The Black Path (13 page)

Asked if she and Mr Thomas were on first-name terms, Ms Johns hesitated before replying. ‘I’ve known him for a couple of years now. We’ve often chatted about stuff, the way neighbours do. I always called him Richard and he always called me Lisa. But he was different that night. When I told him he didn’t seem fine, he snapped at me. “Mind your own business,” he said.’

How did she react? ‘I was shocked, to tell you the truth. He’d never spoken to me like that before. Not once. I said we were neighbours, but we were more like friends really. I mean, he’d told me things – y’know, personal things. I knew him and his wife argued a lot. I’d hear her over the garden fence. “Richard, do this! Richard, do that!” She was always going on about the amount of time he spent in his shed. If you ask me, he only went in there to get away from her. I don’t think he got a moment’s peace. In fact, if she wasn’t such an old nag, he’d probably still be alive now. It’s because of her that he was out mowing the front lawn when it happened. And now he’s dead.’

So Ms Johns saw Mr Thomas at the time of the attack? What else did she see? ‘I didn’t say that! I didn’t see anything. I was inside the house when it happened, on the phone to my fiancé.’

At this point, Ms Johns broke down in tears. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s been such a shock. That poor man. But it’s not his wife I feel sorry for. It’s that daughter of his. Poor little Helen. She was so close to her dad.’

***

When Siân returns to the table, her eyes are shining. Helen wonders if she’s been crying. Behind that tough exterior is a young woman who grew up without a mother, and who only recently lost her father. Her grief is probably still raw.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Siân says as she sits down. ‘I remember reading about your dad.’

‘Really? It was such a long time ago.’

‘My dad kept newspaper cuttings. Local news stories, mostly. Your dad seemed really brave. The paper called him a local hero.’ She smiles sympathetically. ‘It must have been really tough on your mum.’

‘I suppose.’

‘You don’t sound too convinced.’

‘She didn’t waste much time. She has this new bloke. Frank.’

‘And you don’t like him.’

‘Not really. He drinks. And he thinks he knows what’s best for everyone – me, my mum.’ She takes a bite of toast before adding thoughtfully, ‘I think he’s the reason she stopped visiting my dad’s grave.’

‘He sounds a bit of a control freak.’

Helen smiles as she imagines Siân saying this to Frank’s face. Then her smile fades at the thought of tomorrow. Her mother will be expecting her for Sunday lunch. And Frank will want to know all about her girls’ night out.

‘What’s the matter?’ Siân asks.

‘Nothing. I have to see them tomorrow, that’s all. Family duty.’

‘Why go? If you can’t stand him?’

‘I’m expected.’

‘And do you always do what’s expected of you?’

‘I suppose I do, yes.’

Siân stares at her for a moment. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Okay.’

‘Who do you want to be?’

Helen laughs nervously. ‘You mean, when I grow up?’

‘I mean now. Are you happy with who you are? I mean, really happy?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Helen says. But she does. She knows exactly what Siân means. ‘How happy are you, really?’ It’s the sort of question posed by women’s magazines: ‘Take Our Happiness Quiz’, or ‘Ten Tips To Help Make You A Happier Person’. The tips mostly seem to involve taking time to enjoy nature, cutting down on alcohol or taking up yoga or meditation. Sometimes there are case studies involving women at the end of their tether, ready to walk out on their families and never look back. Helen has often wondered about those women. Do they hate their husbands and children that much? It seems such a cruel thing to do – the kind of thing Siân’s mother had done.

Still, she’d be lying if she said that she never fantasized about disappearing – not for good, but just for a day, or even a few hours, just long enough to know how it feels. She’d wonder how long it would take for Owen to realize that she was missing. She’d imagine the frantic phone calls to her mother, and the panicked response on the other end of the line. ‘No, she’s not here. We thought she was with you.’ But then she’d picture the look of horror on her husband’s face and know in her heart that she could never subject him to such an ordeal.

‘Can I be honest?’ Siân says, leaning across the table.

Helen flinches. ‘Of course.’

‘I think you’re afraid. You’re afraid to say no to your mother. Afraid to stand up for yourself. Afraid to ask for help. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not having a go. We’re all afraid of something.’

‘Even you?’ Helen thinks of the fearless way Siân intervened last night.

‘Even me.’

‘What are you afraid of?’

