The Judas Scar

by Amanda Jennings

  A large white cloud crept across the sky, changing shape imperceptibly as it went, from one nothing to a different nothing.

  ‘What do you think Mum would say to me now?’

  ‘She’d tell you Will didn’t do it. She’d say you were a daft idiot for sleeping with that nutter and then she’d tell you she loved you more than all the grains of sand in the world.’

  Harmony smiled. ‘I’d forgotten she used to say that.’ She thought of her mum sitting on the edge of her bed and stroking her forehead just before she turned the bedside light off.

  I love you. How much? So much.

  How much is so much?

  Oh, goodness, more than all the grains of sand in the world.

  Is that lots?

  Gazillions. It’s the biggest number you can think of plus a million.

  And then she’d kiss the very tip of her nose and tuck the sheets snugly around her.

  ‘I miss you, Mum,’ Harmony whispered at the clouds.

  They lay there until the grass grew damp and the sun set below the houses at the end of the garden.

  ‘Do you want to stay here tonight?’ her sister asked as they walked into the house.

  ‘No, I’m okay. I want to get up early in the morning and do some gardening. I want it to look nice in case Will comes home.’

  ‘He will come home, Harmony. I know he will.’

  When Harmony finally fell into bed, after staring at rubbish on the television until her eyes grew sore, she shuffled over to Will’s side and pulled his pillow into her. She loved the way it smelled so strongly of him, a musty manliness mixed with his deodorant and shampoo.

  She woke in the middle of the night with a start, thinking her phone had rung, that it was Will calling. But the phone registered no missed call; she’d imagined it, the ringing only a dream.

  ‘Please come back to me, Will,’ Harmony said, her voice loud against the dark silence. ‘I miss you so much it hurts.’

  She slept heavily and when she woke it took a few moments for her to work out where she was. The bedroom seemed alien and it was only as the fug of sleep lifted that things began to appear familiar. She put her dressing gown on and went into the kitchen to make some tea.

  The doorbell rang, making her jump. She glanced at the clock on the wall; it was half past seven. It rang again. And then again.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered under her breath, as a sudden fear gripped her. ‘Luke.’

  Her stomach knotted. She pulled her dressing gown tighter around her body. She wouldn’t answer it, she’d pretend she wasn’t here. But the ringing became incessant. She crept through the living room and peered carefully through the window.

  But it wasn’t Luke. It was Emma. Her heartbeat slowed as the panic left her. She went to the front door and buzzed her in, then opened the door to the flat. The two of them stood and stared at each other. Emma looked tired, as if she hadn’t slept since she’d last seen her, and was dressed in the same tracksuit and sweatshirt.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s so early,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t sure what time you left for work.’

  ‘I’m working at home today. I can’t face the office at the moment.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ Emma’s fingers pulled at one of her sleeves and her foot tapped nervously.

  ‘Do you want to come in?’

  Emma hesitated then stepped into the flat.

  They sat at the table in the living room. Harmony didn’t speak. She had nothing to say. She sat as if made of stone and stared at Emma.

  ‘I told the police Ian was lying,’ Emma finally said, her voice weak, almost a whisper. ‘I told them he was at home with me that night. I told them to talk to the supermarket where he bought the film. He was there around eight. They’ve probably got him on their camera things.’ She took a deep breath. ‘He wasn’t with Luke Crawford.’

  Harmony covered her face with her palms and let the words sink in. Relief crept over her so that she found she was shaking uncontrollably. Just like that, she was going to get her husband home. She became aware of Emma on the other side of the table. As she looked at her, relief was replaced by anger.

  ‘Why did he lie?’ she demanded. ‘How could you do this to us? I can’t even begin to understand what you did.You’re supposed to be my best friend.’

  ‘Ian was involved in something at work. He … ’ She broke off and sniffed loudly. ‘He was stealing from the company, and not just petty cash. He was stealing hundreds of thousands of pounds. I had no idea. That was why he was being secretive and drinking. It wasn’t another woman at all. It was because he was about to be found out. All I know is we would have … ’ She stopped herself. ‘He told me we would lose everything and he would go to prison unless I lied about him being home that night.’

