The Black Path Read Online Free Page B

valleys that the men come at the weekends, descending on Bridgend in packs, looking for a few pints and someone to vent their frustrations on and leaving the streets stained with blood and covered in broken glass. Every week the police riot vans line up next to the taxi rank in the centre of town, waiting for the first sign of trouble. And every week the trouble would arrive in the shape of the valley boys with their thick necks and bullet heads.
    Helen remembers Owen telling her about the time he went on a training exercise in the Brecon Beacons and saw a sign that read: ‘Warning. This is a military zone. Do not touch anything as it may explode and kill you!’ Sometimes she wonders if they should erect a similar sign in the centre of Bridgend, one that reads: ‘Warning. This is a danger zone. Do not look at anyone as they may explode and kill you!’ She tries not to dwell on the violence. She doesn’t want to give Frank the satisfaction. But she’d heard about that lad who was kicked to death up by the railway bridge. He wasn’t the first, either. It wasn’t that long ago that a young woman had her face slashed in one of the pubs. Helen remembers the picture in the Gazette .
    She’s approaching a T-junction when a sudden movement catches her eye. A figure appears from nowhere and runs out into the road. She slams on the brakes and the car screeches to a halt. The late afternoon sun glares off the windscreen, making it hard for her to tell if the figure is male or female. The figure turns to face her, slapping both hands hard on the bonnet.
    ‘Stupid cow!’
    It’s a girl, probably no older than sixteen. Her face is pale and pinched, her eyes glazed. As she moves towards the driver’s door, Helen resists the urge to wind down the window and ask if she’s okay. Girls like this are never okay. She’s probably drunk, or on drugs – or both.
    Instinctively, Helen locks the car doors.
    The girl raps her bony knuckles on the driver’s window. ‘You could have killed me then. Stupid bitch!’
    ‘Sorry,’ Helen mouths.
    The girl smirks, revealing discoloured teeth. ‘Call it twenty quid and we’re quits.’
    Helen shrugs apologetically. She has no intention of opening the door to this girl or helping to feed her habit. But she can’t just sit here. What if the girl tries to break the window?
    She glances in the rear-view mirror. Further along the pavement, two teenage boys ride their mountain bikes in wide, lazy circles. Apart from that, the streets are empty. Not even a passing car.
    ‘C’mon!’ the girl says, her voice rising dangerously. ‘Twenty quid. Or I’ll report you. My friends saw you. They’ve got your registration number.’
    She points at the boys, who duck their heads and laugh.
    ‘Leave it!’ one of them shouts. ‘We’re late enough as it is.’
    ‘But she could have killed me.’ The girl raps on the driver’s window again. ‘Cough up, bitch!’
    Helen puts her foot down on the accelerator and speeds off.
    She’s still shaking when she arrives home. The house is in a row of small terraces arranged in an L-shape on a steep incline off the main road. In front of them is a large patch of grass where people come to walk their dogs during the day and teenagers congregate at night. She parks and pauses to catch her breath before getting out of the car and hurrying inside.
    She shuts the front door behind her and looks around the familiar hall. On the wall facing the staircase is a framed photo of Owen at his passing-out parade, alongside a picture of them both together on their wedding day. That was the day plain old Helen Thomas became Helen McGrath, wife of Lance Corporal Owen McGrath. She’d worn her hair in a French pleat, and the make-up artist had given her a face she barely recognized. Her mother had sent a copy of the wedding photo to the local paper, where it appeared with a short article reminding readers of her father’s death. The headline read, ‘Tragic local girl finds