The Black Path (8 page)

‘I love them too, Kath,’ Angela says. ‘Just not in that way. Tonight I want a man who’ll love me back. And me front!’ She snorts with laughter at her own joke. ‘Any other ideas? Helen?’

Helen struggles to find something sensible to say but her head is fuzzy from the alcohol. There are still four brightly coloured drinks left on the table, two of which are hers.

‘Hang on!’ Kath says. She rises unsteadily to her feet and turns to move, catching Angela’s glass with the back of her hand. It rolls off the table and smashes to the ground.

‘Oi! Watch my fucking bag!’

From the corner of her eye, Helen sees a flash of red leather as a woman at the next table snatches her bag from the floor and begins wiping at it furiously with a serviette. Nervously, she turns away, avoiding further eye contact.

‘Sorry, love,’ Kath calls over her shoulder. She points at Angela. ‘Mind my drink. I’m off to wet my lettuce.’

‘She’s a daft cow,’ Angela smiles as Kath disappears inside. ‘But I love her to bits. She’s okay, really.’ She pauses. ‘How about you? Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Only you can talk about it, y’know.’

Helen laughs nervously. ‘Can I?’

‘Of course you can,’ Angela says. ‘We’re mates, aren’t we?’ She reaches across the table and squeezes Helen’s hand.

‘Thanks,’ Helen says. She’s never really thought of Angela as a mate before. She’s always felt like a bit of a gooseberry where Angela and Kath are concerned. Two’s company, three’s a crowd. She’s grateful to Angela for the gesture, and for making her feel included.

‘I’m sure it can’t be easy,’ Angela says. ‘But Owen will be home before you know it.’

Helen swallows hard. ‘I still haven’t heard from him.’

‘But you’d know if something had happened to him, wouldn’t you? Someone would have told you.’

Helen nods.

‘Well, there you are, then,’ Angela says. ‘He’ll be fine. I’m sure of it. Now, let’s get these drinks down us before Kath comes back and knocks the whole bloody lot over.’

Time flies. Helen has lost count of the number of bars they’ve visited and the number of drinks she’s had. She’s feeling happy and light-headed. The train journey back to Bridgend passes in a blur of chatter and laughter. The next thing she knows, they’re in a bar called The Phoenix and Kath is complaining that she feels nauseous. Angela brings her a glass of water before leading them over to a corner banquet where they sit staring up at the video screens above the bar.

‘Send your texts to this number!’ the screens read, followed by an offer to ‘spice things up with a £5 curry special.’

Helen watches as the text messages start to appear.

‘Holly and Carol out on the prowl,’ says one.

‘Kyle is the birthday boy tonight. Show him some love!’ says another.

Someone goes past in a white T-shirt with a familiar green logo that should read ‘Paramedic’ but instead says ‘Paralytic’. Another boy’s T-shirt reads: ‘You Look Like I Need A Drink’.

‘Get him!’ says Angela. ‘He’s got a jaw you could dig roads with. Never mind a drink. What he needs is a plastic surgeon!’

Helen laughs. She can’t remember the last time she felt so relaxed.

A familiar song comes on – ‘I Gotta Feeling’ by The Black Eyed Peas. The crowd roars its approval and she grins and throws out her arms, swept up in the optimism of the lyrics. Then Angela and Kath are hauling her onto the dance floor and everyone is singing along, assuring her that tonight will be a good, good night.

A blue light flashes outside the window. The first of the police riot vans has arrived.

By the time the crowd at The Phoenix starts to thin out and Angela suggests that they move on to The Railway Inn, Helen has forgotten all about work and Owen, and everything seems hysterically funny.

Angela’s text on the video screen above the bar is funny. ‘Kath and Ange on the lash,’ it reads. ‘Up for fun and looking lush!’

The riot vans lined up outside are funny, but not as funny as the community drugs van parked outside the chip shop.

‘Quick, Kath!’ Angela says. ‘Go and ask if they’ve got any coke!’

The glass crunching underfoot is also funny. ‘I feel like I’m walking on broken glass,’ Kath warbles. She turns and frowns. ‘Who sang that?’

‘You did,’ Angela replies, and they both fall about laughing.

People lurch by, voices raised, faces looming into view. But Helen isn’t focussed on them. She’s being pulled along in the wake of Angela and Kath, like something floating out to sea. She pictures herself buoyed up over deep dark water and realises that she isn’t afraid.

