The Black Path (7 page)

‘I could ask you the same question,’ Owen says.

Jackson looks confused. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Why are you so bothered about who’s gay and who isn’t? First Armstrong and now Collins. It’s becoming quite an obsession.’

At the mention of the dead soldier, the mood changes. The men shift about, their eyes shining solemnly.

Jackson looks around for support but finds none. He stands up, looks at Owen as if he’s about to say something and then thinks better of it. He grabs his body armour and storms off. Slowly the others drift away. The film is still playing, the soundtrack barely drowning out the sound of someone snoring a few feet away.

Owen waits until they’re out of earshot before turning to Collins. ‘Don’t ever do that again!’

Collins blinks at him in surprise. ‘I thought you were on my side.’

‘There are no sides. Just stay out of Jackson’s way. I don’t want any trouble.’

‘But he started it.’

‘And I’m ending it. Understood?’

Collins catches his eye for a moment. Then he nods. ‘Whatever you say, Corporal.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

Friday comes around too soon and there’s still no word from Owen. ‘No news is good news,’ Helen tells herself as she showers and brushes her teeth. It’s the sort of thing her mother would say, but sometimes there’s comfort in repeating a mantra, however unconvincing it sounds.

There was another report on the news last night – another soldier killed, another political row about boots on the ground in Afghanistan and the rights and wrongs of withdrawing troops from a country ravaged by decades of war. She’d tried to ignore it, but there was something hypnotic and infuriating about the way the politicians spoke about ‘our boys’ as if they were personally related. How many of
their
sons were out there? How many of them lived in fear of someone they loved not coming home?

She pictures her husband reading her letter, lying on his bed, a pillow propped behind his head, her parcel from home open beside him. The sweets are a mixture of extra strong mints, butterscotch and hard gums – his favourites, though knowing him, they’ll be shared. The magazines he’ll read once and pass around. The E45 cream and sunscreen he’ll keep for himself. His biggest complaint about Afghanistan isn’t the boredom or the danger of insurgents – it’s the severity of the weather. The creams will help protect his skin against the elements. It’s comforting to think that she’s taking care of him in some small way.

She dresses for work in a black skirt and pale grey blouse and digs out a pair of jeans and a silver halterneck top for the evening. Pubs and clubs have never been her idea of fun but it’s too late to back out now. Angela and Kath seem genuinely delighted that she’s agreed to go out with them, and anything is better than another night alone in front of the TV.

She folds the jeans into a carrier bag. Standing in front of the full length mirror, she holds up the halterneck. Owen had been with her when she bought it.

‘What do you think?’ she’d asked him.

She must have tried on half a dozen tops by then, and he’d liked them all. ‘Babes, you look beautiful in anything.’ He grinned. ‘Or nothing.’

Helen remembers the way the shop assistant had raised an eyebrow at her, as if to say, ‘Good catch!’

He was a good catch, wasn’t he? Still is. Despite their differences, and the fact that his job took him away from her for months at a time. He’s still her Owen.

She drops the halterneck into the carrier bag, sits down at the dressing table and studies her face in the mirror. Maybe her mother had been right. Maybe there is ‘something ghostly about redheads’. Right now, she looks as pale as a corpse. She didn’t sleep well, but that’s nothing new. She can’t recall the last time she had a decent night’s sleep. All she remembers is waking up in the early hours of the morning with her heart pounding, gasping for air.

Hastily, she applies her make-up and runs downstairs. She grabs her house keys but leaves the car keys in the wooden bowl by the front door. She’ll take the train today. The journey into Bridgend only takes ten minutes, then she can jump on a bus or walk up through town if the rain holds off. Of course, it’ll mean taking a taxi home tonight. She finds the card for a local cab firm and drops it into her bag.

Outside the sky is heavy and grey like wet sheep’s wool. The air seems to cling to her face, adding to the feeling of claustrophobia she often experiences when walking these streets. She picks up her pace and makes it to the station with plenty of time to spare. The departure board shows that the train is running seven minutes late. When it finally pulls in, there isn’t a spare seat left. She has to stand next to the toilet, which she hates. But at least the journey won’t take long.

