The Judas Scar

by Amanda Jennings

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m going to work and then I’ll stay with Sophie.’ She went into the bathroom and filled a wash bag with the things she would need.

  ‘I have to have space to think,’ she said, as she came back into the bedroom. ‘And I can’t do that here.’

  ‘You can’t leave. That’s crazy.’

  ‘Stop it, Will!’ She turned to face him, hands on her hips. ‘Did you not listen to a word I just said? It isn’t crazy. If our marriage has a chance in hell of surviving I need some time away from you to think clearly.’

  He walked up to her, grabbed her upper arms and held her firmly, almost too hard. ‘Don’t do this.’

  She noticed his eyes prickling with a suggestion of tears and her stomach clenched. Will didn’t cry. He’d told her once he’d given up crying when he was a child; he said crying only made things worse, it was a luxury he’d learned to live without.

  ‘Don’t do this,’ he said again.

  ‘I haven’t done this,’ she said. ‘You have.’

  She watched his expression change from distress to panic. His eyes grew wide, darting back and forth over her face, and he bit down on his lip so hard Harmony worried he’d bite through it.

  ‘I need space,’ she whispered. ‘You do too. Maybe you should go and see your mum.’

  ‘My mum? What’s my mum got to do with this?’

  Harmony growled with frustration. ‘I don’t know! I just know that you’re not doing the right thing by those of us you’re supposed to love.’ She sighed heavily and closed the suitcase. ‘You need to sort your life out, Will. You need to start behaving like a grown-up.’

  Harmony found it impossible to concentrate on work. The words swam on her screen as she read or wrote. Her thoughts kept drifting back to Will, her mind on a roller coaster as she tried to work out what she felt. She lifted the phone and dialled her sister.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ her sister asked, immediately concerned.

  ‘I can’t talk now,’ she said, glancing up as a couple of colleagues walked past her desk, deep in conversation. ‘Can I stay with you tonight?’

  ‘Of course you can. You sound awful. Do you want me to come and get you? Are you at work?’

  Harmony’s eyes welled. She dried her tears on the back of her sleeve. ‘No, I need to try and get some stuff done here.’

  When the clock finally hit six o’clock she walked down to South Kensington tube station, battling through the crowds of commuters and camera-toting tourists with her suitcase. The tube was hot and stuffy. Her head pounded. She reached into her bag for her bottle of water. The woman in front of her glared at her suitcase and muttered under her breath. Harmony closed her eyes. She hated the underground, especially in the summer, crammed shoulder to shoulder with sweaty, tired bodies, sticky skin brushing sticky skin.

  Harmony wondered if she was making a mistake. Should she be heading home to face him? Was going to Sophie’s the equivalent of shoving her head in the sand? She thought of him as she’d left him that morning, standing on the steps of their block, hands in pockets, grim acceptance written on his face as he watched her leave.

  When Sophie opened the door of her sprawling Wandsworth home she wrapped Harmony in a tight embrace before leading her through to the kitchen. It was reassuringly chaotic, with school bags and gym kits discarded all over the place, shoes kicked off, piles of homework littering the dining table, a pan bubbling away on the hob and the noise of the boys playing football in the garden.

  ‘It’s nice to be here,’ Harmony said. ‘I’ve missed you all. I’ll only be a few days.’

  ‘Stay as long as you want,’ Sophie said, and crossed the room towards the fridge. ‘Glass of wine?’

  Harmony nodded and her sister opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle half-full of white wine, cork pushed in the top. Harmony got two glasses out of the pine dresser that had belonged to their nan. The sight of it reminded her of happier times, before their mum died, of visits to their nan’s house and the four of them eating Sunday tea together, the smell of old wood and furniture polish wafting out of the cupboard when they were asked to lay the table. Sophie sat down, tucking one leg underneath her. She wore tight-fitting jeans that hugged her long lean legs and a smart blue polo neck high against her chin, her mousy-blonde hair tied up in a loose bun, a few wisps loose and falling over her face.

  Sophie leant forward and rested her hand on Harmony’s. ‘So what’s happened?’

