The Black Path (35 page)

A woman was raped here
.

She reaches into her handbag for her phone, shoves it into the front pocket of her jeans. Glancing over her shoulder, she pulls her jacket tightly around her waist and walks on. A familiar fear grips her as the track begins to twist. The shadows deepen and the edges of the path blur into the undergrowth. There won’t be any sightseers here today, nobody out enjoying an innocent stroll, nobody to hear her scream. They’ll all be safely tucked up at home, waiting for the approaching storm to pass. It’s just her, Siân, Owen and whoever else is lurking out there in the darkness. She stops, listens, strains to see the path in front of her. Nothing but trees and shadows and eerie silence. A sudden gust of wind makes the leaves whisper. It’s as if they’re conspiring against her.

‘Helen!’

Is that Owen calling? Blindly, she runs into the trees, towards the source of the sound. Branches slash her cheeks. Her foot catches on an exposed root and she plunges to her knees, brambles grazing her forearms as the ground comes up to meet her, hands disappearing into the dense, dank undergrowth. Hauling herself up, she feels something cold and wet clinging to her fingers. She looks and lets out a cry of disgust. It’s a used condom. She flicks it away, rubs her hand furiously against her jeans, listens to the steady thud of her heart.

There’s a crack of thunder, followed by the patter of rain on the canopy high above her head. She huddles for cover in the gloom beneath the trees and calls out into the darkness.

‘Owen?’

Then, when there’s no answer, ‘Siân?’

Still nothing.

She fumbles in her pocket for her phone. There’s no signal. She’s in a blind spot. The phone is useless, a dead weight in her hand. Panic swells inside her like a balloon.

Somewhere in the distance, she hears a woman laugh.

‘Siân?’

Silence. The rain stops. She slides the phone back into her pocket and continues walking.

Soon the path twists and turns before opening into a small clearing. At the far side, a large tree grows out of a raised mound of earth. The trunk is split in two and the roots are exposed, white like bones against the dark soil. Next to the tree is an old arm chair with the stuffing hanging out. A wooden window frame with part of the glass missing lies propped against it. Littered around the edges of the clearing are empty beer cans and the discarded remains of fast-food packaging.

In the centre of the clearing, someone has been busy building a bonfire. It is big. Chunks of timber form a rough teepee shape, about six feet across. Laid on top are fallen branches, broken scaffolding planks and what looks like the remains of an old Welsh dresser. At one side is a stained single mattress, piled high with binliners spilling with rubbish. Large logs lie at intervals around the base, forming a rough fire ring. Wedged between the larger pieces of timber are smaller bits of wood, balls of newspaper, shreds of cardboard.

Whoever’s responsible for the bonfire hasn’t been gone long. A few curls of smoke rise from one of the binliners. There’s the faint smell of burning plastic.

A twig snaps and she spins round, her heart pounding.

‘Hello, Helen. What took you so long?’

She’s standing a few feet away, arms folded tightly across her chest, red bag slung over one shoulder. Even in the half light, Helen can see that her eyes are huge, the pupils dilated.

‘Where’s Owen?’ she demands. She sounds far braver than she feels.

Siân frowns. ‘That’s not very polite, is it? How about, “Hello Siân, how nice to see you again?”’

‘Don’t play games, Siân. You told me you were with Owen. Where is he? What have you done with him?’

‘I haven’t done anything with him. It’s not me you should be worried about. I’m not his type.’ Siân steps forward. ‘He’s a bit of a dark horse, your husband. But you must be used to that by now. The men in your life are just full of surprises.’

‘Just tell me where he is!’

‘First things first.’ She takes something from her pocket and holds it between her forefinger and thumb. ‘Recognize this?’

‘Where did you get that?’ Helen tries to grab it but Siân pulls her hand away.

‘You know damn well where I got it,’ she says, sliding the old penny back into her pocket. ‘It was in that shoebox under your bed. I read your letters too. And that newspaper cutting about your father. What a load of crap that was. It just goes to show, you shouldn’t believe what you read in the press.’

Furious, Helen stares at her. ‘You had no right going through my things.’

‘You didn’t seem too bothered at the time. Mind you, you were too drugged up to the eyeballs to notice.’ Siân smirks. ‘Christ, you’re thick! All those glasses of water I fetched for you. All those drinks when we were out together. All those teas and coffees.’

‘What was in them?’

‘What wasn’t in them? Tramadol. Valium. Rohypnol. Plus a few things you won’t find at your friendly local pharmacy. There’s not a lot I can’t lay my hands on.’

