The Judas Scar

by Amanda Jennings

  He walked through to the study and turned the computer on, logged onto Facebook. He reread the message, Farrow’s pudgy, balding head beside it, and felt a swell of bile hit his throat.

  ‘You shit,’ he said aloud. ‘You absolute piece of shit. This is all your fault.’

  Hi Alastair, Good to hear from you. A drink sounds great. It’s been a long time. I happen to be coming over your way for work next week. Are you able to meet up for a quick one, maybe Tuesday or Wednesday? Thursday would work at a push. Let me know. Will.

  He jammed his finger on the return key and his message etched itself into the computer screen.

  C H A P T E R E I G H T E E N

  Emma Barratt-Jones walked into the kitchen and dumped her shopping bags on the black granite worktop that shone like a mirror. She sighed. It was quiet. Too quiet. She didn’t like it when the house was this empty, just her rattling around between school drop-off and pick-up. Nearly all her friends moaned about the school holidays, about having their children under their feet, about the mess and the I’m-bored-mummy cries. Emma loved the holidays. Loved having Josh and Abi around. The house lit up when they were in it. To hear them playing, running around, to cook for them, chat to them, laugh with them, it all gave meaning to her life. While they were at school the house was dormant, like a museum, and all she could hear over the silence was her own breathing and the ticking of the clock in the hall.

  As she turned to unload the shopping bags, she caught sight of the worktop around the sink and oven. The sunlight streamed in through the windows, highlighting a fine layer of otherwise invisible dust. She left the shopping and took the J-cloth from where it hung, folded and damp, over the rise of the expensive designer tap. She wiped the surfaces, making sure every speck of dust was lifted. Then she rinsed the cloth and refolded it over the tap. She unpacked the shopping and thought about Ian. She’d tried to call him that morning but he’d been too busy to talk to her. His secretary had been vague, as if she was hiding something, as if she was lying when she said Ian was in a meeting. Nothing was right with him at the moment. It worried her. Usually, she was able to work out what was wrong with him, soothe him. She was a good wife. She knew that. She kept an immaculate house. She listened to him. She didn’t even shop as much as Ian would have their friends believe. In fact, she prided herself on being frugal by nature, something that came from her upbringing. Watching her mother racked with stress as she tried to feed her family of six on next to nothing had stayed with her. Emma never wasted food and always shopped in the sales and took advantage of offers. She’d managed to kick her coupon habit; coupons made her feel poor rather than thrifty. But for the last month he’d drawn further and further away from her, and nothing she did seemed to bring him any closer, or provide him any relief or comfort.

  She felt lost and helpless. After putting the last of the shopping away, she folded the canvas bags neatly and put them in the drawer then turned the kettle on. She waited while it boiled noisily. When it clicked off, and the rumbling boil ceased, the kitchen was plunged into dreary quiet again. She didn’t want tea. She wanted to talk to someone; the god-awful quiet was eating away at her. She leant back against the worktop and reached for the phone.

  ‘Hello?’ said Harmony.

  ‘Hi, it’s me.’ she said. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘A little,’ Harmony said. ‘But don’t worry. I’m sorry I didn’t call you back yesterday.’

  Emma could hear the tightness in her voice and knew Harmony was working. ‘It’s okay, I know how busy you are. Are you sure you’re not in a meeting or something?’ she asked.

  ‘No. I’m working from home today, but I’m trying to concentrate on something.’ Harmony sighed heavily. ‘My boss sent me a pretty blunt email last night asking for this piece of work. I’m finding it hard to focus, though.’

  ‘Anything wrong?’ Emma leant on the worktop on her elbows, chin resting on her hand. Harmony seemed to hesitate. Emma ran her finger back and forth over the granite and waited for her to speak. She thought she heard Harmony sigh again.

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Have you got time for a chat?’

  ‘Yes,’ Harmony replied. ‘I could do with a break.’

  They chatted about this and that but Emma could tell there was something wrong. Harmony wasn’t herself, she was uptight and withdrawn, and she wondered if she’d done something to upset her, though for the life of her she couldn’t imagine what.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Not really. Will and I are having a bit of a tricky time.’

