The Black Path (28 page)

Helen eats her sandwich, quietly contemplating how many soldiers have been injured and what state they’re in. She pictures the man in the trauma ward with a bloody stump for an arm. She hasn’t seen him for a few days and wonders if he’s gone home.

‘Have you thought any more about staying here at the hospital?’ Sue asks. ‘We can make a bed up in Owen’s room if you like. I’m sure you’ll want to be with him when he comes round.’

Helen smiles. ‘That would be great.’ The prospect of another night at the hotel with Siân isn’t one she relishes. ‘But what about my things?’

‘We can pop over together and fetch them, while she’s out shopping.’

‘Thank you.’

Sue rises from the table. ‘I’ll just go and make a few quick calls. I won’t be long.’

Five minutes pass, then ten. More people arrive. Helen gazes around the canteen at the wives, girlfriends, mothers and fathers who’ve come to see their loved ones. They all shared the same stricken look. Maybe that’s why they avoid making eye contact with one another.

She thinks back to the days immediately after her father died, how her mother refused to look at her. Had she been too quick to judge her mother? Possibly. But her behaviour in the months that followed was harder to forgive. Her mother had visited her father’s grave half a dozen times at most – and that was before she betrayed his memory by shacking up with Frank.

They’ll be here soon. Helen pictures Frank at the wheel, and her mother’s anxious state as they drive to Birmingham – arguing over directions, navigating the tricky road system, fretting over potential traffic jams. Usually the prospect of seeing them fills her with dread. But faced with the choice between them and Siân, she knows which she prefers. Better the devil you know.

‘Helen!’

She looks up. Sue is standing in the canteen doorway, her face flushed.

‘It’s Owen,’ she says. ‘He’s awake.’

As they approach the door to Owen’s room, the first thing Helen hears is his laughter. He sounds happy, like his old self.

Then she hears another voice. It’s a woman – a nurse perhaps, or an orderly. Then Sue opens the door and Helen sees immediately that the woman she heard isn’t a member of hospital staff.

She’s seated on the far side of the bed. Owen’s head is turned towards her, away from the door. Her head is tilted to one side, so low that it’s practically resting on the pillow beside him. But what really disturbs Helen is the way she’s holding her husband’s hand. It’s not the gentle touch of a concerned friend or relative. Her fingers are locked in his, their palms pressed tightly together like a couple in love, too absorbed in each other to even acknowledge the fact that other people have entered the room.

Helen’s first instinct is to rush to Owen’s side. But her path is blocked by a stainless steel nurses’ trolley. She sees that the top drawer is open, as if whoever wheeled it in had left in a hurry.

Siân looks up as Helen approaches, but makes no attempt to loosen her grip.

‘Isn’t it great?’ she says. ‘He’s awake!’ She gives Owen’s hand a squeeze and he tilts his head towards her. He still hasn’t looked at Helen.

‘What are you doing here?’ Helen asks. ‘I thought you were out shopping?’

‘I was,’ Siân says. ‘Then it dawned on me that one of us should be here in case Owen woke up.’ She flashes her teeth. ‘Turns out I was right.’ The smile fades. ‘I tried calling you, but I couldn’t get a signal.’

Helen is dimly aware of soft conversations outside the room, and the squeak of shoes on the linoleum floor. Her pulse quickens.

‘What about you?’ Siân asks. ‘I thought you’d be on your way to the shopping centre.’

Of course you did
, Helen thinks.

‘I was waiting for a taxi,’ she lies. ‘Then a nurse called Sue with the news.’

‘Where is the nurse?’ Sue demands. She shuts the drawer on the trolley and moves it out of the way.

Siân shrugs, turning her attention back to Owen. ‘We’re doing okay, aren’t we? You and me?’

Helen bristles. Part of her wants to launch herself at Siân and tear her hand away. But for some reason Owen seems to find her presence comforting. The last thing Helen wants is to upset him. She takes a deep breath and tries to contain the anger.

Footsteps approach. A nurse enters the room, closely followed by Mr Croft.

‘How’s the patient?’ he asks in a brisk voice.

For the first time, Owen turns his head towards the door. He stares at Helen blankly for a few seconds, then a faint smile of recognition forms on his face.

She feels a surge of love for him, so strong she thinks she might break down and cry. He looks so frail and bewildered – a shadow of the man she’d waved goodbye to all those months ago.

