The Judas Scar

by Amanda Jennings

  She let her hand drop from the curtain and climbed into bed beside him. He reached out and turned his bedside light off.

  She curled up close to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ she asked him. ‘Everybody around the table today could tell there was something wrong, you know. Did you and Luke fall out at school? Was he the reason you didn’t enjoy it there?’

  ‘No, we didn’t fall out, we were great friends. I met him towards the end of the first term when we were thirteen. He left though, was expelled actually, and I didn’t hear from him again.’

  ‘Why was he expelled?’

  Will turned his head to look out of the window into the moonlit darkness. ‘I don’t know why.’ His voice was edged with sadness. ‘He shouldn’t have been.’

  ‘Was it dreadful there?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, after a moment or two. ‘Not all of it. But some of it was awful.’

  She kissed his chest. ‘I can’t believe your parents sent you away.’ She was unable to keep the blame out of her voice. ‘I don’t know how people do it. I mean, what age were you? Eight? It’s barbaric. Why have children if you’re going to send them away?’

  ‘Mum didn’t want me to go, though I remember her saying something about it being good to get away from her apron strings,’ he said. ‘It was my father. He thought it was the right thing to do. He saw it as some sort of rite of passage, spouted all that nonsense about boarding school turning boys into men.’ He paused briefly. ‘I suppose it was what people did back then.’

  ‘Not the people I knew,’ she said. She thought of her father-in-law, his holier-than-thou attitude to life, his favouring of etiquette over emotion, the malice in his voice when he talked about immigrants, the way he buttoned his coat before leaving for church and tutted at Harmony as she sat at the breakfast table reading the Sunday papers, his sneering and sniping at Will, his inability to show any signs of affection towards his only child.

  Will once told her he only saw his parents on the last Sunday of each month during term time. They’d drive to a pub on the A131, order three portions of scampi and chips, then he and his father would eat their food as his mother chattered mindlessly to fill the stony silence. It was from the odd anecdote such as this that Harmony began to understand Will’s loathing of his school. They’d driven past the place once, years earlier, after a wedding in Newmarket. Harmony was studying the map as Will drove.

  ‘I thought Clacton-on-Sea was up north,’ she said, vaguely. ‘My geography really is shocking.’

  ‘Want to go?’ Will said, casting her a glance.

  ‘To Clacton-on-Sea?’

  He grinned and nodded.

  ‘But it’s in the opposite direction.’

  ‘So? Come on, let’s go. We can book into a crappy B & B with a grumpy landlady. Walk on the beach and eat greasy fish and chips.’

  ‘What about work?’

  ‘We’ll call in sick.’

  She hesitated but then nodded. ‘Go on, then, let’s. It’d be lovely to be by the sea.’

  They’d been talking and laughing, thrilled by their decision, but then Will fell quiet. He pulled over and stopped the car, his knuckles white as he gripped the wheel.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Harmony asked.

  ‘Farringdon Hall.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My old school,’ he said. ‘Back there. We just passed it.’ Harmony turned to look and saw a long red brick wall, too high to see anything behind it. ‘Can I see it?’ she asked then. ‘Will you show me?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose I’d like to see if it’s anything like I imagine. It’ll help me picture you then.’

  ‘I can guarantee that place won’t give you any picture of me.’

  ‘Please?’

  For a moment he didn’t move, then suddenly, in one quick movement, he threw the car into gear and reversed at speed back past the entrance where two aged stone lions sat bored on brick piers either side. They turned up the driveway, long and straight and lined by tall, evenly spaced trees like the bars of a prison, and drove towards the huge, gothic manor.

  ‘It’s deserted,’ she whispered. A shiver passed through her as she looked up at the windows that punctured the brick like dead, glazed eyes.

  ‘School holidays.’

  They pulled up in front of the pillared entrance and Will turned the engine off. ‘This is where my father handed me over to that cock of a headmaster,’ Will said grimly. ‘I can still remember his fingers digging into my shoulders and him saying to Drysdale, “Well, all I can say is he’s a little bugger. Do what you must.” You should have seen the bastard’s eyes light up. Parental permission to make my life misery.’ He drew a laboured breath and exhaled heavily. ‘Come on, it’s a fucking shithole. Let’s get out of here.’