  ‘You and Will?’ Emma exclaimed. ‘I don’t believe it. What’s happened?’

  ‘Do you think I’m too hard on him, Em?’

  Emma furrowed her brow. ‘Hard on him? No. I don’t think you are at all. Why do you say that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just wonder whether I’m understanding enough. Whether I’ve been sympathetic enough. I mean, like when he gave up his photography. He was so disappointed, had the wind knocked out of him and … oh … I don’t know … I just can’t remember if I was kind to him.’

  ‘You certainly weren’t unkind. Not as far as I was aware anyway. I’ve never known you be unkind to anyone or anything in your life. Least of all Will. To be honest, I’m not sure I ever heard you talking about it at all.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what I mean. Maybe I was so focused on him having a sensible career that I didn’t give him enough credit for following his dream. I suppose I always thought he should do something with wine. After all, he’s been working in it for long enough. I didn’t support him enough with the photography, I didn’t appreciate how difficult it was for him when it didn’t take off. I just told him to stop being silly and get on with finding another job.’

  ‘You’re being very hard on yourself,’ Emma said. ‘You were having to think about bringing the money in and all that. He seemed to realise, certainly when Ian and I spoke to him, that businesses go under all the time. And he’s done brilliantly with the wine shop and it’s not as if he hates it.’

  ‘I know,’ she sighed. ‘I just wonder if we all take other people’s dreams for granted.’

  ‘Listen, I’ve known you a very long time and I don’t think you’ve ever assumed anything to be unimportant. You take everything very seriously. It was a few years ago anyway and he always appears very content and relaxed. I … ’ She was stopped in her tracks by a sudden wave of emotion. ‘Sorry,’ she managed. ‘Give me a sec.’

  ‘Are you crying?’

  Emma took the phone away from her face and pressed her sleeve into her eyes to stop herself from crying. ‘No,’ she said, bringing the phone back. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Gosh, what a pair we are,’ Harmony said gently. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Probably nothing.’ She paused. ‘I’ve just had one of those weeks, ignore me.’

  ‘Go on, tell me, I can hear you’re upset.’

  ‘I am a bit.’ She paused again. ‘Are you sure you have time? You should be working, shouldn’t you?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, of course I’ve got time.’

  Emma dried more tears with her sleeve. Then she rubbed at an invisible mark on the worktop. ‘There’s something going on with Ian.’

  ‘What type of something?’

  Emma hesitated, shaking her head again, grimacing at the sound of the words out loud. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, her voice unsteady. ‘He’s not himself. He’s back late, drinking all the time. I know there’s something wrong but he won’t tell me. He keeps saying he’s fine. I know he’s not. He gets cross with me and the children so easily.’ She paused. ‘I’m worried,’ she said. ‘Really worried.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what it might be?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It could be all sorts of things. He’s just so tense.’ She gave a frustrated groan. ‘I keep catching him on the phone talking quietly or taking a call then shutting himself away in his office to talk. I asked him about it las
t night but he got so angry and shouted at me. He said I had to leave him alone and that there was no problem. But … ’ She hesitated again. ‘Oh, Harmony, I think he’s got another woman.’

  Harmony was silent.

  Emma waited for her to say something.

  ‘Harmony?’ she said. ‘Did you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, I heard you,’ she said. ‘I … ’ She struggled to speak, images of her with Luke coming at her, then Will’s face, his eyes downcast, his defeated demeanour, his desperation to please her in the newly planted garden. ‘I’m sure you’ve got it wrong.’

  ‘Are you? I’m not sure I’ve got it wrong at all. In fact, I’m convinced. I can’t think of anything else. He worked late twice last week but when I called his direct line there was no answer. He’s secretive, he can’t look me in the eye.’ She sighed. ‘He hasn’t wanted sex for a over a month and you know what he’s like, I mean, it’s Ian, he’s the original sex pest, usually all over me like a rash.’

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s having an affair.’

  Emma wanted to protest, tell Harmony all the other things that pointed to Ian playing away, but she’d run out of energy. She was exhausted with all the worrying she’d been doing. And it didn’t seem as if Harmony was that interested, certainly not in offering the support Emma needed. She had hoped Harmony would laugh and tell her not to be so ridiculous, reassure her that Ian wasn’t capable of such a thing. But she seemed subdued, almost as if she suspected Ian herself.

