The Black Path (23 page)

Helen gasps. ‘What happened?’

‘I’d rather not go into it. But he was a hero. And he was my big brother, so he was always my hero. I had to go with my dad to identify the body. Mum was long gone by then. The bitch didn’t even bother coming to the funeral. Can you believe that? Her own son, and she couldn’t even pay her respects to him when he was dead.’

Siân’s eyes are dark pools of hurt.

‘Sorry,’ she mumbles, wiping away a tear. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you all this now. You’ve got enough to worry about. It’s just that hearing about that poor boy has brought it all back. He was about the same age as my brother.’

‘Oh, Siân,’ Helen says. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Her friend shrugs. ‘What have you got to be sorry for? It’s not as if you had anything to do with it.’

‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ Martin asks. ‘Or would you prefer something stronger?’

They’re back home now, in their large, detached house in Bristol. Detached is exactly how he and Barbara would appear to anyone peering in at them through the tall, Georgian-style windows. Her – remote, withdrawn, perched on the edge of the sofa. Him – seemingly calm, collected, slowly pacing the front room.

He walks over to the windows and draws the curtains on the well-lit street and the windows opposite. He’s had more than his fill of prying eyes today.

His wife still hasn’t answered his question. She hasn’t said a single word to him since they left Birmingham. He tried several times to initiate some kind of conversation but each time his efforts were met with a stony silence. Looking at her now, there’s no reason to suppose that her reaction will be any different.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Well, I think I’ll have a brandy.’ He moves over to the drinks cabinet. ‘Barbara? Are you sure I can’t fix you something?’

His words fall on deaf ears. Opening the brandy and pouring himself a glass, Martin thinks of the last time he and his son were alone in this room. It was the Christmas before last. The brandy had been open then, too – not for drinking, but for the brandy sauce his wife always insisted on making from scratch.

‘I should go and give Mum a hand in the kitchen,’ Jamie had said. That was so typical of him. It wasn’t just that he was always so attentive to his mother. It was also that he would do anything to avoid spending time alone with his father.

‘Hang on a minute, son,’ Martin had said. ‘There’s something I need to say’.

And then he’d closed the door and told Jamie something he’d never told anyone, not even his wife. It was something that had happened a long time ago, when he was Jamie’s age. It was something he still found difficult to talk about, but something he wanted the boy to know.

‘So you see, son,’ he said afterwards. ‘I’m not quite as narrow-minded as some people think.’

‘I never said you were, Dad,’ Jamie replied, blushing heavily before hurrying off to help his mother. Thinking back, Martin couldn’t recall much of that Christmas. But he remembered those few minutes alone with Jamie in this room. It was the last conversation he had with his son.

‘I’m going to sleep in the spare room,’ Barbara announces, rising from the sofa.

Martin stares into his brandy glass. The spare room is where Jamie sleeps, he thinks, then corrects himself. It’s where Jamie
slept
. ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ he says.

Tomorrow he’ll have to start making the necessary arrangements. His wife isn’t up to that. He listens as she climbs the stairs, waiting for the footsteps on the landing and the click of the bathroom door.

He sighs and takes a sip of his brandy. His hand trembles. Then the tears come.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

There’s no change in Owen’s condition the next day. Helen spends every hour she can by his bedside, occasionally nodding off in her chair and then jerking awake, lost for a few seconds before it all comes crashing back and the anxiety kicks in.

She tries to glean as much information as she can about her husband’s condition, but when she finally manages to corner Mr Croft after his morning rounds, he simply repeats what he told her yesterday. Her husband is in a coma. His condition is stable. He’ll wake up when he’s ready.

‘But what if he doesn’t?’

‘We have no reason for concern. He’s breathing unaided. His vital signs are good. We just have to wait.’

Helen finds herself mildly irritated by this response. Waiting is something she knows all about. It’s something every soldier’s wife or girlfriend knows about. They wait for letters, for phone calls, for news. Life is like a long series of waiting rooms, one opening into the other. She doesn’t need a man in a white lab coat to tell her how to wait.

‘That’s doctors for you,’ Siân says when they meet in the cafeteria for lunch. ‘Arrogant sons of bitches.’ Her voice is loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, including the two women in nurses’ uniform who’ve just walked in.

‘Please, Siân!’

