The Black Path (33 page)

She nods. ‘Thanks.’

‘You look tired. Have you been sleeping?’

‘Not a lot. I’ve been worried sick.’

‘I can stay if you like. Keep an eye on him while you get some rest?’

‘No, it’s alright. You go. Mum will be wondering where you are. I’ll be fine.’

‘Are you sure? I’m happy to stay. Or I can call her. Maybe you’d rather be with your mum?’

She smiles tightly. ‘Not really.’

Frank gives her a knowing look. ‘She loves you, you know. We both do.’

Embarrassed, Helen begins to rise from her chair.

But her stepfather is already on his feet. ‘You stay there,’ he says, placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’ll show myself out.’

She watches as he heads towards the door, then stops and turns to her. ‘Car keys?’

‘On the dresser in the hall.’

‘Right.’ He hesitates. ‘Well, call us if you need anything.’

‘I will. And Frank?’

‘What?’

‘Thanks. Y’know – for bringing him home.’

He shrugs and smiles. ‘Glad I could help.’

Several hours have passed since Frank left. One of the neighbours has arrived home from work and is listening to dance music. The bass vibrates through the thin party wall. On the green in front of the house, a group of kids have gathered to play football. Helen heard the catcalls when they spotted the graffiti on her car. The laughter suggested that they were amused by it, but weren’t the ones responsible. There was as much surprise in their voices as delight.

There’s still no sound from upstairs. Part of her wishes that Owen would wake up so they could talk. Then she remembers the way he looked when Frank brought him home. He’s not up to answering her questions. Tomorrow she’ll try to persuade him to see the doctor. But for now she’ll let him sleep.

She drifts into the kitchen. The daylight is starting to fade. She still hasn’t eaten. There isn’t much in the fridge, so she puts two slices of bread in the toaster and nibbles the hot buttered toast standing at the counter.

Where did he go
?

The phone rings. She runs to answer it, hoping the sound won’t disturb Owen. It’s probably just her mother, ringing to see how she is.

‘Hello?’ she says quietly.

There’s a short pause, then a familiar voice. ‘Is Owen there?’

‘Siân?’

‘There’s no fooling you, is there?’

Helen pictures the smirk on her face. Her temper rises. ‘How did you get this number? What do you want?’

‘Are you deaf? I want to speak to Owen.’

‘You can’t. He’s sleeping.’

‘Poor thing. He must be worn out.’

‘Siân, I don’t know what this is about, but I don’t want you calling us.’

‘I’m not calling you. I’m calling Owen.’

‘What for?’

‘He knows what it’s about. Ask him. And tell him to call me. Bye for now.’

The line goes dead. Helen’s hand shakes as she replaces the receiver.

That bloody woman
!

She wonders how Siân got the number and what she could possibly want with Owen. Then her eyes focus on the answerphone. The green light is blinking, indicating a missed call. Strange. She didn’t hear it ring. It must have been earlier, when she was talking to the police or inspecting the damage to her car.

She’s about to press the playback button when her ears prick at the sound of the bed creaking upstairs. Either Owen is turning over in his sleep or those pills the doctor gave him aren’t as strong as she thought. She waits with her finger poised. Then, when there’s no further sign of movement, she hits play.

There’s no voice message, just background noise and the sound of someone breathing. She leans closer and turns up the volume. The breathing grows louder and more laboured, as if the caller has been running. The background noise is the rumble of traffic. Maybe it’s a crank call. Or maybe someone pocket dialled her number by mistake. Then she hears it – faint at first, but growing louder. It’s the sound of an approaching fire engine.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

A shaft of light falls through a gap in the living room curtains and creeps slowly across the back of the sofa. Helen hears a car door slam outside. She tenses. Have the police come to arrest Owen? Then an engine starts and she realizes that it’s just one of her neighbours setting off for work.

She’s been awake for hours, huddled over her laptop in her night dress, gathering all the information she can find on post-traumatic stress disorder. One report says that more than one in ten soldiers returning from active service are affected. Many of the symptoms sound familiar. Sufferers tend to avoid any discussion of the event that triggered the condition, but relive the trauma in sudden flashbacks and nightmares. Many experience ‘survivor’s guilt’ at living when others have died. Alcohol and drug abuse are common.