‘Owen,’ she says softly. ‘Thank God you’re okay.’

His eyes flicker and he stares past her to the doctor, the nurse and Sue Blackwell. His smile gives way to a look of pure panic.

‘Get away from me!’ he yells – eyes wild, arms flailing. ‘Get away!’

‘You’re perfectly safe, Owen,’ the doctor says calmly. ‘You’re in hospital. We’re here to help.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Helen asks.

Sue lowers her voice. ‘He’s confused. He thinks we’re the enemy.’

‘But I’m his wife.’

‘It’s not personal. He’s disorientated. But don’t worry. He’s in safe hands.’

Helen’s eyes are immediately drawn to Siân’s hands as they flutter around her husband’s flailing arms, stroking and soothing until they rest once more on the bedclothes.

‘Naughty boy!’ she chides. ‘Now look what you’ve done! You’ll pulled out your drip!’

Helen watches as the nurse rushes forward to reattach the drip. Owen whimpers and turns to face Siân, reaching for her hand. Of all the people in the room, she’s the one he turns to – a woman he barely knows, a woman who was gossiping about him just a few nights ago. Helen’s stomach tightens.

‘We can’t have you all in here,’ Mr Croft says. ‘He needs room. So if you wouldn’t mind leaving, miss?’

Siân doesn’t move.

‘This man has just woken from a coma,’ the doctor adds firmly. ‘I really must insist.’

Siân looks at Owen and squeezes his hand. ‘You don’t want me to go, do you?’

His voice is a rasp. ‘What’s your name again?’

‘I’m Siân. Remember?’

He frowns. ‘Siân,’ he repeats. ‘Siân.’

Helen feels a rush of anger.

Sue must sense it because she steps forward. ‘Come along, miss. Time for you to leave.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Yes, you are,’ Sue says firmly. ‘You heard what the doctor said. Now come away, please.’

‘Can’t you see?’ Siân says, lifting Owen’s hand. Their fingers are still curled together. ‘He wants me here.’

‘He
needs
his wife,’ Sue replies. ‘Now are you going to come quietly or do I have to call security?’

Siân dips her chin and looks up through wounded eyes. ‘I was only trying to help.’

‘Of course you were,’ Helen replies evenly. ‘But I’d like to be alone with my husband now.’

‘Well, if you put it like that,’ Siân says. She turns to Owen. ‘Sorry, soldier, but they’ve given me my marching orders.’ She rises to her feet and turns to Helen. ‘I’ll see you back at the hotel.’

‘Mrs McGrath won’t be going back to the hotel,’ Sue says. ‘She’ll be staying here, with her husband. I’ll send someone along to collect her things.’

‘No need. I can bring them later when I come to visit.’

‘Owen has had enough visitors for now,’ Sue says firmly. ‘And Mrs McGrath’s family will be arriving shortly. She’ll have all the support she needs.’

Siân looks from Sue to Helen and back again. She lowers her eyes. ‘I see. Well I’d hate to be in anyone’s way.’ She moves towards the door.

She looks so small and dejected that Helen can’t help but feel a pang of pity. ‘I’m sure we’ll see each other again,’ she says. ‘Back home.’

Siân glances back over her shoulder, her eyes glittering and dark. ‘Just try and stop me.’

PART THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Return of a hero

by
Gazette
reporter

A local man who served in Iraq and survived a bomb blast in Afghanistan has returned home a hero. Lance Corporal Owen McGrath survived an explosion which killed one fellow soldier and injured two others. The incident occurred during a desert patrol in Helmand province, when the armoured vehicle carrying Corporal McGrath and three others hit an IED. The driver of the vehicle was killed instantly. Corporal McGrath escaped with head injuries and a broken arm and is recuperating at home. Colleagues paid tribute to his extraordinary courage and devotion to duty. His family were unavailable for comment.

***

Helen takes the newspaper cutting she’s retrieved from the bin under the sink and spreads it out on the kitchen table. The edges of the paper are torn and damp and there’s a stain that might be ketchup or juice from the tomatoes she was chopping a few minutes ago. The headline is barely a week old. Beneath it is a large photograph of Owen in uniform and a smaller inset photo captioned, ‘Private James Collins, 19.’

He’s a handsome lad
, Helen thinks, then corrects herself – was
a handsome lad
.

