The Black Path (36 page)

‘But what did my father ever do to you?’

‘Not me. My brother.’

Helen’s pulse quickens.

‘He used to bring me here when I was little,’ Siân says, her voice distant and childlike. ‘We’d build bonfires and he’d tell me stories. But then he started seeing her and everything changed. She didn’t like me hanging around. I’d hide in the woods and watch them sometimes. Then one day I followed her home from school and that’s when I saw them together. They were right here where we are now – her and your father.’

Helen’s heart is in her mouth. She swallows. ‘You mean Lisa?’

‘That cunt!’ Siân’s face is a mask of hatred. ‘I always said she was a slag. But Dean couldn’t see it.’

Dean
. Helen pictures the black-haired boy with the dark, glittering eyes, twisting the knife in her father’s stomach.

‘So I told him,’ Siân continues. ‘I told him what I’d seen. I thought that would be the end of it. Him and Lisa – over. Then things would go back to the way they were before.’ She gives a bitter laugh. ‘More fool me.’

Jackson steps forward, a look of bored malevolence on his face. ‘Get on with it, Siân.’

She scowls at him. ‘Don’t tell me what to do! I give the orders around here. Not you.’

‘Your brother killed my father,’ Helen says. Her words hang heavy in the air, as noxious as the choking smoke and suffocating heat of the fire.

Siân shrugs. ‘He deserved it. Okay. Story time over.’ She points at Helen’s bag. ‘What have you got in there?’

‘Nothing. Just my purse.’

‘Give it here.’

Helen hugs her bag to her chest.

Jackson brandishes the knife. ‘Just do it!’

Helen watches as Siân rifles though the contents of her bag, taking out the purse and stuffing it into her pocket. ‘I reckon that’s the least you owe me.’ She tosses the bag onto the fire.

‘Owen was never meant to be part of the plan,’ she says, staring deep into the flames. ‘It was just meant to be the two of us – you and me.’ She turns. ‘I’ve had my eye on you for a while.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ Helen asks. ‘What have I ever done to you?’ Tentatively, she begins to stretch her legs.

The light from the fire flickers in Siân’s eyes. ‘You were there that day. You saw everything. Dean told me. Then Dad sent one of his mates round to check if there were any other witnesses, see what the chances were of someone talking to the police.’

‘The reporter,’ Helen says.

‘Someone who owed him a favour. He did a thorough job, too. Really went to town on it. I think he thought he’d sell the story, win some local press award or something. As if Dad would’ve allowed that! But he wasn’t taking any risks, so he sent Dean away. He was supposed to come back when it had all blown over. But one night he got into a fight and that was it – dead before he was twenty.’

‘You told me your brother joined the army.’

‘I lied. We all do it. Me. You. Jackson. Your father. Owen. We’re not very different, really.’ Siân smirks. ‘People aren’t always who you think they are, Helen. Sound familiar?’

‘This is all very interesting,’ Jackson says. ‘But I need a piss.’ Grinning, he stands over Owen and begins unbuttoning his flies.

Helen throws her arms protectively around her husband. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Don’t you know what happens to queers in the army? We piss on them.’

‘Not here!’ Siân snaps. ‘There are ladies present.’

‘She’s no lady. She’s a stuck-up cunt.’

‘I didn’t mean her. I meant me.’

Jackson shrugs and rearranges himself. ‘In that case, I’m off for a slash in the woods.’ He slopes off into the shadows.

Helen studies Owen’s face. His breathing is shallow, his lips pale. Spittle foams from the corners of his mouth. What if he dies now, right in front of her? She’s been here once before. She can’t let it happen again.

‘He needs an ambulance,’ she says. ‘You can’t just let him die.’

Siân tilts her head. ‘Can’t I? People die from overdoses all the time. More British soldiers commit suicide than are killed in battle. I read that somewhere. And when people find out that he tried to burn down that Muslim’s house …’ She smiles and kicks at an ember at the edge of the bonfire.

‘Owen didn’t start that fire,’ Helen says. ‘You did.’

‘Prove it.’ Siân empties the remains of the bottle over the flames, grinning with delight as they leap higher. ‘I’ve got something else of yours here,’ she says, tossing the bottle away and reaching into her bag. ‘Look! A birthday card from your father. What were you? Ten? It must have been the last thing he gave you before he died.’

She holds it in the direction of the blaze.