  ‘I always imagined I’d be one of those wives who wouldn’t get her knickers in a twist over this sort of thing.You know, husband gets a mistress, one less job on the to-do list, but, well, truth is I do mind. I mind terribly. I was just this minute thinking about it and felt myself about to cry. That’s why I called. I mean, when do I ever cry?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Exactly. But last night I cried proper buckets. I had to hide in the larder, sobbing my eyes out. The children thought I was in there stealing chocolate biscuits.’ She breathed out heavily. ‘I don’t want to lose him, Harmony. We’ve been together too long. He’s my husband and I know he’s no angel – he’s a bloody pain most of the time – but I love him.’

  Harmony was quiet again.

  ‘And the children? If he … leaves us … ’

  ‘He’s not going anywhere, Emma.’

  Emma sniffed. ‘Well, for the last week or so he’s barely been able to look at me.’

  ‘Have you asked him about it?’

  ‘No!’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t want him to tell me he’s fallen in love with someone else. I don’t want to know. I just want him to get it out of his system and come back to me.’ Emma stopped speaking then, overwhelmed by tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she managed through sobs.

  ‘Do you need me to drive down?’

  Emma knew from her voice that she didn’t really want to. Not that she’d expect her to – she had work to do, after all. ‘That’s so sweet of you to offer, but it’s far too far,’ she said. ‘I’ll be fine. I just needed to share it with you. And you’re probably right, it’s bound to be nothing, just me overreacting as usual. I know he’s got lots going on at work. He’s probably just exhausted.’ Emma laughed through the end of her tears. ‘I’ll cook him a steak and kidney pie tonight. Remind him why he loves me.’

  Emma nodded and then took a couple of breaths to steady herself. ‘I’m absolutely fine. Everything is absolutely fine. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.’

  C H A P T E R N I N E T E E N

  Will waited in his car outside the pub. Rain hammered at the windscreen, and despite it still being early the black clouds that hung low overhead darkened the sky. He’d answered Alastair’s chirpy message which suggested Tuesday in a similarly enthusiastic style. He’d ended with a cheery looking forward to it and had a quickly returned a reply saying likewise.

  At each point Will questioned his motives: with each message sent, as he’d grabbed his car keys, walked out of the flat, drove through Hanworth and crossed the M25, followed the signs to Lightwater, then Camberley. Yet despite all the doubt, there he was, in the car park of The Dog and Duck, waiting to meet up with Alastair Farrow.

  He took a breath and patted his hands against the driver’s wheel and unclipped his seat belt.

  The pub was low-ceilinged, with a brash tartan carpet and horse brasses that hung on black-painted beams, and cheap dark tables with wooden chairs with green PVC seat pads. It smelt of old beer, last Sunday’s roast, and the faint tang of bleach. Will walked up to the bar and smiled at the heavy-set barman who was wiping a cloth over one of the beer taps.

  ‘Yes, mate,’ he said, balling the cloth and dropping it onto the bar top.

  ‘I’ll have a glass of red wine.’

  ‘Large or small?’

  ‘Large, please’ Will replied. ‘Is there a wine list?’

  The man shook his head. ‘No, we do a choice of two. Merlot or a cheeky Cabernet Sauv.’

  ‘The Cabernet Sauvignon and a bag of ready salted, please.’ Will kept his eyes on the bar and focused on the voices around him, trying to pick out any that might be familiar. He didn’t like how anxious he was feeling. It was ridiculous; years had passed. He forced himself to turn around to check the pub properly. As soon as he did he saw Alastair. It had to be him. Same balding head from the Facebook photos, same reddened skin. He was sitting at a table with his back to Will. He was reading a newspaper, sitting bolt upright, holding the paper in front of him at arm’s length. He wore a green sweater with a pink shirt, a gold watch on his right wrist. Will craned his head around a group of men obscuring his view and saw Alastair was wearing brown cord trousers and tan leather shoes with a stripe of a red sock just visible. As he studied him he felt his knees give way. He reached for the bar to steady himself, breathed slowly and evenly as he allowed the memories of that afternoon to play out, not fighting to block them as he usually would. He felt the thump of fists into his sides and back. He remembered Farrow’s smell, cigarettes, school soap, alcohol. He felt his full weight on him as Farrow held him down and pushed his face into the dirt, struggling and panicking as he felt the air squeeze out of his lungs.

