Mark to one side and led him to a small interrogation room where they could talk without getting interrupted - and where they wouldn’t disturb anyone else should Mark start to raise his voice again.

As luck would have it, the officer, who’d come round to Mark and Becky’s house earlier in the day, had already spoken with Andrews about the case. He’d filled him in on all the details, including the frustrating information that the attack had happened some weeks ago and, just as importantly, the victim had thrown out all of the clothes.

Detective Andrews asked why it had taken so long for Mark’s wife to step forward over the attack. Mark told him that she was scared to talk about it. Reliving the events just caused her more upset and pain - something Andrews tended to hear a lot in cases such as these. It didn’t detract from the fact, though, that a conviction - if they found the man responsible, would be highly unlikely given the lack of evidence. Andrews explained that they’d release the sketch artist’s drawing once Becky had come down to the station as previously discussed with her to get it made up, and that they’d make an appeal for witnesses but, other than that, there wasn’t a lot they could do. With the lack of DNA evidence they could use and the fact that the park had extremely poor coverage with CCTV cameras on the various entrance points (which they would, of course, be checking just in case) - it had immediately put them on the back foot.

The ambulance turned another corner with Andrews hot on its tail still. Just a few more streets away from the Accident and Emergency department. He wondered what was happening in the back of that ambulance. He wondered if she was still fighting for her life or whether they’d managed to stabilise her yet. He’d seen enough death in his career to last ten lifetimes but, given the circumstances, he wasn’t sure which outcome would be the best for her.

Chapter Seven

The front door opened and Mark walked in. Becky was sitting on the stairs. She’d been there for a while, waiting for him, her husband, to get home after he had stormed out earlier. Mark closed the door. He just stood there - opposite her - neither of them knowing what to say to the other.

“Where have you been?” Becky asked, breaking the silence. Or attempting to at least. Mark didn’t answer her. He just stood there. An agitated look on his face. Becky noticed his hand. “You’re bleeding.” He hid his hand in his pocket. “What happened?”

Mark looked at her. He was mildly amused that she asked that, despite not telling him everything that’d happened to her. He changed the subject. “I was at the police station,” he said. Becky shifted uneasily on the stairs. “They told me.”

“Told you what?” she asked.

“Chances of a conviction are slim.” He wanted to be angry about it but struggled. At the end of the day, this had happened to her. He didn’t understand why she didn’t go straight to the police - fear or embarrassment? - but the thought of them not being able to bring the rapist to justice was unbearable. “You didn’t tell me.” He sighed. “If only you hadn’t thrown the clothes out, or you’d gone straight to the police when it happened...”

“I didn’t want people knowing. I didn’t want it splashed across the news or in the papers. People coming up to me asking how I’m feeling or what happened. I just wanted to forget about it. Forget it ever happened. Even my friends don’t know. They think I came home safely and woke up the following morning with a hangover. Now you’ve got the police involved though and they want me to go and give a statement, down at the station, along with a description of what the man looked like. I don’t want that. I don’t want to remember the exact details of that night. I don’t want to recall what his face looked like. I just want to put it behind me...”

“I don’t understand how you don’t want him caught, punished, for what he did to you.”

Becky started to cry, “I don’t want to be the victim.” And there it was. Just like that, Mark was able to understand why she hadn’t gone to the police and why she’d kept it to herself for so long. A strong woman, usually, broken by a chance run in with evil. Mark hurried across to where she was weeping on the stairs and put his arms around her. He remembered his words to her when she first broke down in front of him telling him what had happened: everything would be okay. He’d have to set aside his anger. He’d have to learn to forget what had happened to her and his urge to punish those responsible. For the sake of his marriage, he didn’t have a choice. They stayed in each other’s arms until Becky managed to get her tears under control and, when she had, she slowly pulled away from him.

Mark trod carefully but told Becky, “It might be a good idea to follow through with the police report - at least they can put you in touch with someone to talk to. Someone neutral, who’ll help you come to terms with what happened. I don’t need to hear what you say and you don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry I was pushy earlier. Just - the thought of that guy out there - it makes me feel sick. I want to hurt him. He hurt you.”

“I just want to forget about it. I want to move on with my life.”

“And I understand that but you’ve been struggling, understandably so, since it happened. You can’t do this alone and you shouldn’t have to. Talking to someone doesn’t make you the victim. It makes you the survivor.” Becky didn’t argue with him. She knew she couldn’t do it alone. She’d tried since the moment she managed to get herself home until the point she cracked and told Mark what’d happened. Someone to talk to would be good - just as Mark suggested and the police officer, from earlier that day, had already offered. “I love you,” Mark reassured her. Words he felt she needed to hear. “With all my heart.” As much as he knew she needed to hear them,  he needed the same reassurance but the words didn’t come. He didn’t question her love of him, despite wishing he were in a position to be able to. He let it go, figuring that when she was ready to say the words she would let him know and - at that stage - at least it would have been heartfelt as opposed to being spoken for the sake of it.

* * * * *

That evening, Mark suffered nothing but broken dreams. One minute he was standing on the landing whilst Becky told him what had happened to her and the next minute he was in the park beating down on the stranger who dared wish him a good evening. At about two o’clock in the morning he had already planned to phone in sick the next day. Not just because of his sleepless night - and the fact he felt emotionally drained - but because he knew Becky would still benefit from having him around, especially if she were going to follow through with a trip to the police station. She may not have wanted him in the room whilst she spoke to the officers in charge of the case, but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t have wanted him in the vicinity at least - close to hand to give her moral and emotional support when she’d finish in the interview room.

Mark lay there, in the blackness of the night, wondering what excuse he’d give the office. It would have helped if he knew what Chris had told the managers; that way he could simply build upon that story. After all, they didn’t need to know the truth. No one did. Not even Chris. He tossed and turned on his side of the bed, as quietly as he could so as not to wake Becky up, whilst hoping Chris would answer the phone again in the morning.

“Are you awake?” Becky’s hushed voice spoke out in the pitch black, breaking the eerie silence of the night.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t. I can’t sleep.”

They lay there in silence for a moment or two. He didn’t need to ask why she was struggling to sleep and there was nothing he could say which would encourage her to peacefully drift off.

“Me neither.”

There was another moment of silence.

Becky suddenly asked, “Are we going to be okay?”

“What?” Mark rolled over and flicked the switch on the bedside cabinet. “Why would you ask that?” He rolled over to look at Becky. She didn’t turn to face him. Instead she kept her back to him. Too scared to turn and face him.

“You might not want me - knowing what has happened...,” she said. Mark didn’t want to answer her. Not because he didn’t have an answer. He did. He loved her, just as he’d said before they went to bed. What that...man...did to her - that wouldn’t change anything and he couldn’t believe she’d even think that. She turned around and faced him. He could see the worry and stress in her tired eyes. He could see she needed an answer.

“I love you as much today as I did when I first met you. If not a little bit more. Nothing will change that. This is a speed bump, that’s it. What you’ve been through was horrible. I wish I could take it back. I wish I could make it go away but I can’t. But the worst bit - that’s over. From here on in, it’s all about getting over it. Together. You and me. Just as it’s always been. You hear me?” Becky nodded. A small smile spread across her face. He returned the smile. She cuddled into him and closed her eyes - a last minute attempt to get some sleep. He didn’t try and move away, even though he preferred his own space when he slept. He just held her and waited out the last few hours of the night. Tomorrow would be the first day of putting things straight. Piece by piece. Bit by broken bit.

Chapter Eight

Mark was up and dressed before Becky had even stirred when morning did finally break. He had even found the time to make the necessary phone call to work. The hospital was still running tests. Thankfully, it was Chris who’d answered the office phone again. It saved the trouble of having to explain everything again to someone else and he knew that Chris wouldn’t ask many questions even if he did doubt he was being told the truth. He did, however, mention that cut backs were starting to take place. A few people had already been called into the boss’ office and made redundant. This is a bad time was all Chris could say about the situation Mark found himself in. Mark didn’t care though. He’d given his all to that company and if they felt they needed to let him go because of a family emergency then so be it. He’d cross that bridge if and when it even happens.

With the phone call made, Mark sat downstairs in the kitchen - on one of the metal bar stools next to the breakfast area. In front of him were an untouched bowl of cereal and a (now) luke-warm cup of milky tea. He had no idea why he’d poured himself either the drink of the cereal. Eating was the last thing on his mind. Instead, his mind was fixated with getting Becky to the police station so she could get the interview out of the way. He figured, with that done, they could start planning on moving forward with their life. Start thinking about whether she wanted therapy for what’d happened. Maybe even think about a holiday - somewhere hot with a nice beach. Just get away for a while. Let the warm weather and relaxed atmosphere take away some of the stress. He knew it wouldn’t fix things but he figured it couldn’t hurt. They could both do with recharging their batteries a little. Sure, there wasn’t really a lot of money in their savings but - given the circumstances - he figured he could just put it on the credit card. Worry about the financial implications later. The digital clock on the oven changed to ten o’clock. Now was an acceptable time to wake her up. He realised she hadn’t had the best night’s sleep but neither had he and they had things to do. The sooner they got on with things, the sooner they could start to put it all behind her. He turned around and jumped when he saw Becky standing in the kitchen doorway.

“I didn’t hear you,” he said. She was standing there, in her dressing gown, with her hair all over the place. She looked as though she could’ve continued sleeping given half the chance. “How are you feeling?” he asked. A stupid question if ever there was one.

“I don’t want to go to the police station,” she said - ignoring his question.

“What?”

“I can’t.”

“You can. I’ll be with you.”

“We shouldn’t have spoken to them yesterday.”

“He’s still out there. As of now, he has gotten away with what he put you through. Do you want that? Do you want him to carry on living his life without a care in the world? Maybe even forcing himself on others too? Like you?”

“He took my driving licence!” Becky suddenly blurted out. Her words silenced Mark and they both stood there, for a brief moment, in silence.

“What do you mean?”

“He said that if I told anyone, he’d come to where I lived and kill my family. He said he could find me before they’d find him.” She looked as though she wanted to cry again but she forced back the tears.

“He threatened your family after raping you - and you don’t think this is a guy who needs to be brought to justice?”

“That’s not the point!” she said,her voice louder as though she’d suddenly just found it. “If we tell the police more information - give his description...He might come here. He might come to our home.”

“All the more reason to talk to the police! Let him come here! Let him try and hurt us! I’ll be ready. I want him to come here. I welcome it. I’ll even leave the front door open!” Mark felt his rage burning up within him again. Slowly building with no real control over it. The thought of the man daring to threaten the life of not only his wife but also himself, pushing him to the edge and re-awakening the want to hurt him. He noticed the concerned look on Becky’s face and tried to bring it down a level or two - realising his actions and anger weren’t helping either of them. “Look, we’ll go to the police, we’ll talk to them. Let them know what the man said and that he has your licence. We need to. I mean, what is to say he won’t come by here anyway? Even if you haven’t told anyone? Maybe for a second go?” He realised his words were nothing more than scaremongering and, even then, harsher than they needed to be. As soon as they escaped his mouth he felt cruel for planting the thought in her mind. She’d already been through enough and didn’t need him making it worse for her but enough was enough. This man needed to be caught. Sooner, rather than later. He continued in an effort to try and take a little bit of the worry from her mind (which he had put there in the first place), “If they think there’s a chance he’ll come here - they’ll place some officers outside. Keep watch on the place. Not only was he probably bluffing but, even if he wasn’t, he’d see the police cars outside and run in the opposite direction. Or, if he is really stupid, he’ll get himself caught. Either way - it’s a win.” He paused whilst he let the words of (little) comfort sink in her mind. “We need to do this.”

“Okay,” she said.

He smiled a slight smile of relief. It was far from over but getting her to the police station was the first step to slowly putting things right and that was as good a place as any to start.

“Okay?”