‘I’m just saying. I’ve known my share of doctors. Cocky buggers, most of them.’

Helen sighs. ‘That’s not really helping.’

It’s not really true, either. Frustrating as it is, Helen knows that Mr Croft is just doing his job. It isn’t a job she envies. In the short time it’s taken her to become more familiar with the day-to-day running of the trauma ward, one thing Helen has noticed is that the staff are run off their feet.

‘Is it always this busy?’ she asks Sue Blackwell later that afternoon. She’s sitting by Owen’s bedside. Siân has gone off in search of a decent cup of coffee when Sue pops her head around the door.

‘Not always,’ Sue replies. ‘But often.’

Helen is about to ask about the weeping woman she saw yesterday, but stops herself. It isn’t any of her business, and she already feels as if she’s intruded on another woman’s grief. Then she remembers Siân’s conversation with the soldier. If he knows about the explosion, then maybe Sue will too.

‘I’m afraid I can’t say,’ is Sue’s response.

‘What does that mean?’ Helen hears herself snap. ‘You can’t say? Or you won’t say?’

Sue blinks several times before answering. ‘I don’t have that information,’ she begins. Then she changes tack. ‘Mrs McGrath? I hope you don’t think I’m prying, but I wanted to ask you something. It’s about your friend –’

Someone coughs – a dry, throaty sound. It takes Helen a few seconds to realize that it’s coming from Owen.

There’s another cough, louder this time, and both women turn their attention to the man in the bed.

‘Is he alright?’ Helen asks.

‘He does this a lot,’ Sue says. ‘It’s nothing to worry about.’

‘Is he waking up?’

The coughing stops. The only sounds now are Owen’s gentle snoring and the beeps of the machines.

Sue smiles. ‘I don’t think so. Not yet. But it’s a good sign.’

‘Is it?’

‘It is. Now we just have to –’

‘Don’t tell me,’ Helen snaps. Normally she’d let it pass. But things aren’t normal anymore. ‘Wait,’ she says bitterly, repeating the word she’s heard so many times. ‘We just have to wait.’

Western Echo
–

Former soldier found dead at the Black Path

A 26-year-old man was found hanging from a tree in the early hours of Monday morning at the Black Path in Bridgend. A cyclist spotted the body and alerted the emergency services. They arrived within fifteen minutes, but were unable to resuscitate the man, who was pronounced dead at the scene.

Identified as Alex Watkins of Brackla, the deceased is believed to have taken his own life. Mr Watkins left the army three years ago, after serving in Afghanistan, where he was severely injured by an improvised explosive device and lost the lower half of his left leg. He is said to have suffered from depression following the breakdown of his marriage. According to neighbours, he was unable to find a job and developed a dependency on drugs and alcohol. Police are not treating the death as suspicious.

The funeral will be held on Saturday at Bridgend Cemetery. Mr Watkins’ parents, who separated when he was in his teens, have specified that there will be no flowers but have asked that donations be made to the charity Help for Heroes, formed to assist those wounded in Britain’s current conflicts.

***

‘Do you think he can hear us?’

Helen is half asleep in the chair. Several hours have passed since her conversation with Sue Blackwell. Now the nurses are gone and the light outside the window is starting to fade.

The voice belongs to Siân. She’s crouched down next to the chair. ‘Well?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Helen murmurs. ‘The doctor said talking to him might help.’

‘That’s good news. They must think he can hear something or there’d be no point.’ She turns and stares at Owen. ‘He looks peaceful, doesn’t he? Like he’s just taking a nap.’

No, he doesn’t
, Helen thinks.
He looks like he’s been through hell and back. God knows what’s going on inside his head
.

‘I passed Sue in the corridor earlier,’ Siân says. ‘Any news?’

‘Not really. He’ll wake up, but she can’t say when. Until then, I just have to wait.’

‘
We’ll
wait,’ Siân says, patting Helen’s hand. ‘I’m your friend, remember? We’re in this together.’ She gives a reassuring smile before standing and walking over to the bedside. ‘They’ll be pumping him full of barbiturates,’ she says, staring down at Owen with all the authority of a trained medical professional. ‘That’s to reduce pressure on the brain. And to stop him from lashing about like those blokes out there, and tearing out his drips. I swear one of them pointed an imaginary rifle at me earlier. Poor bugger. Probably thinks he’s still at war.’ She looks across at Helen. ‘He hasn’t done anything like that, has he?’

