The Black Path (20 page)

Amanda bristles as he cracks open the can. ‘And you’re perfect, I suppose?’

Frank’s smile tightens. ‘Hardly. I’m a few stone overweight. My wife thinks I drink too much. And my stepdaughter still hasn’t forgiven me for not being her father.’

‘Don’t you dare bring Richard into this!’ Amanda’s voice is suddenly shrill.

‘You’re right,’ Frank says. ‘I’m sorry. Forget I even mentioned it.’

‘Don’t play games with me, Frank.’

‘I’m not. I’ve said I’m sorry. Let’s just leave it.’

But she can’t. He can tell by the look on her face that he’s touched a nerve. He waits, knowing she won’t let it go, that it’s not in her nature.

‘I don’t know why you insist on talking about Richard,’ she says.

Frank sighs. ‘Let’s not do this now.’

‘Why not?’ Amanda says. ‘If there’s something on your mind, let’s hear it.’

‘It’s not a question of what’s on my mind,’ Frank replies. ‘It’s what’s on yours.’

He sees her hackles rise, knows there’s no going back now. She won’t be happy until they’re tearing chunks out of each other.

‘It’s not easy,’ he says, as calmly as he can. ‘It’s not easy living in another man’s shadow. I’m not him, Amanda. I’m nothing like him.’

‘I never said you were.’

‘No, you didn’t. But you don’t have to. I see it in your eyes. Every time we go to the club. Every time I so much as glance at another woman. I see the way you look at me.’

‘You sound paranoid, Frank. Anyone would think you had something to hide.’

‘Now you’re being ridiculous,’ Frank says. ‘I’m not the one hiding things around here.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning if you hadn’t been so intent on hiding the truth from Helen, it’s quite possible that she and I might have had some sort of relationship. Instead she looks at me like I’m a constant disappointment to her. And who can blame her? I can’t compete with a dead man, especially when you’ve allowed her to grow up thinking he was some sort of saint.’

Amanda snorts. ‘I’ve done nothing of the sort!’ She reaches for the plate and begins wiping it again furiously with the tea towel.

‘You have,’ says Frank. ‘We both know you have. And I’m sure you had your reasons. But it’s not fair, love. It’s not fair on me and it’s not fair on her. She’s a grown woman, for Christ’s sake. I think she’s old enough to cope with the truth.’

Amanda slams the serving plate down on the counter. ‘I’ll decide what’s best for Helen!’ she snaps. ‘She’s my daughter!’

Frank’s face clouds. ‘Thanks for that,’ he says. ‘Thanks for reminding me of my place around here.’

‘That’s not what I meant –’ she begins.

‘Forget it!’ He snatches the newspaper from the table and storms out of the room.

‘Feeling any better?’ Sue Blackwell asks.

‘A little,’ Helen lies. Panic keeps washing over her in waves. Despite Sue’s assurances, she can’t escape the feeling that things are far worse than she’s been told. She’s heard about doctors giving families false hope, of worried wives and girlfriends being shielded from the truth. What if Owen doesn’t make a full recovery? What if there’s brain damage? The rush of caffeine seems to have sharpened her senses. The nagging voice in her head is screaming louder than ever.

She pushes the half-empty coffee cup away and attempts a smile. ‘Sorry. I can’t seem to shift this headache.’

Sue nods. ‘Why don’t I go and get you some –’ she begins, then stops and turns her head as something catches her eye. ‘Isn’t that your friend?’

Helen follows her line of vision. A young man in army fatigues stands at the entrance to the cafeteria, his back to her. There’s something vaguely familiar about him, but it’s probably just the uniform. Standing next to him, close enough for their bodies to almost touch, is Siân. One hand toys with her hair. The other paws playfully at his chest. The soldier seems to be enjoying the attention. Reaching for Siân’s waist, he pulls her towards him. She smiles and tosses her hair before catching sight of Helen. She whispers something in the soldier’s ear, pulls herself away and comes running over.

‘I’ve been waiting for ages,’ she says.

Helen sees that she’s wearing lipstick – bright red, to match her shoulder bag. She doesn’t recall her wearing it earlier, but then what business is it of hers?

‘Who’s that?’ Helen asks, staring past her to where the soldier was standing moments earlier. But he’s already disappeared.

Siân shrugs. ‘Just some bloke.’ She pulls up a chair and reaches for Helen’s hand, clasping it in hers. ‘So how is he? Have they let you see him yet?’