  ‘And you were willing to send Will to prison instead? For murder?’

  ‘I had no idea Will was involved,’ she said quickly. ‘Neither Ian or I knew anything. I didn’t even know there’d been a … ’ Emma paused for a moment. ‘A murder,’ she said in a hushed tone. ‘All I knew was Ian telling me we were up shit creek and if he didn’t tell everyone he was in London all night with Luke we’d lose the house, our savings, the children would have to leave their school, and he’d go to prison.’ She looked at Harmony. ‘Ian had been stealing money from the bank. Siphoning it off. Luke was involved. He’d told Ian about this scheme, said everyone was doing it, that all Ian needed was a good lawyer to cover his tracks. He was paying Luke a lot of money in fees, but of course,’ she paused, ‘Luke made sure nothing could be connected to him. That’s why Ian was in such a state. The idiot wanted to get out but was in too deep, and when Luke threatened to expose him unless he helped, well, he panicked. Ian had no idea why Luke asked him. It was only when I heard your message on the answer phone, when you told me Will had been arrested for something that happened that night, that I realised it might be linked.’

  ‘But even then, when you knew Will was involved, you knew he was sitting in some shitty cell awaiting a murder trial, you didn’t say anything.’

  ‘We didn’t know what to do. We kept going over it, we had such vicious rows, and we sort of convinced ourselves it was fine, that the two things were unrelated. Ian told me Will would get off if he was innocent.’

  ‘What do you mean if?’

  ‘I knew he was. I never doubted him. We should have told the police, I know that, but Ian was in such a state. I—’

  ‘Don’t even go there!’ shouted Harmony, shaking her head at Emma’s audacity. ‘I can’t talk about this anymore. It’s too upsetting. Luke killed a man and then tried to frame my husband and it nearly worked because my best friend lied.’ Emma’s face crumpled and she tried to reach out for Harmony. ‘No, Emma.’

  Emma didn’t move. ‘I’m so sorry, Harmony. I … didn’t … I know you must hate me.’

  Harmony looked at her friend and felt her hardness towards her recede a little. ‘I don’t know how I feel about you,’ Harmony said. ‘To be honest, I’m just relieved you told the bloody truth.’

  ‘Will he be okay now?’ Emma asked. ‘They’ll arrest Luke? You’ll be safe and they’ll let Will come home?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Harmony said. ‘I hope to God they will.’

  C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - O N E

  Luke set the alarm for five in the morning. It was his favourite time of day. The air was fresh and London was only just beginning to wake properly. He put his dressing gown on and made himself a strong coffee, so strong it was almost as thick as soup. He drank it down in one and then turned the tap on and rinsed the cup. He dried it carefully and then opened the cupboard and placed the cup neatly beside the others.

  He went into his bedroom and opened his wardrobe. He unwrapped a suit from its dry-cleaning bag and took out a brand new shirt. Then he opened a drawer, took the wooden box out and opened the lid. He stared at the Swiss Army knife and stroked his finger over its polished red handle. He took it out of the box, opened the blade of the knife and st
ared at the cold message Will’s father had had etched into the shining metal.

  He remembered the first time Will had shown him the knife. They’d gone to the woods and made spears out of ash branches chatting happily while one of them carved a point on one end of his stick and the other smoothed his with a stone. Then they swapped. They’d pretended they were pirates, marooned on an island, surrounded by cannibals.

  ‘Don’t let them see you,’ Luke whispered to Will as they hid in the bushes and watched the cannibals walking across the field to play rugby. ‘If they catch us, they’ll eat us.’

  And the two of them had run in the opposite direction, leaping over fallen tree trunks, scrabbling up slopes, and finally scaling the branches of the huge oak tree and whooping from the leafy canopy like Red Indians as they brandished their sharpened spears.

