The Judas Scar
Contents
Cover page
Title page
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY - ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY - TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY - THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY - FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY - FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY - SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY - SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY - EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY - NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY - ONE
EPILOGUE
Notes From The Author
Acknowledgements
Praise For The Judus Scar
Cutting Edge Press
Copyright
For Sian, who brightens life.
Betrayal is the only truth that sticks.
Arthur Miller
P R O L O G U E
‘Do you remember what else you said to me that day?’
There was an eerie calm to the man’s voice that chilled the dead, stale air around them. He looked up at him, those eyes burning with hatred, mouth twisted into a bitter snarl. A fresh hit of adrenalin coursed through his veins as he fought against the cords that bound him, tugging and twisting like a snared rabbit desperate to free itself.
The man leant forward and whispered close to his ear. His breath was hot, his words creamy with intent. ‘You said: And by the way, this is going to hurt you a lot more than it’s going to hurt me.’ Then he gave a soft rumble of laughter as he dangled the penknife in front of his face like a hypnotist’s watch.
Later. How long had it been? An hour? Maybe two. He lay on the floor alone and bleeding. He craned his neck to see where the man was, if he was near, but there was no sign of him, no sound. The concrete beneath his cheek was cool and uneven, its musty dampness filling his nose with each breath. It was a smell he’d always liked. In his top three, in fact, coming in just behind petrol fumes off a garage forecourt and hot bitumen. His wife thought him mad to like smells like these, but what did she know? She liked vanilla, freshly baked bread and cake; smells that made her fat.
He listened to the hum of traffic outside, cars and vans passing, fewer now than earlier, their drivers unaware of him, unable to help. The gaffer tape wrapped around his head and covering his mouth pinched at his skin, and when he coughed there was a strange rattling inside his lungs that pushed phlegm and Christ-knew-what against his sealed lips, making him gag.
Fuck this, he thought. Fuck lying on the floor in some godforsaken shithole, tied up and bleeding.
He made another futile attempt to pull his hands free, but the ropes dug into his wrists and a sharp pain shot up his arm through his shoulder and into his neck.
A broken collarbone, he thought. The bastard’s broken your bloody collarbone.
One of his eyes had swollen closed; through the other he saw a pool of blood that bloomed on the concrete. What the hell was he doing here, lying on the floor, beaten, kicked and cut, watching blood quietly seep from his body? Things like this, deaths like this – was he really going to die? – should happen to other people, two-dimensional characters in ten-a-penny thrillers and crappy television dramas. But here he was dying a fictional death, lying in his own blood and piss, cold and broken. He wondered how long they’d take to find his body. Would the police work it out? Or would he be just another unsolved crime, the murder of a nobody cluttering up their files?
He heard footsteps and his body tensed. A surge of fresh panic jump-started him. His heart pounded as he turned his head towards the approaching noise. The man stopped walking. He was there, not far away, but he didn’t move closer. There was a glint of the penknife. He held his breath and waited for whatever was going to happen next. Every cell in his body screamed with pain. He kept as still as possible and played dead, hoping it would be enough to send the man away. Sure enough, when the footsteps started up, they moved in the opposite direction, echoing slightly on the floor.
He lay there some time, aware of his body growing colder. He vaguely remembered reading somewhere that as an injured body lost blood its temperature dropped. His mind drifted in and out of consciousness like a listing ship on a gentle swell. He tried to listen for the cars again, perhaps catch the sound of an ambulance siren, but all he could hear was a faint ringing in his ears. White noise. Just static. His vision had blurred to a hazy mirage and the effort of keeping his one eye open was too much so he allowed it to close. His breathing was steady now and at last the pain began to subside. Perhaps he’d make it after all. All he needed to do was rest, to regain his strength, sleep a bit.When he woke he’d work out how to get help.
His last thought before he finally gave in was of the weather, of how it could be this bloody cold in July.
C H A P T E R O N E
Harmony lay on the grass and searched the cornflower sky for clouds. There were none, not even the breath of one. The only thing that broke the blue was a fading streak of white from a long-passed plane. The sun warmed her face as she listened to the sound of Londoners all around them enjoying the hot June Sunday on Wandsworth Common.
‘He’s so good with the boys,’ said Sophie.
Harmony sat halfway up and propped herself on her forearms to watch Will and her nephews. Her husband in knee-length khaki shorts with bare feet, his pink and crumpled shirt rolled to the elbows, and the boys – Cal, Matt and George, aged fifteen, twelve and nine respectively – bare chested, their skin glistening with sweat, playing football on a pitch marked out with T-shirts and trainers. Cal went in for a sliding tackle and knocked his youngest brother’s feet from beneath him. George scrambled up, indignant, appealing for a foul while glaring at his brother as he geared up for a fight. Will ran over to George and lifted him high before turning him upside down and diverting his attention from the injustice.
‘He likes them. They’re lovely boys.’ Harmony smiled as Will put George back on the ground and ruffled his hair then hooked an arm around his neck and pulled him close. He whispered something conspiratorial and George’s face broke into a smile and he nodded, then the two of them jogged back to rejoin the game, the fight with Cal forgotten.