“Yes. I’ll go and get changed.” She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t move in for a hug. She just turned and walked from the room. Mark nodded to himself at a ‘job well done’ and settled back on the bar stool to wait for Becky to come back down.

* * * * *

The kitchen door, which lead onto the garden, opened slowly. There was a brief pause as the person, on the other side of it, waited to see if an alarm would be triggered. No alarm sounded. At least none that they could hear. They knew they’d have a little time before police were alerted to the break-in (and that was presuming the house was even protected with an alarm system in the first place). The intruder could relax, temporarily. There was no alarm system. And, even if there had been, Mark would have kept it off especially for this late night visitation. He didn’t want the two of them to be interrupted before he could do what needed to be done.

A black booted foot came in first. Muddy. Mark, on the other side of the kitchen, wondered whether it was mud from their garden or residue mud from the park following that night. He put it from his mind. Now isn’t the time to focus on such trivial matters. He tightened his grip around the kitchen knife firmly held in his left hand and braced himself. Just a few more seconds. The intruder, all in black with his face masked over, entered the house. Before the intruder had a chance to get his bearings, Mark screamed and charged at him. The man jumped and turned but had little time for anything else as Mark penetrated his stomach with the business end of the knife. A grunt omitted from his mouth as Mark continued to ram forward with the blade, a violent twist of his wrist to ensure the hole wouldn’t be able to heal over again when he was ready to remove the blade. The man dropped to his knees. Mark kept the knife firmly in his gut.

“Now!” he screamed.

Becky entered the room and flicked the light switch on. Before the intruder could react or even turn his head to see what was happening, she hit him with a frying pan. He fell to the side, helped by Mark, unconscious.

It wasn’t long before the intruder opened his eyes. He was still on the kitchen floor where he had originally landed. The only difference was that his mask was off, revealing the same ugly face that had looked upon Becky when he raped her, and his trousers were around his ankles. For a moment, Mark panicked that Becky had hit him too hard and he wasn’t going to regain consciousness. In their quick planning, of what they wanted to do, they didn’t factor that as a possibility. They both breathed a sigh of relief when he did come round. They wanted him dead but that would have been too easy.

The man gasped. He was trying to say something but the words wouldn’t come out. Either he’d lost too much blood from the hole in his gut, still filled with a knife to stem the flow enough to stop him from bleeding out too quickly, or the hit on the head had really taken its toll. Mark presumed he’d be trying to find out why his trousers were around his ankles and his pants were halfway down his legs. Mark smiled when he noticed the look in the dirty bastard’s eyes: fixated upon the scissors in Becky’s hand.

“You know what’s coming, don’t you?” Mark asked. The man tried to say something. Mark wondered whether Becky had been trying to say something when the sick fuck was sticking it in her. He turned to his wife who was standing by his side with a satisfied look upon her face. She hadn’t taken a lot of convincing to go with this plan. In fact, this part was all down to her. “You’d better make it quick if you want to get everything done. I’m not sure how much time he’ll have in him.”

“Please. Don’t!” The man struggled with the words as he realised what was about to come.

Becky ignored him. She leaned down, scissors in hand, and took a hold of the man’s deflated penis. She smiled as she put it between the blades of the scissors. Mark turned away. He was fine with what was to come but, as a man, he couldn’t watch this. A second later and he heard the scissors clamp shut and the man scream a truly agonising scream of pain. Mark didn’t want to turn around but couldn’t help doing so - now the initial cut was made, he wanted to see the look on the man’s face -nearly as much as Becky wanted to see it. Becky wasn’t done with the rapist though. She rolled him onto his front where immediately the blood began to pool underneath his body - across the tiles of the kitchen floor - and picked the man’s penis up from where it had landed.

“You’re not...,” Mark’s eyes grew wide with fascination. He knew what her intentions were despite not discussing this stage of the plan.

Becky laughed as she tried to push the man’s own shrivelled penis into his rectum. It wasn’t to be, though. It was too soft. She took it out and threw it to the side before taking a hold of the scissors again. She muttered something about thinking twice about raping anyone in the future before violently stabbing into the intruder’s backside with the scissors’ blade. The man screamed as Mark just stood there watching. Even he was surprised how far his wife was taking things - not that he minded. The man was getting exactly what he deserved.

* * * * *

“What are you doing?” Becky asked. She was standing in the kitchen doorway watching Mark making stabbing motions with the kitchen scissors. He realised she was watching and put the scissors down.

“Ready?” he asked, changing the subject. She was dressed in jeans and a tee shirt with a cardigan. Casual yet, despite the sleepless night, still pretty. No doubt helped by the fact she had plastered on layers of make-up to disguise the rings around the eyes. Perks of being a woman. Mark just had to make do with how he looked and - today - he looked like Hell.

“I feel sick,” she said.

“Just nerves.”

Chapter Nine

The ambulance turned into the drop-off area at the hospital, leaving Detective Andrews no choice but to drive on to the nearby car park to try and find a parking space. At this time of night it wouldn’t be too much of a problem as visiting hours were long since over and the  friends and relatives of the staying guests would have gone home.

He didn’t so much as park his car but abandon it instead, driving nose first into the first available spot he chanced upon and slamming on the brakes. The car skidded to a halt - helped by hitting the barrier in front of it (thankfully, for Andrews, not quite hard enough to do any real damage to his car, not that he cared at this particular moment). He jumped from the car, slammed the door shut and hurried towards the Accident and Emergency department without stopping long enough to lock his vehicle. There was nothing worth stealing in there anyway.

He hurried across the car park and into the Accident and Emergency’s reception.

“Rebecca Stephens - where did they take her?”

“Are you family?” the receptionist asked. She turned to her computer and put in the patient’s name when Andrews flashed his police badge from his coat pocket. No notes on the system yet - unsurprisingly - so the red-haired receptionist picked up the telephone to make a call. Andrews turned to look at the rest of the patients, waiting to see doctors and nurses, in the waiting area. The usual crowd you’d find in casualty at this time of night - mostly made up of drunks who’ve tripped and hurt themselves or got into fights with other equally-inebriated clubbers. He remembered his days, all those years ago, when he worked as a bobby on the beat. It was his job removing these dicks from the public, charging them with drunk and disorderly charges or encouraging them to go home before getting themselves charged. Easier days to what he was used to seeing now but as equally frustrating. Sometimes he wished he could just close his front door and never venture out of his house again but, despite not wishing to see anymore atrocities as witnessed tonight, even that was an option he struggled with. There were too many memories in that damned place. He should have taken the chance to sell up and find somewhere else to live when he took the time away from work.

“Excuse me?” the pretty red-head called out to him. He turned to face her. “They’ve taken her straight into theatre. If you’d like to take a seat they’ll let you know as soon as she is out.”

Detective Andrews thanked the receptionist. He wanted to know how likely it was that Rebecca was going to pull through but he knew she wouldn’t have the answer. Even if she were one of the ones doing the operation, she still wouldn’t have wanted to commit to an answer anyway. Just in case something went wrong. The worst thing you could do, in this profession, was promise someone that a patient was out of the woods now. It was like tempting fate. Begging for something to go wrong. You promised they’d be fine, the distraught relatives would shout when the news was broken to them.

Andrews sat down on one of the empty chairs against the wall. He never liked sitting out in the open - whether it was in a restaurant, pub or (in this case) a waiting room of some description - he’d always choose the chair which allowed him to have his back to the wall: a fear of people sneaking up on him, no doubt brought about by the job. Sitting next to him was a young girl of about eight years of age. She looked as though she’d been crying and she was clutching onto a doll. Her mother was sitting next to her. Detective Andrews caught the young girl’s eye and gave her a smile. She didn’t smile back, just looked at him with misty pale blue eyes. So much pain in those eyes. He wasn’t sure what she’d been through that night and didn’t ask but he couldn’t help but think of her as another lost soul in a world consumed by bad happenings. Had it not felt inappropriate to do so, he would have offered her one of the mints that he kept in his pocket - an old habit since resuming smoking again - as a way of showing her that not everything in this world is so bad. He looked around the rest of the room; drunks, drug addicts, a homeless person seeking refuge from the cold outside (hiding away from security in the corner of the room), and a couple of people (like the girl) who must have had some kind of accident or be suffering from an ailment of some description. The majority of the room, though, looked to be scum. His mind wandered back to thoughts of retirement. When you look around a relatively small room and see mostly assholes, and people you wouldn’t give a shit about if they died, it was time to reevaluate what he was doing with his life. Not that he really knew what else he could do with it, if he did retire. Regardless, it seemed fairly obvious to him now that there was little point in trying to help people anymore. He should have realised after his wife. He guessed something inside of him, somewhere, didn’t want him losing faith in humanity. Now, though, now he realised there was little point in trying to save it. The damage was done. The damage was irreversible. For every good person out there, there were at least ten bad. And that’s why he guessed he was so desperate for Rebecca to be okay. He still wasn’t sure how someone he had failed had managed to get so close to touching his own soul but he didn’t care. He just hoped, above all else, that she’d be okay. If she died, then the last bit of hope he carried would fade away with her.

His weary eyes fixed upon the analogue clock on the far wall, above the head of the pretty receptionist. Nearly two in the morning now. His mind drifted to the thought of Rebecca. How long had she been there, lying in the blood? How much of that blood was her own and how much was the blood of the person lying face down in the middle of the room? Clearly more was their blood but...even so...she must have lost a lot too.

Please, God, just for once - give me a break. Let her be okay.

Chapter Ten

The analogue clock above the desk sergeant's head continued to slowly tick away each passing second of Mark’s life. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Mark shifted in his chair. His arse had gone numb about twenty minutes ago and that was forty minutes after first sitting in the chair in the waiting area.

Becky had gone with a police officer to give an official statement as to what had happened, at least as much as her memory would allow her to recall. Mark hoped she’d give them a good enough description that they’d be able to turn around and say how the man was known to them. If the man was known, Mark hoped that maybe a conviction would have been more likely even though there was no real evidence to speak of. He dismissed the idea; not because he didn’t like the idea of the man getting caught and dealt with accordingly (especially know what they do to rapists in prison) but because he didn’t want to get his hopes up just to have some technicality, in a courtroom, piss all over them.

To keep his brain focused on other things, he leaned across to a small wooden coffee table in the corner of the room not too far from where he was seated and picked up one of the many magazines scattered across the top of it. Various selections including car magazines and celebrity gossip magazines. Most of them appeared to be well-thumbed issues from a few months previous.

He had barely flicked halfway through the tatty magazine when the door  to his right  opened and his wife was led out by a uniformed officer. Mark threw the magazine down and jumped to his feet.

“How’d it go?” he asked as he put his arms around her. She looked pale. Her eyes were pink - a sure sign she’d been crying.

“I just want to go home,” she said as she pulled away. She started towards the exit. Mark turned to the officer and nodded a thank you in his direction. The officer smiled back and walked away in the opposite direction. By the time Mark turned back to Becky, she was already out of the door.

* * * * *

The radio was the only thing stopping the car from being completely silent on the way home. Chart music played quietly in the background with the occasional interruption by the excitable presenter. Mark was concentrating on the road and unsure of what to say  after seeing the mood Becky was in back at the police station. Occasionally he turned to her, if only to make sure she was okay, but she didn’t acknowledge him; she just kept staring out of the car’s passenger window, watching the world rush by as they travelled down the motorway.

Mark couldn’t take the silence anymore and spoke out, “I was thinking - how about a holiday? Just the two of us? Somewhere hot? I’m thinking white sandy beaches and blue waters - the sort of water where you can walk for miles and you’re still only waist deep in it. Little fish swimming around you of all different colours? Go all inclusive so we can have butler service from our sun loungers? What do you say? I think it would be good for the both of us just to get away for a while...And before you say anything - it can go on the card. It’s practically zero balance on there and it’s been a while since we’ve treated ourselves. It’ll be nice.” He waited for a response but nothing came. He turned to her and couldn’t help but wonder whether she’d even heard him, what with the way she was still staring out of the window. Was this normal behaviour for someone who’d been through what she had been through? he wondered. “Honey? You hear me?”