Helen remembers the pounding headaches and heavy limbs, the feeling of being permanently hungover or coming down with something.

‘You could have killed me.’

‘Where’s the fun in that? It was far better to fuck with your mind.’

‘But I trusted you!’

Siân laughs. ‘You know what your problem is, Helen? You’re too trusting. Not like your husband. He likes his secrets, doesn’t he? A bit like your father.’

‘Just tell me where Owen is. Or I’ll call the police.’

‘I wouldn’t do that. Not if you want to leave here alive.’

Helen blinks at her, wonders if she heard correctly, instinctively knows that to show fear now will only make things worse. She lifts her chin. ‘I’m not afraid of you.’

More laughter. ‘Of course you are. You’re afraid of everything. But you know what scares you the most? The truth. Cos the truth hurts, doesn’t it?’

‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Helen says. She reaches instinctively for her phone, remembers there’s no signal.

Siân leaps towards her. ‘No, you don’t!’

One hand locks around Helen’s forearm, fingers digging deep into the flesh. The other grabs her jaw, twisting her head to one side, sending a shooting pain down her neck.

‘You stupid bitch!’ Siân hisses, her face contorted with rage. ‘You don’t decide when this is over. I decide! Got it?’

Helen freezes, motionless except for the heart pounding in her chest and the breath quickening in her throat. ‘You’re hurting me,’ she says. ‘Let me see Owen. Please.’

Siân thinks for a moment, then pushes her away. ‘Okay.’ She looks over Helen’s shoulder and signals with her hand. ‘You can bring him out now.’

There’s a movement in the trees, then a figure slowly emerges from the shadows.

‘Owen!’

He looks at her with barely a flicker of recognition. His eyes are glazed, his movements sluggish. Another man comes into view. It’s Jackson, steering him forward with one arm held firmly behind his back.

‘Owen!’ Helen cries again.

Jackson releases his grip and Owen stumbles forward, his knees buckling beneath him.

‘Look at the state of him,’ Jackson sneers. ‘He can’t even stand up straight.’ He grins and rubs his hands together, clenching and unclenching his fists.

Helen takes a step forward, but Jackson shoots her a warning look. He whips out a hunting knife and runs his thumb along the blade. ‘Any closer and I’ll slit his throat.’

This can’t be happening
, Helen thinks. She stares at Jackson. ‘You can’t be serious.’ But she doesn’t doubt for a second that he’s capable of carrying out his threat.

Siân’s smirk confirms her fears. ‘I wouldn’t push it. He’s got nothing to lose.’

CHAPTER FORTY

‘Haven’t you heard?’ Siân says. ‘They’ve kicked Jackson out of the army.’

Helen glances at him.

He glowers back at her and spits out of the corner of his mouth.

‘That little queer’s parents made a complaint,’ Siân adds. ‘And your husband backed them up. Said that Jackson bullied his little bum chum. Owen’s not exactly Jackson’s favourite person right now.’

She gives Jackson a nod. ‘Put him in that chair. This may take a while.’

Jackson slides the knife into his boot and manhandles Owen onto the armchair. His head lolls forward, arms hanging limply by his sides.

‘What have you done to him?’ Helen demands.

Siân shrugs. ‘Nothing. I didn’t have to. Ask Jackson.’

Jackson grins.

‘He was gagging for it,’ Siân says. ‘Ketamine. GHB. Not smack, though. He prefers his gay-boy drugs, your Owen. Maybe he’s trying to tell you something.’

Helen struggles to contain the panic rising up inside her. ‘Please,’ she says. ‘Let me go to him.’

Siân considers this for a moment. ‘Okay. But don’t expect too much in the way of conversation. He’s not exactly the sharpest tool in the box right now.’

Helen rushes over to her husband, crouching beside the armchair and lifting his head. Owen’s eyes roll back and his mouth falls open. She feels for his pulse. It’s faint. She looks up. ‘Something’s wrong. He’s not breathing properly.’

‘“Something’s wrong,”’ Siân mimics. ‘No shit, Sherlock. Don’t look at me. I warned him not to mix his drugs, but he wouldn’t listen. Maybe you should take him to see a drugs counsellor. What do you reckon, Jackson?’ She sniggers.

‘Owen!’ Helen shakes his shoulders.

He doesn’t react.

She pulls her phone from her pocket, but before she can check for a signal Jackson is on top of her. He snatches the phone from her hand and throws it deep into the trees.