Sophie looked over at Roger who sat a little away from them in the shade of a sycamore tree, Blackberry in hand, his eyes fixed on the screen as his thumb scrolled. ‘Why don’t you join them?’ she called over to him.
‘Got an email that needs to go before noon.’ He glanced up at Will and the boys. ‘They’re fine anyway. If I join them they’ll be uneven.’
Sophie groaned and rolled her eyes at Harmony. ‘He’s literally never off that thing,’ she said. ‘He carries his office around in his pocket twenty-four-seven.’
‘You’re lucky he’s so dedicated. Christ knows, Will could do with a bit of the same drive.’
‘Will’s fine.’ Sophie reached into the cool box for the bottle of wine and then poured some into her plastic cup. She held the bottle out towards Harmony. ‘Want some? It’s a bit warm.’
Harmony shook her head then turned back to watch Will with her nephews. Sophie was right, he was great with them, and she felt a sharp stab of longing in the pit of her stomach.
> ‘He’d make a great dad, you know,’ Sophie said. Harmony nodded. ‘Yes, he would.’
‘How are you feeling about things?’
‘I’m fine.’ She smiled at her older sister. ‘It’s taken its time though. I’d no idea I’d be such a wreck for so long.’
Sophie reached for her hand and gave it a rub.
‘And Will?’
‘Same old story. I mean, I know he’s thinking about it. Sometimes he seems distant and stuck in his thoughts, but you know what he’s like, he buries his feelings, makes stupid jokes at the wrong times. He doesn’t seem to get it. It’s like he’s scared of owning up to any emotion. As if it’s somehow admitting a weakness.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘But what can I do? That’s Will for you.’
‘That’s men for you,’ her sister said, directing a pointed look towards Roger who was still glued to his Blackberry. ‘I sometimes wonder if my husband would know my smile from my frown from two feet away.’
Roger glanced up briefly. ‘You’re always happy, aren’t you, my angel?’
‘See what I mean?’ she said to Harmony, raising her eyebrows in mock despair. ‘Yes, dearest, always happy,’ she called over. He smiled and went back to his phone.
Sophie looked back at the game of football and burst out laughing as Will faked a fall and all three boys piled on top of him. Harmony watched as her husband fought to get out from beneath them, finally emerging with his blond hair sticking up in all directions and his cheeks red from running. Will stood and began to walk towards her, shoving George away as he flung himself against him in an attempt to bring him down.
‘Enough now, big man,’ she heard him say. ‘You’ve killed me. I need a stint on the bench.’
He jogged over to Harmony and Sophie and collapsed on the picnic rug. ‘They’re exhausting, Soph,’ he said, panting heavily. ‘How on earth do you guys do that every day?’
‘We don’t do it every day. In fact, we try never to do it. That’s why we had three of them, so they can wear each other out without any help from us.’
Harmony reached over and smoothed Will’s hair. His brow was clammy with sweat. ‘It would be good for you to do this every day, anyway,’ she said. ‘Look how out of shape you’re getting.’
He turned his head and raised his eyebrows. ‘Out of shape? What are you talking about? This stomach has plenty of shape.’ He patted his thickened middle and laughed, then closed his eyes and tilted his face towards the sun.
Harmony heard a small child yell out. She turned to see a little girl in a denim dress with dimpled knees and dark hair in bunches, tied with bright pink ribbon. She was crying, red-faced and angry, as her steely-faced mother tried to strap her into her pushchair. There was a baby lying on a rug beside them, happily kicking its legs, oblivious to the battle of wills going on between its mother and sibling. The woman finally succeeded in strapping her daughter in and sat back with a weary sigh and a silent mouthed uttering. Then she scooped up her baby and kissed its cheek before standing to truss it into a sling on her front.
Harmony leant down to kiss Will. He opened his eyes sleepily and smiled at her.
‘What was that for?’ he asked.
‘Just because.’
He turned on his side, shifting himself near enough to lay his head on her stomach. ‘This is nice,’ he murmured as he draped his arm over her.
Harmony combed her fingers through his hair and nodded. ‘It is,’ she said.
She glanced up, conscious of being watched, and caught Sophie looking at them with a smile on her face. Harmony smiled too then lay down beside Will, linking her fingers through his. She looked up and saw a single cloud, a wispy white smudge, drifting silently through the wide expanse of blue. She watched it as it moved overhead, morphing imperceptibly from one nondescript shape to the next, and when it had passed she closed her eyes and listened once again to the noises of the people all around them.
C H A P T E R T W O
‘Are you alright?’ he asked, as they pulled up on the grass beside the long row of cars parked beneath the oak trees. ‘You seem quiet.’
‘Do I? I’m fine,’ she said. ‘A bit distracted perhaps.’
‘But you’re happy?’ There was a hopefulness in his voice that stung her.
‘I am.’
‘I’m glad; it suits you.’
She furrowed her brow. ‘I’m not sure being sad suits many people, does it?’
‘I didn’t mean that. I just meant it’s good to see your smile.Your smile suits you.’