“I have to go to the hospital,” she said. Her tone was very matter of fact. There was no fear, no apprehension, hardly any emotion at all. She slowly turned to look at Mark. He took his eyes off the road for a second to meet her gaze. “They said I needed to have some tests done. Check for diseases or infections because the sex was unprotected.” She didn’t wait for a response. She turned her gaze back to looking out of the window again.

Mark felt a sick feeling deep within his gut. Until she had mentioned it, Mark hadn’t thought about whether the guy wore protection or not. He’d certainly been too pre-occupied with thoughts about how Becky was feeling, what she went through, and how much he wanted to hurt the fuck who had dared touch her than to give a thought to the possibility of sexually transmitted infections. He swallowed the feeling down. She didn’t need to worry about how he was feeling. She had enough to think about. Besides, if she knew what he was feeling now  there was a possibility she could stop talking to him in the future about other important information which needed sharing, and that he didn’t want. Or did he? Mark couldn’t help but think back to when he thought she was cheating on him. The feelings he felt back then were a lot simpler to deal with than the mixed bag he was contending with now. Don’t be selfish! he told himself.

“They phoned the hospital for me and booked me in for an appointment. I just need to wait for it to come through. Could be a week or two.”

Mark wanted to say something to her. He wanted to reassure her that everything was going to be okay and he was sure the results would all come back clear but he couldn’t bring himself to let the words spill from his mouth. The dirty bastard who did this to her? He could be carrying anything. Anything and everything. They both knew it. And - God - what if she did come back as carrying something? It could be one of the big nasties which don’t have the luxury of a cure, only medication which prolongs a life. A life filled with a daily intake of pills. Of course he’d stand by her but...He shook the thought from his mind. Cross that bridge if it needs to be crossed. He tried again to talk to Becky, to reassure her that everything would be okay, but all he could manage was, “I’ll give you a lift if you want. When the appointment comes through...”

They both fell into a silence again. An uncomfortable, lingering silence. No doubt playing through the various scenarios in their mind as to what would happen if the results showed anything unpleasant flowing through her possibly tainted bloodstream. Mark’s eyes fixed, unblinking, on the road. Becky’s eyes fixed on some leaflets she pulled from her jacket pocket; various pamphlets showcasing the different support groups which were available - and actively pushed - for her.

* * * * *

Another sleepless night with the occasional broken, twisted dream for both Rebecca and Mark. Another phone call from Mark to his office when morning did finally come around and another excuse as to why he’d be absent for the third day in a row.

“Everything okay?” Chris asked, having thankfully answered the phone again when Mark called in.

“It will be,” said Mark. He and Chris went back a long way; They had been friends for more years than he could remember. He wanted to tell Chris. Not because he felt the need to gossip. He just needed someone to talk to about everything that was going on. All these doors, for support, had been opened for Becky but - so far - no doors had been opened for him. At least not that he had heard about. There were probably support groups for people in his shoes; they just weren’t as obvious.

“You need me to swing by with anything? Bread or milk?” Chris offered.

Mark couldn’t help but laugh. “No - we’re fine thank you.” The excuse was that Becky wasn’t very well and needed his help to look after her. His excuse didn’t stop him from getting out of the house if need be. He appreciated the offer, though. At least it showed that his friend was still there for him.

“Well if you change your mind - give me a ring.”

Mark turned the conversation away from them, “How are things there?”

“Want me to lie?” He paused. “It’s bad. Few more people are gone but, you know, those of us who are left are working as hard as we can to keep things afloat. There’s even talk about moving to a new premises - a smaller one on the edge of town.” Mark didn’t say anything, he just listened. He knew his current time off was going to seriously harm his chances of staying within the company, especially as redundancies were coming thick and fast, but he’d put his marriage first. “I suppose,” Chris continued, “we should be grateful they’re trying everything they can to stay open. They could have just given up and closed down months ago when the tables first turned.”

“I suppose. Listen, sorry, I have to go. We’ll talk later though, yeah?”

“Sure. You take care and send my love to Becky.”

“Will do.” Mark hung up. He didn’t have to dash off immediately. Becky was still upstairs getting ready. He’d just had enough of all the depressing talk especially considering there was nothing he could do about it. Not from home. Not whilst he was worrying about his wife.

Chapter Eleven

Mark’s mobile phone was vibrating across the coffee table in the lounge where he was sitting, thumbing through the different leaflets the detective in charge of the case had given to his wife the previous day. He’d heard the phone. Even went to answer it until he recognised the caller ID on the screen as being the office. Had it not been for his dark mood, brought on by the reading material, he would have possibly answered the call. Now wasn’t the time to speak to his bosses though. Not in this frame of mind. Various snippets of information warning the readers how they could be viewed in a negative light as some sectors of society liked to blame the victim for being attacked in the first place. She had asked for it. She provoked it. The leaflet was offering group therapy, as well as one-to-one sessions for the readers to try and teach them how to cope with this negativity. She was raped. She had a man violate her. The worst kind of attack. And now she’d need to put up with people accusing her of asking for what’d happened? How was that fair? The leaflet did say that, lately, opinions towards the victims were changing for the better but you’d always find some out there who were stuck with past beliefs. Mark closed the leaflet and threw it onto the table. No wonder Becky didn’t want to step forward and say what’d happened to her that night.

“Who keeps calling you?” Becky asked from the doorway. Just as she’d made Mark jump yesterday, when he waited in the kitchen for her, she made him jump again today.

“The office. Probably want to find out when I’ll be going back in.”

“You could go in today,” Becky said. “I’ll be fine here.”

Mark shook his head. “I don’t want to. Maybe tomorrow. We’ll see.” He paused. “Have you spoken to your work?” He knew the answer. He just hoped that, by bringing it up, she may have felt the need to call in and let them know what was happening. Maybe not the truth, just as he had hidden the truth from his own workers, but something - at least - to let them know she was okay and when, roughly, she’d be likely to be back.

“I haven’t spoken to anyone.”

He didn’t hesitate, “Maybe you should. You don’t have to tell them what has been happening exactly but you need to tell them something. Want me to call them? I could say you’re in hospital, or something? At least that way you won’t lose your job or be in trouble when you do go back.”

“I’m not sure when I’m going back....”

“And I’m not rushing you back but if you leave them hanging without so much of a word, they may think you’ve just walked out.” Mark had walked out of enough jobs in his life, mainly when he was in his teens, to know how employers worked. They wouldn’t be able to take her from the system immediately but, at the same time, they wouldn’t keep her on there indefinitely. He also knew that if she’d been behaving at work, as she had at home before he had found out what happened to her, then people would have noticed a change in her attitude. Just as he’d put it down to her possibly having an affair, they could have put it down to her suddenly not enjoying her job as much as she used to. “Did you want me to call them?”

“Do what you want!” Becky snapped and walked from the room. Mark didn’t chase after her. Clearly she needed her space. To try and take that away from her could possibly damage any chance they had of getting over this whole nasty incident. She’d come back to him when she was ready. He hoped.

He leant forward and collected his phone from the table, even though it had stopped vibrating. A voice-mail message flashed up on the screen, at the press of a button. He dialed 1-2-1 to retrieve it. The voice of his boss, Elliot North, asking if he had any idea as to when he’d be back to work and whether there was anything they could do for him, or Rebecca. The last part of the message seemed to be an afterthought. The purpose of the call wasn’t to offer support. It was to simply find out when Mark would be returning. Tomorrow, he guessed. If Becky needs a bit of space to come to terms with things on her own, maybe tomorrow would be a good day to go back to work. If she needed him, all she’d have to do is call him up and he’d come running. He nodded to himself as though agreeing with his own thought. Tomorrow.

He opened up a text conversation between Chris and himself and typed out a new message on his mobile’s touch-sensitive screen:

Can you let Elliot know - at hospital, can’t talk. Will be back tomorrow. Thanks.

He turned his mobile off. He didn’t need to read a response and he couldn’t be bothered with any further interruptions. Not until he had thumbed through all of the leaflets Becky had been given. See what options were available to her and - rather selfishly - if anything offered him any help and advice.

INTERLUDE

Detective Andrews sat in front of one of the psychiatrists the force had appointed him after the tragedy. It had been a week since their last meeting and over a month since the passing of his wife.

“How have you been doing, Martin?” asked the psychiatrist, a middle-aged woman by the name of Delilah Hammond.

“Same as the last time you asked,” said Andrews. The appointments with the psychiatrist weren’t his idea. If it were down to him, he’d be happy staying in his small house with the door firmly locked - keeping the outside world out of his private life. With the door shut, nothing could hurt him. Nothing could invade his privacy. These appointments were all down to his Captain who thought it a good idea to help him deal with his grief. Martin Andrews, temporarily not Detective Andrews called ‘bullshit’ but went along with the appointments anyway. Besides, in some sick way, he enjoyed the chats with Dr. Delilah Hammond. Dark brown hair, subtle make-up - she was pretty. She was also married but that didn’t bother Andrews. He wasn’t looking for a new wife, or even a date. Just some banter to help make him feel alive again. “How have you been doing?” And just like the previous appointments, Dr. Delilah Hammond didn’t humour him. She simply smiled and jotted something down on the pad resting on her lap.

“How are you getting on with the medication I prescribed?” she continued. After their first meeting, when Martin broke down in front of her (overcome with grief), she prescribed citalopram in an effort to help him.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Without any words, he fished a green prescription slip from within and threw it on the coffee table which separated the two of them.

“I don’t want pills,” he said. “I want justice.”

Dr. Hammond shifted in her chair. In her line of work she was used to seeing people who didn’t actually want to see her in the first place but it didn’t stop it from frustrating her any less. It didn’t matter what she’d tell them - they all perceived her to be the bad person - but that wasn’t the case. She wanted to help them. In whatever way she could. And, in this instance, she thought a small dose of antidepressant might help whilst Detective Martin Andrews came to terms with what had happened.

She knew what he was referring to when he mentioned justice. He was talking about the man responsible for the death of his wife and unborn baby. Even if she hadn’t had access to the case notes regarding Andrews’ situation, she’d seen it all over the news; both in papers and on the television. Some crazy serial killer who sculpted his victims into works of art. Andrews had found him but all too late and he paid the ultimate price. Some people blamed his lack of competence with regards to how he handled the case. Had he done his job properly and found the psychopath sooner, the killer would have never have gotten so close to him. Certainly not close enough to be able to do that. Detective Andrews failed his wife. He failed society. And then the justice system failed him by sending the murderer to a psychiatric unit instead of a prison where some believed he really belonged. Whilst the real murderer was receiving treatment for whatever mental illness they rightly, or wrongly, labelled him with, Detective Andrews found himself unfit to work and staring at the bottom of an empty bottle of whiskey most nights.

Dr. Hammond looked at Martin. He had a defiant look in his eyes and she knew that he’d not bother with any advice or suggestions she may have put his way. She set aside her pad onto the coffee table next to the prescription note and smiled at him, “We don’t have to do this if you don’t find it of benefit. If there’s something you’d rather be doing, or drinking, then there’s the door - feel free to use it. Let me get on with trying to help people who actually want my help...,” Her sudden change in attitude caught Andrews’ attention. “But don’t forget - you need me to sign off on your case enabling you to go back to work and I can’t do that if you refuse to work with me. Do you understand?” Now it was Andrews who was shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“Look, I lost my wife in tragic circumstances, I don’t need medication to get over that. I need time. All of this - this is pointless. Can’t you just sign the damned papers?”

“And if I did that I wouldn’t be doing my job.”

