The Judas Scar

by Amanda Jennings

  ‘Like you went to prison?’ Luke looked at him and smiled, his eyebrows raised. ‘Not everyone gets punished for the crimes they commit. You should know that better than anyone. Not every crime gets the justice it deserves. And anyway, a bit like you, I’ve got it covered. I’m not going to go to prison. Someone else is going.’

  ‘Enough of this now,’ Alastair was panicking. A paralysing fear had begun to creep over him. He wanted this to stop. ‘What do you want? You don’t have to hurt me. Is it money? Do you want money?’

  ‘Money?’ Luke said with a smile. ‘No, I don’t want your money. I’ve plenty, but it’s kind of you to think of me.’

  ‘Then what?’ Farrow thought of Will, of what he’d said in the pub, of wanting to hear remorse. ‘You want me to say sorry? Is that it? I’ll say it. I’m sorry. Okay? I’m really, really sorry.’

  ‘Your sorry means nothing.’

  As he spoke Luke Crawford walked over to him and lifted the blade. Calmly and methodically, he drew it down the other side of his face. Farrow yelled out and as he did so Luke grabbed him by the throat and brought his face close to his. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ he spat.

  ‘That’s what you said to me as you raped me. Do you remember that? You said shut the fuck up.’

  Alistair Farrow began to whimper. ‘Please don’t hurt me. I have a wife and children.’

  ‘I know all about your family. They seem nice. Your wife could do with losing a bit of weight but I can see she used to be pretty and your children seem nice enough.’

  ‘Don’t hurt my children,’ he whispered. He thought of his family asleep in their beds. Would his wife be wondering where he was? Would Diane have called the police by now? Or would she be happily snoring in bed, blissfully unaware of his plight?

  ‘I’m not going to hurt anybody. Except you.’

  Farrow began to scream then. Luke’s hand was over his mouth in an instant. Pressing against him, squeezing so hard he thought his jaw might shatter.

  ‘Do you know what happened to me after you defiled me and left me in the woods to limp back to school alone in the dark?’ Luke asked him then. He loosened his grip on his face and lowered his hand, lifting a single finger as a warning not to scream. ‘I told my housemaster – I know, a bit of a telltale, that kind of behaviour would have got me into serious trouble, but I figured you couldn’t do any worse to me – and he sent me straight to the head. Drysdale said I was lying. He said that lying about things like that, spreading muck about respectable members of the school was akin to treason. But I insisted. So I was sent to the nurse and told to sleep in that bed in her office. Nobody sat with me. They turned the lights off and left me alone in the dark. No windows, no moonlight, just pitch black, like lying in a coffin in the ground. I lay awake all night feeling dirty, confused, my whole body throbbing with pain, desperate for someone to tell me I was going to be okay. I was terrified, abandoned and broken, a small child ruined – ruined, as it turns out, forever.’

  As he spoke, spitting the words out like bitter poison, he flicked the penknife back and forth.

  ‘I tried everything I could to get on with some sort of life. I was driven. Everything I did I did so I could put what you did behind me. I studied, I kept fit, I worked all the hours I could, searching all the time for someone to love, trying to salvage my life. I thought that would make it better, if I had my own family to love and look after. Protect from animals like you. Prove to the world that life could be good. But I was wrong. What you did ruined me. You stole my life when I was fourteen years old, you stole my life.’

  Luke came up behind Farrow, pulled his head back and stroked his fingers gently down his exposed neck. ‘My wife died because of me. Because she couldn’t deal with me. She tried to help but she couldn’t.’ He bought himself close to Alastair’s ear. ‘You know why nobody can help me? Because of you,’ he whispered, his breath hot on Alastair’s skin. ‘Because of you I can’t even help myself.’

  Alastair tried to shake his head. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he rasped. ‘What have you got to gain from killing me?’

  ‘It’s not about what I have to gain, but about having nothing left to lose.’