‘Don’t!’ Helen says. ‘Don’t you dare!’

‘Or what? Your husband can’t help you now.’

‘Don’t!’ Helen says again, louder this time.

‘Who’s going to stop me?’

‘Me.’

‘Yeah? You and whose army?’

A knot of anger tightens in Helen’s stomach. She looks around. There’s still no sign of Jackson. Stiffly, she climbs to her feet.

Siân tuts and rolls her eyes, gives an amused grin. ‘Think you’re a match for me? Don’t make me laugh. I’ll rip your fucking face off.’

‘Give me the card,’ Helen says. She takes a step forward.

‘Make me!’ Siân hoists her bag onto her back and moves closer to the fire, waving the card in front of her. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

Helen lunges.

‘You’ll have to do better than that!’ Siân laughs, dancing backwards, arms above her head. ‘Come on. Let’s see how brave you really are!’ Her eyes shine wildly as she hops onto one of the logs at the edge of the fire, gestures with one hand for Helen to follow her.

‘Stop it, Siân! This isn’t a game.’

‘What’s the matter? Afraid you’ll lose?’ Siân holds out the card.

Helen lunges again, missing by inches.

‘Loser!’ Siân steps off the log and onto the corner of the window frame. ‘Well, do you want your precious card or not?’

She takes another step, her body weight pressing the far end of the frame deep into the centre of the fire. Something spits and makes a loud popping sound, sending a shower of sparks into the air.

Helen shrinks back. ‘Be careful!’

More laughter. ‘I’m not like you, Helen. I’m tough, me. Bulletproof. Fireproof.’

Arms out to her sides, Siân edges along the narrow frame like a tightrope walker. Small tongues of orange and yellow flicker along the charred wood, the paint blistering inches from her feet. Another amused grin. ‘See?’

A loud crackle wipes the smile from her face as the fire shifts and falls in on itself. The wood beneath her feet buckles, shooting up another shower of sparks. A white-hot ember hits her ankle. She flinches. ‘Fuck!’ And then another.

She looks as if she’s about to jump to safety, but then a sudden gust of wind makes the flames change direction, creating a wall of fire and sending her staggering sideways onto the blackened glass. There’s a crack like a gunshot as the glass gives way and her right foot falls through the jagged hole. She screams, struggling to free herself, unable to find a firm footing.

Again, the fire shifts, producing more sparks. Something hisses inside her bag and the flames begin to lick her back. Frantically, she tries to release the bag from her shoulder while still straining to free her foot. She begins to lose her balance, arms flailing as her eyes widen in panic. ‘Shit!’

One arm raised to shield her face, Helen edges closer to the blaze. The heat prickles her skin as she reaches out. ‘Grab my hand!’

Siân’s fingers lock around hers. Their eyes meet. There’s a brief struggle as Helen tries to pull Siân free from the fire and Siân seems to pull her towards it, a look of grim determination on her face – eyes crazed, even the hint of a smile.

Helen panics.
The crazy bitch wants us both to die
!

She pulls her hand free and watches in horror as Siân claws at the air and falls backwards into the blaze, landing with a crash on the burning window frame. There’s a dull thud as her skull makes contact with the wood and her eyes roll back in her head. Helen wonders if she’s been knocked unconscious. Then Siân’s hair catches fire and she cries out in agony. There’s another loud hiss and then her bag seems to explode, turning the flames blue and producing clouds of black smoke that billow around her twisting, turning body.

Helen coughs as the smoke catches in her throat, making her lungs burn and her eyes stream. Transfixed with horror, she watches as the flames rise and Siân sinks deeper into the heart of the blaze. Her blistering hands grasp at the edges of the burning frame in a desperate attempt to pull herself free. But her bag is caught on something, the smouldering strap pulled tight across her shoulder, searing into the flesh, holding her down.

The fire roars, drowning out the sound of Siân’s cries. Her head jerks from side to side. There’s another loud crack as the pane beneath her head shatters and a shard of blackened glass slices through her exposed neck. Blood spurts out in a crimson arc, hissing where it hits the burning wood.

Helen clamps her hand to her mouth, stifling a scream.

It seems to take forever for Siân’s body to stop moving. Her eyes are open but lifeless. As the flames tear through her clothes, the air is filled with the sickly sweet smell of burning flesh. Helen gags, dropping to her knees on the black earth. There’s a rumble of thunder and a sudden downpour of rain. The flames die back, hissing and spitting.

