The Black Path (5 page)

There’s a rattle of laughter like gunfire from behind the trees. She stares into the darkness and sees something moving in the shadows.

‘Look!’ But her father has gone. She’s alone, barefoot in the middle of the Black Path.

Sometimes the dream ends there. Sometimes it ends with her turning to find a boy with black hair and dark, glittering eyes holding a white rabbit by the neck and twisting its head until its body goes limp.

Tonight the dream ends differently, with her staring at the gravestone. At the base of the stone she notices a small wooden cross, faded with age. Next to it, someone has placed a wreath of red paper poppies. Etched in the granite are the words, ‘Lance Corporal Owen McGrath.’

She wakes up gasping for breath, her chest heaving, damp hair plastered across her face.

It’s not real, she tells herself. It doesn’t mean anything.

But another voice answers back.

What if it does? What if it’s a premonition?

Her hand trembles as she reaches for the bedside lamp, almost knocking it over before her fingers finally find the switch. Light spills onto the bed, illuminating the cream duvet cover and chasing the dark thoughts away.

Everything is fine. It was just a dream
.

She stares up at the ceiling, breathing deeply until her heart rate slows and the Black Path recedes back into her subconscious. She turns onto her side, her hand curled against Owen’s pillow. He’ll be home soon. All she has to do is wait. Stay strong.

The clock on the nightstand says the time is just past 1 a.m. But she knows there’s no point in trying to get back to sleep now. She needs to distract herself, to avoid thinking. Climbing out of bed, she pulls on her dressing gown and pads into the landing. The loose floorboard creaks as she heads downstairs.

The house is dark and strange at this time of night. The orange glow of a streetlight glimmers through the living room curtains. Settling on the sofa, tucking her feet under her, she reaches for the remote and turns on the TV. A woman with blonde hair and pink lips is encouraging viewers to dial the number at the bottom of the screen and meet other single people in their area. Helen channel hops to another station where two men are discussing sports results, then on to a film she’s already seen, starring Tom Cruise. Then the picture changes and suddenly a news reporter is talking to a woman while, behind them, firefighters struggle to control the flames leaping through the windows of a small terraced house that looks remarkably similar to her own.

But what really strikes Helen is the look on the woman’s face. It’s the same stunned expression she’s seen at military funerals, on women whose loved ones have been killed in action.

CHAPTER FIVE

It’s still early but the cookhouse is already filling up. Men drift in with their rifles slung over their shoulders and gather in groups around the brew kit, helping themselves to foam cups of tea and coffee. The air is thick with the smell of fried bacon.

Normally this is enough to give Owen an appetite. But he can’t face a fry-up today. He grabs a coffee, fills a bowl with porridge, some dried fruit mix and a few pieces of pineapple and finds an empty place at a table.

He’s barely begun to eat when Jackson appears, his plate piled high with a full English breakfast – eggs, bacon, sausage, beans and toast.

‘Mind if I sit?’ He doesn’t wait for a reply. His feet are already under the table.

‘It’s a free country.’ Owen smiles grimly at his own joke. This is anything but a free country.

‘Two weeks and I’m out of here,’ Jackson says. ‘Can’t fucking wait. I’m sick of this shit hole!’

Owen glares at him. ‘Do you mind? I’m trying to eat.’

‘So I see.’ Jackson points his knife at Owen’s bowl. ‘Call that breakfast?’

‘It’s porridge. I’m sure you’ve seen it before.’

‘Seen it, yeah. Not eaten it, though. I prefer proper scoff.’ Jackson grins and shovels a forkful of bacon and egg into his mouth. ‘Fighting food,’ he says. ‘An army marches on its stomach.’

‘I haven’t seen a lot of marching around here,’ Owen replies.

‘You can say that again.’ Jackson thumps a fist against his chest and belches. ‘Give me Iraq over this any day. At least there we saw some action.’

At the mention of Iraq, Owen feels the food in his mouth turn to ash. He sees the face of the boy he shot. It was his first kill, and it’s still the one that troubles him the most. It was so close range, so intimate, and the boy was so very young. Was he even shaving? Had he kissed a girl yet?

Owen swallows. ‘So you’re off home then?’

‘I’ve been here eight weeks. I’m due some R&R.’

‘And there was I thinking you were a fighting man.’

Jackson’s expression changes. ‘We both know that tosser had it coming,’ he growls. ‘Nobody messes around with my missus.’

