The Black Path Read Online Free PDF

young boy. ‘It’s part of what I was trained to do,’ he said. ‘But that doesn’t mean I have to feel good about it.’ She’d suggested that he talk to someone, but he’d refused.
    ‘And tell them what? That I feel bad about doing my job? I’m sure they’d love that!’
    Still, it hadn’t prevented him from going to Afghanistan.
    ‘But why do you have to go?’ she’d asked when he told her the news.
    ‘You know why,’ was his reply.
    ‘You could leave the army, get a job here.’
    ‘Doing what?’ He looked almost angry with her. ‘This is what I do, Helen. This is who I am.’
    Was this latest silence an omen? Of the fifty or so letters in the bundle, there are only a few from Afghanistan, written in the weeks after he arrived. The most recent is dated June 3 – almost three weeks ago. There have been a couple of emails since then, and one short phone call. She could tell by the tone of his voice that something was troubling him, that the distance between them wasn’t just physical.
    She takes a deep breath and places the letters to one side. Also in the box are mementos of the only other man she’s ever loved.
    Helen grew up with so few physical reminders of her father. Her mother had seen to that. A week after his funeral, Helen arrived home from school to find a white builders’ van parked outside the house. A workman came up the driveway carrying a broken doorframe above his head. She recognized it instantly. Running round to the back garden, she found her mother watching silently as another man took a sledgehammer to the remains of her father’s shed.
    ‘You’re early,’ her mother said. Her voice was distant, as if the destruction of the shed meant nothing to her.
    ‘How could you?’ Helen screamed.
    ‘It’s for the best,’ her mother replied.
    The man took another swing with the sledgehammer. There was a terrible groaning sound and what remained of the shed scattered across the lawn. Helen fell to her knees and scrambled through the debris, searching frantically for anything she could find of her father’s – broken hinges, bottle tops and a handful of his old coins. When she looked up again, her mother had gone. All these years later, Helen still hasn’t quite forgiven her.
    She stares down at the contents of the shoe box. Not much, really – just a handful of faded photographs, a yellowing newspaper cutting, a couple of leather bookmarks and a blue pocket dictionary inscribed with his spidery handwriting – ‘ To my darling daughter, hoping you find it useful for many years to come .’ And there, glinting in the half-light, are some of his old coins. They aren’t worth anything, or so her mother says. She had them valued shortly after he died and seemed pleased to report that these things he’d treasured weren’t worth keeping. But to Helen they’re more precious than gold. Her father once held these coins.
    She takes one out and places it in the palm of her hand. The surface is tarnished and the edges are worn. On one side there’s a profile of a young-looking Elizabeth II, and on the other a picture of Britannia and the date – 1970. She remembers her father telling her that this was the year before these old pennies became obsolete, and for some strange reason the thought saddens her. She replaces the coin, slides the box back under the bed and heads downstairs.
    Later, when the clothes are all ironed and a feeling of order has been restored, she allows herself a large glass of wine. She’s never been much of a drinker. She fears the loss of control, worries that she might make a fool of herself. But tonight, in the safety of her own home, with nobody to bear witness to her drinking, she sits on the sofa and lets the wine do its work, soothing her anxieties away. It doesn’t take much. Owen always said she was a cheap date and sometimes teases her about the fact that her tolerance for alcohol is no greater now than when they first met. She tries not to think about