The Black Path (34 page)

Helen allows the words to sink in, feels the full weight of them settle in her belly. She thinks she might be sick.

‘I don’t know who wrote this,’ her mother says, pushing the sheets of paper away. ‘But whoever it was, they certainly seem to have been well informed.’ She offers a weak smile, then a frown forms on her forehead. ‘There was this one reporter. He kept calling at the house. I refused to talk to him, but he kept coming back. I had to threaten him with the police in the end. No decency, some people. Harassing a grieving widow.’

Helen can’t help herself. ‘Why were you grieving? If Dad was such a bad husband?’

‘Of course I was grieving. I loved your father. I can’t say I always liked him very much. But you don’t suddenly stop loving someone, even when they betray you. He was still my husband.’

‘You got over him pretty quickly.’

Her mother looks as if she’s been slapped across the face. ‘How can you say that?’

‘You weren’t alone for very long. You had Frank.’

‘Yes, I did. And I’m not ashamed of that. Frank was a good friend.’

‘Friend?’ Helen sneers.

‘Yes, friend. There was nothing going on between me and Frank, not at the beginning. He was a tower of strength to me, and that was all. I don’t know what I’d have done without him.’ Amanda pauses. ‘I didn’t think I’d ever trust a man again. Not after the humiliations your father put me through. Not after what he did.’

‘So it’s all true, then? About his drinking? And his affairs?’

Her mother nods. ‘Lisa was the last. She wasn’t the first. And it wasn’t just my heart he broke. That young girl was engaged. Her fiancé moved away shortly afterwards. I’d have probably done the same if I didn’t have you to think about.’

Helen rises quickly from the table and walks over to the kitchen window. Heavy clouds hang over the lime trees behind the house. The sky is the colour of slate. She pictures Lisa with her father, his hands around her narrow waist, his face nuzzled against her neck. Had she seen them together? Or is it just her imagination playing tricks?

She turns to her mother. ‘Why didn’t you say something before?’

‘What was I supposed to say? That your father was an alcoholic? That he was unfaithful? What good would it have done?’

‘You could have said something.’

‘And have you grow up hating him? That wouldn’t have been fair, Helen. Your father meant the world to you. You were devastated when he died. You didn’t sleep. You wouldn’t eat. You locked yourself in your room for weeks.’

‘Did I?’ Helen asks. This isn’t how she remembers it.

Her mother nods. ‘I was worried sick about you. I didn’t know what to do for the best. Frank said I should have taken you with me to the funeral. Maybe I should have. But the doctor didn’t think you’d cope. Then when that reporter came knocking on the door, wanting to talk to you – well, I told him where to go. I know you’re angry with me now, but I only did what I thought was best. I was trying to protect you.’

Helen frowns. ‘The reporter wanted to talk to me? What about?’

‘About that afternoon.’

‘But why me?’

Her mother looks confused, then her face colours.

‘What?’ Helen says. ‘What is it?’

‘Don’t you remember? You were there when it happened.’

The realization hits her so hard, she feels as if she’s been winded. She’s standing in the driveway. Her father is by the front gate, arguing with some boys. He’s been drinking. She can always tell when he’s been drinking. His face is red and his voice is raised. It’s like he’s a different person.

The shouting grows louder as the boys crowd around him. They appear to be about eighteen. The two fair-haired boys look like brothers. The third has black hair. He’s shorter than the others, but wiry and more muscular. She watches as he shoves her father, nearly knocking him off his feet. Her father pushes back. The boy staggers, pulling something from his pocket. It glints in the sunlight. He grins.

Her father holds up his hands. ‘Please. There’s no need for this.’

‘Leave it,’ one of the blond boys says. ‘This is stupid.’ But there’s a look of excitement on his face, a look that says he’s enjoying this however much he protests otherwise.

The black-haired boy scowls and waves the weapon. The handle is red, the blade no longer than three inches. It looks like a toy in the boy’s hand, Helen thinks. It looks as if he’s just playing.

‘Listen to your friend,’ her father says. ‘Put the knife down.’

The boy tilts his head. His eyes narrow. Then his arm shoots forward and Helen sees the flash of the blade before it plunges into her father’s stomach.