‘Me? Oh, lots of things. Snakes. Spiders. Losing my devastatingly good looks.’ Siân rolls her eyes. ‘I didn’t mean that last bit.’

Helen laughs. ‘I can’t imagine you ever being scared.’

‘Of course I am. But the secret is not to let your fear hold you back. You have to face it, show it who’s boss.’

Helen stares at this strange woman and wonders how someone she’s only just met can know her so well. Siân is right. She is afraid. In fact, her whole life is hemmed in by fear – fear of embarrassment, fear of failure, fear that her husband might not make it home alive.

‘C’mon,’ says Siân, pushing her cup and saucer away and placing a crisp ten-pound note on the table. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Where are we going?’

Her friend grins. ‘To face your fear, of course.’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

As they leave the café, Helen can feel her anxiety rising. ‘What do you mean, face my fear?’ she asks. Already she has visions of being pushed from a plane with a parachute strapped to her back.

Siân smiles and narrows her eyes against the early evening sun. ‘The weather’s cleared,’ she says. ‘How’s your head?’

‘Much better, thanks.’

‘Great. If you need more painkillers, just say. I’ve got plenty in here.’ She hoists her bag onto her shoulder. ‘I’m like a travelling chemist.’

It’s a big bag to be carrying around
, Helen thinks.
What else has she got in there
?

‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘So where are we going?’

Siân taps her nose. ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out. Come on.’

The air is soft and filled with the fresh smells of summer. Helen inhales deeply, enjoying the warmth on her face.
Relax
, she tells herself.
What’s the worst that can happen?
She waits for the warning voice in her head to answer back, but no words come. She feels different, somehow. Nothing much has changed. She still hasn’t heard from Owen. She still has to face her mother and Frank tomorrow. But meeting Siân has opened a window of possibility that didn’t exist before. Her new friend is outspoken and a bit rough around the edges, but there are far worse crimes than speaking your mind. At least nobody could accuse Siân of only telling people what they want to hear. She may be blunt but at least she’s honest.

Besides, Helen has never met anyone quite like Siân before. She’s fascinated by her combination of bravado and vulnerability, flattered that someone so physically attractive and charismatic should find her interesting enough to spend time with. Nobody has paid Helen this much attention in a long time. She’s determined to show Siân that she’s not some feeble creature who’s afraid of her own shadow and doesn’t know how to enjoy herself.

They haven’t walked far when Siân grabs her arm.

Helen follows her gaze. Trundling along the pavement opposite is a woman on a mobility scooter, her enormous backside mushrooming over the sides of the seat. She wears carpet slippers, leggings and a black T-shirt with white lettering that reads, ‘I’m Up. I’m Dressed. What More Do You Want?’ Her greasy hair is pulled back tightly from her face, which is the colour of uncooked pastry.

‘See that?’ says Siân. ‘That’s what happens when people just give up. Can you imagine letting yourself go like that? I’d rather die.’

‘You don’t mean that,’ Helen says.

‘Okay, maybe not die. But I wouldn’t parade around in a T-shirt like that. It’s people like her who give people on benefits a bad name.’

‘Maybe she can’t help it,’ Helen says. ‘Maybe she’s disabled.’

Siân snorts. ‘I bet there’s nothing wrong with her that a good kick up the arse wouldn’t fix.’

‘It’s the weekend. She might have a job for all we know.’

‘Seriously?’ Siân rolls her eyes. ‘Does she look like a wage slave to you? No offence.’

Helen smiles despite herself. ‘None taken.’

‘Trust me,’ says Siân. ‘I know a scrounger when I see one. Last week there was this drunk guy outside McDonald’s, begging with a bloody great burger in his hand! He asked me for money to buy something to eat. I said to him, “Why? Would you like fries with that?”’

Helen laughs. ‘You didn’t!’

Siân frowns. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’

‘No,’ Helen says quickly. ‘It’s just funny, that’s all. I can never think of witty one-liners at the time. They always come to me later.’

‘It’s like I was saying before. It’s all about being ready. Now, are you ready to face your fear?’

Helen tries to stop her voice from wavering. ‘You still haven’t told me where we’re going.’

‘Are you always this anxious?’ Siân asks, linking arms with her. ‘Don’t look so worried. You’ll be thanking me later, I promise.’

She steers her along the high street, past shops selling over-priced groceries, estate agents, hairdressers and a boutique with a window display full of wedding dresses. The sign above the window reads ‘Blushing Brides’.