  Ever since Harmony could remember, Sophie had been like a mother to her. She’d tried so hard to ease her grief and, even now, just being near her was comforting. After their mother’s funeral, when they moved from their flat on the outskirts of Reading to their nan’s terraced house in a small village south of Leeds, Harmony lost everyone and everything she knew almost overnight. Sophie became parent, sister, friend and carer, all rolled into one. It was Sophie who’d borne the brunt of their mother’s long drawn-out illness, looking after her while she recovered from her bouts of chemo, and then, in those final long months, when she was unable to do anything for herself, it was Sophie who cooked and cleaned for them, who made sure Harmony did her homework and ate breakfast and left for school in a clean uniform. Their nan had been of little help; she was elderly and irascible, needed care herself, and this, too, fell on Sophie’s shoulders – it was Sophie’s grit that had held them all together.

  ‘I don’t even know where to begin,’ Harmony said, as a couple of tears tumbled down her cheeks. She laughed helplessly. ‘I’m a total mess.’

  ‘Sweetheart,’ Sophie said, squeezing and rubbing her sister’s hand. ‘You’ve been through such a traumatic thing. Losing a baby is incredibly hard. It takes time to get over something like that.’

  ‘He had a vasectomy without telling me.’

  ‘He did what?’

  Harmony dried her eyes with the edge of her sleeve and nodded.

  ‘And you didn’t know about it?’ Harmony shook her head.

  ‘Jesus.’

  There was a noise from the hob and they both turned to see the pan boiling over, water sizzling as it hit the gas flames.

  ‘Shit,’ cried Sophie. ‘The pasta.’ She jumped up and ran to the hob, snatching the pan off the heat. She took the colander and drained the boiling water off. Harmony watched her sister open a cupboard above her head and rummage around amongst the chaos within for a jar of pasta sauce. She opened it, spooned some into the saucepan, then tipped the steaming pasta back in. Then she abandoned the pan on the side and came back to the table.

  ‘Why the hell did he do it?

  Harmony shrugged. ‘He’s always said he didn’t want to have children.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sophie said with forced patience. ‘I get he doesn’t want kids. You explained that to me when you got together – some dead, half-drunk poet told him not to or something ridiculous – but what I’m struggling with is why on earth he got himself done without discussing it. What was he thinking?’

  Harmony had a flare of loyalty for her husband, as she often did when her sister was quick to pass judgement on him. ‘I don’t think he was thinking rationally. He said he panicked when I got pregnant and didn’t want to risk it happening again.’

  ‘But that’s insane. And I don’t buy his aversion to kids anyway. He’s always been amazing with the boys, even when they were babies.’

  Harmony nodded. She thought of those times she’d watched him with her nephews, seen how happy and at ease he was, wondering if maybe he’d change his mind. ‘He loves them,’ she said, tracing her finger around the rim of her glass. ‘But you have no idea how many times he’s told me that when he sees them with Roger he feels inadequate. He’s convinced he’d be a dreadful parent.’

  ‘Well, he can join ninety-nine percent of all other parents then. And he’s silly to feel inadequate around Roger. Roger’s totally crap most of the time, he just puts on a show when there are people ar
ound.’

  ‘Roger’s a wonderful dad and you know it.’ Harmony drank some wine. ‘I hate how Will doubts himself like he does. In everything. It frustrates me so much. I blame his father.’ She shook her head. ‘That man has a lot to answer for.’

  Just then they heard angry shouts from the garden. Harmony looked out of the window and saw two of her nephews rolling around on the grass exchanging hefty punches.

  Sophie tutted. ‘They need feeding. Let me get the pasta inside them and then we’ll talk. Help yourself to more wine.’ She went to the back door and called her sons in.

  Harmony smiled as they piled in through the door and ran to their mother like starving animals. ‘Did you say hello to Harmony?’ Sophie said.

  The boys looked over at her and all three grinned. Cal came over to hug her.

  ‘Hey, Cal. How’s things?’ she said, wrapping her arms around her oldest nephew. He was now at least a foot taller than her and had filled out since she last saw him. Harmony patted his bicep. ‘Been working out?’

  Cal flushed pink and shook his head.

  ‘He has!’ screamed George, who leant against Harmony by way of a hello.

  His older brother shoved him hard. ‘Shut up, dickhead.’

