The Black Path (6 page)

She remembers the first time she ever laid eyes on Owen. It was at someone’s eighteenth, the daughter of a man Frank’s car-repair firm did business with. Her mother had insisted on dragging her along, despite her protests that she wouldn’t know anyone and wasn’t looking her best.

‘Don’t be silly,’ her mother had chided. ‘Who’s going to be looking at you?’

But someone had looked at her, and he liked what he saw. Owen had arrived with a friend, a fellow soldier, and made a beeline for her the moment he entered the room, offering to fetch her a drink and keeping her entertained for hours. She’d never felt so at ease with a boy before. Soon they were on their first date, then their second, and before she knew it they were sitting on the beach at Southerndown and he was asking her to marry him and she was saying yes.

Did she choose him? She remembers thinking how handsome he looked in his uniform, and how charming he was. But there was more to it than that. He made her feel safe, as if nothing bad would ever happen to her. What would she give to rekindle that feeling now?

‘You know what I think?’ Angela says.

Helen shakes her head.

‘I think you should come out with us on Friday night. And I promise you we’ll have a bloody good time and make it a night to remember.’

Helen smiles tentatively.

‘C’mon! It’s what Owen would want. He wouldn’t want you sat at home on your own worrying. He’d want you out having a good time.’

Helen has heard people employ this kind of reasoning before. It’s the same argument her mother gave after settling down with Frank. ‘It’s what your father would have wanted. He wouldn’t want me spending the rest of my life on my own.’

‘So what’ll it be?’ asks Angela. ‘A night in front of the telly with a ready meal for one? Or a night out on the razz with two of the hottest girls this side of the Severn Tunnel?’

Helen manages a laugh. ‘Well, if you put it like that…’

It hadn’t taken more than a week or two for Helen to realize that work could be a great solace. Convincing her husband had taken a little longer. She’d lied when she told her mother that Owen fully supported her decision to get a job. His support had been conditional at best. It wasn’t that he was against the idea of her working. It was more about the timing. As far as he knew, they were still trying for a baby. And he thought all her energy should be focussed on that.

‘
Are you sure about this?’ he’d asked, the first time she broached the subject. ‘I’m quite capable of supporting my family.’

They’d just been to the supermarket and were unloading the bags from the boot of the car.

‘I know you are, love,’ she said. She knew better than to pick him up on the word ‘family’, with all that implied. ‘But it wouldn’t hurt for me to get out of the house more. Especially when you’re away.’

He looked wounded. ‘I thought you understood, Helen. Being in the army isn’t like a regular job.’

‘I know.’

‘Well, it doesn’t sound like it.’

Grabbing another bag, he lost his grip and a carrier containing a bottle of wine and two cartons of orange juice slipped through his fingers and smashed on the road. ‘Great!’

Helen reached for a shard of glass.

‘Leave it!’ he said. ‘I’ll clear it up when we’ve got this lot indoors.’

Later, over dinner, he apologized for his outburst, blaming the strain of knowing that soon he’d be packed off to Afghanistan. ‘I hate being away from you. But I have to go. You know that.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I just think that if I had a job too, maybe it would help take my mind off things when you were away. And the extra money would come in handy.’

After dinner, Owen had popped out to the local shop and returned with a bottle of champagne.

‘But we can’t afford this,’ Helen said, laughing as he danced around the kitchen, finally locating two champagne flutes which hadn’t been used since their wedding anniversary.

‘Don’t spoil the moment,’ he replied, cracking open the bottle. ‘Let’s just enjoy it. If you really want a job, that’s fine with me. I just want you to be happy.’

If only all their disagreements had been so easy to resolve.

‘How many kids do you want?’ he’d asked her, the night before he left for Afghanistan. ‘Boys or girls? Or one of both?’

Like her, Owen had been an only child. Unlike her, he was determined that any child of his would grow up with a brother or sister.

‘Why stop at two?’ he laughed. ‘Let’s have lots of kids. Let’s have an army!’

She should have said something. Instead she’d changed the subject, the way she did whenever he joked about ‘making babies’. Her husband didn’t know that she took the pill. That night, the deception had played on her conscience. If he’d asked her what was wrong, she’d have been tempted to tell him, ‘I don’t find the idea of making babies much of a turn-on.’