  Alastair Farrow pulled against the bungee cords that held his feet and hands in place as Luke bent to rummage in a holdall at his feet. He came out with some grey gaffer tape, picked up the piece of rag and pushed it back into Farrow’s mouth, then wrapped the tape twice around his mouth and head as he pulled back and forth in desperation, panic engulfing him.

  Then Luke leant close to his face. ‘Do you remember what else you said to me that day?’

  Farrow stared up at this man, his crazed eyes locked onto his, and his panic levels surged again. There was an eerie calm to his voice that chilled the dead, stale air around them. He looked up at him, those eyes burning with hatred, that mouth twisted into a bitter snarl. Fresh panic gripped him as he fought against the cords that tied him, tugging and twisting like a snared rabbit desperate to free itself.

  Luke leant forward and whispered close to his ear, his breath hot, 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.’

  C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - S E V E N

  Harmony was tidying the cushions on the sofa when she saw the police car pull up outside their building. She went to the window and watched two men – one in uniform, the other in plain clothes – get out of the car. The one in plain clothes stretched and they exchanged words before walking away from the car. She craned her neck and saw them approach the main door. She jumped when the doorbell rang. She went to buzz them in, smoothing her hair as she did.

  ‘Hello?’ she said, as she opened the door to their flat.

  ‘Good morning, madam,’ said the plain clothed officer. His grey suit was crumpled and his white shirt greying on the edges of his collar. He was older than he’d seemed from the window, with deep, craggy lines, a large nose that had been broken on more than one occasion and a small scar through one of his eyebrows.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she said.

  ‘Does Mr William English live here?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, looking from one to the other. ‘He’s my husband.’

  ‘Is he in?’ said the other police officer, a younger man with sandy hair and matching eyes and the sallow skin of a heavy smoker.

  ‘He’s in the garden.’ She turned and gestured unnecessarily to the back of the flat. ‘Shall I call him?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ said the older man patiently. Harmony nodded. ‘Would you like to come in?’

  The two men came through the front door and she directed them to the living room. They made the room seem small and overcrowded. She went to the back door and called to Will. He was on his hands and knees, wearing shorts and no top, a sheen of sweat coating his sun-reddened back, weeding the bed to the left of the lawn. They’d both been too tired to think about work, so Will had phoned Frank first thing and told him he wouldn’t be in, and Harmony had called in sick. Alice was happy that she was finally looking after herself.They’d ended up leaving Gill’s just after midday, with Harmony driving so Will could sleep, though she’d found it hard to keep her own eyes open on the monotonous stretch of motorway. They’d both gone to bed when they got back and had a few hours sleep, and when Will woke he went straight into the garden. He told her he wanted to make the most of the last few hours of sun, but she knew he was still trying to come to terms with the idea of her with Luke. He’d need time; she knew that.

  ‘The police are here,’ she said to him in hushed tones. ‘They want to talk to you.’

  Will looked surprised. He stood up and dragged his arm over his damp, earthy brow. His T-shirt was tucked into his waistband and he pulled it out.

  ‘Do you know why?’ he asked as he walked up towards her, putting his T-shirt on as he went.

  She shook her head. ‘They didn’t say. Maybe something to do with Luke?’ She began to chew the inside of her lip.

/>   ‘Why on earth would it be to do with him?’ he asked sharply. She shrugged and dropped her eyes. ‘I don’t know, all the phone calls and texts, and … ’ She hesitated. ‘Well … I went to see him to tell him to stop calling me and there were all these photos in his flat.’

  ‘What photos?’

  ‘Photos of us. I should have told you … ’ she paused again, wondering why on earth she hadn’t told him about the photographs.

