The Black Path (3 page)

‘Well?’ she hears her mother say.

‘Sorry?’

‘I was just asking if you had anything nice planned this week.’

‘Not really,’ Helen says. ‘I might go out for a few drinks with the girls from work on Friday.’

Angela and Kath have been pestering her to join them on a night out for weeks. But she never does. She never goes anywhere. And she’s beginning to think that maybe she should.

‘You want to watch yourself, going out in town,’ Frank says. ‘It’s not long since that poor lad was kicked to death, up by the railway bridge.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Frank!’ Amanda snaps.

‘They should string them up,’ Frank mutters. ‘Or bring back national service. That would teach them a thing or two.’

Like how to kill someone more efficiently
, Helen thinks, then forces the idea from her head. Her stepfather has a long list of people he believes would benefit from national service. To the best of her knowledge, the nearest he’s ever come to serving his country is hanging out with his drinking buddies from the Territorial Army base across the road.

Right
, she decides. That’s it. If Frank thinks that going out with the girls is such a bad idea, then she’s left with no other choice. She’ll have to go.

‘I’m off,’ she says, rising from her chair.

Frank tries to catch her eye but she ignores him and gathers up her jacket and bag.

Her mother insists on walking her to the door. ‘I know it’s not easy,’ she says in a hushed voice as Helen steps outside into the soft summer air.

Helen turns to look at her. ‘You mean Frank?’

Her mother frowns. ‘I mean with Owen being away. But it won’t be for ever. You’ve still got your whole lives ahead of you. And just think – he’ll be able to retire at forty.’

An ugly thought lodges itself in Helen’s brain. She tries to ignore it but the thought turns into words and a familiar voice whispers inside her head.

If he lives that long
.

CHAPTER TWO

‘Alright, McGrath?’

Owen looks up from his makeshift sunlounger and squints at the man standing over him. Gradually the face comes into focus and he sees that it’s Jackson. There was a time when they were friends – of sorts. They come from the same area of South Wales, joined the army at the same time, trained together, even made it from private to lance corporal together. That all changed when Jackson was involved in a fight back home, broke some lad’s jaw and was demoted. These days there’s a certain degree of tension between them. There’s also an over-familiarity on Jackson’s part that wouldn’t normally be tolerated but is a reflection of the time they’ve known each other. Not that this makes Owen dislike him any less.

‘Fine, thanks,’ he says. ‘Just catching some rays.’

The desert sky is the palest blue, so pale it’s practically white. Feeling the hot sun on his face, he can almost convince himself that he’s on holiday and not snatching a quick half hour behind the tent when, technically speaking, he’s still on duty. He resents Jackson for the intrusion, and for bringing him back to the reality of Camp Bastion where you can never really relax and you’re never entirely alone. A few feet away, a fresh-faced young soldier lies basking in his boxer shorts, listening to his iPod. Private Collins only arrived a few days ago. All Owen really knows about him is his name and rank. They may be escaping the boredom together, but they’ve exchanged no more than a few words.

‘Shame about Armstrong,’ Jackson says. ‘Fucking ragheads!’

Collins looks up, then settles back with his iPod.

Earlier this afternoon, a soldier from another platoon was killed by a roadside bomb while out on patrol. Details are still emerging, but the word is that he radioed in to say there was a funny smell in the air moments before an improvised explosive device ripped apart his Viking personnel carrier. Three others survived by leaping from the vehicle. The body of the dead man was found forty metres away from the scene of the blast.

What everyone thinks, but no-one dares say, is that he’ll be the first of many. There are far fewer casualties during the spring months, when the insurgents have their energies focussed on the poppy harvest. Just one reason why the arrival of summer here isn’t greeted with quite the same enthusiasm it receives back home.

The entire battalion is supposed to be one big happy family and the loss of a soldier – any soldier – is felt by everyone. Still Owen is relieved that it wasn’t a member of his own platoon. It’s far easier to become attached to thirty men than to six hundred. Even when those thirty men include someone like Jackson. Contrary to popular belief, the army isn’t populated entirely by heroes. There are some right tossers too.

‘He was a good man,’ Owen says, though he can’t really put a face to the name. Was Armstrong the lad who was always playing video games at the internet café? Or the one who was usually at the gym? Did he have a wife? Kids?