But he didn’t ask. He simply lay there, his body barely touching hers until, finally, he drifted off to sleep. She lay awake for hours, feeling his warm breath on the nape of her neck. Was he dreaming of her? Or was he already lost to the world of war waiting for him thousands of miles away?

The following morning over the breakfast table, she saw the difference in him. He seemed so remote. The second tour of duty was harder than the first – that’s what people said. Little did she know then how true this would prove to be. But when his lift arrived, and he kissed her chastely on the cheek, she knew she’d made the right decision. She had no intention of getting pregnant. But she would let him go on thinking that one day he would have a couple, a bunch, even an army of children to call his own.

Helen glances guiltily at the framed photo on her desk. The man smiling back at her from the photo is oblivious to the fact that his wife is deceiving him. She wonders what he’d think of her if he knew and why she hasn’t heard from him. Is it possible that he suspects something? Is that why he hasn’t called? Or is the truth more terrible than she dares to imagine?

A shiver washes over her. She rises quickly from her desk and hurries to the ladies.

Inside, she locks the cubicle door and sits on the toilet with the lid down. She balls both her hands into little fists and presses them against the sides of her head.

I must not cry at work
, she tells herself.
I must not cry at work
. She may have passed her three-month trial period, but she’s still barely six months into the job. If she makes a scene like this they might start to regret the decision to keep her on.

There’ve been days like this before. When Owen was stationed in Iraq for seven months, she worried herself sick about him. Missiles were landing on the base on a regular basis, so communication was often impossible. Then he’d be off on an operation and she wouldn’t hear from him for days or sometimes weeks. He came home safe and sound in the end. And he’ll make it back this time too, she tells herself. She just has to hold on to that thought and everything will be alright.

An idea comes to her. Tonight, after work, she’ll drive over to the shopping centre and put together a parcel for him – magazines, sweets, factor 50 sun lotion and E45 cream, all the things she knows he’ll be missing. She’ll write him a letter, telling him how well she’s doing. Maybe if she can convince him, she can convince herself too.

She stands up and flushes the toilet. Dabbing her eyes with a tissue, she takes a deep breath and opens the door.

Natalie is standing at the wash basin, reapplying her make-up. She looks over her shoulder as Helen approaches.

‘Everything alright, Helen?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

Natalie looks doubtful. ‘Only you seem a bit upset.’

Helen forces a smile. ‘No, I’m okay.’

‘Good. Because you know how much I value your work here. But if Simon was to get the impression that you weren’t up to the job –’

‘I’m fine,’ Helen says quickly. ‘Totally fine. I had a bit of a headache, but it’s gone now.’

Natalie narrows her eyes. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I’ll see you in the conference room in ten minutes.’ She moves towards the door. ‘And Helen?’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t bring your personal problems into work.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Owen and some other members of the battalion are watching
Jarhead
for what feels like the hundredth time. Still, it makes a change from
Apocalypse Now
,
Band of Brothers
and
The Hurt Locker
. They’re gathered around a flat-screen TV and DVD player, the origins of which are unknown, though rumour has it they were liberated from some Afghan’s house.

The tent is large enough for forty beds. Away from the screen, the blue glow of laptops and games consoles can be seen under the mosquito nets as soldiers make their own entertainment. The beds are separated by concrete blocks which are supposed to provide extra cover in the event of a mortar attack. In Owen’s experience, all they really did was add to the debris. Back when he served in Iraq, they used to joke that the beds were readymade concrete tombs. That was until the tent next along was hit and he saw for the first time the grim reality of war as men came crawling out from the wreckage with limbs missing. One had lost a leg. Another’s hand was dangling by a piece of skin. Nothing prepared a man for the horror of seeing his fellow soldiers blown to pieces. Owen remembers the shock at seeing illegal drugs administered to the injured before they made it to the field hospital.

