Craig had arranged for them to have their tattoos done today in an attempt to distract her. Ever since the riot had started she’d been a bundle of nerves, waking up in the middle of the night sweating and screaming, convinced Docherty was in their bedroom. Craig’s plan had worked. For a couple of hours she’d managed to put it to the back of her mind and now it was over. She felt as though a huge weight had been lifted off her.
Freya smiled at him and Craig’s heart skipped a beat, as it always did when he looked at her. He had been warned that relationships initiated in high-pressure situations didn’t work and they didn’t get anymore high pressure than The Elemental serial murder case, but he and Freya were stronger than ever.
“Well that’s one thing less to worry about,” she said, already looking much more cheerful. “All we need is for the doctor to give us good news the morra and we can get on with our lives.”
“It’s tomorrow, not the morra,” he smiled.
“What can I say? I’m a Glasgow girl.”
“Ayrshire born though.”
“Glasgow at heart.”
“As you wish and I’m sure the doctor will give us some good news,” said Craig, pulling her to him so she wouldn’t see the doubt in his eyes.
Docherty had ditched the prominent green paramedic’s coat in favour of a dark blue short sleeved shirt he’d nicked from a shop. He’d learnt that everyone trusted a paramedic and the bulky coat had been very useful for shoplifting. Not only had he stolen the shirt but he’d also nicked a pair of blue denim jeans, a pack of razors, shaving foam, a pair of small nail scissors, a sandwich and a couple of cans of fizzy pop. He’d been an adept shoplifter when he was a kid, so good he’d always managed to evade arrest ensuring he had a clean record when he joined the force. It hadn’t been about the stuff, his family had never been short of a bob or two. He’d stolen for the sense of power, to prove he was smarter than everyone else and he was. Once again he’d proved it by escaping from one of the country’s toughest prisons.
Now he had to change his appearance. For all he knew McMillan could have woken up and be describing what had happened at that very moment, but he thought it unlikely. He was probably still in surgery, it would take several hours or maybe even days before he would be up to talking, although that would be difficult given the amount of damage he’d caused him. He had a bit of time yet to achieve his goals.
In a park he found some stinking graffiti-covered public toilets, urine and used condoms on the floor, but it had a sink with running water and that was all he needed. He hacked at his hair with the scissors, careful to throw the dirty brown bits into the overflowing bin, then shaved off the tufts left behind with the stolen razors. He’d never gone bald before and it was a shock but he had the face shape to pull it off. It made him look like a thug, someone not to be messed with, especially with the cut across his forehead. He left his stubble to grow, it always grew very quickly, so in a couple of days it should be well on the way to being a full beard.
He stepped outside feeling uncomfortable and out of his skin with his new look. Even though it was the height of summer, the day uncomfortably hot, his head still felt cold and exposed so he pulled the baseball cap he’d stolen from the paramedic back on, pulling it low over his face, feeling more secure and protected.
He found a bench to sit and eat, stuffing the food into his mouth and gulping down the Irn Bru. After years of prison food the prawn sandwich tasted divine.
Finally replete he just sat for a while, it only now hitting home that he’d escaped from prison. It had happened so fast and he’d been so focused on his escape and changing his appearance that he hadn’t really had chance to consider it yet.
Docherty knew he was on borrowed time. It was very rare for anyone to escape and stay at liberty. In order to pull that off he’d need a new identity, fake passport and documents. There was no way he could get any of that, everyone had abandoned him when he’d got sent down, the treacherous bastards. Not that he was bothered. His friends were more casual acquaintances and he hated his family. He recalled his mum’s screeching voice, his dad’s big fists and his perpetually sick younger brother and shuddered. He was well out of it.
He tilted his face to the sky, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face, trying to drive away his prison pallor. Being locked up for twenty three hours a day wasn’t good for anyone’s skin. Initially they’d tried putting him in the main prison population and at first he’d thought it would be okay, until some bastard let it slip he was an ex-copper. He was sure it was that bastard Jacobs just so he could get him back on the seg unit to continue his tortures. The moment word got out his life had been made a misery; bodily fluids and shards of glass in his food, beatings, faeces left on his bed. When a violent assault put him in the infirmary the governor decided to move him back to seg for his own safety, locked up with the paedos, rapists and informers. It was important he make the most of his time on the outside so he could have something to think about when he was locked back up. He needed to build himself a stack of good memories to wile away the years because once he was back inside they would make damn sure he never got out again.
Four names. Sally Sinclair, Anita Kelly, DCI Gray and Freya Donaldson nee Macalister. The four people who had destroyed his life. DCI Gray had been his superior officer and, unbeknownst to him, had been onto him for years, it just took him time to put a case together. He’d snuck around, convincing the homeless girls to testify against him, having him watched by his handpicked team, recording him selling on the drugs he’d taken from the peddlers. Sally, Anita and Freya were the only ones stupid enough to stand up to him and the jury had believed them, despite the best efforts of his defence team. He’d been amazed.