  ‘That’ll be six-fifty, mate.’

  Will took his eyes off Alastair and took his credit card out of his wallet. ‘I’m meeting someone for a few drinks,’ he said. ‘Can I set up a tab?’

  The barman nodded and took Will’s credit card, dropping it into a beer glass on the back of the bar with the till receipt. Will thanked him and picked up his crisps and wine and began to walk to the table.

  ‘Alastair?’ he said as he drew level with him.

  The man looked up in mild surprise and then hurriedly closed his paper and stood. He held out his hand.

  ‘Will English!’

  Will shook his hand. A shiver ran up his arm as their skin touched. ‘Alastair Farrow.’

  ‘Call me Al. Nobody calls me Alastair these days, except for my mother, but only when she’s cross with me, of course.’ He guffawed with laughter. He was plumper than he’d been in the photos, his hair cut close to his head to make light of the baldness. His eyes were surrounded by deep laughter lines and his lips were so dark in colour they appeared almost purple.

  Will gestured at Alastair’s pint glass which was three quarters full. ‘Do you want another before I sit down? I’ve left a card behind the bar.’

  ‘I’m good for the moment, thanks,’ he said. He sat down and moved the paper off the table onto the seat beside him. ‘Don’t want to get into trouble with the wife.’ He winked at Will, who managed a tight smile and sat down opposite him. This was even harder than he’d imagined it would be.

  ‘So what’s it been?’ asked Alastair brightly, showing no nerves at all. ‘Twenty years? Must be. At least.’

  Will plastered his face with a smile. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘At least.’

  ‘And what do you do?’

  ‘I have a wine shop,’ he said. He stared at Alastair’s face,
eyes drawn to the scar that ran down his cheek.

  ‘Ah, wine. Nice. I’m a bit of claret man myself. Do you sell much claret?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Will, dragging his eyes away from the screaming scar.

  ‘Quite a bit. How about you? What do you do?’

  ‘Accountant, I’m afraid.’ He smiled at Will. ‘Bit of a conversation killer.’ He lifted his beer and drank. ‘You married?’ he asked as he placed the glass down.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘She’s all right, is she?’

  ‘All right?’

  ‘You know, a bit of a harridan or good and quiet?’

  Will stared at him for a moment or two and then Alastair laughed loudly. ‘Mine’s a bit of a harridan. I’m sure yours is lovely. Lucky bugger.’

  Will moved his wine glass to the side and leant forward. ‘I need to talk to you about what happened.’

  Alastair looked confused.

  ‘At school,’ Will said. ‘You see, when I read your message the other night, I thought it odd you weren’t more apologetic.’

  ‘For what?’

  Will laughed in astonishment. Indignant anger flared inside him.

  ‘For what?’ Will repeated. ‘For being a fucking cunt, that’s what.’

  Alastair’s smile fell from his face like a stone through water. He stared at Will as if he was pointing a gun in his face then glanced nervously over his shoulder. ‘Steady on,’ he said, laughing tightly. ‘That’s a bit much.’

  ‘A bit much?’ Will needled his eyes into Alastair’s puffy face.

  ‘You’re joking, right?’

  ‘And this is about school?’

  ‘Of course it’s about school!’ Will shook his head and stared at the man with incomprehension. He sat back in his chair. ‘You remember what you did, don’t you?’

  Alastair’s face broke into a smile. ‘Will, come on. We were at public school, that’s just what happened. A bit of banter. Mucking around.’ His smile broadened. ‘You know that. That’s just what went on. There isn’t a boarding school in the country that doesn’t have the same. There’s no need to get worked up about it. Like I said in my message, I was a bit of a cock, I know that. But, that’s the way it was.’ He reached for his beer and drank. ‘Just banter.’