The Judas Scar

by Amanda Jennings

  ‘Not then.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I went to see the doctor not long after you found out you were pregnant. I was all over the place. We had this child on the way and I didn’t want to make the same mistake again; I didn’t want more children.’ He turned on the bed to look at her. ‘I didn’t want to take any more chances.’

  ‘But you would have been unwell – there’s swelling, isn’t there?’ He didn’t reply.

  ‘Will! For God’s sake! Tell me when you did it!’

  He shook his head and rubbed his chin with his hand. ‘At the beginning of December,’ he said wearily. ‘I told you I had the flu.’

  Her mind whirred, thinking back to the week he spent in bed, tucked up in a darkened room, curtains drawn, an extra pillow. Chicken soup. A hot water bottle. ‘But I looked after you,’ she said.

  ‘I phoned Frank and told him you were too ill to go into the shop.’ She put her hand on her forehead. ‘I gave you ibuprofen. I fed you. I … ’ Her voice trailed to nothing.

  ‘I didn’t know how to tell you. I was going to, at one point, but I kept putting it off, avoiding it, and then you had the miscarriage and, well, I didn’t want to upset you any more than you were.’

  She laughed bitterly and fixed her eyes on the wall. ‘Well, thank you for not wanting to upset me. Thank you for your care and consideration. For your thoughtfulness.’ She shook her head again. ‘You get the prize for caring fucking husband of the year!’

  ‘Don’t shout at me.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’ A sense of finality mushroomed inside her. It was like he’d fired a machine gun at their marriage which now lay in bloodied tatters at her feet. As she stared at him she had the strange illusion of him turning into a stranger, his features becoming unfamiliar, the set of his face becoming that of someone she vaguely knew, a man with a resemblance to Will, but a man she couldn’t place.

  ‘You know,’ he said, with a note of anger. ‘This is nuts. You’re looking at me like I’m the devil, like I’ve cut your heart out.You knew if you married me you wouldn’t have a family. It was a sacrifice, I know that, but you made it. I was there when you agreed to it, standing beside you in the registry office, holding your hand and slipping that band of gold onto your finger.’

  ‘Don’t you throw that at me! This is way beyond will we or won’t we have a child. Way beyond our marriage vows. If you want to bring marriage vows into it, how about love, cherish, honour – a marriage built on honesty? You’ve made a mockery of everything that day stood for, every promise you made me. And yes, you’re right, I did love you enough to make that sacrifice, and it was a sacrifice, it was the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make. But this isn’t about that day any more, can’t you see that?’ Tears sprung in her eyes and fell unchecked down her cheeks. ‘What you’ve done is despicable.’

  Will walked over to her then, his hands reaching out for her, but she recoiled, turned away from him so he couldn’t touch her.

  ‘When I felt our baby inside me,’ she said, ‘I … felt … complete. Then, when I … ’ Her stomach twinged with the pain of her miscarriage.

  ‘… lost it I felt as if my world had ended, and all I wanted for was that mistake, as you call it, to happen again.’

  She saw him swallow and his shoulders dip as guilt took hold, or perhaps regret.

  ‘I wanted you to have felt it too,’ she said, fighting the lump in her throat. ‘I wanted you to have imagined being a father and holding your baby, and I wanted you to feel as bereft, as cheated, as I did.’ She searched his face for signs of comprehension, of an empathy she now feared he didn’t possess. ‘I see how foolish it was now, but I just hoped you’d changed your mind.’ She blotted her tears on the back of her hand. ‘You have cut my heart out, Will. Doing what you’ve done, making that decision without me, taking away the option of me ever having a baby. You’ve cut my heart out and trodden it into the dirt.’

  He moved towards her again but she pushed him away. ‘I want you to leave me alone. You can sleep on the sofa. I don’t want you anywhere near me.’

  ‘We need to talk.’

  She snorted bitterly. ‘Oh, now we need to talk?’

  ‘Harmony—’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  For a moment he didn’t move and she worried that he might try and approach her again. She walked past him, careful not to touch him as she did, and got into bed. She stretched across to turn the light off and then lay there, arms either side of her on top of the duvet, willing him to go.

