The Black Path (12 page)

‘Collins can take over after Jackson,’ the sergeant says. ‘Then you, McGrath.’

Jackson frowns but doesn’t voice any objections.

Owen looks up at the inky blue sky. The sun has disappeared and the moon is already rising, full and fat and as bright as a searchlight. So that’s one more reason to feel unsettled. This was supposed to have been a five-hour patrol. Another hour and they’d have been heading back to base camp. Instead they’re out here in the open, just a few miles from where Armstrong was killed, in what the army euphemistically refers to as ‘an area of interest’. In other words, they’re in a former Taliban stronghold, still considered enough of a threat to require regular surveillance. In many ways, this is what soldiers live for. Desert patrols are all about proper soldiering, living on your wits. But nobody wants to be stuck out here at night. Especially under the glare of a full moon.

The vehicles are lined up in a row, with the machine gun in the centre. Soldiers jump down onto the ground and begin busily arranging their sleeping bags close together on one side. Four hours will give them time to catch up on some sleep. When your days are filled with nerve-wracking tedium, you’re grateful for any shut-eye you can get. Owen is amazed at how easily he adapts to these irregular sleeping patterns. Back home he was a creature of habit. He needed eight hours’ sleep a night and a cool, darkened room. Here he survives on four or five. And tonight ‘on the ground’ will mean precisely that. Someone will be on stag, someone will be manning the radio and the rest of the patrol will collapse in the dirt, huddled close in their sleeping bags for extra warmth. Sleep usually comes quickly, which is the body’s way of coping when it’s this exhausted.

Owen arranges his sleeping bag as far away from Jackson’s as he can. He closes his eyes and tries to think of Helen. She’ll be at home now, curled up on the sofa with her feet tucked under her, reddish-blonde hair piled on top of her head in a clip, the way she often wears it at the end of a long day. His heart warms at the thought of her and he feels a pang of guilt. He still hasn’t finished that letter. Later, when they arrive back at the base, he’ll send her an email. He won’t tell her about this morning’s incident at the gym. She’d only worry. He’ll thank her for her parcel, tell her he loves her and reassure her that everything is fine. Perhaps if he can convince her, he can convince himself too.

He turns onto his side, rests his head in the crook of his arm and pulls his sleeping bag up against the cold night air. Seconds later, he’s asleep. He dreams about the last man he shot – a man who keeps falling to the ground and then standing up again, his face a blur of blackened blood. He wakes briefly, gulping for air. He gazes up at the moon, hears the snores of sleeping soldiers and drifts off again. Soon he’s dreaming about his wife. He’s kissing her like he hasn’t kissed her in a long time, gripping the sides of her head between his hands, his tongue exploring her mouth, wanting to crawl inside her and hide forever. Owen groans, ‘Helen.’ He caresses her shoulders, his hands trailing across her skin to cup her soft breasts.

It’s then that he realizes it isn’t Helen he’s kissing after all. It’s Collins. He tries to speak but no words come. He feels the young soldier’s mouth pressed against his own and a shiver of excitement runs through his body like an electric shock.

Suddenly he’s being nudged awake. Collins is hovering over him. ‘Time for you to relieve me, Corporal.’

Owen flinches. It’s the term everyone uses. When someone is on stag, and you’re next in line to take over, you ‘relieve’ them. But there’s another meaning too, an in-joke among the lads. It makes light of the intimate bonds that form between them and the suspicions that arise whenever men live together in such close proximity. And there’s something in the lad’s face, the faint hint of a smile, that tells Owen he’s being teased. How long has Collins been standing over him?

‘Right,’ says Owen, climbing out of his sleeping bag. Thank God he didn’t wake up with an erection. Though he wouldn’t be the first soldier to go on stag with more than one thing on his mind. It’s one of the few occasions in the army when you have anything approaching privacy, and it’s an occasion many soldiers take advantage of by enjoying a good wank. An image of Collins masturbating flashes into his head. His throat tightens as he forces the thought away.

‘Alright, Corporal?’ Collins asks, removing his helmet and dropping it onto the empty sleeping bag next to Owen’s. ‘I doubt I’ll get much sleep tonight.’

Owen looks at him. There’s a gleam in his eye, a look that seems to suggest he was reading Owen’s thoughts. Is he flirting with him? Maybe he thinks he sees something in Owen the others can’t? Well, he’s wrong. Much as he likes the lad, there’s nothing queer about his feelings for him. The dream was just a dream. He’s definitely not that guy.

