The Black Path (19 page)

The last time she and Owen were alone together, the atmosphere had been tense. It was the morning he left for Afghanistan, before he walked out of the door and into the vehicle that would drive him to the base and the military plane. When he went to kiss her goodbye, she’d turned her head slightly, so his kiss grazed her cheek rather than met her lips. He tried to lighten the mood by joking about coming home and making babies and she humoured him the way she often did. ‘Of course we will. But one thing at a time. Just keep your mind on the job. I want you back home in one piece.’

How those words haunt her now. Her head swims. There’s too much to take in. Already she’s struggling to recall what the doctor said. What use is she, if she can’t even remember that? She feels alienated and out of her depth, intimidated by the busy medical staff and gleaming paraphernalia of the hospital. Everyone else has a role to play, each piece of equipment a function to serve. Right now it feels as if her only role is simply to hold herself together and remember to breathe. She wonders how she’ll even manage that.

Her stomach rumbles, reminding her of how little she’s eaten in the past twenty-four hours. She should have listened to Siân when she had the chance. A little more gratitude wouldn’t have gone amiss either. It’s hardly Siân’s fault that she’s a nervous wreck or that Owen is in hospital or that everything is such a mess. All she’s done is find them a nice hotel, encourage her to eat something and try to make a shitty situation more bearable.

Nice work, Helen. The first friend you’ve made in years and she’s probably sitting somewhere on her own, miles away from home, asking herself why she even bothers. No wonder you’ve always been such a loner. It’s a wonder anyone bothers with you at all
.

She breathes deeply and the nagging voice recedes, bringing her back into the room, back into the moment, back to the man she loves. She presses her fingers to her temples and tries to gather her thoughts. She should talk to him, say something. Who knows? It might even help. She might even make herself useful after all.

‘Owen,’ she begins, and then her mind goes blank. What’s wrong with her? She’s waited a long time for an opportunity to talk to him. All those lists she made. All the calls that never came. All the conversations they never had. She must have something to talk about, surely? But now the moment has finally arrived, the words won’t come.

She looks at his face for reassurance, but the swelling and the bruises and the split lip make her heart ache and her throat tighten. She reaches for his hand again. His skin feels warmer than before, and for a split second she imagines him opening his eyes and turning to her. ‘Come on, babes,’ he’d say with a grin. ‘Get on with it. I’m bored senseless here.’ But there are no words of encouragement, no signs of life apart from the sound of his breathing and the steady rise and fall of his chest.

She sits listening to the bleeps of the machines for what seems like an eternity. Her eyes travel from the tubes in his arm to the marks on his face to the dirt in his hair. Then she leans forward and kisses him gently on the cheek. His stubble feels like sandpaper against her lips.

‘Owen,’ she says softly. ‘It’s me, Helen. I don’t know if you can hear me, but the doctor says you’re doing okay. You’re in the hospital now, but I’ll soon be taking you home.’ She thinks of the morning he’d left for Afghanistan, the distance between them. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she says. ‘Maybe it’s time we started a family.–’ Her voice cracks and she swallows hard, blinking back tears.

What are you saying? What if he can hear you? Is that really the best you can come up with? Making promises you won’t keep
?

She lifts her head and gazes around the room, struggling for something else to say. She thinks of work – but Owen has no interest in office gossip and has often complained about the long hours she puts in. She pictures her mother and Frank – but the last time they visited, Owen had shared a beer and a joke with Frank, and they’d ended up arguing in the car on the way home. Then her thoughts return to Siân. There’s no history there, no emotional baggage. Siân is a safe subject.

‘I’m here with a friend,’ she says in a brighter voice. ‘You don’t know her. We only met a couple of days ago. I went out with the girls from work on Friday and –’

She pictures herself back home, falling over drunk, surrounded by women spoiling for a fight, unable to fend for herself.

Good idea! Tell him the state you were in. That’ll really help
!

‘Her name’s Siân,’ she continues. ‘I think you’d like her, Owen. She’s really –’

She wants to say ‘fearless’ but stops herself. A word like that will need some explaining.

‘She lost her dad, too,’ she says, remembering how she’d first opened up to Owen about her father dying, how sympathetic he’d been. ‘It was only a few years ago. A hit and run. Not like the way I lost my dad. But there’s definitely a connection there. I can feel it.’