‘What are you doing?’ she screams. ‘What if he dies?’

‘Then him and lover boy will be together again.’ Jackson hacks up a lump of phlegm and spits on her husband’s bowed head. ‘Fucking queers!’

Helen huddles protectively around Owen, pulls a tissue from her pocket, wipes the mess from his forehead.

She looks up at Siân. ‘Please! I thought you liked Owen. Help him!’

Siân smiles icily. ‘Sorry, but I’m a bit busy at the moment.’ Reaching into her bag, she takes out a handful of blue envelopes. Helen recognizes them immediately.

‘Quite the romantic, our Owen,’ Siân says, fanning the envelopes like a hand of cards. ‘Now which one shall we choose? One where he tells you how much he’s missing you? Or one where he talks about making babies?’ She makes a gagging gesture. ‘You didn’t you tell him you were on the pill, did you?’

Helen feels the colour rush to her cheeks. She glances at Owen. His eyes are shut.

‘There’s nothing I don’t know about you, Helen,’ Siân continues. ‘Why did you lie to him? Don’t you want kids? Or were you worried that he might be queer?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Did you know about him and Collins? Is that why he stopped writing to you when he was in Afghanistan?’

Siân opens one of the envelopes and begins reading. ‘No, no mention of him here. I wonder why that is?’

Helen tries to get to her feet, but Jackson grabs her by the shoulder and pushes her roughly to the ground. He smirks and boots Owen in the leg. ‘Fall in, soldier!’

There’s still no reaction.

‘Not much use, is he?’ Jackson says. ‘Now, if you were
my
wife –’

‘I’d probably be sporting a black eye.’ Helen glares at him. ‘I know what kind of man you are.’

Jackson glowers. ‘Watch your mouth.’

‘Or what? You’ll break my jaw?’

‘That’s enough, you two!’ Siân snaps. She crushes the letter in her hand and tosses it onto the smouldering pile. The paper blackens and bursts into flames. Smiling, she throws in the remaining letters.

‘Get this fire going, Jackson.’

‘Why me?’

‘You’re the expert. Don’t they teach you this stuff in the army?’

Jackson steps forward, rips open one of the bin bags and tips out its contents, scattering disposal nappies and other household waste. Black smoke billows as the flames die down.

‘It’s going out, idiot!’ Siân shouts. ‘Don’t you know anything?’ She looks around. Then a smile spreads across her face. ‘Helen, bring us that window frame.’

‘Get it yourself.’

‘Not very cooperative, are you?’

Helen holds her ground as Siân comes towards her, knows she has to stay strong, knows somehow that her husband’s life depends on it. He doesn’t look at all well. There’s still no movement and what little colour there was in his face has drained away. He needs medical attention, and quickly. She looks around for an escape route, wonders how far she’d get before Jackson caught up with her, what vile punishment he’d mete out. Her skin crawls.

Siân drags the window frame over to the bonfire and heaves it on top. She turns to Jackson. ‘Where’s the petrol?’

He frowns.

‘Don’t tell me you left it in the car.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Siân! I did all the dirty work getting him here.’ He gestures towards Owen. ‘I’ve only got one pair of hands.’

‘And half a brain.’ Siân reaches into her bag and takes out a clear plastic bottle with a red warning label on the side. ‘Just as well one of us knows what they’re doing.’ She unscrews the top and shakes the bottle over the fire. There’s a whooshing sound as the flames catch. ‘There. That should do it.’

Soon the fire is roaring, the flames climbing higher as the wood crackles and hisses. Helen feels the heat on her face. She looks at Owen. He’s sweating heavily, beads of moisture dripping off his nose onto his chest, blossoming into a wet patch on his T-shirt.

‘Pay attention!’

Helen looks up, sees Siân brandishing her framed wedding photo. It’s been ripped off the wall at home. The picture wire is still hanging from the back.

‘Your marriage is a sham,’ Siân says. ‘Just like your mother’s.’ She holds the photo over the flames.

‘Don’t!’ Helen pleads.

‘Too late.’ Siân tosses the photo onto the fire. ‘Your father couldn’t keep it in his trousers. Neither can your husband.’

Helen wipes a lock of damp hair from her eyes. ‘What has my father got to do with this?’

‘Everything. If it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t be here now.’ Siân’s face softens. ‘I’m not to blame for this, y’know. I’m just evening up the score. If you want someone to blame, blame him.’