  She heard him take a breath to speak. ‘Leave. Me. Alone.’

  Then he left the room. She listened to his footsteps walking down the corridor. Heard him go into the living room. Heard the door close. Then it was quiet. The silence rang in her head. She felt as if she’d been driven over, stunned and confused, her head pounding at the temples. It scared her to feel this level of hatred towards her husband. She thought of her mum then, of a conversation they’d had when Harmony was about seven. She’d been crying in bed and crept downstairs and sidled into the television room where her mother was watching the news. Her mum had opened her arms and she’d climbed onto her lap and curled herself into her, burying her face in her wool sweater, reaching up to stroke the balding patch that had appeared on the side of her head.

  ‘What the matter, petal?’

  ‘Stupid Frankie Graham says my dad left because he didn’t love me.’

  Her mother had tightened her arms around her. ‘Well, what does Stupid Frankie Graham know about anything anyway?’ Harmony had shrugged.

  ‘Nothing, that’s what.’ She kissed the top of her head. ‘Your dad loved you all the way to the moon and back.’

  Harmony turned in her mum’s arms and looked up at her. ‘Why did he go, then?’

  Her mother hadn’t answered immediately, but had taken a deep breath and then finally smiled. ‘Some people are like birds,’ she said.

  ‘You can’t keep them caged. He needed to fly, that’s all. I’d hoped he wouldn’t fly too far, but sadly for us he did.’

  ‘Do you hate him?’

  ‘Hate him?’ Her mother laughed softly and then rested her chin on top of Harmony’s head. ‘No, I don’t hate him. I could never hate your dad. I love him and you can’t turn love on and off like a tap. There’s nothing he could do, even leaving, that would make me stop loving him. Just like he still loves us, whatever he does, wherever he is. You remember that next time Stupid Frankie Graham says anything daft about your dad.’

  Harmony’s thoughts were interrupted by a sudden wetness between her legs as Will’s semen seeped out of her. She cringed as she remembered their lovemaking. Less than an hour ago, when she’d been happy, when she’d felt close to her husband and allowed herself to think about trying for a child. She recalled the way he’d kissed her, so tenderly, so full of love, but all the time he knew what he’d done, how he’d driven a stake through the heart of their marriage. She shifted her body against the discomfort she felt, pulled the sheets between her legs to dry herself. The thought of it turned her stomach; she was revolted by the dead and useless liquid, that ejaculate that tainted her body with its deceitful sterility. It was like venom inside her, and suddenly, violently, she wanted all trace of him out of her.

  She got up and went to the bathroom and set the shower to as hot as she could stand, and there in the quiet darkness she stood beneath the scalding water and scrubbed herself clean of him.

  When she’d finished, she wrapped herself in a dry towel and walked back into the bedroom. Then she went over to her drawers and opened the top one. She reached in and felt for the cardigan, closed her fingers tightly around its softness, pulled it out. For one last time she buried her face in it, breathing deeply, and allowed herself to cry. When she finally stopped, she walked over to the bin in the corner of the room, the pain in her stomach making each step unbearable, and dropped the tiny cardigan into it, then turned her back on it.

  C H A P T E R T E N

&
nbsp; Will lay on the sofa and stared at the ceiling, picturing the cracks that crept across it, invisible in the darkness. He thought about the moment she’d told him she was pregnant. It was a Thursday morning. She was about to leave for work. He remembered it clearly, even what she was wearing – a dark navy skirt and jacket, a white shirt, her Tiffany heart, trainers on her feet, her smart-heeled ‘meeting’ shoes that gave her blisters in her bag for when she arrived.

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  She’d said it just like that. Out of the blue. She was packing her briefcase with her notes, her reading glasses, an apple, and then she just stopped, both hands resting on her bag, and said it.

  I’m pregnant.

  There had been a quiver in her voice and when he looked at her he saw she was trembling, but her eyes gleamed and there was the promise of a smile that lit her face and turned the corners of her mouth up ever so slightly.