  ‘Language,’ warned Sophie.

  Harmony kissed the top of George’s head. Then smiled at Matt who’d made it over to her at his own laid-back pace. He gave her a hug too and whispered in her ear. ‘He has been working out. Every day before breakfast. Doing dumbbells in his room.’

  ‘It’s because he’s got a girlfriend!’ sang George.

  Cal lunged for George but missed him, instead sending a pile of books tumbling off the table and causing George to erupt into loud giggles. Cal chased him into the kitchen area and punched him in the arm. George screamed as if he’d been stabbed.

  Ignoring them completely, Sophie manoeuvred around them to get plates out of the cupboard and cutlery out of the drawer. ‘Do us a favour and take your dinner next door,’ she said, stabbing a fork into each mound of pasta. She pulled open a bag of ready-grated cheese and dumped a handful on each.

  Harmony watched as Sophie busied about, calm amid the chaos, systematically sorting out the things they needed: ketchup, water, a few slices of cucumber. All three boys jostled and pushed and fought, and finally, loaded up with food, they went through to the playroom. A few seconds later the television switched on and it was quiet again.

  ‘It’s like a tornado blowing through,’ Harmony said with a laugh.

  ‘Can you imagine what Mum would have said if she saw the chaos here?’

  Sophie laughed and grabbed a bag of crisps and a bowl. ‘She was lucky. She had two neat and tidy daughters. I have three apes who can’t even spell tidy.’ She put the bowl of crisps on the table between them and sat down.

  Harmony rubbed at a felt-tip pen mark on the table. ‘I’m so angry with him, Sophie. I’m so bloody angry with him I can’t even look at him.’

  ‘That’s natural. Anyone would be angry in the same situation. It would be odd if you weren’t.’

  ‘Do you think my marriage is over?’ Harmony asked quietly, looking up at her older sister.

  ‘Only you and Will can decide that.’ Sophie stroked her hand.

  ‘But one thing’s for sure – whatever he’s done, whatever his failings, he hasn’t done any of it because he doesn’t love you.’

  ‘Mum loved Dad but that wasn’t enough to keep them together.’

  ‘That was different,’ Sophie said, removing her hand and stiffening. ‘Our father was a bastard.’

  Harmony was used to the vitriol Sophie directed at their father. She’d never heard a fond word for him from her sister’s lips. ‘Are you sure he was such a bastard? I mean, now you’re married yourself, do you think there was a side to his story that might explain him leaving like he did?’

  Sophie narrowed her eyes. ‘Yes, I’m sure he was a bastard. And you know what? Now I’m married and have the boys I hate him even more. It makes him leaving even harder to understand. I can’t imagine my life without my children.’

  Harmony looked down at the table.

  ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry,’ Sophie said. ‘That was incredibly insensitive. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘It’s never going to happen, is it?’ Harmony covered her face with her hands. ‘I’m never going to know what that feels like. Christ, he has no idea what he’s done to me.’

  C H A P T E R T W E L V E

  Will couldn’t find the picture he was looking for. He searched the living room, behind the chest, under the sofa. He was like a dog who’d lost the scent of its prey – fixated, growing more and more agitated as he searched. It was one of his favourites, taken on their wedding night on one of the small disposable cameras they’d left on the tables for their friends and family. When they’d had the films developed, most of the photos were out of focus, off-centred shots of drunk friends gurning at them with over-exposed ghostly skin and demonic red eyes. And then there was the picture of Harmony. He’d taken it in their hotel room right after they made love. They were laughing about something, he couldn’t remember what, and he’d reached for one of the disposables that had come back with a bag of bits and pieces from the reception and pointed it at her. She’d complained, put her hands over her face to hide herself, and just as she lowered them he took the shot. Then he threw the camera back on the floor, laughed and kissed her neck.

  ‘I love you, Mrs English.’

  ‘Mrs English?’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘God, that makes me sound like your mother!’

  Grainy and a little out of focus, the picture was perfection, her eyes vague with wine and tiredness and sex, her hair mussed up, mascara smudged, love and lust for him pouring out of her. There was a decadence about it, a raw sexuality, that stirred him each time he looked at it.