Helen thinks of Owen crying uncontrollably at the funeral, collapsed on the sofa with his empty lager cans, whimpering in his sleep. She almost feels relieved. Behaviour she’d thought so odd is well documented. But there’s another feeling too – a sense that there’s something else hovering just out of reach, like an image floating in and out of her peripheral vision, something she’s glimpsed but can’t quite see. Maybe it’ll come to her later.

She’s made a mental note of other symptoms – difficulty falling or staying asleep, irritability, angry outbursts and a condition known as ‘hyper-vigilance’ where the person affected is in a state of high alert, anticipating danger where none is present.

She remembers him crouched outside the house, staring at the horizon as if it wasn’t the familiar rooftops of South Wales he was seeing but the skies of southern Afghanistan.

These are all things she should be discussing with his doctor. She’ll phone the surgery later. If she can talk the receptionist into making an appointment, maybe she can use her powers of persuasion on Owen too.

She clicks the website closed and searches for a local news site. It doesn’t take her long to find what she’s looking for. ‘Fire in Blackmill’, the headline reads, ‘Police suspect arson.’

Next to the headline is a photograph of the man she saw at the café that day with Siân. He’s standing outside a small terraced house. There are no flames, but two firefighters in high-visibility jackets can be seen in the background. Black smoke billows from one of the upstairs windows. The man doesn’t appear to be injured. He stares directly into the camera with a look of righteous indignation.

‘Mr Ibrahim-Morris converted to Islam in 2013,’ the caption reads. ‘Police are treating the fire as suspicious.’

And now they have a suspect
, Helen thinks.

Owen is still sleeping soundly upstairs. The pills must have really knocked him out. It’s the first decent night’s sleep he’s had since he came home.

It scares her even to consider the possibility that he’s been anywhere near that fire. But she knows she can’t rule it out. She doesn’t know where he was yesterday. She doesn’t know what’s going on inside his head. And she can’t forget the smell on his clothes when Frank brought him home.

She hears the bed creak and her husband’s voice call out. ‘Helen?’

She closes the website and clears the search engine’s history.

‘Helen?’ he calls again, louder this time.

She jumps to her feet, heads up the stairs. ‘I’m coming, Owen.’

He’s sitting up in bed, a faint smile on his lips.

‘It’s okay,’ she says soothingly, perching on the edge of the bed and touching his cheek. ‘I’m here.’

He doesn’t flinch. That’s something. By now she’s used to him recoiling from her touch.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asks.

‘Tired.’ He yawns and stretches. ‘I saw Frank.’

‘I know,’ she says. ‘He brought you home.’

He nods. ‘I remember.’

She reaches behind him to plump up his pillow. ‘What else do you remember?’

‘Not much.’

‘But you were gone for hours. Where did you go?’

‘For a walk.’

‘Where?’

‘Nowhere special. Up by the river. I needed to clear my head.’

She rises from the bed and walks over to the window. ‘You didn’t go to Blackmill?’

‘No. Why?’

‘Frank said he saw you at the bus stop. We thought maybe you’d taken a bus somewhere.’

He shakes his head. ‘No. I was on foot.’

She peers through the curtains, turns and looks back at him.

‘Your clothes smelled of smoke. Were you near a fire?’

‘It was some kids by the river. I told them bonfire night wasn’t for months yet. But they didn’t mean any harm. I helped them put it out. I was the same at their age – always building bonfires.’

‘What about Siân?’ she blurts.

He looks surprised. ‘Siân?’

‘The woman from the hospital.’

‘I know who Siân is. What about her?’

‘Have you heard from her? She seemed quite fond of you.’

He smiles. ‘Is that what all this is about? Some woman taking a shine to me?’

If only
, Helen thinks.
If only that was all
.

‘Listen,’ he says. ‘I know I haven’t been myself lately. But things will be better now, I promise.’

‘You haven’t been well, love.’ She moves towards him, sits on the bed and reaches for his hand. ‘I’ve been so worried about you.’

He smiles sadly. ‘I know. I’m sorry. My head’s been all over the place. But I’m feeling much better now.’

She studies his face. The haunted look has gone. The light in his eyes has returned. ‘You do seem better,’ she says carefully. ‘But I still think you should see the doctor, just to be sure. I can call and book an appointment if you like.’