He closed his eyes and recalled the violence he’d inflicted on McMillan. It had woken the thirst in him again to cause pain and suffering, the memory of the fear in the man’s eyes and his cries of pain sending the adrenaline rocketing through his veins, putting him on a high and he released a groan. The violence to him was as much a sexual thrill as it was about the power and control it gave him over others. As he’d beat the homeless girls he’d enjoyed the worry in their eyes that he was going to go all the way and kill them. The sensible ones just shut up and took it until he’d got it out of his system. They were the ones who walked away with relatively fewer injuries but the real bitches, like Freya, fought back, fuelling his rage and the only way he could expend it was by inflicting worse injuries on them, hitting them until they went quiet and stopped struggling. Another memory returned to Docherty that hit him so hard he was rocked in his seat. He was back under a bridge in the city centre pursuing Freya, her scared white face continually glancing over her shoulder, green eyes widening when she saw he was getting closer. Her hair had been blond then, shining like a beacon, making it easier for him to follow her in the gloom. That was one reason why she’d turned to the all-black, she’d thought it would hide her in the dark, but it didn’t work. In fact it only made him more determined to get her. She was fast but in poor health and when she started to tire he always caught up with her, wrapping his hand in that long thick hair, dragging her to him kicking and screaming, a fist in the face to silence her. But that never worked. Her green eyes would burn with anger and defiance and those small but powerful fists would start pummelling him.
No matter how hard she fought he always won. She’d be laid on the ground, blood pouring from her nose and mouth, face swollen, gasping for breath. He’d bend over to whisper in her ear I’ll see you again soon. Even then she would still be insolent, hate in her eyes as she stared back at him, refusing to look away. He’d just smile and shrug and walk away, feeling strong and potent and incredibly aroused. But he’d never touched the homeless girls like that, most of them were prostitutes and carried nasty diseases. Plus they were dirty and stank. He did have his standards. Instead he’d go to one of his girlfriends at the end of his shift and work off that particular energy, but all the time he’d be thinking about the v
iolence, it was the only way he could come. He’d used to be popular with the birds too, he’d been good looking and had a great body until he was put away and fed poor food and stuck in a cell for most of the day. Now his gut was flabby and his looks fading fast. That was their fault too. He’d visit them one by one, in the order they gave evidence against him. Sally first, the weakest of the three, followed by Anita then Freya. DCI Gray must have known Freya would be the strongest, saving her till last to give the other girls’ evidence more credence.
He pictured how Freya would look when he’d finished with her and released another groan. A young couple walking past arm-in-arm gave him a quizzical look and he glared at them until they walked away, picking up the pace. He smiled to himself. He hadn’t lost his touch.
His first task was to find Sally. He knew where she used to hang about selling her body and if she wasn’t there anymore it would be easy enough to track her down. The homeless network was remarkably efficient.
He drained the last of his drink, threw the can in the air and kicked it, watching with satisfaction as it sailed through the air and settled on the grass right next to a big dog turd. What a shot. With a smile he wandered off with his hands stuffed in his pockets, whistling to himself. He had work to do.
CHAPTER 3
Freya and Craig sat opposite the specialist at the Assisted Conception Services Unit at the hospital their GP had referred them to, holding hands while they waited for their test results.
“We’ve discovered the reason why you haven’t managed to conceive yet,” began the doctor, who wasn’t much older than themselves.
“I know it’s me. It’s my fault for drinking and taking drugs when I was younger,” said Freya, tears standing out in her eyes.
“Actually Mrs Donaldson there’s nothing wrong with you, you’re perfectly healthy and fertile. The reason lies with you,” he replied, looking at Craig.
It was the last thing they’d expected and they stared at him in shock.
“Me?” spluttered Craig.
“You have a low sperm count.”
“How low?”
“Very low I’m afraid.”
Craig looked to Freya. “I’m sorry,” he said before hanging his head, distraught.
Her heart went out to him and she squeezed his hand. “Is it at all possible we can get pregnant?” she asked the doctor.
“Yes but I must warn you, it’s a very slim chance.”
“What can be done?”
“There are a number of different options available. IVF would probably be best for you. However, given that a low sperm count is the reason why you haven’t managed to conceive then donor insemination might be something you need to consider.”
“No way. I am not having another man’s stuff put inside me,” said Freya.
“That is a very difficult decision for couples to make. It’s just something to bear in mind at the moment.”
“Will the treatment be free?”
“We can offer you two free cycles on the NHS. If they don’t work then you’ll need to go private.”
“And how much would that be?”
“It depends on what treatments you have and how many times they need to be repeated. A standard IVF package is just over three thousand pounds. A three-cycle package, which may well be necessary in your case, costs just over eight thousand.”
Freya sighed heavily. Between her counselling wages and Craig’s police pay they had a decent income, but they certainly didn’t have thousands of pounds spare to throw at this.
“I do believe they offer credit if that’s any help.”
“Is it guaranteed to work?” she said.
“We can’t say it definitely will. Each case is different.”
“So that’s a no,” she replied, trying not to sound as annoyed as the felt. She looked to her husband. “What do you think?”
“I…I think we have to try,” he said, looking lost and confused.
“Me too. Can we put our names down for the IVF?”
“Yes but I should warn you there’s a two year waiting list for the treatment.”
Craig sighed again and sank deeper into his chair.
