The Black Path (29 page)

‘Leave it alone,’ he snapped when she asked if he was going to open it. Then, seeing her wounded expression, ‘Leave it, babes. Whatever it is, it can wait.’

He smiled as he took the envelope from her. She hasn’t seen it since.

This morning, she woke to find his side of the bed empty, the sheets cold. She panicked, picturing him walking the streets in his nightclothes.

Come on, Helen
, she told herself.
Pull yourself together
.

Padding downstairs, she found him sitting alone in the darkened living room, staring at the silent TV screen. The room smelt faintly sweet – a mixture of empty lager cans and clothes that were crying out for a wash.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

‘Thinking,’ he replied, flicking channels with the remote. He hadn’t even looked at her.

Later she noticed that the framed photo of him in uniform was no longer hanging in the hallway.

‘What happened?’

He shrugged. ‘It fell. It’s not important.’

It’s not important. He’s on the mend. He’ll be as right as rain
.

She wishes she could believe it, but she can’t. This afternoon, she even considered calling his doctor. But going behind his back might make matters worse, and his next appointment is only a week away. She’ll just have to wait. Waiting is something she’s good at. She’s had plenty of practice.

She smooths the newspaper cutting before folding it in half and hiding it in a kitchen drawer where he’s less likely to find it. Then she returns to the job in hand, putting the water on to boil and chopping onions for his favourite dinner of bangers and mash. The potatoes are simmering when she hears the phone ring.

‘I’ll get it,’ she calls, but he’s already halfway down the stairs.

‘Of course,’ she hears him say. ‘Collins was a good man. Absolutely. It would be an honour.’

She’s draining the potatoes when he appears in the doorway. His face is ashen.

‘When is it?’ she asks, putting the pan aside.

‘Tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Do you have to go?’

He frowns. ‘It’s not a question of having to go, Helen. It’s a mark of respect. The family asked if I’ll be one of the pall bearers.’

‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’

His voice stiffens. ‘Of course. It’s the least I can do.’

‘Did you know him well?’ she asks.

‘Well enough.’

‘Tell me about him.’

‘He’s dead. What else do you need to know?’

In the back of her mind, Helen remembers Siân sniggering at Jackson’s insinuations. ‘They were close, if you catch my drift. Very close, those two.’ She knows she shouldn’t take any notice of what Jackson says. He’s a trouble maker. And she knows her husband. But still there’s a nagging doubt.

‘Talk to me,’ she says. ‘Why won’t you talk to me?’

He rubs his forehead, narrows his eyes. ‘There’s nothing to say. He was a good soldier. Now he’s dead. End of discussion.’

‘Don’t be like this, Owen.’

‘I’m not being like anything.’ He strides over to the fridge and cracks open a can of lager with one hand.

‘That’s your third this evening,’ she says, and immediately wishes she hadn’t. She sounds just like her mother.

He frowns at her. ‘So what? Worried I might end up like …?’ He trails off.

‘Frank?’ she says. ‘Of course not!’

Owen looks at her strangely. ‘Yeah, Frank.’ He pauses. ‘The thing is, Helen, people aren’t always who you think they are.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

He takes a sip of lager and licks his lips. ‘People lie. Stretch the truth. Take your friend Siân, for instance.’

Helen’s scalp prickles. It’s the first time Owen has mentioned Siân by name. The morning he was discharged from hospital he’d woken up asking for the dark-haired woman. Helen had lied and said she was an orderly who’d come to make his bed and was no longer on duty. She’d figured it was easier that way – easier than having to explain who Siân was and how they’d met. Of course there’d been an element of jealousy too. Why was he asking for a woman he didn’t even know?

‘Well?’ he asks now. ‘What happened to her?’

‘She left,’ Helen replies lamely.

‘So she wasn’t just a figment of my imagination. Is that what you thought? That I’d be too confused to remember?’ There’s a scathing tone to his voice she hasn’t heard before. ‘Well? Is that it?’

‘It wasn’t like that,’ she replies.

‘Wasn’t it? Poor pathetic man, doesn’t know his own mind. Tell him anything you want. He’ll never know the difference.’

‘Owen, you’re scaring me.’