She pauses before continuing. ‘Do you remember that time you wrote to me saying how important it was to have friends you can trust, people who’ll watch your back? It was when you were in Iraq. Well, I was reading some of your old letters the other night. I know you were talking about soldiers watching out for each other, and that’s a bit different. But you were right. I honestly don’t know what I’d have done without Siân these past couple of days. She’s really been there for me. Y’know, the way friends are supposed to be there for each other.’

She trails off. ‘Sorry, I’m rambling. My head feels a bit foggy. I think I might be coming down with something. But please don’t worry about me. Like I said, I’ve got plenty of support. You just concentrate on getting better. Then I can take you home.’

She feels her throat tighten again, and wonders what to say next.

There’s a movement in her peripheral vision. Sue Blackwell appears in the doorway. ‘I think that’s probably enough for now,’ she says gently. ‘Let’s go and find your friend.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Siân isn’t in the waiting room. She’s not in the cafeteria either.

‘Maybe she just popped to the loo?’ Sue Blackwell says brightly. ‘Since we’re here, why don’t you take a seat and I’ll bring us both a cup of coffee? Or maybe you’d prefer tea? Mrs McGrath?’

Helen blinks. ‘Sorry?’

‘Are you alright?’

‘Yes, I’m fine. A bit of a headache coming on.’

The officer smiles sympathetically. ‘Lack of sleep, I expect.’

It sounds more like a statement than a question, so Helen doesn’t bother with a reply. She doesn’t know what to say, anyway. Her head is all over the place. She’s lost for words, out of control, like a driver behind the wheel of a car whose brakes have failed. She keeps trying to picture Owen the way he looked before – the soft brown eyes, the dimple in his cheek. But all she sees is the way he looks now – almost unrecognizable, his face all swollen, with those red marks and that dirt in his hair. Why haven’t they bothered to wash his hair? Is there something they’re not telling her?

‘You can talk to me,’ the officer continues. ‘I’m here to help.’

‘Thank you, Ms Blackwell.’

‘Please, call me Sue.’ She gives another of her smiles. Practised. Polite. Professional.

Helen tries to smile back. ‘You’re very kind. I’ll be fine, really. I just need to find my friend.’

‘Of course. And we will find her, just as soon as we’ve had a little rest.’ She turns to the nearest table and gestures to Helen to take a seat. ‘What can I get you? Tea? Coffee?’

‘Coffee, please. Milk and sugar.’

‘Right,’ says Sue. ‘Two coffees coming up.’

Helen heaves a sigh of relief as she sits down. Her head is pounding. She turns and stares at the officer standing at the counter. Is she married? Sue Blackwell has glossy blonde hair and a sporty confidence that reminds Helen of some of the girls she used to know at school. They were the kind of girls who always wore freshly pressed cotton blouses and were destined to go to university before marrying the captain of the rugby team. Their husbands would arrive home from work every night at 6 p.m., except on Fridays when they’d finish early and take their wives out for dinner at one of the smart restaurants along the coast. They would produce beautiful children who would make them proud and bring them even closer together. Their husbands would never risk their lives in the line of duty, and would live long enough to see their offspring happily married with children of their own. Nothing bad would ever happen to these people.

Helen presses her fingers to her temples. She tries to imagine herself in one of those women’s shoes, curled up on the sofa at home with Owen’s arm around her. He’s watching the television. There’s a game on, a rugby match he really wants to see. But he’s turned the sound down to give her his full attention. ‘I’m so happy,’ he says. ‘You’re going to be the best mum ever.’ She glows with pride, secure in the knowledge that she’s giving him the one thing he’s always wanted. He places his hand on her swollen belly and swears to her that he can feel the baby kicking. ‘He’s going to play for Wales,’ he says. ‘Just you wait and see.’

But when she places her own hand on her stomach, it doesn’t feel right. There’s no movement, no sign of life. Something is wrong. She turns to Owen for help. One side of his face is frozen, his eyes staring straight ahead. He opens his mouth and makes a dreadful moaning sound. Then she’s phoning an ambulance, crying out in pain, screaming down the phone. The ambulance arrives, siren wailing, lights flashing. She runs outside. But there’s no ambulance. There’s no car parked outside her house. There’s no street. She looks around and sees that she’s back in the garden of the house where she grew up. She’s ten years old again, standing by the rabbit hutch her father built for her, staring in horror at a lifeless lump of tiny bodies squashed together under the straw.