  ‘He’s not well, Will. He needs to see someone who can help him.’ Will nodded. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing sinister. Probably some sort of routine check or maybe something to do with the shop. ‘ Harmony watched him go and then looked up at the sky. It was the blue of a robin’s egg, with a few white clouds hanging still as if suspended by invisible threads. She heard some children walk past on the pavement on the other side of the wall. They were laughing and joking with each other. She heard a snippet of their conversation, two boys discussing the football, then she heard a ball bounce, and one of them whooped. Then their happy voices faded as they walked on.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she said to the three men when she came back into the living room. They stood in a tight triangle and when she spoke they looked at her in unison.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked.

  Will looked at the floor for a moment or two and then lifted his face again, his brow deeply furrowed, his lips tight.

  ‘They want to ask me a few questions,’ said Will.

  ‘Questions about what?’ She looked between the policemen for an answer.

  ‘A man’s been reported missing,’ Will said. ‘Apparently, his wife told the police I called him last night and asked to meet him.’ He turned to the men. ‘Is that right? That’s definitely what she said?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the older man. ‘She said a man called Will English called at around ten o’clock last night and then her husband left the house after telling her he had to go and meet him. He never returned.’

  Harmony glanced back and forth between the three men. Fear engulfed her. Oh my God, she thought. What have you done, Will? Where were you last night?

  Will was pale as a corpse.

  ‘Will?’ She took a step closer to him. ‘What’s going on? Do you know anything about this?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t.’ Will looked at her with pure incredulity, his eyes wide, his breath seeming to catch in his throat. She gripped her hands behind her back in the hope the policemen didn’t notice how much she was shaking.

  ‘Who is the man? Who’s gone missing?’ She looked between the three men again in search of an answer, her eyes settling back on Will.

  Will opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. His eyes flicked back and forth. She could see his brain whirring.

  ‘Will?’

  He stared at her blankly, as if he wasn’t seeing her. ‘It’s … it’s Alastair Farrow,’ he said. ‘Alastair Farrow’s gone missing and his wife said I was the last person to talk to him. That he left the house to meet me.’

  ‘Why would she say that?’ Harmony asked.

  ‘We just want to ask you a few questions,’ said the detective. Harmony glanced at the uniformed policeman who stared at Will like a hawk at a mouse.

  ‘Do you need me to come now?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Will took a breath and nodded. ‘Can you give me a few minutes to change? I’m pretty dirty from the garden. I’d appreciate some clean clothes and maybe a chance to wash my face and hands.’

  The detective briefly hesitated and then nodded.

  Will went out of the living room and into their bedroom.

  ‘Will you excuse me?’ Harmony asked the men faintly.

  ‘We’ll wait out in the hallway,’ the older man said.

  Harmony walked them to the hall and opened the front door. She saw the uniformed man check his watch. She was suddenly filled with an urge to flee, to pack a small bag and bundle Will out of the kitchen door and over the wall at the bottom of the garden and run as fast as they could away from there.

  Will had changed his shorts for a pair of trousers and taken his T-shirt off, which lay in a heap at his feet. He was bent over the basin, using his hand to wash his armpits and back of his neck. Then he filled his cupped hands and buried his face in the water.

  ‘You need to tell me where were you last night,’ Harmony whispered shakily. ‘When you left your mum’s.You were gone all night. I left messages on people’s phones. People know you were missing.’

  He turned the tap off and then reached for the towel. He patted his face and neck dry. Then he looked at her. ‘I didn’t call him. I didn’t see Alastair Farrow last night. Do you think I’ve done something?’ Though his question lacked accusation, she could see he was disappointed that he had to ask.

  She studied him, his drawn face, lips tight with worry. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think you’ve done anything.’ She stepped towards him.

  ‘But I need to know where you were.’

  He rubbed his face hard. ‘I went to visit my father’s grave,’ he said. He furrowed his brow as if hearing those words was a surprise to him.

  ‘What?’ She followed him out of the bathroom and into their bedroom.

  ‘I went to his grave and I sat beside it.’

  He opened his cupboard and took a shirt off a hanger.

  ‘All night?’