There hasn’t been a single mortar attack on the base since he arrived in Afghanistan, which isn’t to say that he and his little film club can afford to let their guard down. No soldier’s body armour is more than a few feet away. Helmets are at arm’s length. It’s a strange kind of escapism, watching a film about the boredom of war while a part of you is conscious of the possibility of an attack. The enemy change tactics all the time. Right now they tend to rely on IEDs. But who’s to say that they aren’t planning a new surprise? The compound is huge – four miles long and two miles wide – and the walls are heavily fortified. But the possibility of a strike, however, remote, is ever present. The feeling of anxiety combined with adrenaline is one Owen has never been able to put into words. It’s something only a soldier would understand.

There are around a dozen men in all, some reclining on the edges of the beds, others sitting on plastic chairs. Jackson is here, and Collins, the young private who likes to sunbathe and eats muesli for breakfast.

Nobody is paying close attention to the film. They’ve all seen it before. It’s more about the ritual of watching and waiting for a favourite scene or piece of dialogue, a bit like going to see a band and waiting for a favourite song, the one everyone knows and sings along to. People talk and joke and shout things at the screen. Owen passes round the bags of mints and hard gums that arrived this morning. The letter is folded in his pocket, unopened.

‘Where’d you get these, McGrath?’ someone asks.

‘The wife sent them,’ he replies and feels a pang of guilt. ‘The wife’. Not even ‘my wife’, which at least suggests some sense of responsibility, some emotional connection. He still hasn’t written to Helen, or phoned. He can’t find the words. He hasn’t been sleeping well. He’s been having dreams, nightmares about some of the things he’d witnessed, but mostly about the kid he shot in Iraq. Owen keeps seeing him falling, like a puppet with its strings cut. He wakes up each morning feeling disoriented and has to remind himself of where he is and why he’s here.

Jake Gyllenhaal is dancing in his G-string and Santa hat when the shouting begins.

‘Hey, Brokeback!’ someone yells. It’s Jackson, of course. At first, Owen thinks he’s shouting at the screen. Then he realizes that the comment is directed at Collins.

If the boy is intimidated, he doesn’t let it show. ‘Wrong movie,’ Collins says. ‘That was a film with actors playing at being cowboys. This is a film with actors playing at being soldiers.’

Someone laughs, which provokes Jackson even further.

‘Don’t get funny with me, Collins. Why did you join the army anyway?’

‘Same reason as you. To serve my country.’

‘Queen and country more like,’ Jackson sneers. ‘It must be great for you here, with all us men. I bet you really get off on it.’

‘No more than you, mate,’ Collins replies.

‘Are you calling me queer?’ Jackson is angry now. Owen can see the vein throbbing in his left temple.

‘I’m not calling you anything,’ Collins says. ‘We’re here for the same reason. We have a job to do. But nobody forced us to join the army. We’re here because we like it.’

‘And what about him?’, Jackson asks, gesturing at the screen. ‘Jake whatshisname. Do you like him too?’

‘I’ve never met him.’

‘You know what I mean,’ Jackson says.

There are jeers, followed by more laughter. Nobody is paying attention to the film anymore. All eyes are on Collins. Nothing has happened for days. The possibility of a fight offers a welcome respite from the boredom.

‘Well?’ Jackson says. He looks around at the others and grins. ‘Do you want to fuck him or not?’

Collins doesn’t respond.

Jackson grabs himself by the genitals and steps forward, thrusting out his groin. ‘Or maybe you’d prefer a bit of this?’

Collins reddens. More laughter.

Watching Collins, Owen feels a sudden welling in his stomach – a mixture of revulsion, identification and pity. He thinks back to his first day at the army cadets. He was fourteen, and an older boy was smoking a cigarette.

‘Press your hand against my chest,’ he told Owen. ‘And I bet you I can make the smoke come out of my ears.’

The boy inhaled and held his breath. Owen placed his right hand against the boy’s chest and the next thing he knew the cigarette was burning into the back of his hand. He went home and cried, but instead of comforting him, his father gave him a good hiding.

‘Come home crying again,’ he said, ‘and I’ll give you something to cry about.’

So yes, Owen knows a thing or two about bullies.

‘That’s enough, Jackson,’ he snaps.

‘What’s it to you, McGrath? Jackson snarls back. He’s really stepping out of line now. He may be a senior private, and one many of the younger privates look up to, but he’s still only that – a private. And whatever their personal history, a private doesn’t speak to a lance corporal the way Jackson is speaking to Owen. Especially not in front of an audience.