The Black Path (37 page)

‘Well I guess there’s no way of knowing now, is there?’

They hadn’t spoken about it since, though for the past week it was all she could think about – her husband and that young soldier. The words had been said. There was no going back now. But maybe there was a way of going forward? She trawled various websites and found interviews with women whose husbands had told them they were gay. Many had been married for years without the slightest suspicion. Some felt as if the man they thought they’d known had suddenly become a stranger. Others compared it to a bereavement. ‘It was as if he’d died.’

But Owen hadn’t died. He could so easily have been killed, but he’d survived. And he hadn’t told her he was gay. On the contrary, he’d insisted that he wasn’t. It was a mistake, he said. A moment of madness, never to be repeated. Was he in denial? Was he lying to himself – and to her? She’d asked herself these questions a thousand times and couldn’t come up with a satisfactory answer. All she knew for certain was that he’d had feelings for someone other than her – feelings which raised huge doubts about their future together.

Her own feelings were all over the place. She felt hurt, angry, betrayed. Was it the infidelity that bothered her the most, or the fear that he was still hiding something? She wanted to trust him. She wanted to believe that he confessed everything because that’s the kind of man he was – honest, decent, determined to do the right thing. Then the nagging doubts would creep in. She tried not to picture them together, but every so often her mind would throw up an image and her stomach would tighten. Her husband with another man. Just the thought of it and she felt her whole world slipping away.

Upstairs in the bedroom, Helen opens her underwear drawer and a shiver runs over her skin. Try as she might, she still can’t shake off the thought of Siân in the bedroom, rummaging through her personal belongings.

Weeks have passed since that dreadful day at the Black Path. Both she and Owen were taken to hospital and interviewed at length by the police. Helen described how she’d tried to pull Siân from the fire. The burn marks on her hand and wrist were examined and deemed consistent with her story. It didn’t take much to convince the investigating officers that Siân’s death had been accidental. They were already familiar with her and her family. Her brother wasn’t the only relation she’d lied about. Siân’s father hadn’t died in a hit and run accident. He was alive and well and serving time for the supply of heroin.

Partly thanks to the press interest in Siân’s father’s criminal activities, the story was reported in the local newspaper, where Jackson’s name was also mentioned. Frank had also given a police statement and seen to it that Jackson was held responsible for his part in Owen’s abduction. True to form, Jackson protested his innocence, insisting that it was Siân who’d lured Owen out of the house and that he had no idea what her intentions were. But it was obvious to everyone that Siân couldn’t have been acting alone. She may have been the brains behind the operation, but Jackson was definitely the brawn. With Owen’s help, the police quickly established that it was Siân who’d supplied the drugs – and Jackson who’d administered them. He was charged with reckless endangerment and was currently on bail, awaiting trial.

Siân’s funeral was a quiet affair. Her father was allowed out on day release from prison to pay his respects. There were no other mourners. Helen hadn’t attended the funeral but couldn’t resist reading about it afterwards. Despite everything, she felt more pity for Siân than hatred. According to the newspaper, her father had been in and out of prison for most of his adult life. His wife had stood by him the first time he was sent down, but left when Siân was eight. It couldn’t have been easy growing up with no mother to guide her and a career criminal for a father. Compared to Siân, she’d had it easy.

‘Helen?’ Owen calls. ‘Is everything alright?’

‘Yes,’ she shouts back. ‘I’m just coming.’

She reaches into the wardrobe for a lightweight jacket. The weather has turned. The leaves on the trees outside the window are changing colour. She’s changed too. She isn’t the person she was a few months ago.

Shortly after Siân’s funeral, an eyewitness came forward, placing Siân and Jackson at the scene of the fire in Blackmill. Helen had felt such relief on hearing the news. At least Owen hadn’t lied to her about that.

She pulls on the jacket and runs downstairs.

He’s waiting for her at the door, the car keys in his hand. ‘You’re sure you’re ready for this?’

‘Yes,’ she says.

They step out into the street. Her car is parked in the usual place, fully repaired with the bodywork gleaming like new. Frank’s team had done a good job.

‘I’ll drive,’ she says, holding out her hand for the keys.

‘Are you sure?’ Owen flexes his arm and winks. ‘I’m fully operational now.’

‘Keys!’ She clicks her fingers.

He smiles and hands them over. ‘Okay. You’re the boss!’