‘Mrs McGrath has seen her husband,’ Sue replies. ‘He’s resting now, but I’ve told her she can come back later.’

Siân ignores the officer and stares deep into Helen’s eyes. ‘Well? How is he?’

Helen struggles to find an answer. Voicing her fears will make them more real, and she’s conscious of Sue’s watchful presence.

‘Never mind,’ says Siân. ‘We can talk later. Somewhere more private.’

‘I think Mrs McGrath could do with a rest,’ Sue says. She turns to Helen. ‘Shall I fetch you something for that headache?’

‘No need.’ Siân smiles and pats her bag. ‘I’ve got plenty of painkillers.’

‘I see. Well, perhaps we can find a quiet place for Mrs McGrath to have a lie down?’

‘I’ll take her back to the hotel,’ Siân replies, rising to her feet.

‘I was thinking of somewhere a bit closer. As I mentioned earlier, we do have accommodation –’

‘The hotel is nicer,’ Siân says firmly. ‘And it’s better that she’s with someone she knows.’ She takes hold of Helen’s arm and pulls her up.

Sue stands and takes something from her pocket. She presses a business card into Helen’s hand. ‘Here’s my number. Call me if you need anything.’

Siân slides a protective arm around Helen’s shoulders. ‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘But I can take it from here.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Angela’s abdominals ache as she leaves the sports centre. She pauses for breath on the steps outside and feels the afternoon sun on her hot, flushed face. Her hair is still damp from the shower and her clothes, though clean, feel horribly constricting. She tears off her zip top and tucks it into her holdall, together with her sweaty gym kit. Fuck it, she thinks. One more thing for the wash.

Today’s Pilates class had been hard going. The instructor, Mel, had commented on the fact that she was looking a little off-colour.

‘Heavy night?’ she’d asked.

‘Something like that,’ Angela had replied. There was no need for Mel to know that she’d spent the best part of Friday night in hospital, or that she was so worried about Kath, she’d barely slept a wink since. It’s no wonder she’s looking off-colour. It’s a wonder she’s still functioning at all.

‘You’ll feel better afterwards,’ Mel had said cheerily, and she was right. She may not have performed all of the exercises to the best of her ability. But there was satisfaction in knowing that she hadn’t skipped the class completely, or wimped out halfway through like some of the women did. Angela prides herself on her resolve. Once she sets her mind on something, she’s determined to see it through.

She takes out her mobile. There are no missed calls or text messages. The time is ten past two. She slips the phone back into her pocket and thinks of all the things she still had to do today. First stop, the newsagent. Then home to tackle the mountain of ironing left over from yesterday and prepare some paperwork for tomorrow’s meeting with Natalie.

The newsagent is almost out of papers. There’s no sign of the
Sunday Times
, and she can’t bring herself to buy the
Mail on Sunday
.

‘Alright, love?’ the newsagent calls from behind the counter.

Angela has been going to the same newsagent for the best part of five years. The fact that Mr Jones calls her ‘love’ is no reflection of the level of affection he feels for her. He calls all his female customers ‘love’. Angela wonders how he greets those customers who aren’t female and decides that terms of endearment probably aren’t necessary. Where men are concerned, a simple ‘alright’ would do.

‘I was looking for the
Sunday Times
,’ she says.

‘Sorry, love,’ Mr Jones replies. ‘I sold the last one ten minutes ago. You’ll never guess who I just had in. That so-called Muslim chap. Y’know, the one who lives over in Blackmill?’

Angela nods. She’s seen the man the newsagent is referring to – middle-aged, white and recently taken to wandering around town in traditional Arab dress. A bit of a nutter, probably, but he seems harmless enough.

‘Funny bugger, he is,’ Mr Jones says. ‘He was going on about that story in the
Gazette
. I don’t know if you’ve seen it?’

Angela shakes her head. ‘I don’t really bother with the local paper.’

‘It’s front page. Big piece on that drug baron they locked up a few years back. Dennis Bevan. Nasty piece of work. He’s the reason half them kids in Wildmill are hooked on heroin. Anyway, he’s got a parole hearing coming up and our Muslim friend reckons he’s paying them all with blood money. The police. The prison service. Even the judge. It’s all a big conspiracy, apparently.’

‘Right,’ says Angela, not wishing to be drawn into a lengthy discussion on the subject.

But the newsagent isn’t done yet. ‘You should have heard him, ranting and raving. I know he likes to tell everyone he’s off the booze since his religious conversion, but I swear I could smell whisky on his breath.’