The Railway is heaving. Gangs of drunken rugby boys throw themselves around the dance floor. Helen watches as a group of middle-aged women circle the men like vultures, flapping their arms and making strange pecking motions with their necks in an approximation of dancing.

‘C’mon!’ says Angela. ‘Let’s show them how it’s done!’

She grabs Helen’s hand and leads her onto the dance floor, bumping and grinding like a girl in an R&B video. At one point, she stumbles backwards and collides with one of the older women.

‘Sorry!’ Angela says, and pulls a face.

Helen giggles.

The woman scowls. ‘What are you laughing at?’

But Helen isn’t paying attention. Someone else has caught Angela’s eye – a cute blond boy in a tight T-shirt. He has a broad smile and a tan, and one arm is supporting his friend, who can barely stand up and is swaying out of time with the music. Angela dances over towards them and boldly runs her fingers down the side of the blond boy’s face and onto his chest. He says something in her ear and pushes her hand away. She shrugs, yawns dramatically and dances her way back towards Helen.

‘Blondie said not tonight,’ Angela says. ‘His mate has just joined the army. It’s their last big night out together, apparently.’ She sees the look on Helen’s face and changes the subject. ‘C’mon, let’s go to the bar.’

No sooner has Angela ordered a round than Kath groans. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

‘Perfect timing!’ Angela says. ‘Helen, stay and watch the drinks. I’ll take her outside for some fresh air. We won’t be long.’

Helen nods, though she’s starting to feel a little nauseous herself. She leans against the bar and tries to focus.

‘Are you alright, love?’ the barman asks when he returns with Angela’s change. As he places the coins in her hand, Helen notices the tattoo on his forearm – a coat of arms, with a grinning skull and the words ‘Death Before Dishonour’.

‘I’m fine,’ she mumbles. But she’s not fine. Her limbs are heavy, and she seems to have lost control of her legs.

‘Only you don’t look too clever,’ the barman says. ‘Where’s your friends? Don’t tell me they’ve buggered off and left you.’

‘No,’ Helen replies. ‘They’ll be back in a minute.’

Five minutes pass. Then another five minutes, and another. There’s still no sign of Angela and Kath.

The barman reappears. ‘Looks like they’ve forgotten you,’ he says.

A familiar fear of abandonment stirs in Helen’s stomach. Where are they?

‘Tell me to mind my own business,’ the barman says. ‘Only we get some right dickheads in here. And you don’t look like you’re on the pull.’

Helen’s fingers clench around her wedding ring. ‘I’m married.’

The barman grins. ‘Husband let you off the leash for the night, has he?’

‘He’s away,’ Helen says. She glances at the barman’s tattoo. ‘In Afghan.’

The barman’s smile fades. ‘Oh. I see.’

Their eyes lock for a moment.

‘Well, you take care, love.’

Helen’s throat tightens. She wishes Owen was here. He would never have left her alone in a strange bar.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, and turns away. She reaches for her handbag, trips and bumps into someone. A glass falls and shatters at her feet.

‘Silly cow!’ a woman’s voice snaps. ‘Watch where you’re going!’

She doesn’t look back. Frantically, she scans the room, pushing past crowds of people until finally – yes, there it is! – the door.

She stumbles outside, feels the crunch of broken glass underfoot and the cool air on her face. Her head spins. She takes a few deep breaths and tries to focus. A girl in a pink dress staggers past with her hand clasped to her mouth, vomit spilling through her fingers. A siren screams as an ambulance speeds by, blue lights flashing. Helen watches it disappear. Where the hell are Angela and Kath?

An older woman lurches towards her. She looks vaguely familiar. Her hair is blonde on top and black at the sides and has been pulled up into a huge, teased explosion. She holds a cigarette in one hand and a fast food carton in the other. Behind her, two other women are sucking furiously on their cigarettes. Struggling to focus, Helen stares at them. All three are dressed in outfits designed for girls half their age – short skirts, plunging necklines, bare shoulders.

‘What are you looking at?’ the woman with the exploding hair shouts as they approach.

‘What?’ Helen asks, confused. ‘Nothing.’

‘Oh, so you’re saying I’m nothing, are you?’

‘She was laughing at us before,’ another voice says. ‘On the dance floor’.

An image of Angela dancing flashes before Helen’s eyes. ‘I wasn’t,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean –’

‘Well, that’s funny,’ the blonde woman says. ‘Cos you had a smirk on your face just now. Are you trying to start something? Cos if you are, just say.’

Helen shakes her head. She looks around for Angela and Kath, but they’re nowhere to be seen. It’s just her. Alone. Terrified.