It’s been months since she last visited the cemetery. After the revelations about her father’s alcoholism, she’d felt let down. The knowledge of his affair with Lisa disgusted her. Arriving at the cemetery gates, the feelings rise up again.

‘It’s okay,’ Owen says, sensing her apprehension. ‘We can come back another day.’

‘No,’ she replies. ‘We’re here now.’

She parks the car and they walk together to the grave. The headstone is smothered in green lichen. As she reads the wording, her stomach turns – ‘Loving Husband and Father.’

Loving to whom? Father to how many?

‘You need to forgive him,’ Owen says, reading her thoughts. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

‘Do I?’

‘He was your father. He loved you. He wasn’t perfect. But he was still your dad.’

She kneels beside the grave. A rotting bunch of flowers reminds her of her last visit. She hasn’t come bearing fresh flowers today. There are no symbolic tokens to show how much she misses him. Just being here is hard enough.

Owen squats beside her. ‘How are you feeling?’

She shrugs. ‘Confused. He can’t have been happy, can he? In his marriage, I mean?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Happily married men don’t have affairs, do they?’

Owen colours.

‘It’s as if his whole life was a lie,’ Helen says, conscious that it isn’t only her father she’s talking about. ‘That’s the part I hate the most – the lies.’

There’s a long silence.

‘I can’t change what happened,’ Owen says finally. ‘But what I did is in the past. It’ll never happen again. And I can live with it. The question is, can you?’

Helen stares down at her father’s grave. Somewhere beneath her is the man she has idolized all her life. He wasn’t the hero she’d grown up worshipping but an ordinary man who lacked the courage even to be honest. She stands and gazes out across the cemetery, across the rows of graves where soldiers far less fortunate than her husband lie buried. She thinks of all the widowed wives and grieving girlfriends, the fatherless children, the mothers who’ve lost their sons. Mothers like Barbara Collins. Her son is no threat to anyone now.

She turns to face her husband. ‘Do you love me, Owen?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘More than anything. And you? Do you think you’ll ever be able to trust me again?’

‘That’s a lot to ask of me right now.’

‘But maybe in time?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I’ve been thinking. What if I leave the army? Frank said he’d help me find a job closer to home.’

She gives a brittle laugh. ‘Out of harm’s way?’ It isn’t really harm she means, but temptation.

He looks wounded. ‘Please, Helen. I don’t want to be away from you ever again. I want us to be a proper family. You, me, maybe a couple of kids.’

She shakes her head. ‘It’s too soon to be talking about kids.’ She pauses. ‘I’ve been offered a promotion at work.’

‘You never said.’

‘I only found out myself a few days ago. Natalie’s leaving.’

His shoulders droop. ‘I see.’

‘It’ll mean longer hours and more responsibility. But I think I’m ready for a challenge.’

‘It sounds as if your mind is already made up.’

‘It is.’

He looks at her strangely for a moment. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘About the contraceptive pills.’

She feels the blood rush to her face.

‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘I understand. You were afraid, weren’t you? In case something happened to me? How you’d cope?’

She nods. ‘Something like that.’

‘So what do you say? How about we make a fresh start, from today? No more secrets?’

‘It won’t be like before, Owen.’

‘I know it won’t. I still have to win back your trust. But are you at least willing to let me try?’

She looks at him and feels a rush of love so strong it takes her by surprise. She sees the pain in his face, the promise in his eyes, knows somehow that he’ll be true to his word.

‘We’ll see,’ she says. ‘Now let’s go home.’

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book could not have been written without the encouragement and support of a great many people:

Paulo Kadow helped in so many ways, I can’t begin to thank him enough.

D.J. Connell and V.G. Lee provided constructive crit-icism, fresh insights and fortifying wine.

James Wharton shared his experience of gay life in the British army and helped enormously with the scenes set in Afghanistan. Any mistakes are mine alone.

James Niven shared his own experience of military life and Tracy Williams advised on the realities of being married to a serving soldier.

Rhiannon Fletcher and Lisa Garrett took me on a Bridgend girls’ night out which didn’t end anything like the one described in these pages – thank god.

Matt Bates gave me a boost just when I needed it most. Thanks, Matt. You’re a star.

And finally, my agent Sophie Hicks, editor Rebecca Lloyd and all at Accent Press. The path was long but the destination couldn’t feel more right.

