The Black Path (30 page)

Dead
. The word sounds alien to her. Part of her still expects another letter to arrive, or for someone to call and say that it’s all been a terrible mistake. He hadn’t died after all. It was another soldier’s body, someone else’s son. He’ll be coming home soon. She stares at the mahogany box outlined beneath the Union flag and knows that it isn’t true. She pictures his body inside – broken, bloodied, barely recognizable – and a cold shiver runs over her skin. She remembers that awful moment when she and Martin were allowed to view his body, the certainty of knowing that nothing would compare to the horror of what she saw in that cold white room. She remembers telling herself that the healing process would begin as soon as they left the hospital. But she was wrong. There would be no escaping this feeling, no ritual that would help alleviate the pain. This is who she is now – a mother who has lost her son.

She listens as the minister welcomes everyone to the service and offers a prayer for the family. It barely registers that he’s referring to her and Martin. Then the hymns begin and her husband helps her to her feet.

She doesn’t know the words. It’s a long time since she’s been inside a church and right now, words of faith mean less to her than ever. She knows she’s supposed to find comfort in them, but she can’t. What kind of god would allow this to happen? Mothers are not supposed to bury their children.

Blinking back tears, she turns her head and surveys the room. The church is full. There are rows of men in uniform and their wives and girlfriends dressed in black. She wonders what’s going through the women’s minds. Is this their first military funeral? Will it be their last? Are they looking at their men now, wondering how long it will be before it’s their turn?

Her eyes fall on a familiar face a few rows from the front. She’s only seen him once before, at the hospital, but he has one of those faces that stands out in a crowd. There’s a thuggish quality about him, a hard look in his eye that certain types of women find attractive. Barbara recalls the black-haired woman pressed against him in the hospital corridor. It was such a vulgar display, and so inappropriate. She’d noted his wedding ring and somehow known that this woman wasn’t his wife. Her suspicions were confirmed when she overheard him boasting about the number of ‘ragheads’ he’d taken out. Men rarely spoke like that to women who knew them well. Such macho posturing was usually reserved for those they were still trying to impress.

It suddenly strikes Barbara that this man was probably there when her son died. She knows it’s wrong to wish harm on others, least of all those willing to risk their lives for their country. But she can’t help herself. Why couldn’t it have been him who’d died, instead of her brave, beautiful son?

The man’s eyes flicker towards her. His face is impassive, but she’s certain she detects the hint of an amused smile. A flush of anger washes over her and she turns her face away.

Across the aisle, six uniformed men stand in the front row. It’s these six soldier who carried her son’s coffin into the church, and who will carry it to its final resting place. She doesn’t know them. She’s barely been introduced. But there’s one man whose presence here means everything to her. There’s a reason why she’d asked for him to be a pall bearer, even with his broken arm. It’s the same reason he’d agreed, despite his injuries. Next to her and Martin, he’s the person most affected by Jamie’s death. He was her son’s friend, and possibly more.

Her husband still hasn’t read Jamie’s letters. Had he read them, he would know that this man had held a special place in her son’s affections. Jamie had written about him many times. He’d described the secret spot where they sunbathed together, and the camaraderie which developed into a close friendship. Reading between the lines, Barbara wondered if that was all it was. It seemed pretty clear to her that her son had feelings for this man. Several times he’d described him as his hero. But what was also clear was that this man wasn’t gay. As Jamie had mentioned in one of his letters, Lance Corporal Owen McGrath had a wife.

Barbara is pretty certain she saw the wife earlier, standing quietly outside. A pretty, pale thing, she’d looked lost and rather lonely, the way soldiers’ wives and girlfriends often looked at military gatherings. Barbara remembers seeing her tired, anxious face once before at the hospital. Her husband had been in a coma. Things hadn’t been easy for her either, poor thing. But at least the man she loved hadn’t died.

Gazing over at him now, Barbara wonders if Owen McGrath is feeling a fraction of what she’s feeling. Men are always so much harder to read than women. Apart from his broken arm, there’s little to distinguish him from any of the other soldiers who’ve come to pay their respects. His face gives nothing away. He hasn’t cried once during the entire funeral service. Considering what he and her son had gone through together, he seems remarkably composed.