The blonde woman comes closer, so close that Helen can smell the smoke on her breath and feel the heat from the carton she holds in her hand. She takes a long drag on her cigarette, leans forward and blows a thick cloud of smoke into Helen’s face.

Helen coughs and retches.

‘What’s the matter?’ the woman asks, stepping back and turning to her friends. ‘Can’t hold your drink?’

The other women cackle and draw closer. Their eyes are shining, mouths puckered in looks of barely contained glee. They can sense the violence in the air. Helen feels it too. Her heart hammers inside her chest.

The blonde woman takes another step forward. Helen sees the glowing tip of the cigarette edging towards her. Fear turns to panic and she closes her eyes, tries to pretend this isn’t happening. Suddenly she’s back at the school gates. Girls in purple nylon uniforms are crowding around her as someone empties the contents of her school bag over her head and a packet of tampons falls to the floor. ‘She’s on the rag!’ someone screams. ‘Helen’s on the rag!’ A burning sensation brings her back to the present with a jolt. Her face is on fire. She flinches, puts her hand to her cheek and opens her eyes.

‘There you go, luv,’ the woman sneers. ‘That’ll teach you!’

Helen feels something hot and sticky running down her face. Is she bleeding? She stares at her hand and sees a steaming mess of … something. She feels the contents of her stomach rise up her throat and clasps her hand to her mouth.

‘Get away from her, you bitch!’

No time to adjust her sights as a small woman with gold hoop earrings and a mane of black hair appears from nowhere and throws herself between them. The woman’s body seems to rise up and leave the ground as her hand lashes out and the smoking woman’s cigarette flies through the air.

‘I’d do one if I was you!’ she shouts.

The older woman holds her ground. ‘This is none of your fucking business! This is between me and this stuck-up cunt!’ She jabs a polished red fingernail inches from Helen’s face.

‘Yeah, well I’m making it my business. Now, get away from her or I’ll rip your fucking face off!’

The older woman smirks. ‘I’d like to see you try.’

‘No, you wouldn’t!’ The younger woman thrusts her jaw out menacingly. ‘Trust me. You don’t want to mess with me.’

There’s a moment’s hesitation.

‘Leave it, Linda,’ one of the other women says. ‘She’s not worth it.’

The blonde woman backs down. Turning to her friend, she shrugs. ‘Lucky for her I just had my nails done, or she’d be dead meat!’

The group clatter off down the street, leaving Helen and her knight in shining armour alone.

‘Are you okay?’ the strange woman asks.

Helen’s whole body shakes.

‘Christ, you’re really freaked out, aren’t you?’

Helen nods, blinking back tears.

‘Let’s have a look at your face.’ She produces a tissue and begins wiping Helen’s cheek.

‘Am I bleeding?’ Helen asks.

The woman frowns, then laughs. ‘Bleeding? No, that old cow shoved curry sauce in your face. Your cheek looks a bit red, but that’s all.’

She continues wiping and, when she’s done, she cups Helen’s face in her hands and stares into her eyes.

‘You’re going to be okay,’ she says. ‘Are you pissed? You are pissed, aren’t you. Where do you live? Do you remember where you live?’

Helen mumbles, ‘Brynmenyn.’

‘I’m from Sarn,’ the woman says. ‘So we’re practically neighbours. I’m Siân by the way. And before you say anything, I’ve heard it all before.’

Helen looks at her blankly.

‘Siân from Sarn!’ The woman flashes a grin. ‘Like it’s some bloody big joke! C’mon, there’s a taxi over there. Let’s get you home.’

CHAPTER TEN

‘Morning, Corporal!’

The voice comes from behind a large punch bag. Owen is surprised to find someone else in the gym this early in the morning. Surprised, and a little disappointed. One of the few compensations for the insomnia he’s suffered these past few weeks is spending these early hours alone with his thoughts.

The fact that the voice belongs to Collins only adds to his irritation. He doesn’t have anything against the lad, but since the run-in with Jackson a few nights ago, he’s been conscious of the tension between them and annoyed at feeling drawn into someone else’s dispute. As much as he dislikes Jackson, Owen resents Collins for putting him in such a difficult position. He warned the lad to stay out of Jackson’s way. If Collins chooses to ignore his advice, that’s his look-out.

‘What’s up?’ he says. ‘Couldn’t sleep?’

Collins takes a jab at the bag. ‘A soldier never sleeps, Corporal. Sleep is for sissies.’