‘Some of the infantry lads thought he was a bit queer,’ Jackson smirks. ‘The way he was always hanging around the gym. What do you reckon?’

‘I don’t think it matters’, Owen says. ‘And neither does the army. So if you’ve got a problem, I suggest you take it up with the MoD.’ Attitudes like Jackson’s aren’t uncommon in the forces. The law may have changed, but some of the people signing up haven’t. There are still ‘no queers in the infantry’, though of course that doesn’t really mean anything. Especially here. Especially now.

‘I was just saying,’ Jackson replies. ‘You know how word gets around.’

‘You’re talking about a man who died serving his country,’ Owen says. ‘So show some fucking respect. Now if you don’t mind, you’re blocking my sunlight.’

Jackson looks as if he’s about to say something, then thinks better of it. ‘Catch you later,’ he says. ‘And don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.’

Owen glares at him. ‘Meaning?’

‘Your little tanning shop, of course,’ Jackson winks and slopes off, casting a shadow over Collins as he goes. The young private raises his head, turns towards Owen, and shrugs.

Owen closes his eyes and stretches out, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his skin. He can picture Armstrong now – stocky build, blond hair. He can’t have been more than twenty-three. Soon he’ll be just another news item, another statistic – except to the friends and family he leaves behind. At some point in the next few hours an army messenger will arrive at someone’s door and inform them that their son or husband is dead. Those are the words they’ll use – ‘he’s dead’. There’ll be no pussy-footing around, no attempt to soften the blow. The message will be delivered bluntly, in words that aren’t open to misinterpretation. And somebody’s heart will be broken.

Owen’s thoughts turn to Helen. He hasn’t spoken to her in almost a week. He can think of a million excuses – his phone card expired, the welfare phone wasn’t working, he was out in the field – but the truth is that sometimes it’s simply easier not to talk to her. Sometimes he doesn’t want reminders of home to distract him from the job or expose the chinks in his emotional armour, which is as necessary for his survival as the protective clothing lying next to the sun lounger. He loves his wife. But he’s a world away from her now. Here, movie nights mean war films, never romantic comedies. Here, men psych themselves up for battle by listening to ‘Smack My Bitch Up’ on their iPods. Here, you’re never far away from your helmet and your body armour and your rifle, because the civilian driving the creaky old bus around the camp or selling pirated DVDs at the local market might not be as friendly as he seems. Here, the normal rules don’t apply, and when you’re not busy killing time the stark reality is that at some point you’ll either kill or be killed. And with every person you kill, the more removed you become from those you left behind.

Owen has killed three men, including the sniper who shot at them when they were out on patrol yesterday. The first kill was the worst. It was in Iraq, long after the war was over, when British troops were supposed to keep the peace. The boy couldn’t have been more than fifteen. Owen remembers every detail. His finger was on the trigger, there was a short, sharp crack and then a puff of red spray shot out of the boy’s head. He was dead before he hit the ground.

At least yesterday’s hit was a grown man. Not that it made a hell of a lot of difference. It was still a life, and the loss of life isn’t something he likes to think about. Thinking is dangerous. It’s better not to think. And better not to talk. Soldiers don’t discuss how many people they’ve killed. Everyone knows that, even the likes of Jackson. Death is ever present. You can feel it, smell it, touch it. But you never talk about it. This is part of the unspoken bond between men who serve together.

He thinks of Armstrong. He must have seen him a hundred times: eaten in the same cookhouse, sat to check emails in the same internet café, worked out at the same gym. Yet he didn’t even know his first name. He doesn’t know the first names of half the men in his own platoon. This is what the army does to you. This is what war does to you. ‘Tour of duty’ is such a misleading term for what goes on here – especially now, when withdrawal is on the cards and compounds that were once filled with tents or military vehicles lie empty. If the endless hours of boredom and monotony don’t get you, the anxiety will. The camp is becoming a ghost town. At one of the shops yesterday Owen saw a set of drinking glasses emblazoned with the words ‘Been there, done that’ and a mug that read ‘Happiness is Helmand in the rear-view mirror.’ But he’s not out yet – and neither are the four thousand other British military personnel still serving here. There’s still the distinct possibility that they won’t all make it home alive.