  That was the last time he’d talked about school.

  ‘You know,’ Harmony whispered, turning her head on the pillow to look at him, the moonlight from the window bathing his face. ‘If you’d been my child I’d have kept you with me as long as I possibly could. I’d never have sent you away.’

  ‘You mustn’t worry about me. It wasn’t great but I’m fine. It was just school. Children adapt to everything and we all found our ways to cope. It’s in the past now and that’s where it belongs.’

  C H A P T E R S I X

  Will couldn’t sleep. He lay still as Harmony mumbled quietly beside him, every now and then letting out a torrent of mutterings. This was something she did – talking in her sleep – yelling out as if in surprise then murmuring unintelligibly, her head moving back and forth emphatically, arguing perhaps in her dreams before she finally settled. He listened to the noises outside the flat, the occasional car, a police siren not far away, the faint footsteps and muffled talking of a group of people as they passed the living room window. His mind whirred; he was never going to get to sleep. He eased himself out of bed, careful not to wake Harmony, lifted his clothes off the chair in the corner of the room and crept out of the bedroom. He dressed in the hallway, then took his keys off the hook by the door and slipped outside.

  Night-rambling, he called it. Walking at night. It was a habit that started when he was about ten or eleven, when one night, unable to sleep for worrying about going back to school, he called for his mother. She’d sat on the edge of his bed, patted his hand, and told him to count sheep. His heart sank as she left the room, closing the door behind her so that he was plunged back into darkness; he suspected counting sheep would do little to ease his fear. He was right. By the time he’d counted a flock of four hundred he was no more sleepy than when he began. It was then, on a whim, that he climbed out of bed, let himself quietly out of the house, and set off on his very first night-ramble. In the years that followed he often found himself creeping downstairs, holding his breath as he stepped over the creakiest floorboards, pausing every now and then to listen for the telltale sounds of adults on the prowl. Back then these night-time treks would set his pulse racing, send adrenalin pumping into his blood, push his worries into the background. As he got older the night-rambles became calmer, those first deep breaths of fresh night air like Valium, his tensions easing with each step he took.

  It was a ramble, or at least the repercussions of one, that first brought him and Luke together. One night in the third week of his first term at Farringdon Hall, Will was caught sneaking out by Mr Fielder, a reedy history master with a sparse moustache who smelt of coffee and cigarettes. Will had opened the door to the building and walked straight into him. The man sent him back up to the first years’ dormitory, his thin voice laced with what might have been regret as he told him he’d have to see the headmaster the following day. Will’s stomach had churned with dread for the whole night and following day until, finally, in the evening after prep, Drysdale summoned him.

  ‘Tell me, English – I’d love to know – exactly why you want to run away from school? Why you’d want to cause us bother?
Worry your parents? Hm?’

  Will’s stuttered mix of ums and ers failed to convince this terrifying man, and the caning that followed was brutal. Will limped back to the dormitory bruised and biting back tears, and climbed straight into bed. Later, after Matron had turned the lights out, a boy on the other side of the room – a quiet, small boy who Will hadn’t taken much notice of – crept across the room. The boy stood motionless by Will’s bed for a moment or two. Then he glanced over his shoulder and thrust out a closed fist. Will didn’t move. Nor did the boy – he just stood there, unmoving, his arm held out towards Will. Will furrowed his brow and shrugged, unsure what he was mean to do. The boy sighed theatrically and leant closer.

  ‘Take it,’ he whispered. ‘It’ll stop the bum-sting.’ He grabbed Will’s hand and pushed something hard into it then closed Will’s fingers around whatever it was before silently slipping back to his bed.

  When Will opened his hand and saw what he’d been given his heart missed a beat. Two foil-wrapped toffees lay on his palm like gold coins. Will closed his hand and thrust it beneath his blanket. Sweets weren’t allowed. Sweets would get confiscated by the prefects, stolen and eaten, your things ransacked if there was even the smallest suspicion there was more. How had the boy got this contraband? Where had he hidden it?

