by Matt Shaw
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 fi
rst 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 murdere
r 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?”