The Black Path (25 page)

Right
, she tells herself, smoothing down her top and adjusting her handbag on her shoulder.
Let’s not make a big deal about this. Just go into the pub, find Siân and smooth things over. We’ll have a few drinks and later we’ll go back to the hotel together
.

As she passes the smokers and approaches the pub’s scuffed front door, Helen feels her resolve weaken.

I can’t do this
, she thinks.
What if she tells me to fuck off
?

Then her husband’s voice sounds inside her head.
Of course she won’t, babes. You told me yourself what great friends you are
.

She takes a deep breath and pushes open the door.

The first thing that strikes her is just how big the place was – and how busy. Everywhere she turns there are people – groups of men standing at the bar, gaggles of women deep in conversation or casting lingering looks at the men, a few couples sitting quietly together in a row of American diner-style booths along one wall. There’s no sign of Siân.

Helen pushes her way through the throngs of people towards the bar. Laughter explodes from a far corner of the room. A group of women to her left giggle as she squeezes by. Are they laughing at her? Siân kept telling her she looked exhausted. Is she really that rough? She stops in her tracks and looks around for the ladies.

There’s a commotion ahead. A man raises his pint glass, spilling beer down the front of his shirt. A woman squeals as the crowd parts to reveal a large black dog.

Helen stops in her tracks. Large dogs make her nervous. Once, when she was small, her father had taken her for a walk in the field next to the river. As they passed the entrance to the Black Path, a Labrador had come tearing towards them, jumping up at her, barking excitedly. She remembers the flash of teeth, the drool dripping from its jaws and the panic that quickly reduced her to tears. Her father said the dog was just being friendly, but when they arrived home her mother hit the roof. What was her father thinking? Anything could have happened to her. At the very least she’d need a tetanus injection. It was lucky for him the dog hadn’t caused any serious damage. It could have ripped her face open. Didn’t he read the newspapers?

This dog is more powerful than a Labrador. Is it a Rottweiler? She isn’t sure. But it looks dangerous, like the dogs some of the local youths back home lead around on chains to let everyone know how hard they are. Only this dog isn’t on a chain.

She braces herself as it comes towards her – head raised, mouth open, black lips stretched over bright white teeth. It slavers at her feet and begins sniffing – first her ankle, then her knees, then up her thighs. She tenses as it reaches her crotch, turns her body to one side, shielding herself with her handbag. The dog licks her hand and she flinches.

‘Zoltan!’ A burly middle-aged man with a ruddy face pushes his way towards her. ‘Zoltan! Leave the young lady alone!’

He grabs the dog by the collar. ‘Sorry, luv. He looks a lot tougher than he is. But he helps ward off trouble.’ He smiles and pulls the dog away. ‘I’m the landlord. John McCauley. But everyone calls me Mack. Now, what can I get you? On the house.’

‘There’s no need, really.’

‘Please. I insist.’

‘An orange juice, please. But I need to use the ladies’.’ She can feel the dog’s saliva on her hand and can’t wait to wash it off.

‘Past the bar, first on the right. I’ll have your drink on the bar for you when you get back. Now, are you sure I can’t get you something stronger?’

Helen shakes her head. Alcohol is the last thing she wants. The thought of it makes her nauseous. She’s been feeling out of sorts for days – tired, spaced out, as if she’s permanently hungover or coming down with something. Finally it feels as if the fog is lifting.

The floor of the ladies’ is damp. There’s a tampon vending machine hanging off the wall and two sinks, wet with hair and used tissues. She washes her hands and a strand of hair catches on her wedding ring. She shudders and rinses it off.

Standing inspecting her face in the mirror, she hears a woman cursing under her breath in one of the two cubicles. There’s a groan, followed by a shuffling sound and then a loud sniff.

Helen takes a brush from her handbag and tugs it through her hair. The harsh strip lighting wasn’t designed to flatter anyone. It gives her hair a brassy glow and hollows out her eye sockets. But she isn’t looking nearly as bad as she’d feared. A little tired and drawn maybe, but that’s hardly surprising.

There’s another sniff from the cubicle, louder than before. Is the woman crying? Helen taps gently on the door. ‘Are you okay in there?’

Silence.

She hesitates.

There’s still no response. Flustered, she slips the hairbrush back into her bag and leaves.