  Will sat up in his bed and looked over at Luke who also sat up. His pale, thin face was lit in a shaft of fluorescent light from the corridor. He stared at Will, solemn and intense, nodded once then lay back down. Will pulled his grey, regulation blanket over his head and waited with bated breath, heart hammering, until the duty prefect had done his final rounds. When Will was sure it was safe, he undid the golden wrappers, coughing to mask any rustling, then popped both toffees in at once, almost too much for his mouth to hold. He sucked slowly, closing his eyes as the creamy sweetness ran down his throat. Luke was right; for a few glorious minutes his throbbing backside, the desperate homesickness, the injustice and loneliness – all of it was forgotten.

  In the morning, as they walked down the stairs on their way to breakfast, Will caught up with Luke.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  Luke smiled, then neither of them said anything more.

  Will walked along the deserted back streets of Fulham. His stride was full and his rhythmic footsteps rang on the pavement. The houses were dark, their curtains drawn. He imagined the people who lived in them tucked up in their beds, quietly snoring, deeply asleep. He heard the startled screech of a cat or maybe a fox. He picked up his pace as his thoughts settled on the last time he’d seen Luke, the day he was expelled, both of them perched on hard wooden chairs in Drysdale’s office, which reeked of old leather, wood polish and mothballs. He remembered the look in Luke’s eyes, the way they’d welled with tears that spilled down his cheeks, and a thick nausea pooled in the pit of his stomach as he strode on.

  In the morning Will left their flat and headed up towards the North End Road, weaving in and out of the people on the busy pavements as he walked to the shop.

  ‘Morning, Frank,’ he said, as he pushed through the door, sounding the old-fashioned bell that hung on the back.

  ‘Morning, William,’ Frank said brightly.

  Will was fond of Frank. He’d worked for Will since he opened the shop a year earlier, using the small lump sum his father had left him when he died. Will had met him in the wine merchant’s he worked at after college, and as soon as he thought about opening his own shop, he knew he wanted Frank with him. He was great company, eccentric in a very British way, with a great sense of humour and an easy-going nature. He was a short man, and a little rotund, and always dressed in well-fitting suits with his grey hair slicked back with old-fashioned hair cream that he ordered from a specialist gentleman’s shop in Bristol. He lived in Chiswick with two Persian cats called Pie and Pinwheel and his elderly boyfriend, a writer of moderately successful science fiction, who was as wiry as Frank was portly. Frank loved wine with a passion, and was a walking encyclopedia when it came to claret and burgundy. North End Wines was nestled in a tired row of shops between the Co-op and a bookmaker’s. From the outside it didn’t look like much, with its chipped maroon paintwork, dirty white walls and security bars on the windows – a legacy from its days as a sex shop – but the rent was cheap. Inside, however, was an Aladdin’s cave of beautiful wine. Bottles were shelved from floor to ceiling and wall to wall, all of them carefully selected by Will from a variety of vineyards, large and small, and already, even after only a year of trading, they had a small but loyal customer base who travelled from various corners of London, battling gridlock to buy their wine.

  ‘So how are you today?’

  ‘Good thanks, Frank.’

  ‘Kettle’s just boiled, dear.’

  ‘Lovely. Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘Gracious, no. I’ve had three already.’

  ‘Three?’ Will said, raising his eyebrows. ‘It’s not even ten. You’ll be bouncing off the ceiling.’

  Frank smiled and playfully batted the air. ‘I’ve been up since five. I’m surprised I haven’t needed more than the three, to be honest.’

  Will pushed through the plastic strip curtain, reminiscent of a Seventies corner shop, and in the tiny cupboard that passed as a kitchen he made himself an instant and dumped two spoonfuls of sugar in it. ‘How are the boys?’ he called through.

  ‘Fluffy,’ Frank said. ‘And as lazy as ever. Poor Pinwheel was a bit off-colour on Saturday but the vet wasn’t worried; she said it was probably something he ate. A past its sell-by mouse, I suspect. He’s such a greedy toad.’

