The Black Path Read Online Free PDF Page A

happiness at last.’
    The living room is dominated by a brown leather sofa so big they’d had to winch it in through the front window. She sees the light on the ansaphone blinking and thinks for a moment that Owen has called the landline instead of her mobile. But it’s just someone trying to sell her car insurance. Disappointed, she turns on the laptop and checks her emails. Nothing.
    Sundays are the hardest. Sundays were always the hardest, even when she was still at school. Back then it was the empty space left by her father that made the day stretch on forever. Now it’s the empty space left by her husband. At least tomorrow another working week will begin. She takes pride in her work and comfort in the small administrative tasks she performs with such efficiency. The attention to detail helps take her mind off the bigger picture.
    She closes the laptop and walks briskly into the kitchen. There are no dirty dishes in the sink. Everything has been washed, dried and put back in its place. She takes out the ironing board and plugs in the steam iron before unloading the clothes from the tumble dryer and arranging them in a neat pile on the table.
    Why hasn’t he written?
    When Owen was first stationed in Iraq, he used to write to her all the time. She’d arrive home to find the familiar blue envelopes on the doormat and her heart would skip. The separation still hurt, but at least she knew he was missing her as much as she missed him. More importantly, she knew he was safe. Is he safe now? Is he missing her? Or has something happened to him?
    She unplugs the iron and goes upstairs. The letters are in a shoe box under the bed, the envelopes tied together in bundles. She takes out one of the older letters, written shortly after he arrived in Basra.
    ‘ Remember that holiday in Snowdonia? ’ she reads. ‘ Well, it’s a bit like that, only with less rain. In fact, it’s hot as hell. I can’t work out if I’m tanned or just toasted! But mostly I’m bored. Every day is the same out here. You lose track of time. I’ve been thinking of things to do when I get home. We should get away more, go to Amsterdam or maybe Paris. Somewhere they serve cold beer! Miss you loads. Better sign off now. This pen is drying up. See, I told you it was hot! ’
    His earlier letters were always so thoughtful. Sometimes he’d illustrate them with stick figures and cartoon faces. ‘ Me today ,’ he’d written in one, next to a stick figure of a man lounging in a chair with a rifle by his side, staring up at a clock. Then ‘ me tomorrow ’ with a similar man in the same position. A good joke would be followed by a smiley face, a bad one with a figure clasping their hands to their head, mouth wide open, like the man in The Scream . ‘ Excuse me while I explode with laughter ,’ he’d write. Then, ‘ PS: this letter will self-destruct in three seconds .’
    It wasn’t the jokes that brought a smile to her face. It was the way he made light of his situation. But it didn’t last. Two months after he’d arrived in Iraq, the letters became less frequent. Days would pass, and there’d be no word from him. Then one would arrive, apologizing for the lack of correspondence and assuring her that everything was fine. But she knew him better than that. The tone had changed. There were fewer jokes and no silly cartoons. The letters were shorter, some no longer than postcards. ‘ Not much to report ,’ he’d written in one. ‘ Days hot. Nights cold. Missing you. Love, Owen .’ After that, there’d been nothing for a whole week. She’d feared the worst until another letter arrived, informing her that he was coming home.
    She’d been so excited at the prospect of seeing him again. But the thrill of being reunited and the pleasure they took in each other’s bodies couldn’t hide the fact there was something different about him. It had taken five days before he finally opened up and told her what had happened. He’d shot and killed a