Owen takes a sip of his coffee. It’s no better than usual but at least it washes the taste of ashes from his mouth. He studies the man opposite. The fight that led to Jackson being demoted had occurred four months ago, in a bar back home. Jackson claimed that the ‘tosser’ concerned was making a play for his wife, Leanne, and that he simply told him to shove off. It was the other guy who threw the first punch – Jackson was merely acting in self-defence. The security staff at the bar said differently and the CCTV footage, though inconclusive, seemed to back them up. What nobody could dispute was that Jackson came away with barely a bruise, while the other man’s jaw was broken in two places. When he threatened to press charges, Jackson was hauled in and reprimanded.

Looking at him now, it’s hard for Owen to picture Jackson as anything other than the aggressor. Thick-set, with a bullet head and a menacing glint in his eye, he radiates violence the way certain breeds of dog give off warning signals. There are even rumours that he beats his wife. As far as Owen knows, Leanne has never phoned the police or filed a complaint with the authorities. But he can imagine the fear her husband instils in her.

Owen never saw his own father hit his mother. But he remembers him seething on the sofa or pacing the room and grinding his teeth like a boxer, the anger coming off him in waves. Like many soldiers, Owen comes from what people used to call a broken home – though whenever he hears those words now, he pictures a building with its roof blown off and crouching families running for cover. A young boy can survive many things. He’s proof of that. Children here aren’t always so lucky.

He looks at Jackson shovelling food into his face. Maybe he’s not a wife beater. And maybe his own father never raised a hand to his mother. It’s possible that her clinical depression had nothing to do with the way he treated her. But Owen remembers the whimpers behind closed doors, the unexplained bruises, his mother crying in the kitchen. From what he’s seen of her, Leanne is a meek, mousey woman, as frail in her own way as his mother had been. And men who boast about keeping their wives in line are often the kind of men who treat them as punch bags.

‘I was on the phone to the missus last night,’ Jackson says, folding a slice of toast in one meaty hand and cramming it into his mouth. ‘She said your Helen was looking well.’

Owen frowns. Helen and Leanne barely know each other. They’ve met a couple of times at most. And since Jackson and his wife live twenty miles away in service accommodation in St Athan, he can’t see any reason why their paths would ever cross.

Jackson must have read his mind. ‘She was driving up by the wives’ estate,’ he adds, spitting crumbs across the table. ‘Leanne saw her at the traffic lights. Said she was all dolled up, like she had somewhere special to go – or someone special to see.’ He raises his eyebrows and grins unpleasantly.

‘Yeah, right!’ says Owen. Helen would never cheat on him. He’s sure of it.

‘Leanne waved at her,’ Jackson says. ‘But she just drove off. It was like she didn’t want to be spotted.’

‘Leanne’s mistaken,’ Owen replies. ‘There’s no reason for Helen to go near the estate. There’s nothing there that interests her.’

Jackson’s lip curls. ‘Leanne wondered whether she was thinking of moving into the quarter.’

‘Why would we?’ Owen asks. ‘We have a house of our own.’

‘That’s what I said,’ Jackson smirks. ‘I said to her, “Leanne, why would Lance Corporal McGrath and his lovely wife want to move to St Athan? They’re far too grand for the likes of us!” But she swore it was her.’

‘It can’t have been,’ Owen says. ‘Helen’s very happy where we are.’

‘She drives a silver Matiz, doesn’t she?’ asks Jackson.

How the hell does Jackson know what car Helen drives?
Owen thinks. The Matiz is a fairly recent purchase.

Jackson looks pleased with himself. ‘Well, doesn’t she?’

‘So?’

‘So there you go. It was her. Leanne’s not stupid. She knows what she saw.’ He loads the last of the baked beans onto his fork and gulps them down.

Owen considers this for a moment, then remembers. ‘When did you say you spoke to Leanne?’

‘Last night,’ Jackson replies, wiping his plate with his remaining slice of toast.

Owen smiles. ‘That’s not possible. We were on an Op Minimize last night. Armstrong was killed, remember? No communications.’

Jackson shrugs and glances away. ‘Then it must have been the night before.’

‘Come off it, Jackson,’ Owen says. ‘You don’t even know what day it is.’

‘At least I know where my wife is and what she’s up to. When did you last speak to your missus, anyway?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘Well, the next time you talk to her, tell her Leanne said to say hello.’

