The Black Path by Paul Burston Page A

again!’
    Collins blinks at him in surprise. ‘I thought you were on my side.’
    ‘There are no sides. Just stay out of Jackson’s way. I don’t want any trouble.’
    ‘But he started it.’
    ‘And I’m ending it. Understood?’
    Collins catches his eye for a moment. Then he nods. ‘Whatever you say, Corporal.’

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Friday comes around too soon and there’s still no word from Owen. ‘No news is good news,’ Helen tells herself as she showers and brushes her teeth. It’s the sort of thing her mother would say, but sometimes there’s comfort in repeating a mantra, however unconvincing it sounds.
    There was another report on the news last night – another soldier killed, another political row about boots on the ground in Afghanistan and the rights and wrongs of withdrawing troops from a country ravaged by decades of war. She’d tried to ignore it, but there was something hypnotic and infuriating about the way the politicians spoke about ‘our boys’ as if they were personally related. How many of their sons were out there? How many of them lived in fear of someone they loved not coming home?
    She pictures her husband reading her letter, lying on his bed, a pillow propped behind his head, her parcel from home open beside him. The sweets are a mixture of extra strong mints, butterscotch and hard gums – his favourites, though knowing him, they’ll be shared. The magazines he’ll read once and pass around. The E45 cream and sunscreen he’ll keep for himself. His biggest complaint about Afghanistan isn’t the boredom or the danger of insurgents – it’s the severity of the weather. The creams will help protect his skin against the elements. It’s comforting to think that she’s taking care of him in some small way.
    She dresses for work in a black skirt and pale grey blouse and digs out a pair of jeans and a silver halterneck top for the evening. Pubs and clubs have never been her idea of fun but it’s too late to back out now. Angela and Kath seem genuinely delighted that she’s agreed to go out with them, and anything is better than another night alone in front of the TV.
    She folds the jeans into a carrier bag. Standing in front of the full length mirror, she holds up the halterneck. Owen had been with her when she bought it.
    ‘What do you think?’ she’d asked him.
    She must have tried on half a dozen tops by then, and he’d liked them all. ‘Babes, you look beautiful in anything.’ He grinned. ‘Or nothing.’
    Helen remembers the way the shop assistant had raised an eyebrow at her, as if to say, ‘Good catch!’
    He was a good catch, wasn’t he? Still is. Despite their differences, and the fact that his job took him away from her for months at a time. He’s still her Owen.
    She drops the halterneck into the carrier bag, sits down at the dressing table and studies her face in the mirror. Maybe her mother had been right. Maybe there is ‘something ghostly about redheads’. Right now, she looks as pale as a corpse. She didn’t sleep well, but that’s nothing new. She can’t recall the last time she had a decent night’s sleep. All she remembers is waking up in the early hours of the morning with her heart pounding, gasping for air.
    Hastily, she applies her make-up and runs downstairs. She grabs her house keys but leaves the car keys in the wooden bowl by the front door. She’ll take the train today. The journey into Bridgend only takes ten minutes, then she can jump on a bus or walk up through town if the rain holds off. Of course, it’ll mean taking a taxi home tonight. She finds the card for a local cab firm and drops it into her bag.
    Outside the sky is heavy and grey like wet sheep’s wool. The air seems to cling to her face, adding to the feeling of claustrophobia she often experiences when walking these streets. She picks up her pace and makes it to the station with plenty of time to spare. The departure board shows that the train is running seven minutes late.