Next to her is a woman in her forties with a teenage girl who is clearly her daughter. The older woman is dressed in various shades of blue, with a turquoise necklace and matching ear-rings. The daughter is a riot of clashing colours – a green skirt over blue jeans, an orange vest over a purple shirt, and dyed scarlet hair which hangs heavily around her pale, sullen face.

As the train pulls out of the station, the mother turns to the girl. ‘Do you like my outfit?’ she asks, clearly proud of the choices she’s made.

‘Do you want my honest opinion?’ the girl replies.

Something in her tone reminds Helen of herself when she was a teenager. Her mother had often described her as defiant, especially where Frank was concerned.

The older woman nods.

‘You look weird. You’re too colour-coordinated.’

The mother holds out a foot encased in a bright pink running shoe. ‘My shoes don’t match.’

‘They’re ugly,’ the girl says flatly.

The older woman’s smile fades. Then her face hardens. ‘Maybe I like ugly,’ she snaps. ‘Remember your father.’

Statement from Jane Morgan

Aged 33

Barmaid at The Jolly Brewer

The day before he died, Richard Thomas stopped in for a pint at The Jolly Brewer pub in Park Street. The barmaid, Jane Morgan, remembered it well because he didn’t seem his usual self. He barely spoke to her, simply asking for ‘a pint of the usual’. When she tried to engage him in conversation, asking about his wife and daughter, he smiled weakly but said nothing. After paying for his pint of bitter and telling her to ‘have one for yourself’, he sat in the corner, barely acknowledging the nods and greetings from people he’d been happily chatting with only days before.

A few nights earlier, she’d watched him laughing and joking with some of the regulars. ‘He was friends with everyone,’ she said. ‘There was that time he won money on the horses and insisted on buying a round for the entire pub. And his daughter – Helen – he never stopped talking about her. One night he came in with a pet rabbit he’d bought for her on the way home from work. You should have seen him. He was like a big kid.’

Miss Morgan confirmed that Mr Thomas was a regular at the pub. ‘He came in most days. But that afternoon there was something different about him. He must have sat there for almost an hour, nursing his pint and staring into space. When he left, I remember thinking,
There goes a man who looks like he could use a hug
. He wasn’t himself at all.’

When Mr Thomas failed to show up the following night, or the night after that, she assumed that he’d had a row with his wife and she’d put a stop to him coming to the pub. According to her niece Lisa Johns, who lived next door to the Thomases, Richard and his wife Mandy often argued. ‘That Mandy Thomas is a right miserable cow,’ Jane recalled Lisa saying a few weeks earlier. ‘I pity that poor man, being married to her. She’d try the patience of a saint.’

What did Jane make of Mandy Thomas? ‘I bumped into her a few times at Tesco’s. She always seemed perfectly pleasant to me. A bit quiet, perhaps. But you never really know what goes on behind closed doors, do you? People aren’t always who you think they are.’

According to Ms Morgan, Richard Thomas was a popular man – ‘the life and soul of the party’. She was first informed of his death by Lisa Johns, who phoned her in tears that same afternoon. ‘She ran to the bathroom and was physically sick,’ Ms Morgan said.

Why was her niece so upset? ‘Why wouldn’t she be? It’s a terrible thing to have happened. And teenage girls are easily upset. They take these things to heart.’

Asked if she could think of anyone who might hold a grudge against Mr Thomas, Ms Morgan shook her head vigorously. ‘No. No one.’

***

Fridays at the office are always busy. Today is busier than most. With the monthly reports due and Natalie being even more demanding than usual, Helen doesn’t even have time for lunch. Before she knows it, she’s filing the last of the week’s spreadsheets and shutting down her computer for the weekend.

If only she could shut her brain down as easily. She wishes she was going straight home. Maybe there’ll be a letter from Owen waiting for her on the doormat. She pulls out her iPhone and checks her emails. Nothing.

Looking up, she sees Simon striding towards her, a serious look on his face. ‘Everything okay, Helen?’ he asks.

She slides her phone into her pocket. ‘Yes, Mr Greenwood.’

‘Good.’ He hovers at her desk. ‘And please, call me Simon.’ He pauses. ‘Natalie not around?’

‘She left half an hour ago. Dentist.’

‘Oh yes, of course. Right. Well, I wonder if we could have a quick word in my office?’

‘Is there a problem?’ Helen asks.

‘She can’t work late tonight, Simon,’ Angela chips in. ‘We’ve got a train to catch.’