  Luke reached for the photograph and slipped it into his inside jacket pocket with the penknife. Then he looked around his bedroom. He’d taken the rest of the photos to the dump in West Norwood. It felt odd to see them lying on the piles of household waste in that big stinking hanger, cars reversing in and out, people depositing all manner of things, things that had once meant something, that had once had purpose but were now disposable. He saw the satisfaction on their faces as they dusted off their hands and climbed back into their emptied cars, feeling freer, feeling cleansed.

  He drove out of London and headed onto the M25. His head was strangely clear. Alastair Farrow was there, of course, but not at the forefront. He wasn’t sure at what point he’d decided to kill him. He thought back to the night his wife died, to the row they’d had, his temper flaring uncontrollably, the look of hurt on her face as he’d screamed at her to leave him alone. Her begging him to stop shouting. Telling him she couldn’t take it anymore. That she couldn’t help him. Tears had scorched her face. Her beautiful rounded belly stretching the fabric of her dress. Then later answering the door to the sombre-faced policemen. His world ceasing to turn. He had sat on the floor of their kitchen, destroyed, memories of what happened at school battering him.

  He remembered a few months later, sitting alone in silence on the sofa in his new apartment, tears falling unchecked down his cheeks, struggling to draw breath. He needed to know where they were and what they were doing. Farrow and Will. Those two boys responsible for this. Farrow, the monster who violated him, damaged him, defiled him, then left him in the woods alone, and Will, his friend, the boy who’d untied him from the cross, the boy who pledged his loyalty in blood, who then betrayed him like Judas Iscariot.

  Both men had been easy to track down. Will English had a photography business in south-west London. Luke had pored over its website until he’d memorised every word, every image, on it. Trading had recently ceased. There was an apologetic voicemail message from Will, pathetic in its plaintive humour, making light of the economic downturn with a second-rate quip about the recession. Then there was a wine shop. A little-used Facebook account with no privacy settings. A beautiful wife, pictures of whom filled the gallery on the photography website. There were other people in the photos too. And a wedding.

  Ian and Emma Barratt-Jones, July 2001.

  There was a picture of Will’s wife in the line-up, beaming, arms linked with the bride. They were good friends. A quick Google search and he discovered that Ian Barratt-Jones, a City banker, had come fourth in a tournament at his golf club in Oxfordshire. From there it was easy. The man was arrogant and stupid and sucked up the attention of the glamorous, wealthy lawyer he met at the golf club bar. Luke had learned long ago that it was good to be prepared. Ian was ideal, greedy as well as stupid, and more than willing to risk his family, their security, everything he should have protected, for a quick, illegal buck. Luke knew from the off he’d do anything to stay out of prison. People like that were useful. Getting to Will, destroying Will’s happiness, had been in his mind from the start. Why should Will be happy after the devastation he caused? It should have been Will who Farrow raped. Luke had stood up to him. Faced him. And then Will had buckled. Stepped back. Watched as Farrow meted out his punishment on Luke. And then, in Drysdale’s office, when he could have saved him, he delivered his final crushing blow. He had turned his back. Abandoned him.

  He hadn’t expected to feel anything for Harmony, but he’d been touched by her honesty and passion, the way she’d battled with herself as she betrayed her husband. There was a naivety about her that was intoxicating, and for a while he was convinced he might be happy with her, that perhaps she was his last chance at something resembling a life. But in the end her loyalty to Will was too strong. The irony in that was bitter; her rejection, the cold look in her eye when she turned her back on him, mirroring the expression on Will’s face all those years before.

  Everything fell into his lap like gifts from the gods. In a way it was too easy, discovering that Will had met up with Farrow and caused a scene in front of witnesses; being with Harmony as she put the code into the padlock; then her calling to say Will had disappeared. Will and his stupid night walks – rambles, didn’t he call them? – that lasted for hours. He didn’t know how long he’d be gone but it was worth the risk. That idiot Ian agreed to lie without batting an eyelid. And what poetic justice that was, Will sent to prison for the murder of Farrow because a friend betrayed him; it was perfect.

