The Black Path (11 page)

She reaches under the table and holds up a worn red leatherette rucksack. It’s roughly the size of an overnight bag, with half a dozen external pockets fastened with zips and buckles. The material has lost its sheen and is scratched in places, revealing the lining. The condition of the bag seems so at odds with Siân’s groomed appearance, Helen finds herself wondering if it has some sentimental value, like the scarf her father had given her shortly before he died and she’d refused to take off for months afterwards.

‘I don’t remember you having a bag last night,’ she says. Though even as she speaks, she has a vague recollection of seeing a red bag somewhere.

‘I’m surprised you can remember anything from last night,’ Siân replies. ‘You were totally wasted.’

Helen blushes and reaches to clear the empty bowls.

But Siân is already on her feet. ‘Leave that to me,’ she says, gathering them up and carrying them over to the sink. She turns on the tap and looks over her shoulder. ‘You go and put some shoes on. I’ll be done in two ticks.’

Statement from Jackie Evans

Aged 37

Friend of Richard and Mandy Thomas

There are conflicting accounts of Mr Thomas’s movements between the hours of 5pm and 7pm on the night before he died. According to barmaid Jane Morgan, he left The Jolly Brewer no later than 5 p.m. We know from Jane’s niece Lisa Johns that he arrived home shortly after 7 p.m. [see following statement].

Another witness, a Mrs Jackie Evans, recalled seeing Mr Thomas heading towards the Black Path – the historical footpath which runs close to the house where Mr Thomas lived with his wife and daughter. Mrs Evans described herself as a close friend of the Thomases. ‘I sometimes babysit for their daughter, Helen,’ she said. ‘She calls me Auntie Jackie.’

At around 6.20 p.m., Mrs Evans was out walking her dog and saw Mr Thomas approaching the path, a known hangout for local teenagers. ‘He had a carrier bag with him,’ Mrs Evans said. ‘He looked as if he’d just been shopping and was heading home. Which is why I thought it seemed a bit odd.’

Asked if she had spoken to Mr Thomas, Mrs Evans explained that he was some distance away. Did she have any idea what might be in the carrier bag? Did it look heavy? ‘I really couldn’t say.’ When questioned further, Mrs Evans retracted her previous statement, saying she couldn’t be certain that it was Mr Thomas she saw. ‘I had my back to him most of the time. I was more concerned about the dog. He’s a rescue dog. He needs a lot of attention.’ Could she think of any reason why Mr Thomas would be headed towards the Black Path? ‘I really don’t know.’

What we do know is that when Mr Thomas arrived home shortly after 7 p.m., he didn’t have a carrier bag with him and he was in an extremely agitated state.

***

As she steps outside, Helen has a flashback to the night before. She’s searching for her house keys, and Siân is talking to the taxi driver. Helen can’t picture the driver, but she remembers opening her handbag and stumbling as she climbed out of the car, and the sound of metal on stone as the keys hit the pavement. What a mess she must have been. What an embarrassing drunken mess.

‘Okay?’ Siân asks brightly.

‘Fine,’ Helen replies. She looks at the red rucksack slung over Siân’s arm. ‘Are you sure you want to carry that bag? You can always leave it here and pick it up later.’

‘You’re alright,’ Siân says, hoisting the bag onto her back. ‘I’d rather hold onto it.’

Helen double locks the front door and slides the keys into her front pocket. ‘Right. Which way?’

‘We can walk over to Sarn and admire the architectural wonders of South Wales.’ Siân’s face suggests that she’s being ironic. ‘Or we can head towards Blackmill. That way there’s a chance we might see something that’s not made out of concrete.’

‘It’s a bit far,’ Helen says. Blackmill is two miles away.

‘We can always take your car.’

Helen glances at the car parked outside her house. How does Siân know she drives?

‘Only joking,’ Siân adds quickly. ‘We don’t have to walk all the way. We can just follow the river for a bit.’ She directs Helen attention down the street, to the corner where two rows of houses are divided by a grass track which leads to an old railway line. ‘If we cut through there and follow the railway line, there’s a cycle path that runs by the river. We can walk up as far as the ford.’

Helen looks at her blankly.

Siân frowns. ‘You must have been to the ford. Up by the farm.’

Helen shakes her head. ‘No.’

‘And how long have you lived here?’

‘A few years.’