Like a shirt or a new shade of lipstick, she thought. She looked out of the window across the fields that rolled away from the smart estate fencing. The evening was beginning to thicken with dusk and two horses stood beside each other grazing in the last few hours of light, their tails flicking at the midges that hung suspended around them. An ungenerous part of her wanted to tell Will not to be so grateful she was happy, not to be so relieved, but she bit her tongue.
‘I’m certainly feeling more like myself,’ she said. She reached into the back seat for her bag. ‘Come on, we should go, we’re late enough as it is. Emma will never forgive me.’
They got out of the car and Will went to the boot to get his camera bag. Their eleven-year-old Clio looked small and scruffy parked next to the shining army of Range Rovers, Porsche Cayennes and BMWs, and Harmony thought of all those glamorous women inside with their designer dresses and judging sneers.
‘Do I look okay?’ she asked, as she straightened her dress and arranged the pale pink pashmina loosely over her shoulders.
‘You look beautiful,’ he said. ‘I should have told you earlier.’
‘You look good too, like a blond 007. Except for your tie, it’s on the wonk.’ She gestured for him to come to her.
He stepped closer and tipped back his head so she could reach up and straighten his bow tie.
‘There,’ she said, as she brushed her fingers through his hair in a futile attempt to neaten him. His unruly hairstyle had remained unchanged forever, a foppish mess that in spite of the wrinkles which had folded themselves into his forehead and around his eyes managed to keep him looking young for his years. ‘That’s a bit better.’ She brushed a few loose hairs off his shoulders. ‘You might have shaved, though.’
He grinned and rubbed his chin which was covered in light blond stubble. ‘I thought you liked me rough and ready.’
‘I don’t have a choice, do I?’
He leant forward and grazed his scratchy skin lightly against her cheek. ‘No, I’m sorry Mrs English, you’re well and truly stuck with the scarecrow chic.’
They walked hand in hand up the driveway.The gravel crunched beneath their feet and the still summer air was filled with the delicate smell of burning oil from the flares that lined the way. As they neared the house the noise of the party – the exuberant music and a rumble of chatter and laughing – grew, and Harmony’s stomach pitched with nerves. She glanced at Will with a hint of envy; so at ease, his eyes glistening with excitement, his devil-may-care attitude driving him forward without a second thought for all those strangers within.
‘I can’t believe they’ve re-gravelled the drive,’ he said. ‘Christ, can you imagine having so much money you’d redo the bloody drive for a party?’ He laughed. ‘And when Ian asked me to supply the champagne and told me his budget I nearly choked.’
Harmony wasn’t surprised; if you had as much money as Ian said he had, re-gravelling the driveway was nothing. ‘From what Emma’s let slip over the past few months, the drive is just the tip of the iceberg.’
Will rubbed his hands together and grinned. ‘Excellent,’ he said.
‘Can’t wait to get in there and start gawping.’
They reached the entrance to Emma and Ian’s imposing Georgian rectory. There were three stone steps leading up to the front door on which were scattered a few handfuls of red rose petals. Harmony remembered Emma telling her they were supposed to look like wedding confetti, but seeing them now they re
minded her of drops of blood and she was careful not to tread on them as they walked up the steps. The heavy oak door opened before they had time to ring the bell and they were greeted by a man in striped grey trousers and a black evening jacket who balanced a tray of champagne on his outstretched hand.
He bowed his head in greeting. ‘Welcome to Oak Dene Hall,’ he said with theatrical formality.
Harmony smiled; she had to admire her friend’s attention to detail. Emma hadn’t mentioned a butler, almost certainly because she knew what her reaction would have been. They’d been friends since primary school, but sometimes Harmony wondered if they had anything in common other than nostalgia. They were different in almost every respect. Harmony loved to travel and devoured books, was dedicated to her work, never went to the gym and rarely wore make-up. In contrast, the world according to Emma comprised a few square miles of rural Oxfordshire and a couple of shopping streets in central London, and, for her, this party was the culmination of months of meticulous planning. Harmony would also turn forty in a few months and had made Will promise there’d be no surprise party. She didn’t even want a card. She’d be perfectly content if the day passed without mention; like a dirty secret it was best kept hidden, not due to vanity but because of everything forty meant. Past her best. The sands of time nearly run through.
Will thanked the man and took two glasses of champagne. ‘I know you’re driving,’ he said, as he handed her a glass. ‘But you should try this, it’s one of the best we stock, from a tiny vineyard that doesn’t usually supply outside of France. It’s very easy drinking, you’ll like it.’
She took the glass and they walked over to the circular table in the large entrance hall that held a huge vase of flowers and a bowl of tropical fruit that spilled over the shining mahogany like a nineteenth-century still life.
Will lifted his glass and she clinked hers against it. ‘Cheers,’ he said, and then kissed her.
She took a sip of champagne. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It’s delicious.’ He grinned. ‘I knew you’d like it. I thought that when Ian was choosing and steered him this way. The other bottle he was thinking about was heavy, like a brick in the face. I’m not sure he could tell champagne from bleach, to be honest.’
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