The Black Path (18 page)

She brushes her teeth for the second time and rinses her mouth out with the complementary mouthwash. The metallic taste has finally gone. She applies a second coat of lipstick and smacks her lips together.

Dropping the lipstick into her handbag, she turns to find Siân watching her from the doorway and her heart jumps. ‘You startled me.’

‘Sorry,’ says Siân. ‘Reception rang. The captains are waiting downstairs.’

Helen snaps the bag closed. ‘We should go.’

‘It won’t kill them to wait a few minutes. This is about you, not them.’

‘Right,’ says Helen. She follows Siân into the room. Her phone charger is plugged into the wall socket next to her bed. There’s no sign of her mobile. ‘Have you seen my phone?’

Siân is busy checking herself in the wardrobe mirror and seems not to hear. ‘I’m not sure about that Captain Enfield,’ she says, fiddling with her hair. ‘I bet she’s a right lezzer.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Stands to reason. Uniforms always attract that type. Same with police. And prison officers. Lesbians, the lot of them.’

Helen feels she ought to say something. But she doesn’t have the energy for an argument. ‘She’s only TA anyway.’

Siân doesn’t respond.

‘Territorial army,’ Helen says. ‘Volunteer force. She’s not a professional soldier.’

‘Yeah, I knew that. They let them in the army now though, don’t they? Queers, I mean. That can’t be right.’

‘Why not?’

‘Don’t get me wrong. I’ve met some nice queers. But I don’t think they should join the army. It’s not fair on the other men, is it? I bet your husband has a few things to say about it.’

‘My husband is in a hospital bed.’

‘Yeah. Sorry.’ A wounded look flashes across Siân’s face. Then it’s gone. She fishes something out of her pocket. ‘Your phone. Fully charged.’

Helen takes the phone and checks the screen. Nothing.

‘Ready?’ asks Siân.

Helen swallows. ‘As I’ll ever be.’

The entrance to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital is sleek, modern and somehow unreal. Helen catches sight of her reflection in the glass doors and feels as if she’s looking at someone else. Inside, the light is bright and there’s the smell of floor polish and disinfectant. As Captain Davies ushers her down the corridor, closely followed by Siân and Captain Enfield, she takes a few deep, steadying breaths and feels an icy calm wash over her.

‘Okay?’ asks Siân.

Helen nods without looking back.

Can’t talk now. Must keep moving. Must stay focussed
.

A couple of nurses march briskly by, trailed by three men in military uniform. They all wear the same inscrutable expression. A sign on the wall reads ‘The Best in Care’ above familiar logos for the Royal Navy, Army and Royal Air Force.

‘Your husband is in the trauma ward,’ Captain Davies says as they make their way along the gleaming corridor. ‘Normal visiting hours are two to four and six-thirty to eight-thirty.’

‘She’s not waiting till two o’clock,’ Siân chips in. ‘She needs to see him now!’

Captain Davies clears his throat. ‘As I was saying to Mrs McGrath,
normal
visiting hours are two to four and six-thirty to eight-thirty. However, every effort is made to enable family members to see patients as soon as possible.’

‘I should hope so,’ says Siân. ‘This is her husband we’re talking about!’

‘I’m well aware of that, miss!’ the captain says, glancing over his shoulder before turning his attention back to Helen. ‘As you’ll see, the hospital provides care for both service personnel and civilians. The trauma ward has special facilities for service personnel only. The creation of a military atmosphere on the ward is very important. It ensures that our people are cared for in the right environment.’

He stresses the words ‘our people’ as if they’re a breed apart.
Maybe they are
, Helen thinks.
How many civilian’s wives live in anticipation of days like this
?

They turn down another corridor. ‘The ward is made of single rooms and four bed bays,’ the captain continues. ‘Your husband is in a single room. When we reach the ward I’ll hand you over to Sue Blackwell from the Defence Medical Welfare Service. She’ll talk you through the support services available and answer any questions you may have before –’

‘She doesn’t need bloody support services!’ Siân snaps. ‘She needs to see her husband!’

Captain Davies shoots her a warning look. ‘
Before
escorting Mrs McGrath to the bedside,’ he says. ‘Now, is everything clear?’