There’s a look of surprise on her father’s face and a rush of air from his mouth. Then the knife comes out and goes in again – over and over in slow motion, turning his shirt red.

‘Twist it,’ one of the other boys shouts. ‘For fuck’s sake, Dean! Finish it!’

Dean
. The boy’s name is Dean.

He turns to look at her, his eyes shining. Then he grins and twists the knife.

The look on her father’s face turns to one of panic. As the knife comes out, he clasps his hands to his stomach and blood pours through his fingers.

The other boys are backing away.

‘C’mon, Dean! Let’s go!’

The black-haired boy looks as if he’s about to say something. His eyes lock on hers, glittering and dark. Then his friend grabs his arm and they turn and run, jostling and jeering like hyenas.

Helen watches helplessly as her father drops to his knees. Then his body folds to the ground, his head hitting the concrete with a dull thud.

She tries to scream but no sound comes out.

‘Helen!’

She hears her mother’s voice calling from far away.

She sees the boy’s face – and the blood spreading slowly around her father’s body, as dark as death.

She remembers everything. The alcohol on her father’s breath. The look in the boy’s eyes. And the silence – that strange silence that engulfed her the day her father died.

People aren’t always who you think they are
.

She runs to the sink and retches. Nothing. She gulps and takes a deep, steadying breath, screws her eyes tight shut. Immediately the image of her father comes into her head – his blackening blood, his gaping mouth, his bulging eyes. She heaves, throat burning as vomit spews from her mouth and through her fingers. Her stomach spasms and up it comes again – everything she’s been bottling up for weeks, months, years splashing into the sink.

Finally it stops. She’s been gripping the draining board so hard, her knuckles are white. Her fingers tremble as she runs the cold tap and washes the filthy mess away. Tearing off some kitchen towel, she wipes her mouth and hands, stares out of the window at the sullen sky.

‘Helen?’

She flinches at her mother’s touch, then turns and falls sobbing against her shoulder. How long has it been since her mother last held her like this?

‘There,’ Amanda says, stroking her hair. ‘Just let it all out.’

Tears burn down Helen’s cheeks. She swallows. ‘Why wasn’t I questioned by the police?’

‘You were just a child. I didn’t want to put you through all that.’

She pulls away. ‘But maybe I could have helped.’

Her mother smiles sadly. ‘I tried talking to you afterwards, but you just clammed up. I didn’t know how much you knew, or what good it would achieve. Your father had just died. Nothing anyone said was going to bring him back.’

‘What about the journalist? Do you know his name?’

‘He told me his name was Gavin Edwards. He said he worked for the
Gazette
. But when I rang them to complain, they said they’d never heard of him.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘I don’t know. It was such a long time ago. A bit flash, I suppose. I remember thinking his suit looked expensive.’

‘And you didn’t tell him anything?’

‘No. Nothing.’

‘Then how did he know I was there?’

Her mother frowns. ‘Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was just snooping around.’

‘Maybe.’ Helen pictures the boy, remembers the way he looked at her, his black eyes shining with – what? Adrenalin? Drugs? Alcohol? What would possess him to do a thing like that?

Her mind jumps. ‘Does Owen know?’ she asks. ‘About my father?’

‘I never told him. Is that what you two argued about?’

‘Someone hand-delivered that envelope to our house. Owen hid it from me.’

‘I’m sure he was just trying to protect you.’

‘I wish he hadn’t. I wish people would stop trying to protect me.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

Helen stares her mother straight in the eye. ‘Don’t I?’

She feels her phone vibrate in her pocket. She wants to ignore it. She needs time to think. It buzzes again, louder this time. She fishes it out and hits the button. ‘Yes?’

‘It’s me. Don’t hang up! I’m with Owen.’

She stiffens.

Who is it?
her mother mouths.

Helen raises her hand and shakes her head. ‘Don’t play games, Siân.’

‘I’m not. Honestly. He needs your help.’

‘Why? What’s happened to him?’

‘I think he’s drunk or on drugs. He keeps going on about a fire. You don’t think he had anything to do with that fire in Blackmill, do you?’