FALLING SUNS by  J. A. CORRIGAN - CHAPTER ONE

March 11th 2000

Sutton Coldfield, UK

From the kitchen window I watched blond hair and a sliver of petrol-blue fabric move inside the garden studio. ‘Joe,’ I whispered.

The distinctive colour shifted again and I strained to see the Doctor Who motif embroidered on both of its ends.

But it wasn’t Joe; it was Liam wearing our son’s scarf.

‘Big seller with the young’uns,’ the shop assistant had said as she placed it in a bag. I knew Joe would use the scarf only occasionally, to please me. He hated things wrapped around his neck. It had become a joke between the three of us that Liam took to wearing the Doctor’s scarf, ‘waiting for Joe to get over his phobia’. I’d purchased it on a whim, and only because the colour perfectly matched the jumper I’d bought Joe three months before. For his seventh birthday.

The same jumper my son wore the last day I saw him. 

And then the deluge of emptiness swallowed me again. Was Joe scared? Was he lonely? Missing his mum? And the other question, clawing its way to the surface, despite all my efforts to keep it buried: was he still alive? For long seconds paralysis settled and only noise from the landline brought me back. The caller was persistent, and, stirring myself, I picked up.

‘Rachel?’

I recognised the voice and relaxed. ‘Hello, Charlotte.’

‘How are you, lovely? And Liam?’

‘We’re not good.’

‘I know – is he there?’

‘In the den ... studio. Avoiding me.’

Charlotte cleared her throat. ‘Have you heard anything?’

‘Some news. We’ll know later today, hopefully. I’ll call you when we find out.’

‘You two need to carry on talking. I know what you’re like, known you long enough. You have to open up. You can’t hold it all in.’ She paused. ‘Are you sure it’s not you avoiding Liam?’

I remained silent. I was avoiding him as much as I could.

‘Is there something else?’ she probed, anxiety in her voice.

‘Christ, what else could there be?’ 

‘Sorry. Nothing else.’

‘It’s OK.’ I circled the kitchen three times with the phone lodged between my chin and neck, ending up back next to the sink and gazing into the garden. ‘He thinks we’ll find Joe.’

‘You will find Joe.’

‘I know the scenario. It was my job, remember?’

‘Look, I’ll come over tomorrow. Sort you both out.’ Her laugh was brittle.

‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.’

Charlotte didn’t answer immediately. And I knew, or I thought I knew, what she was thinking. You are so not fine. I would tell her about Liam when I saw her. I had to tell someone.

‘Get out of the house, if only for a few hours,’ she said finally.

Looking through the window, I watched him closing the door of the den. ‘I’ve got to go, Liam’s on his way up the garden.’

‘Good. Talk to each other.’

I watched Liam’s careful movements as he negotiated the slippery decking. We hadn’t spoken properly for weeks, since long before Joe had gone missing: only argued. Rather than come inside he began sweeping the wooden floor of the patio. Staring past him I watched the Judas tree sway in the wind, its buds ready to open.

Liam went about his task vigorously. It was the way he was dealing with this. Keeping busy.

Many times in my former job I saw how people reacted so differently in tragic situations. Liam’s grief manifested itself in putting rubbish out for the refuse collectors, opening blinds to welcome another horrendous morning, sweeping the decking. In a few terrible days we’d managed a complete role reversal. To deal with Joe’s disappearance, my husband became tormented with the details of a domestic life in which previously he’d been utterly uninterested. My suspicions about him seeing another woman had become inconsequential.

Waiting for Liam to come inside I sat down and pretended to read a magazine, rubbing the inflamed skin on my hand. It always bothered me more when agitated. Old scald scars were the worst; the GP had said long ago. Today mine were scarlet, and painful.

My eyes drifted away towards the fridge, and, like every other family’s fridge in the western world, it was covered in a child’s paintings. Joe’s paintings. The last one he’d brought home took centre stage. It was a bright red and orange sunset. Or, I should say, ‘sunsets’.  Three suns of differing sizes were painted cleverly, seeping into Joe’s horizon. Liam had said it was a mini masterpiece, proud that his son was showing the same artistic leanings as himself. Joe’s teacher had given him three house points for the ‘unusual’ picture. I’d given Joe a big cuddle and a promise to visit the nearest theme park. I bought the tickets the same day. My eyes settled on the calendar hooked onto the right side of the same fridge. Today was supposed to be our day at the theme park, and the disbelief at what was happening pooled around me like uncontained mercury.