‘Yes,’ Helen says, though everything is far from clear. There are so many emotions bubbling up inside of her, she’s finding it hard to focus. The eerie calm she felt a few moments ago has gone. She feels the panic rise up inside – a familiar sensation, never too far from the surface. Her stomach seizes.

He’s avoiding telling you how bad it is. What if Owen has lost a limb? What if he’ll never walk again?

‘Mrs McGrath?’ The captain’s voice sounds far off, like someone calling from a distant room.

Ask him! What are you afraid of? Go on! Ask him
!

‘Mrs McGrath? Do you understand what I just said?’

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Siân’s voice chimes in. ‘Of course she understands! She’s not thick!’

Helen’s throat tightens.
Shut up, Siân! I can’t think straight. Please, just shut up
!

A woman approaches. She wears a short-sleeved white blouse with black epaulettes and a knee-length black skirt. Her honey blonde hair is tied back in a ponytail. Pinned to her chest is a name tag with a red cross.

‘Mrs McGrath? I’m Sue Blackwell. Defence Medical Welfare Service. Captain Davies tells me you’re staying at the Indigo Hotel.’

Helen nods.

‘Very nice. Maybe it wasn’t explained to you properly, but we do have accommodation for family members on site. I can show you around afterwards if you like?’

‘We haven’t come for the guided tour,’ Siân snaps. ‘How many more times? She wants to see her husband!’

The captains exchange a look.

‘Right,’ says Captain Davies. ‘Time we were going.’

He gives a nod to Captain Enfield, who steps forward and takes Siân by the arm. ‘Come along, miss.’

‘Don’t you “miss” me!’ Siân says, pulling her arm free. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Well, you can’t stay here,’ Captain Davies says firmly. ‘Family members only. I can escort you to the cafeteria, or you can sit in the waiting room. It’s up to you. But you’re not allowed on the ward.’

As they usher Siân away, Helen feels her throat relax. Finally she finds her voice. She turns to the blonde woman in the crisp white blouse. ‘I’d like to see Owen now, please.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

‘The consultant will explain everything to you in more detail,’ Sue Blackwell says. ‘But I need you to prepare yourself before we go in.’

Helen nods and feels a wave of panic rise up inside her.

‘Owen has sustained several injuries,’ Sue continues. ‘He’s going to look quite different from how you last saw him. But his injuries aren’t life-threatening and he’s in good hands. Is that all clear?’

Helen nods again, more vigorously this time. She has a thousand questions but can’t seem to latch onto a single one.

The next wave of panic hits her the moment they’re through the door. Nothing she’s seen or heard, not even her darkest imaginings could have prepared her for the grim reality of the trauma ward. She tries not to stare, but as Sue ushers her on, Helen’s eyes are drawn to the men who occupy the beds in the bays on either side of her. Most are asleep – or unconscious. Others are propped up on their pillows, gazing back at her with blank expressions. One man lies flat on his back, eyes closed, his left arm folded above his head. What remains of his right arm rests on top of the covers. She averts her eyes but can’t help imagining what further horrors lie hidden beneath the sheets.

Please God, let him be in one piece
!

‘This way.’ Sue leads Helen on past a man sitting upright in bed, a pair of crutches propped against the wall beside him. He catches her eye as she passes. She forces a smile.

‘Alright, gorgeous?’ he calls and winks at her.

A voice shouts, ‘Man down!’ Startled, she looks around. A lad no older than twenty is thrashing around in his bed, the sheets tangled, his eyes tightly closed.

‘It’s okay,’ Sue whispers. ‘He’s not in pain.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Morphine. It controls the pain and reduces the chances of a patient developing post-traumatic stress disorder. But it can’t help with everything. Some of the men still have hallucinations.’

‘What kind of hallucinations?’

‘Bad dreams. Flashbacks. I’ve seen men sit up in bed and load imaginary rifles.’ Sue gives a tired smile, then continues briskly, ‘It’s one reason why we try to keep military personnel and civilians apart. And the men do better when they’re in a military environment. It’s easier for them to adjust. You can be sure your husband will receive the best care available. Here we are.’

They’ve reached a closed door at the far end of the trauma ward. Sue pauses and wipes her hands with antibacterial lotion from a dispenser on the wall. Helen follows suit.

‘Are you ready, Mrs McGrath?’

Helen nods. They go in.