‘I don’t know why they bothered opening a bridal shop there,’ Siân says. ‘It must be a front for something.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Well, they can’t do much business, can they? Look around. I bet there’s not a single kid within a five-mile radius whose parents are married. Most of the poor bastards don’t even know who their father is.’

Helen doubts this very much, but chooses not to argue. ‘Have you ever thought about getting married?’ she asks.

‘Yeah, I’ve
thought
about it.’ Siân laughs. ‘Thought what a bloody nightmare it must be!’ She looks at Helen. ‘No offence. I just don’t think I’m cut out to be a blushing bride.’

‘But you’ve had boyfriends.’

‘A few. But most of the blokes around here are such losers. I’d rather be on my own than with some knuckle-dragging meathead.’

‘They’re not all like that. There were some nice-looking lads in town last night.’

‘So you noticed them, did you? And you a married woman!’ Siân grins. ‘The trouble with good-looking blokes is they’re too into themselves. There was one at the gym the other day. Fit body. Not a bad face. Then he saw me looking at him. I swear to God he flexed his bicep, kissed it and said, “All the girls love the guns!” So I told him.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said, “Yeah, and some of the boys do too!” That soon shut him up.’

‘You’re mad, you are,’ Helen says. For a split second she sees a shadow move across Siân’s face, like the tiniest of clouds scurrying across the sun. Then it’s gone.

‘C’mon,’ says Siân. ‘We’ll cut through the underpass. It’s quicker that way.’

The approach to the underpass is littered with cigarette butts and the discarded remains of fast food packaging. Helen’s pulse quickens as she follows Siân into the half-light. She struggles not to gag at the smell of urine. Someone – possibly a local primary schoolteacher or the leader of a kids’ playgroup – has attempted to brighten up the walls with paintings of trees and children’s handprints. But the handprints look sinister, like something out of
The Blair Witch Project
. Next to one of the trees, someone has scrawled ‘Huw is gay as fuck for BA’ with a black marker pen.

As they emerge into the daylight, a group of girls are huddled together, smoking and passing around a bottle of cider. Helen hangs back nervously, but Siân marches forward and the girls quickly part to make way.

She’s fearless
, Helen thinks.
Totally fearless. Why can’t I be more like that
?

Siân turns to her and smiles reassuringly. ‘C’mon, slow coach!’

Half expecting a foot to come out or an insult to be thrown in her face, Helen takes a step forward. Memories of last night’s attack come flooding back. Her skin prickles. But there’s Siân, waiting a few yards ahead. Siân won’t let anything bad happen to her. She walks on. The girls don’t give her a second glance.

Statement from Duncan Roberts

Aged 48

Neighbour of Richard and Mandy Thomas

It’s not known if Richard Thomas left his house again after returning home on the night before he died. The next confirmed sighting was the following morning, when he was seen leaving the house at around 10.40 a.m. by a Mr Duncan Roberts, who lives in the house directly opposite.

‘I saw him from my front window,’ Mr Roberts said. ‘Even from a distance, I could see that he was a bit grey around the gills. I said to the wife, “Someone had a few too many last night!” We’re regulars at The Jolly Brewer in Park Street. I’ve seen him in there, a bit worse for wear. But I don’t remember him ever looking as rough as he did that morning. He looked like he’d been up boozing all night. He was wearing a bulky jacket, which struck me as a bit odd considering how hot it was. I’d been out to buy the paper and it was already warm. He came out of his front gate and turned left up the street. I don’t know where he was heading. The shops are all in the other direction. There’s just a few houses up there. And the Black Path where the kids hang out. Maybe he just needed a walk to clear his head. But he must have been sweltering in that jacket.’

Mr Roberts stated that he and Mr Thomas weren’t what he would call friends. ‘I can’t say I ever really took to the man. Not that I’m not sorry about what happened. Nobody deserves that. And with a wife and kid, too. I hope they catch the little bastards who did it, and when they do, they should lock them up and throw away the key. But he wasn’t really a man’s man, if you know what I mean. He preferred the company of women. I’ve lived here for seven years and don’t think he ever exchanged more than a few words with me. I’d seen him talking and laughing with that Lisa Johns, who lives a few doors down. They seemed very close. Oh yes, he could always find time to talk to pretty young girls.’