‘Corporal?’ Collins says, snapping him out of his reverie. ‘You’re on stag.’

‘Get some shut-eye,’ Owen answers abruptly, and leaps to his feet.

‘You’re the boss, Owen,’ Collins replies.

There’s no mistaking it this time. It’s not just the familiarity of Collins calling him by his first name. There’s a definite look there. The lad’s eyes are practically shining.

‘Correct,’ Owen says. ‘Now get some sleep.’ He nearly adds, ‘Or you’ll be no use to me’, but catches himself in time.

He reaches for his helmet, strides over to the vehicle and climbs up behind the top-mounted, 50-calibre machine gun. The proximity of the weapon brings a familiar feeling of comfort. Owen has seen some terrible things in the army. He’s seen men blown apart, men shivering with fear and covered in shit. And he’s done things too. He’s killed people, including that kid in Iraq. But he’s a soldier, and for him a gun still represents something noble. It means protection, and protection is what being in the army is all about. It’s why he’s still here, in this Godforsaken hell-hole. And for the next hour, it’s his only focus.

Despite himself, his thoughts return to Collins. The lad was squeezed into this same space only minutes ago. Is it just his imagination, or can he still sense his presence? Is it the warmth of his body, the smell of his sweat, or the thought of what he might have been doing? An hour from now Owen will be lying next to him, their sleeping bags inches apart. The thought unsettles him. He swallows, closing his eyes for a split second.

A twig snaps. Owen jumps. Swivelling round, he sees Collins standing at the rear of the vehicle, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

‘It’s okay,’ the lad says. ‘They’re all asleep.’

‘What are you doing?’ Owen demands.

‘I think you know,’ Collins replies, and climbs up into the vehicle.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Cozy Café is anything but. Helen’s heart sinks as she takes in the shabby pine furniture and dirty vinyl flooring. But Siân is already through the door.

The waitress wears a faded blue apron and a bored expression.

‘Menu’s on the table,’ she sighs. ‘We close at six. I’ll be back to take your order.’ She turns and slopes away.

‘A smile would do for starters,’ Siân says, pulling out a chair. ‘She’s hardly rushed off her feet, is she?’

Helen looks around. The only other customer is a middle-aged man with thick-framed glasses and a long red beard, dressed in what look like traditional Arab robes, with a round white skull cap. He’s seated in the far corner, reading a book and muttering under his breath. He has the look of someone who’s used to drawing attention and isn’t bothered in the slightest.

Siân has clocked him too. She leans across the table and raises a knowing eyebrow. ‘I call him the only Muslim in the village. He was in the local paper last week, accusing the council of being Islamophobic. He wants them to build a mosque in the centre of town – just for him.’

‘Who is he?’ Helen whispers back.

‘God knows! Lives in Blackmill. Calls himself Mohammed something or other. A year ago he was Welsh Methodist.’

‘Maybe he had a religious conversion?’ Helen says quietly, and immediately wishes she hadn’t. She can feel the man watching her from the corner of her eye. If she only had more sense, she’d have changed the subject.

Siân laughs. ‘Or maybe he’s just a nutter. Anyway, let’s order. I’m starving.’

It’s hours since they left the house. The ford was every bit as beautiful as Siân had promised. They’d sat for a while idly chatting and watching the river slide by. Then the sky had closed in and it had started to rain, so they’d decided to head for the nearest café.

Studying the menu, Helen feels a sudden craving for the all-day breakfast. She thinks of Owen and his famous fry-ups, then forces the thought away.

‘Tea and toast,’ says Siân, cornering the waitress.

Helen nods in agreement. ‘Me too, please.’

‘We close at six,’ the waitress sighs.

‘Yeah, you said,’ Siân replies. ‘Better make it snappy then, hadn’t you?’

As the waitress shuffles off, a young woman pokes her head inside the café. Her make-up is thick, her eyebrows raised in a look of permanent surprise. But what really strikes Helen is her outfit. Her jeans are orange and skin tight. Her crop top is also orange. It’s hard to tell where the top ends and her heavily tanned stomach begins.

‘Oh my God!’ Siân says in a stage whisper. ‘She’s been Tangoed!’

‘She doesn’t look that bad.’ Helen giggles nervously, conscious that the girl is staring over.

‘Come off it! She looks a right state!’

‘I’d kill for a tan,’ Helen says, trying to take the focus off the girl, who is still hovering by the door. ‘I only ever go pink in the sun. Pink, and then white again.’