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  His heart stopped.

  ‘But how? How can you be?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did you forget a pill?’

  Her smile fell. ‘You think I did it on purpose?’

  ‘What? No.’ Will shook his head, confused; he hadn’t even considered she might do it on purpose. But then: ‘Did you do it on purpose?’

  ‘Of course not! I wouldn’t do that and I didn’t miss a pill either. I’ve not missed a pill in eighteen years.’

  ‘Then how?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I suppose the stats say it’s only ninety-nine point eight percent effective. I guess we’re the point-two percent.’ And then Will saw the wonderment dawn on her face.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she breathed, ‘I’m pregnant!’

  Lying on the sofa Will rested his palms on his face. He could smell her on him and his loins stirred inappropriately as he remembered moving his body inside her. He heard the shower start in their room. She was awake still. He wondered about trying to talk to her, considered what he would say, how he would convince her he was sorry. He should have been honest from the start. That was where it all went wrong. He should have told her on that Thursday morning. It had been a mistake to let her believe he was okay with it, that he was looking forward to having a baby. He could see his mistakes so clearly now. Why had he lied?

  ‘What are you thinking?’ she’d said, as she walked over to him and placed the flat of her hand against his cheek.

  Will noticed how her other hand rested on her tummy, a protective barrier between him and it. Protecting it from what? From his reaction? From his coldness? He should have said something right then, as her hand rested lightly on his face and there was understanding in her voice. But he didn’t.

  ‘I know it’s a shock,’ she said, ‘but … ’ She broke off without finishing her sentence and her face broke into the widest of smiles.

  ‘It’s a good thing, isn’t it? Don’t you think? This will be good for us. It’s what we need. It’s fate.’

  But you don’t believe in fate.You’re a scientist. Fate doesn’t exist for you.

  ‘I mean, I know we weren’t planning it, but you’re happy, right?’

  She rubbed his shoulders and asked him again. ‘Please say something, darling. Tell me you’re happy.’

  Looking down at her face tilted up towards his, her eyes shining, he lied.

  ‘Yes. I think I’m happy. A bit shocked, that’s all. But I’ll be fine. I just need a day or two to get my head around it.’

  And then, as these lies eddied around them, as they filled her eyes with happiness, he smiled and kissed her and held her back when she threw her arms around him.

  ‘That’s good enough for now,’ she whispered into his ear, before pushing away from him, her face childlike in its excitement. ‘Oh, Will! We’re having a baby!’ Then she jumped back into his arms and kissed him again.

  But would telling the truth have helped? She’d never have got rid of the baby. Then he thought about the vasectomy, about the phone call he’d made to the private hospital, the way they’d run through the details, the price, the ease of the operation, the approximate time it would take him to recover. At the time it had seemed rational. Obvious. He’d been annoyed he hadn’t done it years earlier. He remembered feeling suffocated, the walls of his world inching in from all sides, the cold sweats, that agonising mistrust of himself. Those damn words, Larkin’s words, ringing like a tolling bell in his ears. He’d spent every waking moment of those first few weeks trying to imagine himself with a child. He tried to be positive, told himself how it could be a good thing, how this was an opportunity he should embrace. But he hadn’t been able to convince himself and his anxiety had grown until he found it difficult to eat or sleep or breathe. Yet all that time he’d put on this ridiculous mask of happiness. He smiled when she told him how wonderful it was. He pretended to listen when she read aloud from baby magazines, told him how large the foetus was, which bits of its body had developed that week, how her ankles would swell soon, how her stomach would grow until her tummy button turned inside out.

  He was a coward. He always had been.

  C H A P T E R E L E V E N

  Harmony woke later than usual, after eight. Her eyes ached from crying and lack of sleep, and she felt cold and shivery. She washed her face and dressed in black work trousers and a thick grey winter sweater. As she walked along the corridor to the kitchen, her heart pounded. She was unsure about seeing Will; remnants of last night’s animosity came at her like shooting pains, a rage inside her so strong she could barely draw breath.