Siân’s eyes widen in mock amazement. ‘You need to get out more,’ she says, and flashes a grin. ‘C’mon. It won’t take us long. Twenty minutes tops.’

They head down the street, cut between the buildings and begin walking along the disused railway line. The tracks are red with rust. Grass grows between the concrete sleepers.

Siân skips ahead and jumps up onto the track, placing one foot in front of the other like a tightrope walker. ‘I used to love playing dare on the railway line when I was little,’ she calls over her shoulder. ‘No-one could beat me. Not even the boys.’

‘Not this one?’ Helen asks. By the looks of it, this line hasn’t been used in decades.

‘Nah. The main one. Through town. Up by the Black Path.’

‘You played there?’

‘Yeah. Why not?’

‘I wasn’t allowed to play there. My parents said it was dangerous.’

Siân steps off the track. ‘Maybe they were right. A woman was raped there a few months ago.’ She pauses, then shrugs. ‘Good job nobody tried any of that shit with me. I’d have had their balls for earrings.’

The cycle path is busier than Helen was expecting. It’s not just the cyclists, though there are plenty of them – men speeding past in their lycra, women pedalling by with friendly nods and baskets full of shopping. There are also joggers and people out walking their dogs.

The sun is bright and the sound of the river soothes away the remains of Helen’s hangover. Siân was right, she thinks. The fresh air is doing her good. She wonders why she and Owen never take walks like this. Maybe when he returns home they should make a point of getting out more and enjoying the countryside, instead of spending so much time holed up indoors.

‘Penny for your thoughts?’ says Siân.

‘I was just thinking how nice it is.’

‘Nice?’ Siân scoffs. ‘Is that the worst word in the English language or what? A
nice
walk. A
nice
cup of tea. A
nice
family.
Nice
!’

Helen feels herself colouring.

‘I’m just pulling your leg.’ Siân smiles. ‘So what about me? Am I
nice
? Think very carefully before you answer.’

Helen laughs warily. ‘You seem okay.’

‘Well, that’s good to know. You seem rather
nice
too. So that’s us sorted.’

They walk in silence for a while. Soon they come to a farm gate. Behind the gate lies a field, with a view of the river crossing and an old farmhouse. As they approach, a large brown horse comes galloping over and sticks its head over the fence, greeting them with a loud snort.

Siân reaches up and pets the horse’s nose. ‘Who’s a good boy?’ she says in a soft, girly voice. ‘I bet you want an apple, don’t you? Maybe next time we’ll bring you one.’ She turns to Helen. ‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’

Helen smiles but keeps her distance. Large animals make her nervous. ‘So tell me a bit about yourself.’

Siân begins stroking the horse’s neck. ‘Well, as you can see, I love horses. I had one when I was a kid. He was called Rocky, like the boxer. Then one day he broke his leg and we had to have him put down.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It’s all part of growing up, isn’t it? So what else do you want to know?’

‘Anything. What do you do?’

Siân snorts. ‘Is that how you define people? By what they do for a living?’

Helen blushes. ‘No.’

‘Good. Because I like to think there’s a bit more to me than that’. Siân pats the horse’s head and steps away from the gate. ‘C’mon. It’s not far now.’

Helen pictures the thick wodge of notes in Siân’s wallet. ‘But you must have a job?’

‘I’m what you call a member of the leisured classes. And before you ask, I’m not on benefits.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean –’

‘It’s okay.’ Siân grins. ‘There’s nothing else to say, really. Trust me. It’s boring. So what about your job? Do you like it?’

‘I do,’ Helen replies. ‘I’m not some high powered executive or anything. I work for a training company. It’s mostly admin. But I enjoy it.’

‘I bet you were good at school. Which one did you go to?’

‘Brynteg. You?’

‘I didn’t. Not much anyway. It was okay until I was about fourteen, but after that I couldn’t really see the point. My dad said I had a problem with authority.’

‘What did you do?’

Siân shrugs. ‘Nothing much. I just bunked off. I wasn’t expelled or anything. Every now and then they’d haul my dad in and threaten to have me thrown out, but he always talked them round. He was really cool, my dad. I learned more from him than I did from any of those fuckwit teachers.’

Helen notices that Siân refers to her father in the past tense. She remembers her own father collecting her at the school gate, the walks home via the sweetshop, the promises not to tell her mother or let the sweets ruin her appetite.