‘Helen?’ Owen moans.

With a start, she turns to face him.

Jackson emerges from the trees. But he’s not alone.

‘Frank!’ Helen cries. ‘Oh, Frank! Thank God you’re here!’

EPILOGUE

‘Aren’t you getting dressed?’ Owen says.

Helen looks up from the kitchen table. She’s still in her bathrobe, cradling a second cup of coffee.

Her husband is standing in the doorway, dressed in a pale blue shirt and a pair of chinos. His arm is no longer in a sling. The marks on his face have healed.

He raises a quizzical eyebrow. ‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘It’s just good to see you looking so well.’

What a difference a few weeks of counselling have made. He’s like his old self again – before he left for Afghanistan, before Siân and the hospital and everything that followed.

No, she reminds herself –
almost
like his old self. His wounds have healed. He’s stopped drinking. He’s even sleeping normally. But something has changed. There’s no point in pretending otherwise.

‘Well?’ he says. ‘Are we going or not?’

She drains her coffee and stands up. ‘Just give me a few minutes.’

A week earlier, arriving home from one of his counselling sessions, Owen had seemed preoccupied and restless. He’d been unable to settle down to watch the DVD he’d chosen.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. ‘Nothing.’

‘Owen?’

Silence.

Finally he turned to her. ‘There’s something I need to tell you, Helen. You’re not going to like it.’

She set her glass of wine down on the floor. ‘Well?’

‘It’s about Collins.’

‘It wasn’t your fault he died,’ she said. ‘You know that, don’t you? The doctor explained all that. It was part of your illness.’

‘It’s not that.’ He lowered his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know where to begin.’

‘Then don’t,’ she said, placing a hand on his arm. ‘We don’t have to talk about this now.’

‘Yes,’ he insisted. ‘Yes, we do.’ He struggled for a moment, rising from the sofa and pacing the room before coming back to face her. ‘Do you know what courage is, Helen?’

‘Of course,’ she said, soothingly. ‘It’s what you do. Fight for your country. Risk your life.’

‘No, it’s not any of that stuff. It’s being true to yourself. That’s what Collins was. He was true to himself. He was a good man. A brave man. He annoyed the hell out of me too. But I admired him.’

‘But that’s good, isn’t it? It’s good that you remember him like that.’

‘Yes. But that’s not all. There’s more to it.’

She felt a knot form in her stomach.

‘I wrote you a letter,’ he said. ‘The morning before it happened. I never sent it.’ From the back pocket of his jeans, he took out a crumpled piece of paper. ‘Read it. Please.’ He unfolded it and handed it to her.

Later, Helen would reflect bitterly on the fact that the one letter Siân hadn’t destroyed in the fire was the one with the potential to destroy her marriage. Part of her wished that Owen had never written it, or that it had burned along with all the others. What purpose did it serve, other than to burden her with information she had no desire to know? But her immediate reaction was one of confusion mixed with disbelief.

‘So all those lies Jackson was spreading –’

‘They weren’t lies.’

‘Oh.’ She looked away, trying to convince herself that she wasn’t really hearing this, that it was all some huge misunderstanding. But when she looked back her husband still had the same contrite expression on his face.

‘I had feelings for him,’ he said. ‘Feelings I’ve never had for a man before. It wasn’t dirty, not the way Jackson described it. But there was –’ He paused. ‘There was intimacy.’

She felt her cheeks flush. ‘I see.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you do. Things happen in the army. Men do things they wouldn’t normally dream of doing. We kill people. Innocent people, sometimes. And we have to live with that.’ Tears pricked his eyes. ‘And sometimes we develop feelings for people we wouldn’t normally have. And we have to live with that, too.’

It had taken her a while to reply.

‘You said “we”, Owen. I don’t know if I can live with that. I don’t know who you are anymore.’

‘Of course you do. I’m the same man you married.’

She laughed angrily. ‘How can you say that? After what happened?’

‘I’m still the same man, Helen.’

‘So you’re telling me you’re not gay?’

‘No. I’m someone who made a mistake.’

‘So if Coll –’ She couldn’t bring herself to say his name anymore. ‘If he hadn’t died?’

‘Nothing else would have happened. Ever. I swear to you.’

She wasn’t proud of what she’d said next, but she couldn’t help herself.