  The flat was dark and lonely without her. He sat on the sofa and stared ahead at the mantelpiece, their paraphernalia strewn over it, the postcard bunting inappropriately cheerful. He felt as if he’d been scooped out, emptied, left hollow to his core. He closed his eyes to rest his mind but as soon as he did Luke was there. Glaring memories of that afternoon invading his mind – the last afternoon they’d spent together, before Luke was sent away – the damp blanket of leaves beneath their feet, the sun’s last light breaking through the canopy above them. Then Alastair Farrow’s face as he and his friends stumbled upon them. His eyes burning with intent. The sense of dread that grew as Will realised they were in trouble. He saw the boys who stood with Farrow, fists clenched at their sides.

  Will opened his eyes and shook his head to banish the memory then walked down to the kitchen. He opened the fridge door, leaning on it as he stared at the contents. There was a large chunk of cheddar that he’d bought from the deli counter in Sainsbury’s for the supper with Luke. He cut himself a chunk of it, spooned some wholegrain mustard onto the plate, and poured himself a small glass of wine from the corked bottle on the sideboard. As he watched the wine fill the glass he thought of Farrow again. What was it Luke had said? He’d seen him on Facebook. A wife and two children. An accountant. Will couldn’t imagine him grown up, with a life somewhere out there, going about his day-to-day business like a normal human being. Will needed to see his face. Farrow wasn’t going to leave him alone. Seeing Luke had brought him back to haunt him. He needed to see him. He took his supper through to the study, waited for the computer to heave itself into life, then brought up Facebook. He logged on, closing his eyes to help him remember his password. He rarely used the account. Frank had set it up for him, horrified he wasn’t using social media – a ‘dinosaur’, he’d called him. Will had seven Facebook friends; one was Frank and another was Harmony, who was no better than Will when it came to using it. Will had three attempts at the password before finally getting it right. He took a deep breath and typed Alastair Farrow into the search box. Eleven faces appeared. Will cast his eyes over the list and halfway down his heart skipped a beat.

  There he w
as. Alastair Farrow.

  He’d put on a lot of weight and lost some of his hair, but Will would recognise him anywhere. He clicked on the entry and Alastair Farrow filled the screen. No privacy settings had been used, and his whole life was on view: photos, comments, personal information. Alastair Farrow. Born 1968. Lives in Surrey. School: Farringdon Hall. Married. Works at Hammerson Frith Accountancy.

  Will clicked on a photo album. They were holiday snaps; somewhere in the Mediterranean, Will guessed. He was with his children, or at least Will assumed they were his children. The first photo showed him in a swimming pool, a young girl with dimpled knees on his shoulders, next to him a boy, a few years older, with chocolate ice cream all over his face, and a dumpy wife with a toothy camera smile. The next picture showed Farrow and his wife raising orange cocktails overladen with colourful paper umbrellas and slices of pineapple towards the photographer. They were sunburnt, the light reflecting off their reddened faces to give their tight-looking skin a polished sheen. Will stared at the faint scar that ran from Farrow’s cheekbone to his jaw. He felt sick as he heard the blood-curdling scream echo in his head. He wondered what story he’d told his wife to explain the scar. He’d bet all the money in the world he hadn’t told her the truth.

  Will tore his eyes off the scar and began to read Farrow’s timeline, the vacuous everyday status updates of a normal man, with a normal family, a normal life.

  Status update: Kids and wife badgering me to get a dog. I don’t want a dog. Will they settle for a goldfish instead?

  Comment from Diane Farrow: Labrador puppy or we’re leaving en masse. ;)

  Status update: Rugby with the boys on Sunday. Can’t wait. Bring it on!!!

  Status update: Son turned five. How did this happen? Party on Saturday with twenty kids and a bouncy castle in the garden. A & E expect a visit!

  And so it went on. Will drained his wine then spent the next few hours poring over Alastair Farrow’s albums, reading about his wife, opening the pictures of each of his friends, reading their details, piecing together his life. It was all so anodyne, so conventional. Over the years Will had Farrow in mind as this towering figure, a ten-foot nemesis, the epitome of evil, but here he was, a podgy, balding father of two with a jolly wife and a modest home with a neat front garden in suburban Surrey.