A buzzing sound brings her back to the strip-lit misery of the cafeteria with its calming pastel walls and huddles of anxious-looking people. Her phone is vibrating in her handbag.

She fumbles around for a few moments and the buzzing stops. Finally she fishes the phone out of the bag and stares at the screen. There’s a missed call from her mother. Should she call her back? And say what exactly? The last thing she wants is her mother and Frank turning up. What good would it do? She has enough to cope with already, without the added complication of family tensions.

Sue appears with a plastic tray, two cups of coffee and a saucer with sachets of sugar and sweetener. She sets them down on the table and smiles. ‘Okay?’

‘Not really,’ Helen replies. She pauses, wonders how much she’s willing to confide. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she says. ‘I just feel so helpless.’

Sue nods as if she’s heard this a million times before.
Maybe she has
, Helen thinks. She puts the phone back in her bag and reaches for her coffee.

‘She’s still not answering,’ Amanda says, placing the handset back in its cradle. ‘That’s it. The lunch will be ruined.’

Frank is seated at the kitchen table, poring over his newspaper. ‘Calm down, love,’ he says gently. ‘Have you tried calling the house?’

‘Of course I’ve tried calling the house!’ Amanda snaps. ‘I don’t need you to tell me that. She’s not at home and she’s not answering her mobile. Do you have any other bright ideas?’

Frank shrugs. ‘She’s probably on her way. You know she never likes to answer the phone when she’s driving.’

‘Well, it wouldn’t hurt her to call first. How am I supposed to time the lunch if I don’t know when she’s coming? I’m not a mind reader.’

‘She knows lunch is at one.’ Frank says gently. ‘Lunch is always at one. It’s been at one for as long as any of us can remember. And it’ll be at one when we’re both old and grey and can barely remember our own names or what we had for breakfast.’

Amanda narrows her eyes. ‘That’s right. Mock me.’

‘I’m not mocking you. I’m just trying to raise a smile.’

He lifts his eyebrows and looks at her expectantly, but to no avail.

‘I called her last night from the club,’ Amanda says. ‘Not that you’d remember. You were too busy drinking with your cronies.’

Frank sighs. ‘Do we really have to go through this again? For once, can’t we just enjoy our lunch?’

‘That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one doing all the cooking.’

‘I offered to peel the potatoes, but you weren’t having it. I offered to make the gravy, but you always have to do it your way. Tell me what to do and I’ll gladly do it. But don’t complain about me not helping when you won’t let me.’

Amanda catches his eye for a moment, then looks away. ‘This is typical of Helen,’ she sniffs, moving towards the cooker and opening the oven door to check on the roast. ‘No thought for other people.’ She reaches for an oven glove and inspects the roasting pan, poking at the meat with a carving knife. ‘The beef will be dry at this rate.’

‘No, it won’t,’ Frank says. ‘We’ll take it out and wrap some foil around it. You’re supposed to let the meat rest anyway.’

‘Thank you, Gordon Ramsay,’ Amanda replies. ‘I think I know how to roast a joint of beef.’ She slams the oven door shut and reaches into a cupboard for a large serving plate.

‘I know you do,’ Frank says.

His tone is soothing but it only seems to needle her all the more. She grabs a tea towel and begins wiping the plate. ‘Don’t humour me, Frank.’

Her husband rises from the table and moves towards her. ‘I’m not,’ he says, extending his arms towards her. ‘You’re a wonderful cook. Have you ever heard me complain about your cooking?’ He puts one arm around her shoulders. ‘All I’m saying is that maybe you should calm down a bit.’

‘I’m perfectly calm!’ Amanda snaps, shrugging him off.

Frank smiles. ‘Really? Then why are you rubbing the pattern off that plate? C’mon, love. Just try and relax a bit, eh? It’s a family meal, not an endurance test.’

She places the plate on the kitchen counter and glares at him. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You know what it means. Whenever Helen comes here, you get yourself so worked up it’s impossible for anyone to relax.’ He walks over to the fridge and takes out a can of lager.