‘Let us pray,’ says the minister.

The soldier obeys, his head bowed, silently mouthing the words to the Lord’s Prayer. Do the words hold any meaning for him, Barbara wonders, or is he simply going through the motions? Did he have feelings for her son, or is he simply here out of duty?

It’s only later, at the graveside, as they sound the salute and the coffin is lowered into the earth, that she sees the stricken look on the soldier’s face. Then the tears pour down his cheeks and Barbara finally has the answer she needs. Her son’s feelings for this man had been reciprocated.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Martin is determined to be strong for his wife’s sake – today of all days. But maintaining his composure at his son’s funeral is one of the hardest things he’s ever done. Sitting in the church with Barbara sobbing by his side, listening as the tributes were paid to his dead son, he’d very nearly broken down. But what use would he have been to her then? One of them had to hold it together and it seemed only right that the responsibility should fall to him. James had always been his mother’s son. It was her he asked for whenever he phoned, her he confided in. It didn’t mean that he loved his son any less. But her loss was greater. Her needs came first.

As they follow the coffin out of the church and make their way through the cemetery towards the graveside, Martin feels his chest tighten and tears prick his eyes. He falls back for a moment and, sensing his wife watching him, raises his head and stares up at the heavens. There isn’t a cloud in the sky.

‘It’s a bit late for prayers, Martin,’ Barbara says.

If she only knew!
His own faith has been tested every bit as much as hers these past few weeks. He swallows hard, takes a deep breath and walks on.

Ahead of them, the pall bearer with the broken arm is struggling slightly, pausing to rest the coffin on his good shoulder and steadying it with the same hand. But Martin can see by the set of his shoulders that the lad will manage somehow. He knows all about Lance Corporal Owen McGrath and the friendship he’d shared with his son. He’s read the letters. The night they returned from the hospital, when his wife had finally drifted off to sleep, he’d taken the letters to his study and read each of them over and over, trying to make sense of his loss. The story they told was a familiar one. Martin knows from personal experience that men serving together often form deep emotional attachments to one another. He also knows that, however much the army has changed, human nature hasn’t. There’ll always be someone who takes a dim view of such friendships, especially when one of the men involved was openly gay.

It was clear from the letters that his son had been bullied. Several times he’d said that McGrath had defended him, or that he was looking out for him. Who did he need protecting from? It hadn’t taken Martin long to find out. A few phone calls to friends in high places and he knew all about the man who’d targeted his son. He knew that he’d narrowly escaped a dishonourable discharge for breaking a civilian’s jaw, and that many of his superiors considered him a liability. In an ideal world, there would be no place in the army for a thug like Jackson. But the current situation is far from ideal. The forces are stretched to breaking point, fighting on too many fronts. The demand for experienced soldiers is too great.

Martin hadn’t been surprised to see Jackson at the funeral. He was on leave and from the same regiment. Protocol demanded that he be there to pay his respects. What surprised Martin was that the man made little attempt to hide his true feelings. He’d seen the smug look on his face during the service.

Now, standing at the graveside, as the six riflemen sound the salute and his son’s coffin is lowered into the ground, Martin watches as Owen McGrath breaks down and weeps. Their eyes meet for a moment, then the younger man averts his gaze, his attention caught by something behind Martin’s left shoulder.

Turning his head, Martin is just in time to see Jackson blowing the grieving soldier a kiss.

As the mourners begin to make their way back to the car park, Helen hovers at a discreet distance from the graveside, waiting for Owen. He shows no sign of moving but stands stiffly, like a soldier on sentry duty.

The dead man’s parents have their backs to her. The mother’s shoulders shake slightly, the father’s hand resting lightly on the small of her back. Owen stands alone on the far side of the grave, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. His face is wet with tears.