There’s a look of confusion on his face, then his eyes soften. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

‘Then can we just forget about it, please? Forget about Siân. Just focus on us?’

He blinks, frowns, then slams his lager can down hard on the kitchen table. ‘Us? But that’s precisely my point. This is about us. You lied to me, Helen!’

She flinches as the froth bubbles up and runs down the side of the can, forming a small puddle of amber liquid on the tabletop.

The old Owen would have wiped it up immediately. Instead he just stares at her. ‘Well?’

Her throat tightens. ‘Sorry?’

‘You told me she was an orderly. Why would you say that? Why would you lie to me?’

‘I didn’t lie. Not exactly. She’s just a woman I met. She’s not important.’

‘Then why not tell the truth? Is there anything else you’re not telling me, Helen? Anyone else I should know about? Any more secrets you’re hiding?’

She blinks at him, astonished. He’s never spoken to her like this before, barely even raised his voice.

‘Of course not!’ she splutters. ‘I can’t believe you’re asking me that.’

‘It’s like I said. People aren’t always who you think they are.’

Her eyes well up. ‘And you’re not the man I married. I don’t know you anymore!’

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she realizes how true they are. There’s a stranger in her house, eating at her table, sleeping in her bed.

They haven’t had sex. He hasn’t shown any interest, and the last thing she wants is to put any added pressure on him. He’s clearly in no fit state – physically or mentally. Still she yearns for some kind of intimacy, some reassurance that he still desires her.

It’s so different from the way he was before, in the early days of their marriage. Back then he couldn’t keep his hands off her. It didn’t matter what time of day or night it was.

‘Time for bed,’ he’d say, stretching his arms and yawning dramatically.

She’d smile and remind him that it was still the middle of the afternoon.

‘Who said anything about sleeping?’ he’d say, before chasing her up the stairs with that soppy grin of his and a lascivious look in his eyes.

What she’d give to see that look now.

There’s been no bedtime banter this past week. The playful, loving man she used to know has gone. In his place is a cold, distant figure who seems to view her with a mixture of bewilderment and suspicion. The closest they’ve come to physical intimacy was in the car, driving back from Birmingham. She remembers the weight of his head on her shoulder, how comforting and familiar it had felt. She remembers hoping then that it was a sign of things to come. How wrong she had been.

After dinner, which they eat in silence, he disappears into the living room to watch television, leaving her to do the dishes alone. The old Owen would have insisted on helping, or apologized for the fact that he wasn’t much use in the kitchen with one arm in a sling. Instead he just slopes off with another can of lager, saying nothing.

She washes and dries the dishes and stands at the sink, listening to the burble of the television in the other room. There’s a burst of hollow, canned laughter and for a split second she pictures her husband smiling and joking before reality kicks in.

He’ll be thinking about the funeral now, she thinks. That’s why he’s so distant. That’s why he’s drinking and watching crap TV. He’s trying to blot it out, at least until tomorrow. She feels sad for him, and guilty for feeling so needy at a time like this.

Stop it
! she thinks.
Stop being so bloody selfish
!

But she can’t help herself. She knows he isn’t well. She knows he has other things on his mind. But she needs to know that he still wants her, that his feelings for her haven’t changed. She shudders at the thought of Siân at the hospital, holding his hand, talking to him in that intimate, conspiratorial tone. What had she said to him? Why did he seem so attached to her?

Later in bed, she lies staring up at the ceiling while he snores gently beside her. She pictures them both in happier times – their first date, the day he proposed, their wedding day. Finally she dozes off. At some point during the night she’s awakened by the sound of him whimpering in his sleep. ‘Owen?’ she whispers, and puts a comforting hand on his chest.

He groans and pushes her hand away.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The funeral of Private James Collins is scheduled to take place at Greenbank Cemetery in Bristol at 2 p.m. Owen hasn’t been very forthcoming with the details, but Helen has a pretty good idea of what to expect. Soldiers from the regiment will arrive in coaches from the barracks. These men are what’s known as the ‘rear party’ and it’s their job to host the funeral, carry the coffin, fire the salute and act as ushers during the service. They’ll leave after an hour or two – before they have time to get well and truly plastered. Military funerals are known for their pomp and circumstance. One circumstance the army is keen to avoid at all costs is someone getting completely hammered and bringing shame on the regiment.