‘What about you?’ asks Siân.

‘Sorry?’

‘What were you like at school? Were you a swot? I bet you were! You’ve got that look about you.’

Helen doesn’t know whether to take this as an insult or an opportunity to impress. ‘I did okay at maths. And I liked business studies. But I wasn’t top of the class or anything.’

Siân stops walking. ‘Why do you do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘Put yourself down all the time. I bet you did a lot better at school than you’re letting on.’

Helen struggles to find the right words. ‘I just didn’t want you thinking –’

‘What? That you’re cleverer than me?’ Siân laughs. ‘That wouldn’t bother me. There’s different ways of being clever. Me, I was crap at school. Couldn’t wait to get out. Failed every exam they put in front of me. But I’m clever in other ways.’

She taps her forefinger against the side of her head. ‘I’m sharp, I am. I know what’s going on. It’s like a sixth sense, almost. Take last night. I could tell there was going to be trouble with those old slags before it all kicked off. I could sense it. And I knew the police wouldn’t be paying attention. It’s the lads they’re watching out for. But I could tell. I had you covered.’

She starts walking again.

Helen hurries alongside her. ‘Covered?’

‘I was watching out for you,’ Siân says. ‘And when it kicked off, I was ready. That’s what life’s about. Being ready. That’s what I meant when I said there’s different ways of being clever. Not everyone knows that. Their heads are full of all this stuff they’ve learned, all these facts and figures and things you’re supposed to know. They’re so wrapped up in the small stuff, they don’t see the bigger picture. In fact, half the time they’re afraid to even look at the bigger picture. So they just keep their blinkers on and their heads down. Then one day they wake up and wonder why life has passed them by. It’s because they were never ready.’

Helen thinks of how punctual she is, how she always plans ahead and pays attention to detail. These are lessons she learned from Owen, and they’ve served her well, haven’t they? She’s good at her job. She has things under control, or so she likes to think. But how prepared is she, really? How equipped was she for what had happened last night? How reliable are her instincts?

‘What’s up?’ asks Siân.

‘I was just thinking about what you said, about people going through life with their heads down.’

‘And?’

Helen looks at her. ‘I think I’m a bit like that.’

‘I think you probably are.’ Siân smiles. ‘Not far to the ford now. Do you want to keep going or should we turn back?’

Helen can see the river crossing through the trees ahead, the surrounding woodland sloping steeply down to the white water. She remembers her mother warning her not to play near the river. Her mother had told her a lot of things.

‘No,’ she says firmly. ‘Let’s keep going.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The daylight is fading and the temperature has dropped when the Jackal shudders and lurches to a halt. Owen reaches instinctively for his rifle. His first thought is that they’ve taken a hit. After this morning’s mortar attack on the base, his nerves are frayed. But the reality proves to be more mundane. The transmission has packed up. Owen listens as the driver radios it in. The turnaround will be four hours. They’re told to sit tight.

‘Great,’ snaps Jackson. ‘So what do we do now?’

‘We follow orders and sit tight,’ Owen says. ‘And since you’re so keen for something to do, you can be first on stag.’

Tensions between him and Jackson have been building steadily for days now, and the situation isn’t helped by the fact that the source of the tension is sitting in the truck up ahead. There are three vehicles on the patrol, carrying a total of twelve men. Owen watches as the truck in front stops and Collins jumps out and stretches. There’s something about the lad that fascinates him. It’s the way he carries himself, as if he’s aware that he’s being watched and is putting on a show – flexing his arms that little bit more than necessary, tilting his head to accentuate his jawline and the full length of his neck.

Quickly, Owen looks away.

Jackson is staring straight back at him, lip curling. ‘Collins can go first.’

‘You’ll do as I say, Jackson,’ Owen says firmly. ‘Isn’t that right, sarge?’

The sergeant grunts in agreement.

‘Fine,’ Jackson replies. ‘So long as it’s one of the other lads who relieves me, and not your boy there.’

Owen’s face flushes. Has word got round about what happened at the gym? Have people seen him and Collins talking outside the cookhouse and jumped to their own conclusions? Surreptitiously, he glances at the faces of the other soldiers in the vehicle but their expressions give nothing away. Maybe they hadn’t heard Jackson’s remark. Out here in the desert, voices are carried away on the wind as easily as lives are lost.