Helen feels her stomach lurch again. ‘Let me talk to him.’

‘He’s not making any sense. I didn’t know whether to call you or the police.’

‘I’ll come and get him. Where are you?’

‘The Black Path. Come quickly. I think he’s about to freak out on me.’

‘Stay there. I’m on my way.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

‘Where are you going?’

She hears her mother calling after her as she grabs her jacket and bag and heads for the front door. Barely turning, she shouts back over her shoulder. ‘The Black Path.’

‘Why? At least wait for Frank! You’re not thinking straight!’

Maybe she isn’t. But what choice does she have? She left Owen alone for five minutes and now, somehow, he’s with Siân. And it’s all her fault for not keeping an eye on him.

‘Sorry, Mum, I’ve got to go.’

Outside, she walks briskly, turning right at the front gate and heading up the main road.

The sky is overcast. Heavy clouds threaten rain. As she hurries under the old railway bridge she hears a low rumbling overhead. At first she thinks it’s the roar of a passing freight train. Then she realizes it’s the sound of thunder. She looks in her bag, remembers she left her umbrella at home, continues on.

A bus is turning into Cemetery Road. Her father is buried there.

Don’t think about that now
!

But she can’t help herself. Since his death, she’s visited the cemetery countless times. Among the buried are generations of local soldiers who died in two world wars, the Falklands, the Gulf, Bosnia, Iraq, Afghanistan. Growing up, she’d often consoled herself with the thought that her father was in good company – a hero among heroes.

Some hero he turned out to be
.

A car horn blares as she steps into the road. A red Toyota swerves to avoid her.

‘Stupid cow!’ The driver waves an angry fist through the open window, his voice barely audible over a thumping bass line. ‘Look where you’re bloody going!’

Shaken, she stops and stares after the car as the driver takes off, ignoring a sign to ‘Reduce Speed Now’. She recalls a car journey from a long time ago. She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight. Her father was driving. Her mother was telling him to slow down. ‘It’s not just your own life you’re risking, Richard!’

Had he been drinking?
She already knows the answer.

There are more rumbles of thunder as she follows the road through the Wildmill estate. Normally the streets would be filled with people. Today they seem ominously empty. Hurrying into the underpass, she feels the change in the air. The humidity is unbearable. A storm is on the way. She should have waited for Frank. Too late to turn back now.

By the time she crosses the junction into The Saints estate, her heart is racing. She pauses to catch her breath and the strange familiarity of the place washes over her in waves. It’s years since she’s been within walking distance of her old address. Still these streets are as familiar to her as the back of her hand. She turns a corner and there it is – the house where she spent the first eleven years of her life.

It looks smaller than she remembers. The front lawn has been paved over. A few shrubs stand in pots next to the door. A straggly pink clematis clings to a trellis by the window. The driveway is empty. She wonders who lives here now, whether they even know that this was once a crime scene. An image of her father begins to force its way into her mind. She pushes the thought away and runs on, cutting through the quiet back streets until her lungs ache and the road doesn’t go any further.

She’s reached the end of the cul-de-sac. On her left is the River Ogmore – the same river she was forbidden to play near as a child. Straight ahead is the entrance to the Black Path. She stops. The sun is now partially obscured by heavy clouds, casting long shadows that seem to converge where the road ends and the path begins.

Pull yourself together! Owen needs you
!

Steeling herself, she steps off the pavement and onto the Black Path.

She’s walked here many times in her dreams, but never before in the cold light of day. The wooded slopes seem strangely unthreatening. Dappled sunlight filters through the leaves. In the distance, she hears the babble of the river. Above her, a bird sings. This is nothing like her nightmares. She can even see the beauty of it.

But as the ground dips and she moves deeper into the woodland, her skin starts to prickle. This is more like it – the path she walks at night, the one that’s always waiting for her. The earth beneath her feet is as black as coal. Huge trees line the narrow track, their ancient trunks twisted and split or choked with moss and ivy. Branches lean in to block her view or huddle together overhead, forming a dense canopy. The undergrowth is thick and teeming with possibilities. Even in the half light, it’s easy to imagine a threat behind every tree.