Angela smiles politely. ‘It takes all sorts.’

Mr Jones gives her a look that says this isn’t quite the response he’s looking for. ‘Right, then,’ he says crisply. ‘What can I get you?’

‘I’ll take the
Observer
, please,’ Angela replies.

The newsagent frowns.

‘And the
Gazette
,’ she adds quickly, reaching into her pocket and counting out her change. As she turns to leave the shop, an older woman shuffles up to the counter carrying a large bottle of Coke.

‘And the
Mail
, please,’ Angela hears the woman say, which immediately draws a sharp intake of breath from the newsagent.

‘You’ll never guess who I’ve just had in here,’ he begins. ‘That Muslim.’

‘Hang on,’ says Siân. ‘I need the loo.’

Up ahead, Helen can see the glass sliding doors of the hospital and a cluster of people gathered outside smoking. She wonders what possesses people to smoke, knowing what the risks are. Then she pictures Natalie and Simon at work, enjoying a cigarette break while the rest of the staff are hunched over their keyboards.

Damn, she thinks. I’d better call the office and tell them I won’t be in.

She remembers Simon saying he needed a word and wonders if her days on the job are numbered. Well, there’s no point in worrying about it now.

‘Helen?’

‘Hmm?’

‘I said I need the loo. Just wait here, okay? I’ll be two ticks.’

Helen nods. ‘I’ll watch your bag.’

‘It’s alright,’ Siân says, hoisting the bag higher on her shoulder. ‘I think I’ll freshen up a bit. Don’t go anywhere. I won’t be long.’

Helen watches as she disappears down the corridor. Suddenly she feels terribly alone. She takes a deep breath and feels it shudder through her body. Her head pounds – a dull, nagging pain that grips the back of her skull and tightens around her temples. But the headache is the least of her worries. There’s an image in her head now. She keeps trying to block it out, but it won’t go away. She sees herself standing next to Owen’s bed. Weeks have passed and he’s still unconscious. In fact, his condition has deteriorated. The marks on his face have turned into festering sores. He’s no longer breathing unaided but has a ventilation tube in the side of his mouth.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs McGrath,’ the doctor says. ‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid.’

Tears roll down her cheeks.

The doctor shakes his head sadly. ‘The brain damage is worse than we thought. There’s not much else we can do.’

No!

She closes her eyes and presses her hand to her forehead.

Stop torturing yourself! You heard what the doctor said. He’s going to get better
.

But he didn’t really say that, did he? He said his arm would heal. He didn’t say anything about his brain
.

In her mind’s eye, she sees the doctor gravely shake his head and a nurse pull up a sheet like a shroud over her husband’s face.

Stop it! What would Owen think if he could see you now? If you can’t be strong for yourself, at least be strong for him
.

She’s brought back to reality by a sudden cry. She opens her eyes, wonders for a split second if the sound came from her. Then she sees her. At the end of the corridor, no more than twenty feet from where she’s now standing, someone has left a door open. Framed in the doorway, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she can be seen, is a well-dressed woman in her late forties. Even from this distance, Helen can see that she’s distraught. Her face is white and her eyes are red. She’s being comforted by a man with neat, greying hair and a thin moustache. He wraps his arms around her and she buries her face in his chest, her shoulders heaving.

It all goes quiet for a moment. The man appears to be whispering words of comfort in the woman’s ear as he strokes her hair. Then the woman’s whole body begins to shake and she lets out a sound like nothing Helen has heard before. It’s halfway between a howl and a wail, a sound an animal in pain might make. It barely sounds human at all. The man continues holding her as the woman claws at his chest, whimpering and wailing and gulping for air. Finally she goes limp. He cradles her head on his shoulder and turns his face towards Helen. The look in his eyes sends a chill through her.

This is what grief looks like
, she thinks.

The man pushes the door shut and a voice – her mother’s voice – echoes in her ears. ‘Helen! Haven’t I told you it’s rude to stare?’

It was the day of her father’s funeral. Her mother had insisted that a funeral was no place for a child, so she’d spent the afternoon with Mr and Mrs Roberts from across the road. Her mother had come to collect her with her friend Jackie. They were standing on the doorstep, both dressed in black. Jackie’s bleached blonde hair was tucked under a small pillbox hat and it was clear from her face that she’d been crying. Her mother’s face was impassive. She looked more irritated than upset, as if burying her husband was little more than an inconvenience.