Helen has never seen him cry like this. It pains her to see him so distressed – and it unsettles her too. She hadn’t cried like this when her father died, and she was only a child then. Her father meant the world to her. Who was this soldier whose death has affected her husband so deeply? Owen never referred to him in his letters. He never talked about him on the phone. If they were such good friends, how come he never even mentioned him? She pushes away thoughts of the conversation between Siân and Jackson in the pub. There’s no truth in what Jackson had said. There can’t be. It’s just vicious gossip, no better than she’d expect from a thug like him.

A low groan comes from the graveside. Looking up, she sees her husband shudder and clasp his hand to his mouth. Her first instinct is to rush over and comfort him, but she holds back, reluctant to draw further attention to her husband and away from the grieving parents. They’d caught her staring at them that day at the hospital. The last thing she wants is to interrupt their final moments with their son. She knows the pain of losing a parent. She can’t begin to imagine the pain of a parent losing a child.

She watches as the mother makes her way towards Owen and touches his arm. He places his hand over hers and lowers his head, avoiding eye contact. She leans in to say something and he nods gently, his eyes staring down at the grave. Then he lifts his head and begins to speak.

Helen can’t hear the words. She’s too far away and their voices are too low. But she can tell from the body language that this is no ordinary conversation. And it
is
a conversation. Their heads are locked together for what seems like an inordinately long time. What are they talking about, Helen wonders. She wishes he’d confide in her instead. In just a few minutes he’s said more to this woman than he’s said to her in a month.

A voice hisses in her ear. ‘How’s your sex life, Helen?’

She flinches and turns her head.

Jackson steps out from behind her, a familiar smirk spreading across his face. ‘Hubby not giving you the attention you deserve?’

She glares at him. ‘Leave him alone, Jackson.’

‘What’s the matter? Touched a nerve?’ His smirk becomes a leer. ‘You look like you need a good seeing to. If Owen isn’t up to the job I’m always happy to offer my services.’

She feels her cheeks go red and struggles for something to say.

‘You’re blushing!’ Jackson says. ‘I bet you were a blushing bride too. How was your wedding night? Did he manage to get it up? You can tell me.’

Don’t rise to it
, Helen tells herself.
Don’t give him the satisfaction
.

‘He was queer, y’know,’ Jackson says. ‘Collins. In case you’re wondering.’

‘I don’t think that’s any of my business.’

Jackson grins. ‘Oh, I think you’ll find it is. Ask Owen. Ask him about his little bum boy.’

‘You’re disgusting,’ Helen says, stepping away.

‘Me?’ Jackson laughs. ‘I wasn’t the one shoving my cock up another man’s shitter.’

‘That’s enough!’ a man’s voice booms.

The father of the dead boy is marching briskly towards them. It’s hard to tell if he heard what Jackson said, but the look on his face suggests that he’s in no mood to be messed with. His mouth is a thin line, his eyes pained and angry.

He waves his arm as he approaches. ‘Leave her alone!’

‘We were just talking,’ Jackson says, spreading his hands.

‘And now you’ve finished. So clear off!’

The soldier bristles. ‘Or what?’

The older man’s voice is calm but full of menace. ‘Don’t mess with me, Jackson. Yes, I know who you are. I know all about you. You’re a disgrace to your regiment. Now I suggest you leave before I do something I might regret.’

Jackson’s lip curls. ‘We were done here anyway. Catch you later, Helen. You know where I am if you need me.’ He winks and slouches off in the direction of the car park.

‘Martin Collins,’ the man says, offering Helen his hand. ‘I hope that thug didn’t upset you.’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She doesn’t know what to say next. What’s the right thing to say to a man who’s just buried his son? ‘Sorry for your loss’ seems so inadequate. She blinks, struggling to come up with something better.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

His eyes glisten. ‘Thank you. I’m bearing up. How about you?’

‘Me?’

‘That’s your husband over there, isn’t it? He was at the hospital where … where they brought my son?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘How’s he doing?’

Part of her is desperate to talk to someone. But she doesn’t know this man. It doesn’t seem right to confide in a stranger, least of all a grieving father.

‘It’s okay,’ Martin says. ‘You don’t have to say anything. But there are people you can talk to, if you need to.’