“Be our secret.” He could tell by the expression on the doctor’s face that she wasn’t going to budge. Here was a woman - a professional - who wanted to do things by the book. “What do you want me to say?” he asked after a few moments of silence.

“Whatever is on your mind.”

“You want me to talk about how I failed her?”

“Your wife?”

“Yes. You want me to talk about how I should have concentrated more on my home life than what was happening at work? Should have taken time to think about my wife a little more? Maybe, had I done so, things would have had a different outcome. But I can’t turn the clock back, can I? I can’t right that wrong. It’s something I have to live with so forgive me if I don’t want to do that with various medications flooding my system...” Delilah didn’t say anything. She just let Martin talk. Her training taught her that, sometimes, this was the best way. Let him get everything off his chest in one outburst and then work back through the points systematically. A single tear rolled from Martin’s left eye. He wiped it away, hoping the psychiatrist hadn’t noticed. She had.

Dr. Holland leant forward in her chair. She picked the pad up from the table to make some notes and - at the same time - pushed a small box of tissues towards her patient, expecting the flood gates to open at any given moment. To her surprise, no further tears came. Just the one solitary tear which gave hint of emotion. She scribbled a note down on her pad and turned her attention back to Martin.

“But what’s the point in getting emotional over something I can’t fix? What’s done is done. No point crying over spilt milk etcetera etcetera. I’m upset, yes, but ultimately I’ll be fine. I’ll get over it. I’ll move on with my life and remember her in any way I see fit. That’s what we do. We move on and I just want to get back to work and continue locking up as many of these sick fucks as I can. It’s too late for my family but it doesn’t mean it’s too late for other families. Well...Theoretically. All the time you’re not signing me fit for duty you’re keeping a good detective from doing his job and giving the assholes more free reign of our already polluted city.”

Andrews knew he’d eventually get over what’d happened. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow but one day he’d be able to forgive himself for not being able to stop it. There was no sense trying to rush that sense of forgiveness using inane chats with psychiatrists. When he was ready, he’d be able to move on. In the meantime, rightly or wrongly, he just wanted to get back to work. Get back to work and help clean the shit from the streets. It was what he’d done for the past twenty years, give or take, of his life and it was what he was usually good at. Of all the cases he had dropped the ball on, it was this one which had hit home the hardest. He also knew - and this was the important bit to him – that what had happened with his wife would drive him to be a better police officer. He’d be more determined to close the cases and surely that could only be a good thing?

Chapter Twelve

Becky broke down in floods of tears when she tried to tell Mark. So many tears, she struggled to get the words to come from her mouth. Not that they were really needed. He knew what she was trying to say. The small, white plastic stick held firmly in her shaking hand did the talking for her and even if it hadn’t, it was only confirming what she’d already been told at the hospital, after one of the many blood tests she’d had taken. She was pregnant. A sentence which should have brought joy to the recently married couple as opposed to the initial feelings of disappointment and resentment they felt - not that Mark would admit to the emotions himself. Becky didn’t need to hear that. He could tell by her pained tears that she was struggling enough. And why wouldn’t she be? She was the one who had been violated after all. She was the one who had been raped. When she had gone to the hospital for the varied tests, they both secretly worried about the possibilities of her catching something from the asshole who’d attacked her. Neither of them had given a second thought to the chances of her being pregnant. Some people try for years to have a baby, if not longer, and yet here she was, pregnant after one forced penetration. What were the chances? Despite the doctor telling her about the pregnancy, for some reason it hadn’t really sunk it. Not until she had done the test herself in her own home. The plastic stick just reiterated what she’d already been told. Another step further to confirm it. Up until this point, neither of them had really spoken about that aspect of the test results. Instead, they’d focused on the news that it looked as though she was clear from infections or diseases, even though she’d need further testing several weeks down the line just to be sure. They didn’t want to talk about the pregnancy though. It wasn’t something which could easily be brought into conversation without reminding them as to what had happened. It’s one thing hearing you haven’t been infected by someone who forced themselves upon you but it was quite another to contemplate the fucker’s sperm had managed to impregnate you when your husband’s own sperm had failed before.

Becky dropped to her knees and wailed. The positive pregnancy kit slipped from her hand and hit the carpet of their bedroom with a soft thud, the thick beige carpet absorbing most of the impact. Mark  rushed to her side. He put an arm around her and pulled her close and gave her  a kiss on the forehead. She was telling him, over and over again, that she was sorry and that she’d get rid of it. He told her not to be silly. He told her that none of this had been her fault, doing his best to dismiss the feelings of disappointment and resentment he had previously experienced. She hadn’t asked for what had happened. He whispered to her that maybe the pregnancy could be the only good thing to come from the atrocities which had fallen upon her. He struggled with the thought but maybe there was some truth to it? They’d been trying for a child but were unable to conceive; more to the point, he was unable to. A low sperm count, the doctors had informed him after a series of tests a little over a year ago when they’d been trying for a child of their own, with the chance of a child being highly unlikely. He remembered the look upon her face when she found out about his infertility. A look he’d never forget - just as the look, now, would be one he’d remember for the rest of his years too, despite his best wishes to lose it in the depths of his subconscious. He whispered to her again that this could be a blessing in disguise. He said that they’d talk about it. He went further and said it could wait for another day though, as now all he wanted to do was hold her close to him and show her that he was there for her. And the baby.

Mark held Becky. He was worried. Not because of the pregnancy. He meant what he said - they could talk about that another day. Small steps. He was worried because of the potential harm this could do towards her long, hard road to recovery, especially as life was slowly getting back to normal. Slowly. He had returned to work and so had she (on a part-time basis after a confidential conversation with her superiors). She had even been attending some therapy sessions which she told Mark had helped. In fact, the only thing that hadn’t been of any use to them so far was the police, not that they were entirely to blame for their shortcomings. It was entirely possible it could have been a different outcome entirely had the crime been reported immediately. And it wasn’t as though they weren’t doing anything. They had created a mug shot, using Becky’s description, to try and find the culprit  and released it to the media  but so far, nothing had come from it.

* * * * *

“Maybe we could use a sperm donor?” Mark suggested. Just as he’d feared, Becky hadn’t taken the news of his infertility very well. Now the (bad) results were in from his fertility test, he couldn’t help but think it may have been a good idea to get tested before they both set their hearts on having a child, or children, together. They’d been trying for a number of months now and although they knew it could take years, something inside told them to get tested. Becky’s results came back first and were positive. Mark’s results less so. The same could be said for the second batch he had analysed just for his own peace of mind.

“I don’t want to use a donor,” Becky snapped. “I want yours.”

Mark wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of using another man’s sperm either but if it meant giving Becky and himself the child they yearned for,  perhaps it was for the best? He could see Becky was starting to get upset. He knew she would and it was taking everything he had not to get upset too. He was the one who suggested a baby in the first place. The idea was his seed. And now he felt as though he was letting them both down,  although he was more concerned with letting his wife down. Other couples had broken down in situations like this and drifted apart. Of course he was going to fear the same outcome for their relationship.

“We could adopt?” he suggested.

Becky shook her head. “It’s not the same. There must be something we can do,” she continued.

Mark shrugged. The doctor offered him leaflets, as they always did, and they started to talk about options but Mark hadn’t listened. He’d simply walked out, too upset to continue talking about it. Not only could he not provide his beautiful wife with a baby of her own but, foolishly, he felt as though he was less of a man. He felt inferior to his friends who’d gone on to have their own little families.

* * * * *

As Mark continued to cradle Becky in his arms, the positive pregnancy kit on the floor next to them, he couldn’t help but picture the stranger’s sperm swimming inside of her in graphic cartoon style: small white tadpole, evil grin on its face, powering towards an egg screaming for mercy before breaking inside of it. He closed his eyes and tried to push the thoughts from his mind. If this was going to work, the two of them raising the child as their own, he’d need to come to terms with what had happened fast. He’d need to forget about it. As mentioned to Becky, he’d need to take this situation as the one and only positive outcome from this whole fucked-up situation. They’d need to work together to make the child their own and not a constant symbol of what had happened.

Easier said than done.

Just take one day at a time. Each in turn. Keep up with the therapy (on Becky’s part), keep pushing at work to stay afloat (on Mark’s part). Take each day as it comes.

Chapter Thirteen

Andrews was sitting in the hospital waiting room, patiently waiting for some news on what was happening with Mrs Stephens. His foot was tapping impatiently upon the hard floor, much to the unseen annoyance of the person opposite him. His mind was playing back his own foolish inner thoughts which had come to him in the psychiatrist’s office; because of what happened to him he’d be a better police officer. He’d wipe more of the shit from the streets. Yet here he was, today, waiting for news on someone he’d failed.

His mobile phone kept vibrating in his jacket pocket. He didn’t bother checking it. He had checked it the first time - it was his captain, no doubt wondering why he promptly left the crime scene - and wasn’t in the mood for talking. Hell, had he been forced to talk, he’d have probably quit right there and then. Seconds after the phone stopped ringing, it vibrated again to let him know he had a voice-mail message waiting for him. That too could wait until he was in a better frame of mind. Better yet, he thought, just delete the fucking thing.

He shifted impatiently on his chair, frustrated at the lack of information with regards to what was going on. How long does this fucking take? He stood up and made his way past the other waiting visitors towards the receptionist.

“Hello - can you tell me - is Mrs Stephens out of theatre yet? Have you heard anything?”

The receptionist didn’t say anything. She simply slid her wheeled chair across to the computer screen at the other side of her desk and keyed in some information. Andrews guessed she was looking up the details he had requested. With the receptionist’s lack of communication,  there wasn’t much else he could do.

She looked over to him, “There’s nothing on the system so she must still be in surgery.” Detective Andrews sighed. He wanted to know how long it was going to take but realised that there was little point in asking such a question. The receptionist wouldn’t have the answer and she certainly wouldn’t call the theatre to ask them such a stupid question when they were busy trying to save someone’s life. “If you’d like to take a seat, we’ll let you know when...” Andrews held his hand up to silence the receptionist. He realised, when he did it, that it was rude but she wasn’t exactly the most polite or professional person he’d ever encountered so he wouldn’t be losing any sleep over it. Not that he really slept at the moment.

He returned to his chair and leant his head back against the wall before closing his eyes. He wasn’t going to drift off to some peaceful slumber but it did help him block out the harsh reality of the world as made evident by the various casualties sitting around the room patiently waiting their turn to see a doctor or nurse. The only positive, if there was such a thing, to come from the night was the realisation he wasn’t ready to come back to work. Not even that. He was ready. He just didn’t want to. Enough was enough. No matter how hard he tried to right the many wrongs (even working on them twenty-four hours a day), he realised that - what he did - it would never be enough. Despite only wanting the best for people, he realised he’d always be on the losing side. And when that thought came to his mind (and he was unable to shake it) he realised it was game over. The bad guys had won and there was no way back, not that he was trying very hard to find such a path back to a life he’d sooner leave behind. However, leaving that life behind also presented other problems. Namely - what would he do with his retirement? So much time running around on the force he hadn’t really made many friends, as made evident by the lack of support after his wife’s passing; he didn’t have much family alive and he’d never settled into any hobbies. He just worked. A passing thought saw him wistfully thinking he could swap places with the body, lying in its own pool of blood, back at the house. At least everything would be easier.

He hated that he felt so negative but that’s the attitude the world he’d worked with had pushed him to. Not just since what’d happened to his wife either. He’d been feeling it for a long time. Longer than he could remember. Certainly from before he met Benton, the bastard who’d taken his wife from him, and - he guessed -  it was part of the reason he wasn’t able to tell his wife he loved her despite knowing it was what she wanted – and needed - to hear.  The negativity had taken over him. Funny the things you realise, all but too late. And funnier still where you are when you realise them. As he sat there, waiting to hear if Mrs Stephens was going to pull through or not, he contemplated phoning Delilah. They’d not spoken for a number of weeks now. Not since she’d signed him back to work. Maybe she was right to offer him the medication on their first appointment? And the phone call to her now - well maybe now was the time to accept the pills. Admit defeat. After all - hardly likely things could get better. Not now.

