by Matt Shaw
“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.