  Will smiled to himself and took his coffee back into the shop. The shop settled him; he felt comfortable here, knowledgeable and well respected, with no pressure to be anything out of the ordinary. He didn’t have to be talented or skilful, or, if truth be told, to stretch himself. He knew about wine. He’d worked in the business since his early twenties, and being able to work close to home, with no commute and no pressure, suited him. Frank was independently wealthy and worked for Will for the love of it; if the business had to fold, Frank would be unaffected financially. It was easy and pleasant, which is just how Will liked it. He didn’t make much money but it was steady, and though there were undoubtedly days when he wished he was out with his camera searching for beauty in the obscure and mundane, they weren’t frequent.

  ‘Would you like a custard cream?’ Frank asked. ‘I’ve a packet in my satchel.’

  ‘I’m okay, thanks.’ Will opened the large desk dairy by the till. There was a delivery that afternoon and he was meeting a new restaurant owner on Wednesday, but other than that, it was a quiet week. ‘Did you have a good weekend, Frank?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, well, you know, this and that.’ Frank opened his old, battered bag, so stuffed it bulged in the middle, cracking the dry tan leather. He retrieved the packet of custard creams and carefully unwrapped them, took one, then wrapped the packet up and slid it back into his bag. ‘I do like a custard cream,’ he said to the biscuit. Then he seemed to remember something and waved the biscuit frantically at Will. ‘Ooh, something did happen,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Eric had a death threat through the post. That was rather thrilling.’

  ‘A death threat? A real one?’

  ‘Yes, some poor woman, distraught he’d killed off Princess Aisha in Far Reaches of Sylion.’

  ‘Blimey,’ Will said.

  ‘To be honest, we’re used to it. Some of the diehards were terribly upset. Saw it as a total betrayal that their gorgeous heroine got the chop.’ He shrugged. ‘I think that was it as far as weekend excitement goes.’ Frank put the last of his custard cream into his mouth then brushed the crumbs off his suit. ‘And now to work. I was thinking it was all getting a bit untidy in here. How about I give it a dust and a straighten?’

  Will smiled; the shop was immaculate as always, but Frank was cursed with a compulsive disorder he wasn’t aware of and every Monday and Thursday he dusted and straightened the clean and straight bottles.


  ‘Good idea,’ Will said. ‘I’ll get on with sorting out the cellar to make room for the delivery.’

  ‘How’s your mother, by the way?’

  ‘She’s fine, I think. I spoke to her last week. Though she wasn’t herself. She’s been cross with me for months. God knows what I’ve done.’

  ‘That’s grief for you. It makes everything terribly cloudy. When I lost dear old Mum I couldn’t talk to anyone. Not even Eric.The only ones who understood were Pinwheel and Pie. They were such a support. She’ll come around. Time’s the perfect healer. You should visit her, she’d like that.’ Frank took a breath and clapped his hands together. ‘I must get on, this shop isn’t going to clean itself, you know.’ He disappeared through the strip curtain to get his duster and polish. Will perched on the edge of the stool behind the counter and looked at his iPhone. He had an email and clicked open his inbox.

  Luke’s name hit him so hard he felt winded.

  From: Luke Crawford Subject:

  Following up

  Will,

  It was good to see you yesterday and lovely to meet your wife.

  Though wasn’t it strange bumping into each other? A small world, as they say. I was thinking on the way home how close we’d been at school. It would be great to catch up properly. I’m away on business next week and pretty busy towards the end of this week, but I’m free tonight or tomorrow evening. Would you and Harmony like to come for a drink or something to eat? Or at yours if that suits you better.

  How does this sound?

  Luke

  ‘Frank, I’m nipping out for a minute or two,’ Will said.

  ‘Everything okay?’ asked Frank. ‘You look a little pale.’

  ‘Just need some air.’

  Will’s head was all over the place. This wasn’t going to go away. He rested against the wall of the Co-op and covered his face with his hands. Christ, he thought. Why on earth did you give him your card? He had to work out what he should do, but his head felt foggy, his thoughts blurred.