by Matt Shaw
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. Sh
e 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.