‘Of course not!’

‘That’s okay then. But the more you talk to him, the better. C’mon, don’t be shy!’

Helen coughs. She thinks the cough might turn into a sob, but it doesn’t. ‘I think I’ve run out of things to say.’

Siân smiles. ‘Let me have a go.’ She sits on the edge of the bed. ‘He’s a good looker, your fella.’

He’s looked better
, Helen thinks. She stares at the marks on his swollen face and the paraphernalia of medical care surrounding the bed. His eyes are closed and his breathing is faint, as if he’s in a deep sleep. His right hand rests on top of the bedclothes, the fingers raw and blistered. A drip feeds into a vein above the wrist, held in place with white surgical tape. He looks so alien to her – even more so with Siân sitting so close him.

‘Hello, soldier,’ Siân says. Helen notices a small movement of Owen’s fingers. It’s only a fragile gesture, but it’s enough to convince her that he’s aware of Siân’s presence, as if he somehow recognizes her voice.

‘See that?’ Siân beams. ‘He knows we’re here.’

Helen nods.
He knows you’re here. But what about me
?

Siân takes Owen’s hand and cradled it between her palms. ‘There, there,’ she says, gently stroking his fingers. ‘I know you can hear me, Owen. You’re going to be okay. The worst is over now. You’re safe. I’m here with Helen. I’m taking good care of her, so there’s no need for you to worry. We’re waiting for you to wake up, then we’re going to take you home. Everything will be fine. You’ll see.’

She looks at Helen. ‘You’d think they’d have cleaned him up a bit, wouldn’t you?’ She lets go of Owen’s hand and reaches into her pocket, taking out a paper tissue. She dampens it with her tongue and begins gently dabbing at the dirt around his hairline.

‘There,’ she says, leaning back and appraising her work. ‘That’s better.’ She turns to Helen. ‘What do you think?’

Helen doesn’t know what to think. She’s all emotions. Feelings wash over her in waves – fear, frustration, jealousy. She isn’t proud of it, but what she really wants is for Owen to pull his hand away and for Siân to make her excuses and leave.

How mean you are
, she thinks.
Here’s your friend trying to make the best of things and all you can think about is your own petty jealousy
!

She watches as Siân tucks the tissue back in her pocket.

‘We’ve been having quite a few adventures, your wife and me,’ she says. ‘We went to the social club and Helen sang karaoke. You should have heard her, Owen. She was brilliant.’

No I wasn’t
, Helen thinks.
I didn’t even sing. I bottled it and ran away
.

‘And we went for a long walk and fed the horses,’ Siân says. ‘At the farm up behind your house. Helen was a bit nervous at first, but she soon got over it. I reckon we’ll make a horsewoman of her yet.’

I never said anything about riding horses
, Helen thinks.

Siân smiles at her before continuing. ‘We ran into that Muslim too,’ she says, a note of contempt creeping into her voice. ‘You know the one I mean. If he’s that keen, why doesn’t he just fuck off to Afghanistan? It wouldn’t surprise me to see a picture of him in the paper, setting fire to poppies.’

Owen’s hand twitches again, more vigorously this time.

‘I think that’s enough now,’ Helen says quickly.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘You’re upsetting him. I saw his hand move.’

Siân frowns. ‘But that’s a good thing. It shows he’s listening.’

‘All the same. I think we should let him rest now.’

Siân promptly lets go of Owen’s hand and stands up. ‘Whatever,’ she says, thrusting her hands deep into the front pockets of her jeans. ‘You’re the boss.’

‘Sorry –’ Helen begins. Then she stops herself. ‘Those things you were saying. They weren’t really true.’

Siân smiles. ‘I know that. I was just trying to help. Surely it’s better for him to hear that you’re doing okay? The last thing you want is him worrying about you. I’m sure he has enough on his mind already.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘I think it’s time we got you back to the hotel,’ Siân says. ‘You look knackered.’

‘I am.’

‘Let’s go. I gave the nurse my number. She said she’ll call if there’s any change.’

Helen is too tired to protest. She hauls herself to her feet and kisses Owen on the cheek before turning towards the door.