  He was sitting at their small kitchen table. He was wearing last night’s boxers and a sweater he’d taken from the dirty laundry basket. His hair was all over the place and she could tell from his puffy, tired eyes that he’d had no more sleep than she had. She wondered briefly how long he’d been out pacing the pavements. As she approached him he stood. They faced each other like nervous teenagers, both knowing they were supposed to say something, neither having the faintest clue what.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’ he asked at last. ‘I’ve just made a pot.’ His eyes searched hers, worry written all over his face.

  She nodded and he poured her a cup and added milk from the carton, then handed it to her.

  ‘Harmony, I’m—’

  ‘Don’t,’ she said, feeling her eyes well with angry tears. ‘Not yet.’ Her stomach churned and her throat tightened as the kitchen grew unbearably claustrophobic. She opened the back door to let some air in. The day was duller than the last few days with a slight chill and maybe the promise of rain. She breathed in the freshness and stared out across the garden to the flats beyond their boundary. She saw the shadow of a figure walk past one of the windows.

  ‘Do you ever ask yourself if this is it?’ she said, turning to face him. Her voice was calm and level. She looked at his face intently, trying to find signs of the man she was supposed to love.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean this. Us. The flat, the shop, my work?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I never think that; I have everything I want.’

  She narrowed her eyes at him, feeling herself fill up with spite, wanting to hurt him. ‘Well, I do. I look at this place and I see a dead end.’

  ‘Our flat?’ His brow furrowed. ‘But you love it, don’t you?’

  ‘No, Will, I hate it. I didn’t always hate it. For a long time I thought it was perfect.’

  ‘It still is.’

  ‘It isn’t. It’s as far from perfect as it can be. We had all these plans. You remember? We were going to redecorate, apply for planning to build over the side return.’ She turned and looked back across the garden. ‘And then there’s the garden. I mean, look at it. It’s a mess.’

  ‘I thought you liked it wild and overgrown. You said it’s romantic.’

  ‘No, Will, you said it’s romantic. It’s not romantic; it’s untidy and uninspiring. I don’t want to sit out there in the evenings with a glass of wine and each other for company, and I sh
ould, shouldn’t I? That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Looking forward to simple pleasures like that?’

  She heard him draw a breath as if to speak. ‘I am trapped here,’

  she said before he had the chance.

  ‘Because of what I’ve done?’ he said, his voice full of reticence, as if he didn’t want to hear her answer.

  ‘Yes. You’ve taken my options away. It feels like I’m stuck here with no future. Like I’m trapped against my will. Last night I was thinking, wondering why I’d been so excited about the pregnancy and why I was so desperately lost after the miscarriage. Being pregnant lifted me out of some sort of rut I was in and the miscarriage pushed me right back down.’

  ‘You were that unhappy before the pregnancy?’

  She let his question tumble around her head. It sounded odd. She’d never thought of herself as unhappy before the baby. Had she been? She trawled her mind, trying to pin down exactly what it was she’d felt. Had she been bored, maybe? Or unfulfilled? Numbed? Were these feelings real or just a reaction to the bombshell he’d dropped on her?

  ‘All I know,’ she said, picking at the edge of her thumb nail, ‘is that for much of the last six months I’ve felt alone and uncared for, and at times it was like I’ve been abandoned in the middle of an ocean. And then hearing what you did, knowing you could do something like that … ’ She shook her head and left the sentence unfinished.

  Say something, Will, she begged silently. You need to tell me it’s going to be okay. That everything is going to be okay because we have each other and because you love me.

  But he said nothing.

  ‘I need to leave,’ she said. Her stomach turned over at the sound of her words. ‘I can’t be here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  She began to chew on her lip, unsure what was unfurling, unsure if she believed the words that hovered on the tip of her tongue. ‘I need to leave,’ she repeated. And as the reality of what was happening took root, she felt another stab of pain to her gut. She walked past him, unsteadily, and then out of the kitchen and back to their bedroom. He followed, then watched silently from the doorway as she bent to pull a suitcase from beneath the bed. She gathered clothes and flung them into the case.