  ‘Most of it.’ He began to button his shirt with the sombre air of a man dressing for his own execution. ‘Before that I drove to my parents’ old house and snuck in over the fence at the bottom of the garden and walked around. Sat in the places I had done as a child – down in the hollow in the copse, on the swing. I was thinking about things. About you and Luke. About how I’d fucked everything up, driven you away. And as I sat there in the dark, thinking about how much of it I blamed on my father, on his choices, I realised it was bullshit. It was like a bolt of lightning hit me. It was only myself I had to blame.’ He looked at her as he tucked his shirt into his trousers.

  ‘You can’t let the past ruin the present and future. I’d been blaming all sorts of things for my decision to have the vasectomy, for my fear of becoming a father, for keeping things from you – giving myself all these stupid excuses. But you have to take responsibility for your actions, don’t you?’

  She braced herself against an unbidden memory of Luke kissing her. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Blaming everybody else is far too easy.’

  ‘Anyway, that’s when I decided to go and see him.’ He turned and reached into the cupboard and chose a tie from the shelf.

  ‘His grave?’

  ‘Mum and I talked about him before you arrived on Saturday. She said some things that really stuck. It got me thinking about how much hostility I was carrying around.’ He stepped towards her and reached for her hand. ‘I drove to the church and sat by his headstone and ended up telling him I was sorry. Not an apology to him, but a sorry to both of us for our relationship. For our missed opportunity. Our wasted years. I told him I was going to have a baby with you,’ he said. ‘And then I lay down beside the grave and closed my eyes and for the first time in my life I felt close to him. It was as if we shook hands.’

  Will turned his collar up and looped the tie around his neck. Harmony watched as he tried to tie it, his fingers fumbling, trembling too much to allow him to do it. She stepped closer to him and stilled his hands, then smiled gently and tied it for him. When it was done, she folded down his collar and then laid her hands on his shoulders.

  ‘I didn’t telephone Alastair Farrow last night,’ Will said.

  ‘I know you didn’t.’

  C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - E I G H T

  Will sat in the interview room at the police station and tried not to panic. He was tired from a sleepless night in the police cell. It had been frustrating needing to get out and walk but being stuck in the small, claustrophobic room that smelt of disinfectant. He’d felt like a caged animal, pacing from one side of the room to the other, desperate to cal
m himself.

  He’d answered their questions but then something had happened. A police car had been sent to investigate a business property after a local walker reported finding a body. His dog had pushed through the unlocked door of a warehouse unit and found the bloodied body. The police had found a wallet on the floor beside him containing the credit cards and driver’s licence of Alastair Farrow. His car, which had been reported missing, was parked outside. The unit belonged to Will English.

  The detective who arrested him explained they would hold him for a period of time until he was either charged or released. They said further questioning would be recorded. And then he read him the police caution.

  ‘You do not have to say anything. However, it may harm your defence … ’

  The man’s monotonous voice faded into nothing and Will found himself thinking about Alastair. About the hatred he’d seen in his eyes that day in the pub, how he’d stared at him coldly, remorselessly, fully believing he’d done nothing wrong. A voice inside Will wanted to tell the police how they needn’t worry. That if, as it indeed appeared, Farrow was dead, it didn’t matter. He deserved it. He was a nasty piece of work who deserved to be dead. He wondered if his lack of compassion, the unmistakeable smack of pleasure he’d felt, made him a bad person? Surely if he was a good person he would feel horrified by the news of Farrow’s death? The seriousness of his predicament hadn’t really sunk in. It was only when the policeman raised his voice that he snapped back into the here and now and it began to dawn on him what a mess he was in.

  ‘Mr English?’ the policeman barked, leaning forward and staring at Will. ‘Did you hear what I said about legal advice?’

  ‘Yes,’ mumbled Will. ‘Yes, I did. I have someone I can call.’

  The detective who was questioning him opened his folder and took hold of his pen. Will noticed he was left-handed and wrote with an awkward, claw-like hold. He pressed record on a tape recorder that sat between them on the table. He said the date then checked his watch and said the time.