Chapter Fourteen

Becky was driving Mark’s car. Mark had offered but she wanted him to have the chance to have a celebratory drink, something she couldn’t do in her condition. Tonight was the first time the two of them had actually made plans to go out together since that night. It had been a couple of months now. They had discussed the idea of keeping the baby - both together, and as a couple in a joint session with Becky’s therapist - and had agreed to look at it as a positive to what’d happened. Don’t think of it as his baby but rather think of it as their baby. The only way Mark had managed to come to terms with it was by picturing it as his own baby; somehow, he’d successfully got his wife pregnant before the attack happened. It just so happened they found out after the attack. By thinking like this, the baby was definitely his. As well as plans with the baby, their life was still slowly getting back on track. Piece by piece, things were gradually falling back into place where they’d originally fallen from. Mark’s work had picked up (although still not perfect) and Becky had even managed to get back to full time employment. And the thought of Becky becoming a mother to her own child - it seemed to give her a new sense of purpose. A purpose that she had taken a hold of with both hands. One which she refused to let go of; another reason Mark managed to come to terms with what was growing inside of her and how it got to be in there.

The police hadn’t spoken to them for a while now but they hadn’t chased them up either. They realised, quite early on, there was little point in chasing them. If they had any news, anything to share, they’d have been in touch. No news of the rapist had come to light, no news of further attacks in the park.  It was as though he were a ghost who had simply vanished  into the night never to be seen again, not that anyone missed him. And just as the police hadn’t heard a whisper from the rapist, or people who may have known or seen him, neither had Becky heard anything from him after his threat to visit her house should she have reported him to the authorities.

“Are you sure we can afford this?” she asked. She was referring to the choice of restaurant Mark had chosen for their night out together: a nice Italian restaurant, on the edge of town, which was known for its most excellent food and service as well as its ridiculously high prices. Prices which Mark felt were fair due to the first two reasons the restaurant was known for. “I don’t mind if you want to go somewhere else? We could go to that pub again...”

“This is the first time we’ve been out for as long as I can remember and I want to treat my wife.” He smiled at her. “Besides - you can’t drink so that’ll save me some money,” he laughed. The restaurant’s pricey wine list went hand in hand with the expensive food.

Becky laughed and patted her stomach. “You forget I’m eating for two.”

“Shit.” He paused for a moment. “How’s about a Happy Meal at McDonalds?”

“Ooh, a meal and  Bubba’s first toy? Should I turn the car around?”

“Tempting. Is this one of those tricks women do? They say one thing but they mean another? So...I say yes let’s go and grab a burger and you end up sulking with me? Like the time when we were first dating and you told me you didn’t believe in Valentine’s Day but, when it came around and I hadn’t got you anything, you sulked for two days solid. In fact, until I bought you some flowers I believe...”

“Do you want to risk it?”

“Actually,  I think I’m more in the mood for Italian tonight. Burger another day?”

“That sounds nice!” Becky laughed. It was good to hear her laugh. It had been too long. Even with her doing so much better recently, Mark still hadn’t heard her laugh - nor had he expected to.

“I mean, I’m sure the kid can go without a few nappies for a while. At least as long as it takes to pay the restaurant’s bill off anyway. Maybe forgo a few teddy bears too. That’ll save us a bit more money.”

“We could be careful with what we eat. That way we could have a nice night and Bubba won’t have to go without.”

“We could. Yes.”

“So I’ll have the fillet steak with red wine sauce and you could have the salad.”

“To be honest we could probably fold the nappies inside out a few times. Get maximum use out of them. No one need know. Our little secret. So...With that in mind...Two steaks then, yeah?”

Becky laughed, “Such a bad father...” There was that laugh again. Mark smiled. Can’t get enough of that laugh. Such a beautiful person, inside and out. She didn’t deserve to have that laugh taken from her. Neither of them deserved it. Becky leaned forward and put the radio on as she concentrated on the road. The rain outside lashed down heavily, making visibility poor - even with the windscreen wipers on full and lights on high beam. It didn’t matter to Becky, though. The weather wasn’t going to ruin their night. She wouldn’t let it.

Twenty minutes later and they pulled into the restaurant’s crowded car park and Becky killed the car’s engine with a flick of her wrist. She pulled the key from the ignition and leant back in her seat. Mark looked at her. He was suddenly concerned about her quietness.

“Everything okay?” he asked, almost fearful of the potential answer, especially considering the earlier mood in the car. There was an uncomfortable moment of silence before she gave him the answer he was waiting for.

“Yes. I’m happy.” She laughed as though she couldn’t believe the words which had just slipped from her mouth. She turned to Mark and repeated them, “I’m happy.”

“Well that’s good,” said Mark. He’d promised her, when things went bad, that they’d get better again. He didn’t say when but he knew it’d be a matter of time. They just had to be patient. He leant forward and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I love you.”

“Let’s go eat! I’m ravenous!” She climbed from the car. Mark felt his heart sink a little. He was still desperate to hear her say the words back to him. He couldn’t remember the last time she had done so. He couldn’t press it though. Even if he did, and she said it to humour him, it wouldn’t have been the same. He kept telling himself, she’ll tell me when she’s ready.

* * * * *

Inside the restaurant, the service and food were as expected. The food was of the highest standard, the wine (in Mark’s case) was free-flowing and the service impeccable. When the time came, the bill was as expected too - if not a little higher;  not that Mark minded. The way he saw it, you couldn’t put a price on a night like this. Good memories with the love of your life, and she was the love of his life. He just wished they hadn’t had the last couple of months’ worth of happiness snatched away from them. As he counted out the notes, in the wallet the waiter provided, he tried not to think about the months of potential happy memories taken away from them. He wasn’t going to let the bastard ruin the night. Not this night. Not after such a great night. He quickly changed the subject to something of a little happier note. The baby. Their baby.

“When should we tell people?”

“That we ate out?”

Mark smiled. He knew Becky was teasing him. She knew what he was talking about. The baby had filled much of the evening’s conversation. More specifically, which room they were going to change into the nursery? And names. Names were a gender of the conversation. Mark was thinking of boys’ names and Becky was thinking of girls’ names with neither party managing to think of a name they both agreed upon. Two months in (nearly three), they had plenty of time to iron that out.

“When do you think we should tell people about us and the baby? Our parents would be excited.” Neither of the couple had told the parents about the attack. As far as they’d be concerned, the baby would actually be their own. One of the benefits of keeping the whole unpleasant incident between the two of them. It was one thing for Mark and Becky to come to terms with what’d happened and accept the child as their own but it was another thing altogether to expect family and friends to think of it the same way. Neither of them wanted the child to grow up as a figure of resentment. Mark closed the wallet, full of money, and set it to one side of the table, ready for the waiter to take away when he came back from wherever he had wandered off to.

“After the scan.”

“The scan? What scan?”

Becky reached around to her handbag, which hung on the back of her chair, and pulled it over to her lap. She fished inside and pulled out a white DL windowed envelope. It had already been opened but the flap had been folded back over. She put it on the table between the two of them.

“What’s this?”

“Open it.”

Mark reached across and picked the envelope up. It was from the hospital. A letter, inside, inviting Rebecca Stephens to her first scan. Mark smiled. This wasn’t a hospital visit to do with the attack. Instead it was an appointment to do with the future. A welcome change.

“You want me there?” he asked. He was so used to Becky doing everything by herself  -therapist appointments, police appointments, doctor appointments - he didn’t want to presume he was automatically invited.

“Of course I want you there.”

He looked to the letter within. The date of the scan was for a couple of days’ time. He smiled. “Well, I want to be there!” Of course he’d want to be there. It was his son, after all. His son. He kept telling himself that. His son. He got up from the table and walked over to where Becky was sitting. He pulled her to her feet and put his arms around her. They just stood there, next to their table, hugging. The waiter, eyeing up the money on the table, hung back patiently - too embarrassed to interrupt them.

Chapter Fifteen

Another day off from work for the pair of them. This time it was organised with their relevant managers. Becky told her manager, a kind lady by the name of Fiona, that she had a scan at the hospital (having already informed Fiona she was pregnant) and Mark told his work that his wife had a follow-up appointment at the hospital; technically not a lie but neither was it the whole truth. Of course, there’d be no harm in telling the heads of his office what was going on, that he was having a baby, but he didn’t want to jinx it until they knew there was a good chance nothing could go wrong. After all, he’d always been told that if a miscarriage were to occur it would be within the first three months of the pregnancy. Give or take, it had been around thirteen weeks since they’d first found out about the baby so he was close to being safe to making the announcement  - but even then he’d start with his family. Family first. Friends second. Work third.

Becky smiled at him as he held the front door open for her. It wasn’t a smile of happiness. It was one of nerves. The worried look of an expectant mother. Within a few hours she’d know, hopefully, that everything would be okay. Until then, she’d be worrying they’d be told about a list of problems or, worse yet, that there was no baby anymore. It wasn’t just Becky with the niggling thoughts in her mind either. Mark was concerned too. He just did a better job of hiding it. For her sake he had to. For his sake too. Bury his real feelings or succumb to them.

“Everything will be okay,” he reassured her.

She smiled again - an attempt at a real smile but it didn’t come across. Nerves still shone through as they had with the previous smile. “Just nervous,” she said. She didn’t bother hiding her feelings. Not when she realised she couldn’t do it anymore. Not from Mark.

“We might find out the sex today,” Mark continued. He stepped forward and hugged Becky. “I mean, that is, if you want to?” She nodded. “And then we could start thinking of names. Like, for example, Mark Junior?” Becky frowned. “Okay, maybe not that but...Well what name would you go for? Jack? Rupert? Dean?”

“What’s to say it’s going to be boy?”

“A girl?”

“You never know.”

“A girl who likes football and wrestling?”

Becky pulled away from Mark and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Let’s just get today out of the way, okay?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned away from him and stepped from the house, towards the waiting taxi. Mark chased after her and got to the taxi’s back door before her. He opened it up for her. Becky climbed in, Mark climbed in after her. “What about Honey?”

“As a name?” Mark asked as he slipped his seatbelt on.

“What else?”

“I don’t know. For a moment I thought you were discussing possible breakfast feasts.”

“Honey’s a pretty name.”

“Well I did have a hamster called Honey once.”

The taxi driver spoke out from the front, “Hospital then?”, a destination given to the cab office when Mark phoned through to them.

“Yes, please. And don’t go the long way. I know what you guys are like,” said Mark - half joking and half serious. He turned back to Becky to continue talking her out of the god-awful name Honey. “She was a golden hamster. I spent five pounds on her and my mum bought me the cage. Good little hamster, lasted me two and a bit years but...Still a hamster called Honey.” He realised Becky wasn’t listening to him. She was staring forward. A pale look on her face. A slight shimmer of sweat on her forehead. She looked as though she were struggling for air. “You okay?” Mark asked. He took a hold of her hand and started to gently rub it, thinking she was having a mild panic attack - brought on from the earlier nerves. She didn’t respond to him. “Becky? You okay?”

“Everything alright back there?” the taxi driver asked. He turned to face his passengers. Mark noticed the fear on Becky’s face. The horror in her eyes. He followed her gaze and felt the same horror she did when he noticed the taxi driver’s face bore an uncanny resemblance to the picture the police released after Becky’s description. Unlike Mark, Becky didn’t need to see his face to recognise her attacker. The way his voice rasped - she’d never be able to forget it, no matter how hard she tried.

* * * * *

Mark awoke with a start. The image of the rapist’s face burned into his early morning mind.  Of all the days to think of him. The day of the scan.