“I’ll list you for the treatment and we’ll contact you in due course,” said the doctor with a sympathetic smile.
The appointment over, Freya led a reeling Craig out of the office. She even had to drive home, even though she’d only just passed her test, because he was so out of it. She was desperate to discuss what they’d just been told but he appeared so shell-shocked she decided it would be better to leave him in peace.
It was a relief when he finally spoke once they were back in their flat.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, sinking onto the couch. “I assumed it was you when all along I’m the one with the problem.” He buried his face in his hands. “I’m so so sorry.”
“We both assumed,” she replied, sitting beside him and running her hand up and down his back. “You’ve nothing to apologise for. This is no one’s fault, it’s just one of those things and you heard the doctor, we have options.”
“Yeah,” he replied unenthusiastically.
“Remember what you said yesterday? If the treatment doesn’t work we can always adopt.”
He raised his head to regard her with sad eyes. “That was a lie. I spoke to a social worker at the station. You’re a recovering alcoholic and an ex-drug addict with anger issues and a criminal record. It’s unlikely we’ll be allowed to adopt.”
Pain pierced her heart. That was what she’d been clinging onto as each month passed and her period continued to arrive. Now that hope had been smothered with a thick black cloud of despair. “That’s not fair, I haven’t touched drink or drugs in years.”
“It doesn’t matter. Usually a criminal record isn’t enough to stop an adoption application, unless the charges are anything to do with kids, but the assault charge coupled with the years of alcohol abuse and your anger management issues would probably kill our application.”
“You’re a police officer.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“So why did you tell me we could adopt?”
“I wanted to give you some hope. I couldn’t stand it that you looked so sad.”
“Is this your way of getting back at me because it’s your fault I can’t get pregnant?”
“I thought you said it wasn’t anyone’s fault?”
“Maybe I was lying as well to make you feel better. Not nice is it Craig?”
She shot to her feet and went to stand by the window, the injustice of it making her burn. Her anger issues had practically resolved themselves since Father Logan had legally been recognised as her mother’s murderer. Now they returned with a vengeance. They’d paid their dues, they’d suffered. This was supposed to be their time to be happy.
He came up behind her, slid his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. “Sorry.”
“So am I,” she replied flatly.
“We shouldn’t have a go at each other.”
Freya sighed and turned in his arms to face him. “You’re right.”
“I didn’t mean to sound so harsh, I just thought it best you knew the truth.”
“I certainly know it now,” she muttered to the floor.
“I didn’t realise how much you’d been relying on adoption.”
She nodded, tears standing out in her eyes. “And because of my weakness and stupidity we won’t get a baby.”
“Don’t think like that. You heard what the doctor said, I might still get you pregnant yet so brace yourself.”
She smiled, a twinkle in her eye. “You daftie.”
“You love my daftness.”
“I do, I really do,” she smiled, snaking her arms around his neck.
As they kissed she was a little startled to find herself being pushed backwards onto the couch, his fingers scrabbling at the zip of her jeans. She reasoned his masculinity had been thrown into doubt and now he needed to prove himself.
> For the last few months every time they’d had sex Freya hadn’t been able to enjoy it like she used to because of the pressure to get pregnant. Now she could just let go and enjoy the feel of her husband inside her. Unfortunately Craig couldn’t do the same and while she came under him like a freight train, he was left behind.
When it was over he sat up, fastened his trousers then buried his face in his hands. “Jesus, I’m bloody impotent now.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, you gave me an amazing orgasm. Your confidence has just taken a knock, that’s all. You need to get it back.”
“I don’t have time for that now, I’ve got to go to work,” he said, getting up off the couch and walking into the bedroom.
She followed him in. “Please don’t be upset Craig, its been a hard day. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Maybe,” he sullenly replied, pulling off his clothes and changing into a fresh shirt and black trousers.
“Please don’t go like this.”
“I’m not mad at you, I’m mad with myself. Everything was perfect and I ruined it.”
“You’ve not ruined anything. We’re still happy, aren’t we?”
His hard expression melted. “Course we are.”
“And we always will be. Even if we don’t have a baby we have each other.”
He took her face in both hands and planted a kiss on her lips. “Yes we will. It just would have been nice to have a wean running about the place.”
“We still might. Don’t give up yet.”
“I won’t. Sorry for being a miserable bastard.”
“It’s okay. You’d better get going before you’re late.”
Craig kept up his cheerful front until he’d climbed into his car, then he let the misery overtake him. It had been so much easier when they’d thought it was Freya who couldn’t conceive. He’d been prepared to forego being a dad for her but he didn’t think he could cope with the knowledge that she’d never get to be a mum because of him. He’d taken something from her that she really wanted and he hated himself for it. Not only that, he was desperate to be a dad himself and he felt less of a man knowing he couldn’t achieve that naturally. He considered what the doctor had said about donor sperm. That might be Freya’s only chance. How would he feel knowing another man’s baby was growing inside his wife’s belly? Craig sighed and ran a hand down his face. He’d like to think he’d be fine with it if it made her happy but he couldn’t be sure.
The Drowning Tide (Blair Dubh Trilogy #2) Page 2