  Luke checked in his rear-view mirror and moved across into the slow lane in preparation for coming off the slip road. He drove carefully along the country roads. He slowed when he saw the signpost, then put his indicator on.

  Farringdon Hall.

  Just seeing the name made his skin crawl. He remembered being driven away by his aunt, a lady inaptly named Grace, of which she had none. His parents sent her with a message for him from the outpost in Kenya. She was to pass on their deep displeasure at his expulsion. He had humiliated and disappointed them. He was to stay with Grace and attend the local comprehensive. He would continue to see them once a year when they returned to England for Easter, but as far as they were concerned he was on his own. His aunt had apologised to Drysdale for any inconvenience caused.

  ‘My brother is terribly embarrassed by all of this,’ she said shrilly, her thin lips barely moving. ‘This child is the black sheep of our family flock.’

  Luke pulled up in the car park behind the main school. It was early, the boys and staff were still getting up, making beds, eating breakfast. He passed a couple of caretakers, who nodded their heads in respectful greeting. He nodded back and continued to walk. The school hadn’t changed. Everything was the same, even the smell coming out of the kitchens, that greasy, institutional smell that spewed from the ventilation pipes at the back of the building.

  He squeezed between the gap in the bent railings that used to be his and Will’s route out and walked into the woods. It was peaceful, with just the sounds of songbirds in the beech trees above his head, their branches thick with brilliant green leaves, last year’s brown ones fallen at his feet, a carpet of softness slowly breaking down, throwing up that mulchy smell that brought memories so vividly back to him.

  When Luke reached the oak tree he stood still. He looked up at it. Studied it. Every bit of bark, every twist in every branch, each leaf, each twig. The perfect tree to climb. Their favourite tree, where they would come to play in its huge, comforting boughs, hidden from the rest of the world, a mean world they didn’t need when they had each other. He listened to the breeze blowing through the leaves, rustling above him, as if the tree were speaking to him. Apologising, understanding, waiting for him.

  There was nothing left for him. It was time for him to take control. His life never really got going; cut down in childhood, it was never allowed to grow freely. He was tired but he didn’t feel sorry for himself. Self-pity was something he’d never succumbed to, and this gave him great satisfaction. Self-pity would have been easy. Perhaps, he thought, as he stared up at the tree, self-pity might have been his salvation. Perhaps it was his continuous quest to beat them all, to come out on top, to
show them they hadn’t broken him, that now left him with no other option.

  He took his shoes off one by one, placing them in a neat pair, before taking his jacket off and folding it beside them. He wasn’t scared. He was calm. There was a tranquillity about him that was unfamiliar. He imagined he was floating in the middle of huge ocean, the waves lapping at his face and body as he bobbed in the water, the sun warming his face. He bent down and opened the bag he’d bought. He took out the rope and the knife. Then he pulled himself up onto the first branch and climbed the tree with ease, just as he’d done years earlier, following Will up into the branches, excited and happy.

  He tied the rope then opened the knife and admired its shining blade one last time. He held open his palm and drew the blade along the line of the scar that crossed it. Blood flowed like cherry juice and he watched it, transfixed for a moment or two as it fell in drops to the earth at the base of the oak. Then he threw the knife into the undergrowth below as the bell for morning lessons rang out across the courtyard, resounding in the branches and leaves of the great tree that held him.

  E P I L O G U E

  The late November rain was falling heavily from the charcoal-coloured sky. Cars drove along the New King’s Road with their wipers working overtime. Headlights lit the four-thirty dusk and the pavements were covered in a sheen of wet with water flowing in rapids along the side of the road and into the drains.

  Will and Harmony walked carefully, avoiding the deeper puddles, and trying not to snag anyone with the umbrella they shared. They kept their heads low to fend off the bite of the cold. As they reached the covered area outside the Chelsea and Westminster hospital Will stopped to shake the rain off the umbrella and close it before they pushed through the revolving doors into the heady warmth of the hospital’s foyer.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said, as they walked through the airy reception area towards the lifts. ‘I’ve never seen so much rain.’