“Morning!” Becky was standing next to her wardrobe in her underwear. She seemed bright and breezy this morning. Mark tried to hide the foul taste his nightmare had left him with. “I wish they’d said what I needed to wear in the letter,” she said. “I have no idea what to put on.”

“Something comfortable I guess.” Mark watched her from the bed hiding, in part, under his duvet. Awake for thirty seconds and already hating a day he should have been loving. As he watched Becky rummage through her clothes. Maybe it was the dream lingering with him, maybe it was the hospital appointment coming up but, today, he seemed to notice the smallest of bumps in her belly. And all he could think about was the man who put the seed within her.

Becky turned to him, “You realise I’m going to get bigger? We’re going to need to go shopping!” she continued. She turned round and jumped on the bed next to where Mark was lying. She cuddled into him. “Give me a hug!” In his current mood it was one of the last things he wanted to do but seeing as it was one of the first things she asked for,  he obliged her and held her close. For a moment they lay in silence. “We might find out the sex today,” Becky suddenly piped up. “What would you want?” she asked.

“I don’t mind,” said Mark. His mind was still in his dream. What he wanted, more than anything, was a baby of his own. Not the baby growing inside of her. He pulled her closer to him so she couldn’t see his face. She couldn’t see the disappointment and regret in his expression.

“I think I’d want a girl,” she said, her excitement for having a baby growing by the day helping her forget about what’d happened. At least Mark presumed it was helping her forget. She certainly hadn’t mentioned it as much. If only he were able to forget too but he couldn’t. The slightest thing reminded him of what’d happened but the biggest sticking point was that this dirty fuck of a man (not that he could be classed as a man) had managed to get Becky pregnant where Mark had previously failed. That really stuck in his throat. Becky patted him on the chest, “Come on, we need to get going soon...” She jumped up and returned to the wardrobe where she continued trying to decide upon something suitable to wear.

Mark slowly got out of the bed and walked from the room, towards the bathroom. Not that he needed to go to the toilet. He just needed a couple of minutes by himself. A couple of minutes away from her. A bit of time, for him, where he didn’t have to be faced with what’d happened. Long enough, at least, to put his brave face on for Becky. His thoughts still weren’t important enough to share with her. It still wasn’t her fault that they were in this position and he kept having to tell himself so. None of this was her fault. He shouldn’t punish her. He shouldn’t punish himself. He shouldn’t ruin his relationship because of it. No. If anyone needed punishing it was the asshole who had dared start this chain of events. He was the one who needed to be punished. He was the one who deserved to hurt. Becky and Mark were just the innocent victims.

“Stop being an idiot,” Mark told himself as he stared at his tired reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Stop letting this asshole ruin everything.” He turned the cold tap on and put his hand under the water before splashing it on his face in an effort to wake up. He looked back at his reflection as the water dripped from his face. He hated himself for the way he felt but he couldn’t help it. No matter how hard he tried, the feelings of resentment kept sneaking back in. He’d tried everything to bury them but there was only one way to get them to stay gone - at least, that’s what he believed. The man responsible needed to be punished. Not by the courts but by him. He needed to take vengeance on the man. Until then, the thought of him being out there somewhere whilst the two of them raised his child...It killed him.

“Are you going to be much longer in there?” Becky asked from the hallway.

“Nearly done.”

Chapter Sixteen

Detective Andrews was standing outside the entrance of the busy accident and emergency department, his mobile phone pressed to his ear. For the first time this evening, he was smiling broadly.

“They’ve just told me,” he told his work partner on the other end of the phone, “and she’s going to be okay. And the baby,” he continued, “they’ve performed a caesarean section on the mother....No....No choice...But the baby’s alive.” He paused whilst his colleague spoke on the other end of the line, no doubt saying how lucky they were and that at least there was some good news at the end of an otherwise stressful day. “They’re not out of the woods yet, neither of them. Next twenty four hours are going to be critical but - yeah - at least, for now, they’re okay.” He took a breath. “What about things that end? How are they? Any idea as to what happened?” In his head, from the limited time he’d had at the scene of the crime, Detective Andrews had already pieced together what he believed to be a likely scenario for such bloodshed but his time on the force had taught him not to jump to conclusions. Just because something looks obvious - it doesn’t mean it necessarily is. “Hello?” He walked to the other side of the entrance in search of better signal. “You there? Sorry you broke up. Listen I’m going to go. I think, if you’re okay, I’m going to stay here for the night. I want to be here when she wakes up. Hello? Hello?” He moved the phone away from his ear. He’d completely lost connection. “For fuck’s sake.” He slid the phone into his pocket and ran his hand through his hair. He was tired, exhausted even, but he didn’t want to go home. At home there was nothing waiting for him but the bottle he’d come to rely on and he knew his body was in need of a break. Even if the break was for one night only. One night without the spirits to soothe his damaged soul. One night.

He walked back into the hospital and looked at the boards stuck on the wall which pointed to the various wards. The doctor, who’d come to see him when he was waiting in the accident and emergency department, told him Mrs Stephens and the baby were in Intensive Care. The sign on the wall pointed him to the left.

As he walked down the corridor, Detective Andrews couldn’t help but feel thankful that the phone had lost connection when he was talking to his partner. He’d already made the decision to quit the force. Enough was enough. But deciding what to do with his future was just one step. He’d need to tell his Captain and - of course - his partner and he knew they’d both try their best to talk him out of it. He wasn’t worried about telling them. He was worried about them talking him out of it and making him stay.

His thoughts were interrupted as two security guards ran past him, along with two nurses. Never a moment’s peace in a hospital. Here he was, moaning about his job but these people, these workers, they were run ragged nearly every day and, just like working in the police force, there was very little thanks - even on the days when everything went well.

His heart skipped a beat when he overheard one of the security guards calling back to the second one, who was lagging behind slightly, “It’s in the intensive care unit...” Immediately, Andrews had a bad feeling it was something to do with Mrs Stephens. Or the baby.

He quickened his pace.

Chapter Seventeen

It had gone eleven and Mark still hadn’t come home. Becky was used to this, what with Mark working late a lot, and wouldn’t have normally waited up for him but today was different. She knew Mark wasn’t at work and hadn’t been for a while. A worried phone call from Chris had informed her of that much. He’d called the house phone to check in and see if everything was okay. He realised all too late that Becky didn’t know Mark had been made redundant a little over a month ago; another casualty of the sinking ship that was the office place. And that wasn’t the only phone call of the evening either. At around eight o’clock, Detective Andrews had called. He didn’t want anything in particular. He said he was just returning Mark’s phone call. He didn’t say anything else other than he’d give Mark a ring in the morning when he got back to the office. Becky had asked the detective if Mark had said anything in his message to suggest why he’d called but Andrews said it was simply a message asking to return his call and he knew just as little as she did. They chatted on the phone for a few minutes with Andrews asking how everything was at home and how she was getting on, but only out of politeness. She’d told him that she was well and - she thought - Mark was well too. Both were very much looking forward to the arrival of their son in a couple of months

Becky was sitting in the nursery, half painted blue now they were definite it was to be a boy, and was surrounded by paint from where she’d started to finish the job before giving up - both because she was tired and because she was worried about where Mark was and, more importantly, where he’d been going every day that he was supposed to have been going to work. She appreciated his reluctance in telling her about the job because of the stress on the baby but it wasn’t something that could remain hidden. Not forever. She’d need to know because it would have an impact on their lives financially. As his wife, she had a right to know. He didn’t like her keeping secrets from him, all those months ago, but now the shoe was on the other foot - she didn’t like it either. Besides,  just as he’d supported her,  she could have done the same for him; perhaps even helped him scour the Internet and newspapers looking for work. It wouldn’t have mattered what it was just so long as it brought the money in.

At around midnight she heard the familiar sound of a key sliding into the front door’s lock. She didn’t get up from the rickety old rocking chair they’d put in the nursery. She didn’t shout down to greet Mark. She simply waited for him to come up the stairs.

“What are you still doing up?” he asked when he spotted her, gently rocking, from the top of the stairs.

Becky didn’t want to go in all guns blazing. She didn’t want an argument with him. She knew it wouldn’t have been good for either of them and she knew he’d most likely react badly - what with presumably already being stressed from the lack of job and income. She didn’t want to react like that but the hormones flowing through her body didn’t seem to care.

“Where have you been?” she snapped.

“I’ve been at work. Had a big deal to close...”

“Chris called.” Mark fell silent. “You didn’t think I needed to know you were made redundant? You don’t think that’s the kind of important information we needed to share?” she continued. She could hear how cold her tone was but she couldn’t do anything about it. She couldn’t help herself, despite seeing the irritated look on her husband’s face. He was irritated? Well she had just as much of a right to be angry too. She was the one living in the dark for God knows how long. She was the one he’d been lying to. “We’re about to have a baby and....”

“Exactly,” Mark snapped. “We’re about to have a baby and I don’t need you stressing about anything. It’s my problem and I’m dealing with it. I’m looking to put things right!”

“We are in this together. You and I. We’re a team. You should have told me. We could have dealt with it together just as we dealt with…” She stopped herself from mentioning the incident specifically, “...just as we’ve dealt with other things together. That’s what husband and wives do.” She waited for him to say something (anything) but he didn’t utter a word. He was just standing there expressionless. “So where have you been going every day?” she asked. She felt it was a fair question. Every day he’d been leaving the house, pretending to go to the office, whilst she stayed behind and carried on with her nesting as though everything was fine.

Mark shifted on his feet - obviously uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “I’m tired,” he said. “I’m going to bed.” He turned away from her and started to walk towards his own bedroom.

“No!” Becky called out. Mark stopped in his tracks and turned back to her.

“No?”

“Where have you been going?” she asked again. It was clear she wasn’t going to let this one go without an answer.

Mark paused long enough for Becky to know “I’ve been out looking for work” was nothing more than a lie. He continued regardless, “Just driving around going to some of my clients...Seeing if they’d take me on knowing I’m good at sales and how I work but - you know - times are hard for most companies. Bad times indeed. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m tired and I want to go to bed. Are you coming or not?” Again, he turned his back to his wife and started towards his bedroom.

Becky folded her arms and continued to stand her ground. “The detective returned your call.” She didn’t need to say anything else. She just watched Mark for his reaction. He kept his back to her. Clearly he wasn’t expecting his wife to find out about his phone calls to the detective. His lack of response prompted Becky to continue, “Why is he calling you?”

Mark shrugged without turning around, “Maybe after all this time they’ve made some progress on your case?”

“He was returning your call. Why was he returning your call?”

“I’m going to bed,” he repeated. This time, despite Becky making a noise  suggesting she was going to say something else,  he didn’t wait around. He simply went into the bedroom and pushed the door shut.

Becky felt herself well up but refused herself the luxury of tears. She kept telling herself he’s just worried, everything is fine, he’s just stressed about money. She told herself she’d talk to him in the morning. She’d find out what he was doing but, by the time morning came, Mark’d already left.

* * * * *

Detective Andrews stepped into the waiting area, from out the back, where Becky was patiently waiting for him. He extended his hand towards her, ready to shake hands, but she didn’t take it. She simply stood up and came outright with her question, “He won’t tell me why he called. Why did he call you?” she asked him.

“I told you yesterday evening, I was just returning his phone call. I had a message from him asking me to give him a call back.” Detective Andrews didn’t have to say anything to Rebecca. He didn’t even have to come out to see her. He could have just told his colleagues to say he was out, or tied up in a meeting. The only reason he came out in the first place was because he felt like he owed it to her. He couldn’t catch the guy who’d violated her. The least he could do was come out and face her when she came in to see him and it wasn’t as though she made a habit of it. “Go home,” he told her, “and talk to him.”