This isn’t the first military funeral Helen has been invited to attend. On three previous occasions Owen had been part of the rear party and she’d gone along to show support and pay her respects. But this funeral will be different. Her husband didn’t only serve with this soldier. He very nearly died with him. She struggles to imagine how he must be feeling.

She spent most of the night listening to Owen tossing and turning in his sleep, wondering what – or who – he was dreaming about. It was only when he began murmuring the words ‘man down’ that she realized he was reliving the moment when Collins was killed. She half expected him to wake up screaming or sit bolt upright in bed and start loading an imaginary rifle, like the men at the military hospital. But he was either too exhausted, or knocked out by the sleeping pill he’d washed down with the remains of a can of lager before coming to bed. He tossed and turned but didn’t wake up.

Now, as they sit across the kitchen table from one another silently eating breakfast, she wonders if her husband is really up to the demands today’s funeral will place on him. Every instinct tells her he’s not. ‘I don’t see why you have to go,’ she says, watching him push his food around his plate. Normally he has such a healthy appetite. This is another change in his behaviour she’s noticed these past few days, another indication that things aren’t right.

‘It’s protocol,’ he replies. ‘I’m expected to be there, same as everyone else. You know that.’

‘But you’re still recovering.’

‘It’s only a broken arm, Helen. It’s no big deal.’

If only that were true, she thinks. If only that were all it is.

Another thought strikes her. ‘Will Jackson be there?’

Owen looks at her suspiciously. ‘Is that what you’re so worried about? Bumping into Jackson?’

‘Of course not,’ she says, only partly lying. She doesn’t relish the thought of seeing Jackson again – far from it – but right now he’s the least of her worries.

‘So you haven’t seen Leanne lately?’

‘Leanne? Why would I see Leanne?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe you were driving by the wives’ estate. Maybe you were on your way somewhere.’

‘What?’ She shakes her head. ‘Why would you even think that?’

‘No reason,’ he says and pushes his plate away. ‘Right. I suppose we should start getting ready.’

‘You don’t have to go,’ Helen says. ‘I can call and explain. People will understand. Nobody will hold it against you.’

‘I will,’ he replies. ‘I’ll hold it against me.’

She reaches across the table for his hand. ‘I’m worried about you, Owen.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ he says, pulling his hand away and rising to his feet. ‘You don’t know what you’re on about. You don’t understand.’

‘Then talk to me,’ she pleads. ‘Help me understand.’

‘We can talk on the way,’ he says. ‘I’m off to get changed.’

They don’t talk on the way. While she drives, he stares blankly out of the passenger window. Several times she tries to engage him in conversation, and each time he bats her back with monosyllabic answers or meets her questions with a stony silence. Finally, she gives up, overwhelmed by a feeling of powerlessness. She settles back in her seat, finding comfort in the familiar feeling of being behind the wheel of her car. At least now she’s the one in the driving seat. She keeps her eye on the road and tries not to think too much about what lies ahead.

‘I feel like a guest at my own son’s funeral,’ Barbara says, observing the men in full military dress.

‘Come, now,’ her husband replies, steering her gently towards the church door. ‘We both know it’s the send-off he’d have wanted.’

‘I never wanted him to have a send-off,’ Barbara says. ‘I wanted him home with me, safe.’

It’s a bright, sunny day. She’d have preferred rain. A leaden sky and drizzle would have matched her mood. Instead it feels as if the weather is mocking her. She refuses to wear sunglasses. There’s no shame in feeling the way she does today. Any attempt to hide her grief would be a betrayal. She wants people to see the pain she’s in.

Martin displays no emotion, but that’s nothing new. As they file into the church she feels his hand in the small of her back and wonders if today, finally, she might see some tears. She steals a sideways glance, hoping for a glimmer of something to assure her that she isn’t alone in feeling such a devastating sense of loss. But no. His jaw is firm, his eyes dry.

A flag is draped over the coffin – the red, white and blue signifying patriotism and a devotion to duty that should have filled her heart with pride, but leaves her feeling strangely cold. Deep down, she knows that her husband is right, that this is the funeral their son would have wanted. Still she resents the military for having such a claim on him, even when he’s dead.