He wonders if Armstrong has a wife, and if she’ll be the one receiving the news today. Maybe she’s spared herself the agony and they’ve already parted. Many of the soldiers Owen knows were married at eighteen and divorced by twenty-five. For them, active service is a million times better than the petty bullshit of training. Basic training is designed to weed out the weaklings, and there isn’t a soldier he knows who isn’t pleased and proud to have left all that behind. But for the wives it’s a different story. If the threat of infidelity and lads’ weekends away didn’t destroy a marriage, the strain of wondering if your husband was coming back in one piece often did.

His thoughts return to Helen. There’s no point in taking the bus over to the internet café today. With Armstrong dead, communications will be shut down until midnight at least. But tomorrow, yes, tomorrow he’ll send an email to his wife.

‘Bitch!’ Collins lifts his head angrily. He catches Owen looking at him and grins. ‘Fucking iPod!’ he says. ‘Battery’s dead. I don’t suppose you’ve got your monkey handy?’

Owen smiles. A monkey is the name soldiers give to a solar cell worn as part of the uniform and used to convert the sun’s energy into enough power to recharge an iPod or a laptop. The lad may be new but he already knows the lingo. He shakes his head. ‘Sorry, mate.’

Collins looks at his watch. ‘Ah, well. Time I was off anyway.’ He leaps up, pulls on his uniform and body armour and adjusts his helmet. He tilts his head and raises a hand in a mock salute. ‘See you around, soldier.’

Owen laughs. ‘Yeah. See you around.’

CHAPTER THREE

Helen pulls the car door closed and feels the weight of tension lift from her shoulders. Tossing her handbag onto the passenger seat, she glances back at her mother’s front window. The blue light is flickering from the flat screen television. Frank had probably been waiting for her to leave. She pictures him sprawled in his armchair watching the rugby, lager can in hand. If his team wins, he’ll celebrate with a few more cans. If they lose, he’ll console himself with a lot more.

Reaching to adjust the rear-view mirror, her fingers brush against the worry beads Owen brought back from Iraq. He didn’t tell her exactly how he came by them, and she never asked. Sometimes it’s better not to know. She sighs deeply and breathes in the warm smell of leather and the faint, comforting tang of air freshener.

It’s only a small car, a second-hand silver Matiz, but Helen loves it in a way nobody can understand – not even Owen, and he understands her better than anyone. She imagines him seated beside her, urging her to check her mirror before pulling out. ‘Bloody women drivers!’ But they’d both know that he was only joking. Owen was the one who encouraged her to drive.

She’d been reluctant at first. The thought of being in control of a fast-moving vehicle filled her with dread. It was only through Owen’s gentle persistence that she’d plucked up the courage to enrol at the local driving school and apply for her test.

‘So what if you fail?’ Owen had said. ‘Most people fail their first time. Try again. Fail again. Just try not to fail so badly the second time.’

It was a silly thing for a man in his position to say. Soldiers were trained not to fail. For them, failure could mean the difference between life and death. But then Owen wasn’t like most soldiers. There was no doubting his ability or his courage. She’d feared for him when he fought in Iraq, and admired his conviction when he returned home to find that public opinion was rapidly turning against the war – even in a town like this, where patriotism ran high and the local cemetery was filled with generations of dead soldiers.

But there was a gentler side to him too. He cried at soppy films. It was a running joke between them. He was her big soft soldier boy, her sweet and tender fighting man.

He was there the day she took her driving test and passed with flying colours. Helen couldn’t have been more surprised, but Owen had acted as if it was a foregone conclusion.

‘See,’ he said when they tore off the ‘L’ plates and climbed into the car. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

‘But you said it would be okay if I failed.’

He turned to her and winked. ‘I lied.’

The roads are clear and soon she’s driving through the sprawl of prefabs known as Wildmill and then up past The Saints where she spent the first eleven years of her life. Wildmill is where the town’s drug dealers do most of their trade. Sometimes the local paper would report that an addict had overdosed or hanged themselves, at which point her mother and Frank would exchange a knowing look as if to say ‘serves them right’.