“I tried that yesterday. He shut down.” Becky felt herself well up again. Not just because of the previous evening’s interaction with her husband but also because she noticed the detective’s gaze dropped down to her protruding belly. She could see it in his eyes - he wondered whether it was Mark’s or the rapists. He didn’t say anything but he didn’t have to. His gaze reminded her of that evening. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here!” she said. She started towards the door but Andrews stopped her.

“Is everything okay?” he asked. “Everything at home okay?” His words fell on deaf ears as Becky left the building. He didn’t chase her. If she wanted to talk, if she really wanted to talk - she’d come back. It wasn’t his place to chase after her to offer counselling. Andrews just stood there, watching her through the window. He wished he could have found the rapist for them. He wished he could have done that much for them at least but the man was simply a ghost. No one stepped forward having witnessed the attack and no one stepped forward after the mug shot was released to say they knew the man. One night he was there, the next night he was gone. An out-of-towner.

Chapter Eighteen

Mark was sitting on the park bench, the day’s sunshine beating down upon him, warming him up despite the coldness he felt within his soul. Day and night he sat there for as long as he felt he could, waiting to see if anyone who fit the man’s description walked on by and God help them if they did. The first few days of sitting on that bench, wondering what his life had come to, he contemplated catching the man and hitting him a few times before dragging him to the police station but it wasn’t long before those thoughts turned darker - back to the thoughts he had had soon after the attack had initially taken place. If he caught the man - police wouldn’t be involved. If he caught the man it wouldn’t be to the station he dragged him. He’d drag him to their house by the cover of darkness. And there he’d exact his revenge upon him. If only the fuck hadn’t bottled from carrying out his threat to Becky: going around to her house to kill her family if she’d dare to step forward. If he had done - everything would’ve been so much easier.

Today’s thoughts were clouded by the conversation he’d had with Becky the night before. He knew they’d continue when he got home and staying out was just prolonging the forthcoming arguments and questioning. He knew the best course of action was to go home and face her, face the music, but he just couldn’t bear to see the disappointment on her face when he’d be forced into saying where he’d been spending his days. And the look in her eyes when she’d realise why he’d been trying to find the man responsible - to hurt him as opposed to hand him to the authorities. But it wasn’t just that. The more time he spent with her, with these dark thoughts roaming his fragile mind, the more he couldn’t help but notice her belly and what was growing within. No son of his.

The resentment he felt to what was growing within her grew along with the baby itself. When it was barely showing, there wasn’t much resentment. When it started to grow (a little at first) he started to get daily reminders as to what it actually was within her and that’s when the initial feelings of hatred slipped into his consciousness. And now she was even bigger,  he could barely contain the hate he felt for the rapist and his seed.

The baby was supposed to be a little ray of sunshine from an otherwise terrible situation but it hadn’t worked like that. Instead, it was nothing more than fuel to an already raging fire which started in the pit of his stomach.

His thoughts were broken by a vibrating sensation within his pocket - his mobile phone. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone before placing it against his ear and hitting the ‘accept call’ button which showed on screen just under an unknown number.

“Mr Stephens? It’s Detective Andrews,” came a voice from the other end of the line.

“I asked you to call me back. I left a number for you and yet you phoned my house?” Mark’s dark thoughts took away the ability of polite conversations (such as even saying ‘hello’). “So - of course - my wife got the message. Like she doesn’t have enough to contend with at the moment.”

“I’m terribly sorry about that,” Andrews said. He’d tried to return the call yesterday but the mobile had gone straight to voicemail so he’d phoned the house phone without thinking it was going to be an issue. He didn’t bother explaining that to Mark. “What can I do for you?” He suspected he already knew why Mark had (out of blue) got in touch. It had been a while since the police had spoken to the Stephens and vice versa.

“I’m not sure if you remember,” Mark’s voice was heavy with sarcasm, “but my wife was subjected to a horrific attack...I just wondered whether you, or any of your colleagues, had done anything about it yet?” All the time he was talking to the officer, his mind kept flashing up images of the rapist as he fucked his wife. The pain on her face. The pleasure in his. “It’s just I haven’t heard anything and I’m having these really vivid images of him happily walking around, living his life, whilst we’re still picking up the fucking pieces.” Detective Andrews patiently waited for Mark to stop ranting down the phone. He knew Mark would be more annoyed if he were interrupted. “Sorry? I can’t hear you...”

“We’re doing all we can but...”

“If you were, you’d have caught him. You’re doing nothing. Admit it. You’ve given up looking...He’s out there and you’re doing nothing.” He felt his voice rising.

“Look, I suggest you calm down. Go home. Talk to your wife. Comfort her. She was here earlier and she seemed upset...We’re doing all we can at our end...”

“My wife was there? Why did she come and see you?”

“Because she’s worried about you. She wanted to know why you’d got in touch. Now go home and talk to her. Let us do our job. If we have any news, we’ll call you and-”

Mark put the phone down on Andrews mid-conversation. Detective Andrews, the man who couldn’t keep his wife’s attacker off the street, giving him marital advice? Not a chance. The very idea pissed Mark off beyond words. Nearly as much as the thought of his wife going to the police station. He struggled with trying to understand why she’d go to the police. Was she curious as to whether they’d made progress with the case too? Or was she still trying to see what Mark had wanted with them when he made contact? Either way,  he knew the conversation with his wife wasn’t going to wait much longer.

“Got a light?” a man asked from next to him on the bench.

“Sorry - don’t smoke.” Mark replied. His tone was short.

“Thanks for fucking nothing,” the man said.

Mark turned to him, “What do you want me to do? Go to the shops and buy you a...” he stopped talking when he saw the man’s face. “Actually I have one in my car. Parked up about five minutes away from here - if you want to come and get it?” The man looked at him as though he’d lost his marbles. He wanted a lighter, not a mission to find one. He shook his head and walked away mumbling under his rancid breath. Mark waited until the man was nearly out of sight before he stood up and started to walk after him. His mind was racing once again in a million different directions; phone the police, follow the man, don’t let him leave the park, ask him outright...Instant headache.

* * * * *

Nearly eleven o’clock and Mark had only just come home again. Unlike yesterday when he came in late, he seemed lighter in mood this time. More jolly even. Becky hadn’t waited up for him this time, not that she’d managed to fall asleep in the time he was missing. She figured there was little point in waiting up for more atmosphere and lies to come walking through the door. She needn’t have worried. Not tonight. Tonight was different. And as soon as Mark crawled into bed next to her, she could smell why there’d been a change in mood.

“I love you,” Mark slurred into her ear. She kept her eyes closed. Pretend to be asleep and he’ll pass out. By morning he’ll wake with a headache and everything will be back to normal. At least as normal as it could be, all things considered. “I’m sorry I’ve been grumpy recently,” he continued to slur, his breath heavy with whiskey. “I’m going to make it up to you though. Starting from now. Maybe morning. Bit tired now...” He started to laugh. Becky heard a change in Mark’s breathing. He’d already passed out. Becky breathed a sigh of relief. For a horrible minute she worried he might have started to get amorous with her, something she realised they hadn’t done together since the attack.

When his breathing started, she rolled onto her other side (with a little effort thanks to bump!) and watched him sleep. Part of her felt guilty about the lack of physical contact they’d had since what had happened but even the mere thought of his touch in that certain way caused a shiver to run the length of her spine. She’d spoken to the therapist about it on a few occasions but still couldn’t get past the way she felt. In his defence, Mark hadn’t even tried to go near her. In the darkness of the room, her mind wondered as to whether he even still loved her anymore (in that way. Maybe he was giving her the room he felt she needed but then again, maybe, he just didn’t fancy her now that another man had violated her. She tried to put the thought from her mind as she replayed his drunken slur back to her...He did love her and tomorrow he’d start to make everything up to her again. She allowed herself the luxury of a little smile. Keep that thought. Leave the dark thoughts out.

Chapter Nineteen

Mark woke Becky up with a gentle touch of her shoulders. She jumped when she saw him. The previous night’s drinking had clearly taken its toll on him. He looked pale with black bags under his red eyes and he still stank of the booze.

“Wake up,” he urged her, “I’ve done it. I’ve done it...”

“Done what?”

“I’d rather show you. Great dressed!” Before Becky could argue with him, Mark had already hurried from the room, towards the bathroom. Becky slowly sat up. She was confused as to what he was talking about - even thought he might have still been drunk - but, at the same time, she was a little curious too. Mark came back into the room. He was just as excited as he was when he first left it. “Come on,” he said, “we need to get going...”

“Where?”

“You’ll see.” He was like a man possessed. His speech was fast and erratic. This wasn’t the man she knew. It was as though something inside had snapped. A change in his personality. Becky wondered whether he even knew he was behaving strangely. “Come on, I promise you’ll like it.” He took Becky’s hand and helped to pull her from the bed before jumping into the clothes he’d thrown on the floor the previous night  when he’d first stumbled into the room pissed as a fart.

Becky looked over to the clock on the bedside cabinet. It wasn’t even seven o’clock. She begrudgingly took her clothes, one of the last set which actually fit her, from where she’d hung them on the radiator before going to bed. “This’d better be good,” she said.

Mark smiled. He desperately wanted to tell her but didn’t want to get her hopes up. What if he was wrong? What if he was taking her out for nothing? What if the person he saw yesterday, the person he followed to their home...What if it wasn’t him? What if it was just someone who looked like him? And maybe, even then, the stranger didn’t actually look like the person who was responsible for what’d happened? There was a small part of Mark that couldn’t help worry that the stranger was nothing like the man he was looking for. Someone who Mark had convinced himself was the guy he was seeking. Before he did anything, before he acted upon his desire for revenge, he needed to be sure. He needed to be positive. Especially for what he’d in mind. He urged Becky to hurry up again as the images of what he wanted to do to the man flooded his mind once more.

* * * * *

The pair of them had managed to get dressed and out of the house in about ten minutes and were both soon on the road. Mark was driving, despite clearly being over the limit. The fact the car was outside of the house made it clear to Becky that he’d driven home the previous night - despite the drink. She wondered how he’d managed to get home without getting stopped by the police (or having an accident at least).

As Mark concentrated on the road, Becky turned to him and asked about the previous night, “Where did you go last night? Who’d you drink with?” She didn’t expect him to tell the truth but at least the potential lies would help break the silence between them.

“I was in the park,” he said. The level of excitement in his tone was obvious. “Just sitting on the bench,” he said, “wondering what I could do to make ends meet. Not many jobs out there...Someone sat next to me and asked for a light...” He glanced over to Becky. She was just looking at him. He could tell by her expression, even at a quick look, she didn’t know where he was going to with what he was saying. He continued, “I think I’ve found him, Becky.”

“What?” She knew exactly what he was talking about. “Pull over...” Mark shot her another look, confused by her instruction. He did as he was told and pulled the car against the side of the road - much to the annoyance of the car behind who sounded their horn as they drove by. Mark killed the ignition and turned to Becky. “What have you been doing every day you haven’t been at work? No lies. Tell me. Have you been going to the park?” Mark’s quietness told her everything she needed to know. “Looking for him?” Again, Mark’s quietness told her everything. “I thought he was in the past? I thought we’d moved on...” Mark still didn’t say anything. “What were you thinking?”

“I did it for you,” he said eventually. “I did it so you can put it to bed once and for all. I did it  for us. So we could move on...”

“We had moved on.”

“Properly. So we could move on properly.”

“We’re having a baby...”

“His baby...” Mark regretted the words as soon as they came from his mouth. He didn’t mean to say it. Not to Becky anyway. He didn’t want her thinking he had a problem with the baby as it’d be just another crack in their already frayed relationship. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. But I did do it for us. I followed him back to his house. I was going to go in there last night but I couldn’t. I couldn’t be sure it was him. That’s why I’m taking you there. If you think it is...”

“Just take me home.”

“What?”

“Please - can you just take me home?”