‘Fuck off, Jackson.’

Jackson grins and rises to his feet. ‘No need to get shirty with me, mate! I’m just the messenger!’

CHAPTER SIX

‘I’m the backbone of the team,’ Natalie says. ‘Those aren’t my words. That’s Simon talking.’

Natalie is second in the chain of command at Greenwood Training and likes to demonstrate her authority by marching briskly through the open-plan office with a long flowing cardigan flapping behind her, arms folded tightly across her chest, clutching a portfolio.

‘He only says that because you’re so bossy,’ one of the other women pipes up.

It’s Angela, who handles the accounts. Sometimes Helen wonders what Angela is doing in a place like this, and how she’s survived so long without being fired. Few people ever dare stand up to Natalie.

‘I’m also dangerous when provoked,’ Natalie says, and swipes at Angela with the portfolio, narrowly missing her head. She laughs unconvincingly and gives a final flip of her cardigan before disappearing into the conference room for her Monday morning briefing with Simon – the head of the company.

‘You’re mad, you are!’ Angela’s friend Kath says in a hushed voice. ‘She’ll have you for that, she will!’

Kath has a habit of stating the obvious, and then repeating herself in case nobody understood her the first time. In anyone else, Helen might find this irritating. But there’s something so sweet and guileless about Kath that to find fault with her would be like kicking a kitten.

‘Well, she gets on my bloody nerves,’ Angela says. ‘She’s like one of them Russian dolls.’ She pauses, relishing the bewildered look on Kath’s face. Then she breaks into a grin. ‘They’re full of themselves too!’

Kath gasps and giggles. Helen smiles gamely, pretending she’s hearing the joke for the first time. She’s fond of Angela, and more than a little dazzled by her. Growing up an only child, Helen often wondered what it would be like to have a sister – someone to act as an emotional buffer between her and her mother. She knows that Angela is the eldest of three children, and that she practically raised her younger siblings: ‘It was either that or see them taken into care.’ She wonders what it was like, having a big sister like Angela to look up to, wonders if it made up for the lack of parenting.

‘So where are we off to this Friday then, girls?’ Angela asks. ‘Paris? New York? Or shall we settle for a night out in Cardiff?’

‘I’m game,’ says Kath.

‘Don’t tempt me!’ Angela rolls her eyes. ‘What about you, Helen? It’s pay day this week. We might even stretch to a bit of tapas.’

Helen shuffles some papers and tries to look distracted. She feels exhausted. The nightmare was still with her when she woke this morning, the white gravestone glowing bright behind her eyes. Suddenly, the thought of going out just to spite Frank doesn’t seem like such a good idea after all.

‘I might just have a quiet night in.’

‘You can have a quiet night in anytime,’ Angela says.

‘Yeah,’ says Kath. ‘Don’t be such a kill joy!’ She blushes and blinks nervously. ‘I didn’t mean –’

‘It’s alright,’ Helen says quickly.

‘No, what I meant was –’

‘I said it’s fine!’ Helen snaps.

‘Honestly, Kath!’ says Angela. ‘Sometimes you’ve got as much sensitivity as God gave lettuce!’

She hurries over to Helen’s desk and slips a comforting arm around her shoulder. ‘Do you want to pop off to the loo for a bit? Me and Kath will cover for you.’

Helen shakes her head.

‘Do you need a tissue, then?’

Angela produces one before Helen can respond. She takes it and dabs her eyes. ‘Sorry, I had a rough night.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ Angela gives her shoulder a little squeeze.

Helen forces a smile. ‘It’s just been a bit hard lately. I haven’t heard from Owen in over a week.’

Angela nods knowingly. ‘No wonder you’re upset.’

‘Especially with all those stories on the news,’ Kath chips in. ‘I don’t know how –’

Angela glares at her.

‘Sorry’, says Kath.

‘No, she’s right,’ Helen says. ‘I mean, I try not to think about it. I turn the TV over whenever it comes on. I try not to read the papers. But it’s always there. And then I feel guilty for feeling sorry for myself.’

‘Well, I think you’re very brave, Helen,’ Angela says. ‘Sometimes I think it must be harder for the wives than the soldiers they’re married to.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Well, he’s the one who chose to join the army, isn’t he? It wasn’t something you had any say in.’

‘But I chose him,’ Helen replies.