SEED: A Novel of Horror and Suspense

by Matt Shaw

  * * * * *

  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 Beck
y. 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.