As promised, a glass of orange juice is waiting for her at the bar.

‘There you go,’ the landlord says. ‘One vodka and orange. Easy on the vodka.’ He winks and continues wiping the bar. ‘Just pulling your leg.’

She thanks him and takes a small sip, half expecting to detect the taste of alcohol. All she tastes is orange juice. Relieved, she takes another sip and surveys the room. There’s still no sign of Siân.

‘Is there a beer garden?’ Helen asks.

The landlord shakes his head. ‘Sorry. If you want to smoke you have to go out the front.’

She scans the booths. Most appear to be full. The one furthest from her is occupied by a man. The partitions between the booths are high, and there’s a pillar separating the front of the booth from the one next to it. Helen can only see the back of the man’s head with its tightly cropped hair. But he seems agitated. He keeps scratching the back of his neck and nodding his head as if in time to music. The only sound in the bar is the buzz of conversation.

She wonders where Siân could have got to. Did she slip into the toilet while her back was turned? Helen positions herself at the end of the bar and waits. People come and go. Finally she sees Siân emerge from the ladies. She waves to catch her attention but Siân doesn’t see her. She’s deep in conversation with another woman, both walking and talking animatedly. They stop next to a pinball machine and shake hands. Siân whispers something in the woman’s ear before turning and making her way over to the booth where the nodding man is sitting. He budges up and she sidles in beside him.

Is this the soldier Siân met at the hospital? Helen hadn’t seen his face then and she can’t see it now. She can’t even tell if he’s wearing uniform. But the cut of his hair and the cosy way he and Siân are sitting together suggest that it’s the same man. Why didn’t Siân say she was meeting him? Why all the secrecy?

The couple in the next booth drain their glasses and stand up to leave. Helen watches as the man pulls on his denim jacket and drapes the woman’s pink cardigan over her shoulders. The man reminds her of Owen. He was always so attentive, back in the days when going out wasn’t such a rare occurrence. ‘You’re my wife,’ he’d say. ‘I have to take care of you.’ What would he think if he could see her now? What is she even doing here? But she’s come this far. Did she really follow Siân into the pub just to leave meekly? As the couple pass by, she grabs her drink and hurries over to the vacant booth, staying close to the wall so she can’t be seen.

Ducking into the booth, she places her glass on the table in front of her and positions herself carefully, pressing her head back against the pillar. Then she listens. The first thing she hears is the chink of glasses followed by Siân saying, ‘Cheers!’

‘Cheers,’ the soldier replies. ‘You took your time.’

His voice is muffled and he’s slurring slightly.

‘Hold your horses,’ says Siân. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later. Now, where were we?’

‘Pink mist,’ the soldier says.

‘Pink mist?’

‘It’s what we say when someone’s blown to bits. Only in his case it couldn’t be more fitting. There were bits of him everywhere. Skin, bones, chunks of flesh. They found one of his ears hanging from a tree.’

Helen feels a chill run through her. There’s no feeling in the man’s voice. He could just as easily be describing a dead dog or cat. She knows that soldiers are trained to deal with life-threatening situations, that their reactions are more hardened than most. But Owen would never talk about a fellow soldier so callously.

‘That’s disgusting!’ says Siân.

‘Could have been worse,’ the soldier says. ‘At least it was only the queer. Right little smart arse he was, too. Thought he was really clever. Not looking so clever now though, is he?’ He laughs.

There’s a pause before Siân speaks. ‘Collins wasn’t popular then.’

Helen strains to hear their conversation.

‘His sort never are,’ the soldier replies.

‘At least the other guy’s okay.’

The laughter stops. ‘You reckon?’ Helen can hear the sneer in the soldier’s voice.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘McGrath and Collins. They were very close, if you catch my drift.’

Helen’s pulse quickens.

Siân giggles. ‘No way!’

‘Oh, yeah. Very close, those two.’

‘But he’s married. I’ve met his wife.’

‘Yeah? And what do you make of her?’

Silence.

The soldier sniggers. ‘Exactly. Anyway, I know what I saw.’

Helen digs her fingernails into the palm of her hand.
Who are you?
she thinks.
And why are you saying these things?

‘Tell me more,’ Siân says. ‘I’m all ears.’

‘And I’m ready for a whisky chaser.’

