Free The Black Path by Paul Burston

you alright, love?’ the barman asks when he returns with Angela’s change. As he places the coins in her hand, Helen notices the tattoo on his forearm – a coat of arms, with a grinning skull and the words ‘Death Before Dishonour’.
    ‘I’m fine,’ she mumbles. But she’s not fine. Her limbs are heavy, and she seems to have lost control of her legs.
    ‘Only you don’t look too clever,’ the barman says. ‘Where’s your friends? Don’t tell me they’ve buggered off and left you.’
    ‘No,’ Helen replies. ‘They’ll be back in a minute.’
    Five minutes pass. Then another five minutes, and another. There’s still no sign of Angela and Kath.
    The barman reappears. ‘Looks like they’ve forgotten you,’ he says.
    A familiar fear of abandonment stirs in Helen’s stomach. Where are they?
    ‘Tell me to mind my own business,’ the barman says. ‘Only we get some right dickheads in here. And you don’t look like you’re on the pull.’
    Helen’s fingers clench around her wedding ring. ‘I’m married.’
    The barman grins. ‘Husband let you off the leash for the night, has he?’
    ‘He’s away,’ Helen says. She glances at the barman’s tattoo. ‘In Afghan.’
    The barman’s smile fades. ‘Oh. I see.’
    Their eyes lock for a moment.
    ‘Well, you take care, love.’
    Helen’s throat tightens. She wishes Owen was here. He would never have left her alone in a strange bar.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, and turns away. She reaches for her handbag, trips and bumps into someone. A glass falls and shatters at her feet.
    ‘Silly cow!’ a woman’s voice snaps. ‘Watch where you’re going!’
    She doesn’t look back. Frantically, she scans the room, pushing past crowds of people until finally – yes, there it is! – the door.
    She stumbles outside, feels the crunch of broken glass underfoot and the cool air on her face. Her head spins. She takes a few deep breaths and tries to focus. A girl in a pink dress staggers past with her hand clasped to her mouth, vomit spilling through her fingers. A siren screams as an ambulance speeds by, blue lights flashing. Helen watches it disappear. Where the hell are Angela and Kath?
    An older woman lurches towards her. She looks vaguely familiar. Her hair is blonde on top and black at the sides and has been pulled up into a huge, teased explosion. She holds a cigarette in one hand and a fast food carton in the other. Behind her, two other women are sucking furiously on their cigarettes. Struggling to focus, Helen stares at them. All three are dressed in outfits designed for girls half their age – short skirts, plunging necklines, bare shoulders.
    ‘What are you looking at?’ the woman with the exploding hair shouts as they approach.
    ‘What?’ Helen asks, confused. ‘Nothing.’
    ‘Oh, so you’re saying I’m nothing, are you?’
    ‘She was laughing at us before,’ another voice says. ‘On the dance floor’.
    An image of Angela dancing flashes before Helen’s eyes. ‘I wasn’t,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean –’
    ‘Well, that’s funny,’ the blonde woman says. ‘Cos you had a smirk on your face just now. Are you trying to start something? Cos if you are, just say.’
    Helen shakes her head. She looks around for Angela and Kath, but they’re nowhere to be seen. It’s just her. Alone. Terrified.
    The blonde woman comes closer, so close that Helen can smell the smoke on her breath and feel the heat from the carton she holds in her hand. She takes a long drag on her cigarette, leans forward and blows a thick cloud of smoke into Helen’s face.
    Helen coughs and retches.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ the woman asks, stepping back and turning to her friends. ‘Can’t hold your drink?’
    The other women cackle and draw closer. Their eyes are shining, mouths puckered in looks of barely contained glee. They can sense the violence in the air. Helen feels it too. Her heart hammers inside her chest.
    The blonde woman takes another step forward.