He nods. ‘That might not be such a bad idea.’

The relief is so strong she thinks she might cry. ‘Oh, Owen,’ she says, hugging him. ‘That’s wonderful.’

He winces. ‘Mind my arm.’

‘Sorry.’

But he’s still smiling. That’s another good sign.

‘I’ll make the appointment,’ she says. ‘When’s best?’

‘Whenever. It’s not as if I have anything better to do.’ He frowns. ‘Shouldn’t you be back at work?’

‘They said I could take all the time I need.’

‘I don’t need babysitting.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘No. Seriously. I’m feeling a lot better.’

She gets to her feet, thinks for a moment. ‘I have a few things to do this morning,’ she says. ‘I thought I’d get something nice for dinner and I need to see Mum.’

‘Any particular reason?’

She hesitates. ‘Frank said she wanted help with some form or other. I shouldn’t be long. An hour or so tops.’

‘Okay,’ he yawns. ‘Give her my love.’

‘You’re sure you’ll be alright on your own?’

‘Of course. I’ll probably doze off again in a minute. I won’t even notice you’re gone.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Just do one thing for me.’

‘What?’

‘Put some clothes on. I don’t want any wife of mine wandering the streets in her nightie. What will the neighbours think?’

She laughs, surprised at the sound coming out of her mouth. She’s forgotten what laughter sounds like.

The cab driver is a cocky young lad who knows the roads and seems to want to know everything about her, but she sinks back in the seat and pretends to check her phone, answering in monosyllables until he gets the message. Her handbag is on her lap. Inside is the envelope. Soon she’ll have plenty to say for herself.

Her mother opens the front door before Helen has finished paying for the taxi.

She must have been watching from the window, Helen thinks.

She looks tense. Her smile seems forced. Her eyes are wary.

‘How’s Owen?’ she asks as she ushers her daughter inside.

‘Better than he was,’ Helen says, brushing past her.

‘Frank told me about yesterday,’ her mother says, closing the front door and following her up the hall. You’ve just missed him. He’s gone to see about your car.’

‘Right,’ says Helen. She doesn’t mean to sound so ungracious. She’s grateful to Frank. But she needs to remain focussed.

They go through to the kitchen, where her mother offers her a cup of tea and Helen refuses.

‘It’s about Dad,’ she says, reaching into her bag. She opens the envelope, takes out the sheaf of papers and spreads them on the kitchen table.

Her mother stares at the first page for a moment, her eyes scanning the neatly spaced, typewritten words, the colour slowly draining from her face. ‘I don’t understand,’ she says. ‘What exactly am I looking at? Where did you get this?’

‘Someone posted it through my door. Wasn’t that thoughtful of them? Well, aren’t you going to read it?’

Amanda lowers herself onto the nearest chair and folds her hands in her lap. ‘I’d rather not.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I don’t need to read it.’

‘But I think you should.’ Helen takes another sheet of paper and thrusts it in her mother’s face. ‘Remember Lisa Johns? You must remember Lisa. She used to babysit when I was little.’

Her mother clears her throat. Her eyes dart from the paper to Helen and back again, before settling on the phone in the far corner of the room. She looks as if she’s willing it to ring.

‘Then there’s Auntie Jackie and Mr Roberts,’ Helen continues. ‘They’re all here. All the friends and neighbours. All saying what a great man my father was.’ She laughs bitterly. ‘Well? Aren’t you going to say something?’

‘Sit down, Helen!’ Amanda’s voice is steely – a tone Helen hasn’t heard in a long time.

Suddenly she’s ten years old. Her mother is gripping her by both shoulders, telling her to come inside. Helen’s breath comes in short gulps. She’s panicked, gasping for air. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails. She feels the warm sun on her face, sees something unspeakable from the corner of her eye.

‘Helen! I said sit down!’

She meets her mother’s gaze, pulls out a chair and lowers herself onto it.

Silence.

‘Your father loved you very much,’ her mother says, her voice softer now. ‘I want you to remember that.’

‘I know.’

‘But he wasn’t a saint. He was a good father. But he wasn’t such a good husband.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I think you know what it means. It wasn’t a happy marriage, Helen. Not by a long way.’