She wonders how his parents are coping, wonders how they’d feel knowing that their son’s death has been relegated to a photo caption. She looks at the photo again, sees what kind eyes he had, what full lips. He reminds her of one of those pretty boy actors. It’s hard to imagine him engaged in mortal combat, harder still to believe he’s dead.

Tears prick her eyes. She wonders who they’re for. Her nerves are as tattered as the paper. The last time she saw it, it was folded neatly on the bookcase in the living room. Owen must have thrown it away. She’s not sure how much more of this she can take.

‘Just be thankful,’ her mother said when she phoned yesterday for one of her daily updates. ‘At least he’s on the mend.’

Helen knows she has a lot to be thankful for. During the last few days at the hospital, she’d seen the looks on the faces of the other wives and girlfriends – fretful, fearful, preparing themselves for the worst. At least her husband is expected to make a full recovery. In fact, the doctors were so pleased with his progress, they discharged him the day after he woke up.

‘He should be fine,’ Mr Croft assured her. ‘He’ll need to take things slowly at first. He may have trouble sleeping, but I’ve prescribed some sleeping pills in case. It’ll take him a little while to adjust.’

She remembers him pausing at that point, wonders if this was the speech he gave everybody or if he was choosing his words more carefully. ‘There may be certain behavioural changes,’ he’d added. ‘If you’re concerned, speak to your local doctor. He’ll need to see someone on an outpatient basis in two weeks, just to check on his progress. That sling will need to stay on his arm for another three weeks. But after that he should be as right as rain.’

On the long drive home, while Owen dozed in the back seat, his head resting on Helen’s shoulder, her mother had made some comment about the hospital obviously needing the beds, but was quickly silenced by Frank.

‘For heaven’s sake, Amanda! They wouldn’t be sending the lad home if he wasn’t good and ready.’

Helen had so wanted to believe him. Frank was no medical expert. Normally she paid scant attention to what he said. But she was surprised at how pleased she’d been when he and her mother turned up at the hospital, and grateful to him for settling the hotel bill with Siân before they left Birmingham.

‘Let’s keep this between ourselves,’ Frank had said, and for once Helen was happy to conspire with him. When her mother enquired about ‘this strange woman’ they’d been hearing about, Helen quickly changed the subject. She was grateful for all the effort Siân had gone to on her behalf, but relieved to be away from her and her strange, controlling behaviour.

There’s been no mention of Siân since, and no word from her either. Helen is thankful for that, at least. For the first few days after arriving home she’d dreaded answering the phone, fearing it might be Siân calling to invite herself over. She’d even rehearsed what she might say. ‘Owen isn’t up to receiving visitors right now. The doctor said he needs complete rest. Yes, of course I’ll tell him you’re asking after him. Thanks for calling. Bye.’

But now that she and Owen have been home for over a week, Helen has more important things to worry about. Something isn’t right. It began with the newspaper article. She thought he’d be pleased – proud even. Instead he’d read the front page story with a look of mounting irritation before tossing the paper aside.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

‘Have you seen what they’ve written? It’s bullshit!’

‘It says you’re a hero!’

He laughed bitterly. ‘What for? Making it out in one piece? Some hero!’

‘Why are you being like this?’

He didn’t reply, but pushed the remains of his breakfast aside and stormed out of the room. She kept the paper anyway, half expecting him to come back and apologize for his outburst. Instead she heard the front door slam. She ran after him, only to find him crouched on the pavement outside, staring at oncoming traffic.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

‘Keeping watch,’ he replied – his voice low, a faraway look in his eyes.

‘Come along, Owen,’ she said, taking his arm and leading him back indoors.

That was the first sign that her husband’s recovery might take a little longer than expected. It wasn’t the only one.

The old Owen always took such pride in his appearance, but he hasn’t shaved or changed his T shirt in days. He blames it on his broken arm, but when she offers to help he rebuffs her. ‘I’m not an invalid!’

Then there are the cards. Since the newspaper article was published, there’s been a daily delivery of cards from well-wishers. He’d opened the first one, rolled his eyes and refused to open the rest. They lay on the kitchen table, together with the utility bills she’d opened shortly after they arrived home and the large manilla envelope she’d found lying on the doormat. There was no stamp on the front and no postmark. It was addressed to Owen, in handwriting she didn’t recognise. Another well-wisher, perhaps? Or something more official?