‘You’ve got lovely skin. Like an English rose.’

‘Except I’m Welsh. I wish I looked more like you. You’ve got a great colour.’

Siân frowns. ‘Are you saying I look like her?’

‘Of course not!’ Helen is relieved to see that the girl has gone.

‘Good. Cos I’ve never been near a sunbed in my life. This is my natural skin colour. Proper Welsh, see. My dad always said I was a thoroughbred.’

Siân says this proudly, as if it’s some kind of achievement and not an accident of birth.

The waitress arrives with a tray, and places the teas and toast on the table. ‘Enjoy your meal,’ she says, without a trace of enthusiasm.

Helen thinks of her own father. He’d always tried to boost her confidence, telling her she was special. Would she have turned out differently had he lived? Would she have travelled more, seen more, done more? Or was she always destined to be the person she was now? Is her lack of confidence simply part of her nature, as ingrained in her as Siân’s skin tone?

‘Penny for your thoughts?’

Helen smiles. ‘Your dad sounds great.’

‘Yeah, he was.’ Siân takes a sip of her tea.

‘Was?’

‘He died.’ Siân shrugs. ‘It’s okay. I don’t mind talking about it. Actually I think it helps to talk about things. And it keeps him alive in a way. Gone but not forgotten.’

Helen feels a shiver of recognition go through her. She’s never met anyone who lost their father before, certainly nobody as young as Siân. For all their differences, it suddenly strikes her that she and Siân have something in common that few people can relate to, a connection far deeper than mere friendship. It’s almost as if they have a shared history, almost as if they’re sisters. She looks across the table and smiles sympathetically. ‘What happened?’

‘Hit and run. A few years ago. He was dead before they reached the hospital.’

‘I’m so sorry. Did they catch whoever did it?’

‘Yeah. Drunk driver. Two years, they gave him. “Diminished responsibility”. Makes you sick.’

‘What about your mum?’

‘Oh, she fucked off years ago. Said she was never cut out to be a mother, and just upped and left. I was six. Selfish cow.’

‘Do you know where she is now?’

‘Nah. Don’t care either. She’s dead to me. Has been for years.’

At least my mother’s not dead to me
, Helen thinks.
She may not be perfect, but at least she’s there
.

She looks at Siân and feels her heart go out to her. Losing one parent was hard enough. But losing both? It’s no wonder she can come across as abrasive. Helen pictures her as a little girl, abandoned by her mother and already learning to tough it out.

‘Anyway, enough about me,’ Siân says. ‘What are your family like?’

‘It’s just my mum. My dad died when I was ten. A group of lads attacked him outside our house. One of them had a knife.’

Siân’s eyes widen in horror. ‘Oh my God! That’s awful! Did the police catch the bastards?’

‘No.’ Helen feels the tears come. She blinks them back.

‘To absent fathers,’ Siân says, raising her teacup. ‘Long may they watch over us.’ She sets down the cup, reaches across the table and grasps Helen’s hand. ‘I’m so glad I was there for you last night. I think our paths were meant to cross, don’t you?’

Helen nods.

‘Good.’ Siân pushes back her chair. ‘Hold that thought. I’m just popping to the loo.’

***

Statement from Lisa Johns

Aged 17

Neighbour of Richard and Mandy Thomas

NB – may know more than she’s letting on

The night before he died, Mr Thomas arrived home shortly after 7 p.m. A neighbour, Lisa Johns, spoke to him.

‘I was in my front garden when I saw Richard – sorry, Mr Thomas – coming up the street,’ said Ms Johns. ‘I waved and shouted hello. He looked at me and sort of smiled. But he didn’t seem his usual self so I called out to him, “Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” he said, and stopped at my gate. But he didn’t look fine.’

In what way? Ms Johns paused before answering. ‘He looked like he’d been drinking. His eyes were glassy-looking. And he smelt funny too. At first I thought he’d been smoking. I’d never seen him smoke, so I thought it was strange. But then I realised it was more of a wood-smoke smell, like he’d been near a bonfire. You know, the way kids smell on bonfire night?’

Ms Johns confirmed that Mr Thomas didn’t have a carrier bag with him, and that he appeared to be in an agitated state. ‘He wasn’t carrying anything,’ she said. ‘I remember because I reached for his hand to try and comfort him and both his hands were free. I told him, “You don’t seem fine, Richard.”’