‘I thought you were more interested in chasing women.’

‘One woman. And she’s sitting right here.’

‘Not now, she’s not. She’s off to the bar to buy you a large one.’

The soldier laughs. ‘Are you made of money, or what?’

‘What can I say? We have to take care of our boys.’

‘I’ll take care of you later.’

‘I’ll hold you to that. Back in a tick.’

Helen leans back in the booth and watches as Siân snakes her way through the crowd towards the bar, arms aloft, an empty pint glass in each hand, looking for all the world as if she owns the place. The landlord smiles as he sees her approaching. She hands him the empty glasses before turning to blow the soldier a kiss. Helen turns her face away, prays she hasn’t been seen.

When she looks back again, Siân has disappeared. Helen cranes her neck and peers around the edge of the pillar.

The soldier has shifted position and is staring intently in the direction of the bar. He looks like he’s on watch. He has a strong profile – strong and menacing. His teeth are clenched so tightly, Helen can see the muscle in his jaw twitch. A vein on his temple throbs as if it’s about to pop.

He must sense her staring because his eyes flicker in her direction, not fully focussing but affording her a quick glimpse of his face. Her skin crawls. She’s seen that face before. The last time was just over a year ago, at a military funeral. He was accompanied by his wife, who arrived wearing enormous black sunglasses, despite the fact that it was raining. Later, Helen bumped into her in the ladies toilet, reapplying make-up to an eye circled with purple bruises. Shocked, she’d been about to say something, but the wife had shot her a warning look before shielding her eyes once more behind her sunglasses and marching past with her shoulders back and her head held high.

Helen didn’t say anything to Owen. The timing wasn’t right, and she knew it would upset him, given his own family history. But she hadn’t forgotten. Months later, Owen had recounted a story involving a group of soldiers from his regiment who’d gone on a training exercise and ended up in a brothel. ‘Poor Leanne,’ he said. ‘If she only knew what kind of man she’s married to.’

Helen knows exactly what kind of man Leanne is married to. It’s the same man Siân is fawning over now – Jackson.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Helen’s heart races as she ducks deeper inside the booth. A hot flush creeps up her neck. Jackson is here. The wife beater. The soldier who was nearly thrown out of the army for breaking a man’s jaw. He’s the one Siân has been seeing. What the hell is she doing consorting with a man like that – buying him drinks, listening to his insinuations, laughing at his jokes?

Part of her wants to corner Siân immediately and demand some answers. But now isn’t the best time. Not here. Not when she has Jackson for company. Far better to wait until they’re alone, back at the hotel. Then she’ll see what Siân has to say for herself.

Helen feels a mixture of anger and humiliation wash over her, wonders how she could have misjudged Siân so badly. All that talk about looking out for her. All those declarations of friendship. And then to sit there gossiping about her and Owen with a thug like Jackson. What a fool she’s been to be taken in by her. What a stupid fool.

Her mind races. She needs to get away. But how can she sneak out of the pub without being seen? How will she get back to the hotel? She looks in her purse and sees that she doesn’t have a lot of options. A few pound coins and some small change won’t get her very far in a cab, and she isn’t carrying any bank cards. Did she leave them at the hotel? She can’t remember. She hasn’t used them since Friday – before this whole nightmare began. Maybe she should call Sue Blackwell? She rummages in her handbag for the card with Sue’s number but it isn’t there. Strange. She could have sworn she had it earlier.

There’s still no sign of Siân at the bar. A barmaid is busy serving a group of women who look as if they’ve come straight from the office. She lines up three shot glasses and fills them with what looks like tequila. Further along the bar, the landlord is pulling pints. He has a kind face, Helen thinks. Maybe if she asks nicely, he’ll loan her the money for a cab. If she explains the situation, tells him her husband is in hospital, perhaps he’ll take pity on her. She looks in her bag, checks again for the card with Sue’s number.

‘Helen?’

Her scalp prickles. She looks up.

Siân smiles down at her. Her lipstick is smudged and her eyes look a little pink, despite the heavy black eyeliner. ‘Lost something?’

Helen says the first thing that comes into her head. ‘I can’t find my room key.’ She lowers her eyes and pokes around inside her handbag, covers the plastic key card with her hand. ‘No, it’s not here.’