‘No, of course not,’ he replies hastily. ‘Monday morning, then?’

Helen nods meekly, quietly wondering what the boss could possibly want with her and fearing the worst.

He turns to Angela. ‘So where are you ladies heading off to? Anywhere nice?’

‘Cardiff’, Angela replies. ‘You can tag along with us if you like.’ She grins mischievously.

‘That’s very kind of you. But the wife and I have plans. You know, Friday night and all that.’

‘Does she keep you on a short leash, then?’ Angela winks.

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that!’ He blushes and clears his throat. ‘Well, you girls go ahead and get ready. I still have a few things to attend to.’

‘Whatever you say, boss,’ Angela replies. She turns to Helen and Kath. ‘C’mon, girls! You heard the man. Let’s get our warpaint on!’

They troop off to the ladies, where they change out of their work clothes and Angela helps Helen to touch up her make-up.

‘You’ve got lovely skin,’ she says, smoothing on a little blusher. ‘I’d kill for a complexion like yours.’

‘Do you think Mr Greenwood’s going to fire me?’ Helen asks.

‘What?’ Angela snorts. ‘Is he hell! What gives you that idea?’

‘Natalie caught me crying in here the other day. Maybe she told him.’

Angela raises an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t put it past her. But so what? You’re a good worker and she’s a lazy cow who barely lifts a finger. I swear she passes off half of your work as her own. Simon’s not stupid. If anyone should watch their back around here, it’s Natalie. So stop fretting.’ She smiles. ‘There. You’re done! Now, how about a little something to get us in the mood?’

Reaching into her handbag, she produces a hip flask.

‘You’re terrible, Ange!’ Kath giggles, grabbing the flask and taking a swig. ‘I thought your body was a temple?’

Earlier, Angela had been extolling the virtues of her latest detox diet, which seemed to consist of juice, smoothies, raw vegetables and not a lot else.

‘My body is a temple during the week,’ Angela grins. ‘At the weekend, it’s a distillery on legs.’ She snatches the flask from Kath and offers it to Helen.

‘No, thanks.’

‘C’mon,’ Angela says. ‘You won’t catch anything.’ She holds the flask up to Helen’s nose. ‘Go on. Try some.’

Cautiously, Helen sniffs the liquid inside. ‘What is it?’

Angela laughs. ‘It’s a delicate blend of port and Blue WKD – otherwise known as Cheeky Vimto. It tastes like Vimto, but it gives you a nice buzz.’

Helen hesitates.

‘Live a little,’ Angela says. ‘It’s Friday night. Time to unwind. Take your mind off things.’

Helen feels a sudden flutter in her stomach.

Pull yourself together
! she thinks.
You’re going out with the girls. You’re doing what normal people do. Where’s the harm in that
?

She raises the flask to her lips and takes a sip. It tastes disgusting.

‘Well?’ says Angela.

Helen forces a smile. ‘You’re right. It’s just like Vimto.’

CHAPTER NINE

‘Look out, girls!’ Angela announces. ‘The entertainment has arrived.’

They’re seated outside Las Iguanas, where she and Kath are making the most of the two-for-one cocktail offer. The table is covered in cocktail glasses – most of them empty.

Helen turns to look as a gaggle of girls in basques, fishnet stockings and feather boas come tottering into view. One wears a pink cowboy hat and has arms like sides of ham. The girl in the centre sports a bridal veil festooned with condoms.

‘If you ever see me dressed like that, please shoot me,’ Angela says.

‘What was your hen night like, Helen?’ Kath asks.

Helen forces a smile and reaches for her mojito. ‘Nothing like that.’

‘No, you’ve got a bit more class,’ Angela says.

And far fewer friends
, Helen thinks. Her hen night had been just her, her mother and a couple of soldiers’ wives and girlfriends she barely knew then and hasn’t seen since. At least this lot seem to be enjoying themselves.

‘Right, where to next?’ Angela asks.

‘Let’s go to Pulse!’ Kath says.

Angela looks at her. ‘What part of “I’m on the pull tonight” don’t you understand, Kath? We are not going to a gay bar.’

‘But I love the gays!’ Kath wails. She’s beginning to slur her words, and her tendency towards girlish overstatement is becoming more pronounced.