The Black Path by Paul Burston Page B

been to the supermarket in over a week. The only cereal she has is cornflakes. She’s even out of milk.
    Siân must have read her mind. ‘I’ll just pop out and get a few things,’ she says, leaping to her feet. ‘It’s no trouble. The keys are downstairs. I’ll be back before you know it.’
    Before Helen can put up any kind of protest, she’s gone.
    The sunlight burns through the blinds, illuminating the room and the tiny dust motes that swirl and eddy in the air. Helen hears the front door slam and lies back on the pillow. She closes her eyes and tries to gather her thoughts. Frank was right. She should never have gone out. It isn’t safe. Anything could have happened to her last night. She could have been robbed, or raped, or ended up in the local paper with her face slashed open, like that woman a few weeks ago. Thank God Siân came along when she did.
    But you don’t even know who this woman is! And she just walked off with your house keys!
    Helen opens her eyes.
    Her handbag! She can’t remember where it is. Everything is inside that bag. Her purse. Her phone. Her credit cards. She scans the room. Nothing. She throws back the duvet, pulls on her dressing gown and runs downstairs. The bag isn’t where she usually leaves it, hanging at the bottom of the stairs. For a split second she has the awful sinking feeling that her fears have been confirmed. Then she spots the bag lying on the kitchen table. Opening it, she’s hit with a mixture of relief and shame. Her purse and phone are still safely inside. The phone is switched on. There isn’t a single missed call or text message.
    So much for Angela and Kath looking out for her. And to think she was even starting to consider Angela a friend.
    The last time Helen had brought a friend home she was twelve. It was the year she’d changed schools, not long after they’d moved house and her mother had taken up with Frank. She’d had friendships before then. There’d been birthday parties, sleepovers, invitations to tea. But everything changed when her father died. She still remembers the headteacher making the announcement during morning assembly – and the way everyone turned to look at her and then looked away. It was as if she’d committed some awful crime or caught some dreadful disease.
    Rebecca Green was a loner like her, but tougher and more glamorous than the rest of the girls in year seven. Her black hair was always backcombed and her purple nylon uniform had been taken in at the sides and shortened to reveal a few extra inches of thigh. She talked back to the teachers and wore a knowing smirk that came from being a few months older and having a boyfriend who was rumoured to ride a motorbike.
    The day she sat next to her in the school canteen, Helen could hardly believe it. She remembers the looks she’d got from the other girls that day, the way they’d stared at her as if they were seeing her for the first time. In a matter of days, she’d gone from being the least interesting girl in her class to the one everyone was suddenly eager to make friends with. Of course she’d known all along that it wasn’t really her they were interested in. But it was a good feeling – while it lasted.
    A few weeks later, she’d invited Rebecca back to her house for tea. Frank had arrived home early from work and was sitting at the kitchen table with a can of lager. Helen had tried to hurry Rebecca upstairs to her room.
    ‘Not so fast,’ Frank said. ‘It’s not often you bring friends home. What’s your name then, love?’
    Rebecca tossed her hair and pouted her lips. ‘Rebecca. But you can call me Becky.’
    Frank slapped his thigh. ‘What do you think, Amanda? Can we call this young lady Becky?’
    Helen’s mother was standing at the kitchen sink, noisily filling the kettle. ‘I’ll make us some tea. Or perhaps Rebecca would prefer squash?’
    Rebecca wound a lock of hair around her finger. ‘I’d rather have a can of lager.’
    Frank chuckled.