The Judas Scar (23 page)

‘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 last 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.’

Will felt his blood boil with rage. He wanted to punch him. That would wipe that stupid smile off his fat, ugly face, wouldn’t it?

‘Banter?’ He said instead. ‘No, banter is joking around, playing, it doesn’t hurt anyone. What you did, beating up young boys, scaring the shit out of them, and doing … ’ He hesitated. ‘… doing God only knows what – that isn’t banter, that’s bullying. Bullying at best and abuse at worst.’

Alastair’s features hardened and Will saw a flash of the boy who had hurt him, who had beaten him, pushed his face into the ground until he thought he might suffocate, and an old fear materialised, a fear he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

‘Yes,’ Alastair said. ‘That’s what I call it because that’s what it was.’

They stared at each other. Then Alastair ran his hand over his head, rubbed the back of it a couple of times. He leant forward, turned his face so his scarred cheek faced Will and jabbed his finger hard against it a couple of times. ‘You see this? You see it?’ he said through gritted teeth, his voice low. ‘Am I moaning about that? Am I going on about needing an apology? No, no I’m not. Because it was just mucking around.’ He sat back and gave a dismissive shake of his head. ‘Jesus Christ, English, grow some bloody balls. School should have taught you to be a man rather than the wimp you are. That is what went on. At Eton, at Harrow, at Gordonstoun and at bloody Farringdon Hall. Men who had it a lot worse than you have managed to get over it. Bloody hell, some of this country’s greatest leaders would have seen the back of an older boy’s hand. Do they sit there like you, licking their wounds, feeling sorry for themselves, and asking for bloody apologies?’

Will couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was like listening to his father all over again. All that repellent claptrap about how boarding school bred real men, men who ran the world, men who built the sodding Empire, men for whom this type of thing was character-building and expected.

‘It happened to all of us,’ Alastair continued. ‘It happened to me when I was in the bottom years, and the boys who had their fun with me had the same done to them.Yes, some got it worse than others, but that’s survival of the fittest. You might not like it. It might not stand up against all that namby-pamby, politically correct rubbish we’re forced to suck on today, but that’s the way it was. There were those of us on top of the pile and those of you at the bottom and, like it or not, the system worked.’ He reached for his drink, sniffing loudly, and rolled his shoulders a couple of times as if he was limbering up for a boxing bout. ‘Have you got children? A son, maybe?’

Will stayed silent and didn’t move a muscle. It was like being stuck in a parallel universe, surreal and nightmarish. He thought of Harmony, of how lovely it would be if he was sitting with her, sharing the packet of crisps that sat unopened on the table, chatting about everything and nothing. He thought of her smile, of the way she played with her necklace, the look in her eyes before she kissed him.

‘I’ve got a son, and you know what? He pulls the legs off beetles and the wings off flies. He punches his friends and they punch him back. For fun. For exercise. Because that’s what boys do to amuse themselves. And it’s not just Charlie. They all do it. We got sent away to school. What age were you?’ Will didn’t answer. ‘Well, I was six. All of us in it together, no parents anywhere near us. It was
Lord of the
bloody
Flies
and you know it. Most of the masters were wankers. They knew what was going on and it amused them. Those that didn’t like it turned a blind eye.’