The first thing she notices is the sunlight. It comes streaming in from the window, creating a haze around the only bed in the room. It takes a few moments for her eyes to adjust, a few more for her brain to tell her that what she’s registering is in fact real. And then it hits her.

‘No,’ she whispers, moving towards the bed on legs that feel as if they might give way at any moment. ‘Please, no.’

She barely recognizes him. His face is puffed up, the skin bruised and pitted with small shrapnel wounds, his hairline caked in blood and dirt.

‘Owen?’

No reaction. His eyes are closed. The area around his right eye socket is swollen. His top lip is thick and split like a boxer’s. There’s a gauze dressing over his left cheek and another on his right shoulder. IV drips dangle from his right arm. The left arm is in plaster.

‘Owen? It’s Helen.’ She reaches for his right hand and sees that her own hand is trembling. As the tips of her fingers brush against his, she flinches and draws back. His skin is cold.

Slowly, she lowers herself into the chair beside the bed. Tears prick her eyes and begin to roll down her cheeks. She lets them come – knowing, somehow, that she has to let the tears out before she’ll have the strength to continue. Then she takes a tissue from her bag. She wipes her eyes, takes a deep breath and reaches once more for his hand. This time she doesn’t flinch. She holds it in hers, sees the dirt under his nails, feels the roughness of the skin. Then she places her other hand on top and gently rubs the tips of his fingers between hers until, finally, she feels a little warmth.

‘Mrs McGrath?’ Sue touches her shoulder. ‘Mr Croft is here to see you.’

Helen looks up to see a man standing in the doorway, dressed in a surgical gown and carrying a clipboard. She rises to her feet as he strides over to the bed.

‘Is he going to be alright?’ she asks, holding back more tears.

The surgeon studies his notes before replying gently, ‘Your husband sustained a head injury, which is why he’s in a coma. We’re controlling the pain with morphine and monitoring his blood pressure. Apart from that, he has a broken arm and some minor cuts and bruises. Those marks on his face should heal fairly quickly. The bones will take a little longer.’

‘Bones?’ Helen repeats. She stares down at the bedclothes. Are his legs broken too?

‘His arm, Mrs McGrath. It’s broken in two places – the humerus and the radius. That’s the upper arm and the forearm. The cast will have to stay on for six weeks. After that, he’ll need physiotherapy to help restore strength and flexibility.’ He smiles at her. ‘But the breaks are clean. There shouldn’t be any lasting damage.’

She feels some of the tension leave her body. ‘What happened?’

‘There was an explosion. That’s really all I can tell you. What you need to focus on is the fact that he’s doing remarkably well. He’s breathing unaided. He coughs, yawns, blinks and shows rapid eye movement. Which means the lower brain stem is working.’

‘Is that good?’

‘Yes, it’s good. All we can do now is wait for him to wake up.’

‘What if he doesn’t wake up?’

The doctor’s face is impassive. ‘As I say, we’ll just have to wait. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m needed in surgery.’ He moves towards the door.

‘Will it help if I talk to him?’ Helen asks.

The doctor turns back and smiles. ‘It certainly won’t do any harm. Just don’t expect him to start talking back to you. Not yet anyway.’

And then he’s gone.

Sue Blackwell gives a small nod. ‘I’ll leave you two alone,’ she says, and follows the doctor out.

***

South Wales News Service

– Man stabbed at the Black Path.

A cyclist is in a critical condition after it is believed he was attacked by two men and stabbed in the stomach.

The 41-year-old man was found in an area of Bridgend known as the Black Path at around 10 p.m. last night.

He is being treated at the Princess of Wales Hospital for a serious puncture wound to his stomach.

One man has been arrested in connection with the incident and is being held at Bridgend Police Station, while police continue the search for a second male suspect.

It is believed the attack happened between 9.30 p.m. and 10 p.m.

Both suspects are said to be white and in their late teens or early 20s, with local accents.

Police are appealing for any witnesses to come forward.

***

Behind her, Helen hears the door click as she edges her chair closer to the bed. She folds her hands restlessly in her lap. Her stomach tightens. He looks so different, it’s hard to believe that this is the man she knows so well and loves so much. Even the intimacy of being alone with him fails to deliver the feeling of familiarity she’s craved for so long. His face is strange to her – the sounds of the machines stranger still.