“You want to go home? You want to let him get away with what he did to you? And, possibly, what he’s done with other people too? We can finish this today. We can...”

“What? Phone the police? You heard them - no evidence. It’s been so long now that I’m not even sure I’d recognise him.” Becky knew she’d recognise him if she did meet him again. If she crossed his path in the street - she’d never forget that face. Even now she could picture it - looking down on her own face whilst he was fucking her. She suddenly shouted, “Can you please just take me home!”

Mark turned away from her. She couldn’t see his face but she knew he was angry with her. She didn’t apologise. She didn’t feel as though she had anything to apologise for. If anything,  it should have been him who’d be apologising to her. He was the one in the wrong. He had no right to try and find the man. He had no right to follow him. Especially as she believed that chapter of her life was over. All these months of trying to move on and, just like that, she felt as though everything had gone back to how it was when it first happened. And not just that - she kept hearing the words play through her head again and again that it was his baby. She looked at Mark, who was just staring dead ahead at the road, and couldn’t help wondering whether that was what he was really feeling despite the whole thing of keeping the baby, and raising it as their own, being his idea. She had grown used to the idea of it being their baby with the help of therapy. She had managed to think of the baby as a blessing as opposed to a further violation of her body and yet here he was, her partner, thinking of it as his baby.

For the rest of the journey neither Mark nor Becky spoke.

Chapter Twenty

Andrews stopped dead when he ran into the intensive care ward as did the security guards and nurses who’d been running slightly in front of him. None of them were ready for what they were running into.

Becky was out of bed. The hospital gown she was wearing was stained red with fresh blood from where she’d obviously popped a stitch or two when she’d stood up. A nurse was cowering against the wall on the other side of the room. She too was bleeding,  her hand pressed against a fresh wound in her own neck which was trying to spew blood onto the blood already splattered on the white tiled floor - a panicked look in both patient and nurse’s eyes.

Becky was clutching hold of her crying baby. Not in a way that a mother would. She held it as though it were nothing but trash and she was getting ready to toss it out. The baby was tiny from where it’d been plucked from the womb before it was ready to leave. In Becky’s other hand was a scalpel knife, presumingly what she used to stab at the nurse.

Andrews heard one of the nurses ask how Becky had even got out of bed, another was asking where the doctor was, a security guard was yelling for Becky to put the knife down, another security guard was slowly edging towards her with his hand outstretched and Becky herself was simply screaming for them all to leave her alone and get the fuck out.

Andrews took charge of the situation and pulled the advancing security guard back. Experience told him that if you backed a distressed person into a corner, they’d react badly. And seeing the blade against the newborn - Andrews needed to avoid that under all circumstances.

“Mrs Stephens...You’re hurt...Put the knife down, pass the baby to one of the nurses and let us look after you...”

“It’s his fault!” Becky screamed. She pushed the knife against the baby. “It’s his fault!” she screamed again. She was shaking. Adrenaline and blood loss. If she passed out now, Andrews knew there was a good chance both mother and baby would be hurt.

“Look, put the knife down and let us talk...Tell us what’s happened...” From the state of the house, Andrews knew Mrs Stephens’ life had taken a dramatic turn to get to this stage. One he didn’t understand but it didn’t stop him feeling as though it were his fault. Had he caught the rapist, would she still be in this position? Doubtful. In the blink of his eye it was his wife standing in front of him with their own baby. He shook the image from his mind with ease. “Please talk to me,” he said, “tell me what’s happened...Help me understand. Help me help you...” The words were just coming from his mouth. He didn’t even know what he was saying now. Just anything to distract Becky from what she was threatening to do. Anything to buy some time. Anything. Anything to help him avoid another tragedy. “Come on - what happened to you?”

Chapter Twenty-One

By the time Mark and Becky had got back to the house, the silence had cracked. Mark turned to Becky as soon as they walked through the door and started asking why she was protecting the man who fucked her, a question Becky ignored when she pushed past Mark and walked towards the kitchen to get herself something to eat. In the haste to leave the house, she hadn’t eaten anything and - at this stage of the pregnancy - skipping meals was no longer an option.

“Did he even rape you?” Mark asked as he continued to fume.

“What? If he didn’t - what’s this?” she pointed towards her belly.

“I mean maybe you fucked him because you were drunk and horny. Maybe you didn’t say no...” Mark interrupted her.

“Oh now you think I cheated on you? I asked for this?”

Mark shrugged. “Maybe.”

“You’re a piece of shit,” Becky shook her head and turned away from Mark. She reached for the large knife and started to carve up a crusty loaf, something she continually seemed to crave.

“Me? Tell me - honestly - did you fuck him? Did you want him fucking you?”

“I’m not even going to answer that. Just fuck off. Leave me alone.” Becky shouted as she continued to cut the bread. Mark pulled the knife away from her so she’d pay him attention and finish this conversation. She turned to him, “Give me the knife.”

“Is that what happened? You met him, slept with him? Woke up in the morning, feeling guilty, and decided to cry rape?”

“Fuck you.”

“Explains why you wouldn’t want to go to the police. Explains why you were angry when I went to them...And speaks volumes that you didn’t want me finding him. What’s the matter, afraid I’d hurt him?”

“Have you heard yourself? What’s happened to you? Just...Fuck off...Seriously...” She pushed past him and stormed down the hallway. Mark followed close behind.

“Just tell me - is that what happened? Is that how it happened? Because if it is - he’s fucking welcome to you. You can play happy families with him. Boyfriend, girlfriend and baby. If that’s what you want...I’ll give you a divorce. Anything to be away from...”

“Is that what you think?! You know what...You’re right...” Becky spun around, fuming at the words that were coming from her supposed husband’s mouth. If he wanted to know why she was reluctant to go to the police then she’d give him the whole story whether he’d like it or not.

* * * * *

Her friends had tried to talk Becky into going home with them but she didn’t want to. Her mind was made up. Her friends didn’t necessarily approve of the situation but she was a grown woman and the choice was hers. She’d be the one who’d have to live with her actions, if she remembered them when she was sober, and it wasn’t as though her friends weren’t aware of her doubts towards her marriage.

The stranger held the club’s toilet door open, as though he were the last breed of gentleman in the world, and Becky stumbled in first. She laughed as she took a seat on the toilet and pulled the man close to her after he locked them in. The club’s music drowned out the unofficial couple’s laughter. He didn’t put up a fight as Becky started to drunkenly fumble at the buttons to his jeans. Seconds later and the man’s erection was in her mouth as she slurped up and down the shaft, a wicked twinkle in her eyes. She stopped long enough to lift her arse off the seat so she could pull her knickers off from underneath her skimpy dress. She kicked them off as she resumed sucking on the stranger’s cock. He sighed with pleasure as he held her head firmly in place - all the time whispering how much he wanted to fuck her.

By the time they’d finished, and the man had left, Becky already sobered up enough to regret her actions. There were problems at home but this wasn’t the way to solve them and now she feared she’d ruined everything. If Mark ever found out - the marriage would be over. At the start of the evening, if you’d spoken to Becky, she didn’t care but now...Now she cared. Now she realised what she had at home.

* * * * *

Becky went to speak. She went to tell Mark what’d happened. She’d met a stranger in the club and fucked him. She’d blame the alcohol, of course, and she’d beg forgiveness. She wasn’t sure whether this would kill the marriage completely but, the way she saw it now, the marriage was already over with Mark unable to let go of what he thought happened to her. The story to the police, the story to the therapists - nothing but fiction in an effort to keep a hold of her damaged relationship. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t want you to find out...You weren’t supposed to find out...It was just a fling. A stupid drunken fling...It didn’t mean anything. I can’t even remember how it happened. It just did...I thought you’d leave me, if you found out, so...Yes...I lied about the rape. Even the description I gave the police...I made it up. I just...I didn’t know what else to...” She stopped the sentence short and her eyes went wide. She looked down at the knife sticking in her stomach. She looked up to Mark with panic in her eyes. He was holding the knife, anger on his face. She stumbled backwards, away from the blade, into the lounge. She fell back against the wall and slid down it, clutching at her belly to stop the blood from spilling out.

“You let me go on believing you were raped. You let me believe someone...” he shook his head, “...how could you do that to me? Those weeks of you being quiet...It wasn’t because you were in shock, or raped, you just felt guilty. You piece of shit...” Tears were streaming down both of their faces. Becky was gasping, begging, for him to phone an ambulance. “All this because you cheated on me. Why? Drink? Don’t love me? And now look at you,” he continued, “look at us...And you’re having his fucking baby! All this time I’ve been watching you get bigger - thinking about what happened to you and how I failed you and all the time, none of it was real. You’re just a dirty little whore.” He wept.

“Please. Mark. Get help. Phone an ambulance.”

He suddenly came ‘to’, as though he’d been in a trance. He looked down and noticed all of the blood leaking over Becky’s hand as she held the wound on her belly. He stood there a moment, unsure of what to do.

“Oh Jesus,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. What have I done? I’m sorry...” he hurried over to the coffee table between the television and settee and reached for the phone which rested in its cradle. He went to dial a number but stopped suddenly with his eyes transfixed on Becky’s stomach. “Did you love him?” he suddenly asked. Becky didn’t answer. Suddenly Mark dropped the telephone and, without further words, pierced the side of his neck with the already-bloody knife. Becky screamed as she watched in horror as Mark slit his throat wide across. He gargled as he dropped to his knees with blood gushing from his neck and - seconds later - his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he slumped forward onto the lounge’s floor, blood continuing to pool around his body.

Becky, screaming from the shock of seeing Mark and the wound in her gut, reached forward painfully for the phone...

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Tell us what happened,” Andrews begged Becky, “please...Let me help you. Let us help you...” Realising Becky wasn’t responding to what he was saying, he took a step forward. Becky responded by screaming and placing the blade of the scalpel close to the baby’s eye.

“Get back!” she screamed. Andrews didn’t need to be asked twice. “It’s his fault! If it weren’t for him, everything would be better. Everything would be fine!”

“Put the knife down and we’ll talk. We’ll help you work it out. Whatever you need. Please, you’re just making this worse...At least...Sit down before you fall down...Please.”

Becky shook her head. “I have to do this,” she said. She twisted her hand. The knife’s blade caught the light and, because of this, Andrews’ attention. He knew what she was referring to when she said she had to do it. He knew and feared there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“You don’t have to do it,” he said. He knew his words were falling on deaf ears.

“If he’s gone - Mark might forgive me...”

“Put the knife down...”

“He might take me back.”

“Please...”

“He might. I don’t have a choice.”

“You do.”

“I want my husband back,” Becky screamed.

“Whatever happened - let us help you.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“This won’t fix anything...” Andrews’ words were cut short by Becky’s agonised scream. He moved forward as quickly as he could, as did the security guards, but it was all too late. Becky pushed the scalpel in as hard as she could. The baby’s screaming stopped abruptly - only to be replaced by the screams of the nurses who’d witnessed everything. Andrews and the security guards stopped dead as Becky dropped the still child to the floor where it landed with a thud. No one knew what to do. No one knew how to react.

Becky, exhausted physically and emotionally, dropped back to the bed - unable to carry her own weight anymore. She screamed so loud that all other sounds of the busy hospital were temporarily drowned out and when the life faded from the newborn’s eyes - so had Detective Andrews’ hopes for a happy ending to what would be his last day on the force. He dropped to his knees as the scene continued to play out in front of him. Security guards pinned Becky down, not that it was needed, and the doctors and nurses rushed to both the baby on the floor and the nurse who’d been stabbed - too late on both accounts.

  Not for the first time in his career,  Andrews wept.

The End

Enjoyed the story? Matt Shaw is the author of over forty publications. Although mostly in the horror genre, Matt Shaw has also penned a children’s book, romance novels and science-fiction tales.

You can find more of his work at:

www.mattshawpublications.co.uk

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