The Judas Scar (31 page)

‘He’s not here. Where are you?’

‘Jesus, Luke, I thought I made all this clear yesterday. I’m not telling you where I am and if you go to my sister’s house again she’ll have you arrested,’ she said with a flare of anger. ‘How did you even find out where she lived? Did you stalk her too?’

‘You told the taxi driver her address the evening we had a drink after work.’

‘Just get in touch with me if he turns up.’ There was silence from Luke.

‘Please,’ Harmony said, trying hard to keep her voice calm. Still silence.

‘Luke, please will you call me if you see him.’

‘Yes. And will you call me if he shows up?’

‘What?’

‘I’m not a monster, Harmony. If something happens to him behind the wheel of a car because he’s upset about what happened between us I’d never forgive myself. It’s happened before, remember? Not to mention I’d quite like to know he’s not about to show up to kick the shit out of me.’

‘Sure, I’ll let you know.’

Harmony had lied to Gill and told her Will had rushed back to London to check on the wine shop. She said the burglar alarm had gone off and he’d been called in by the systems alert service that the shop employed. That’s why he’d left in such a hurry. When he didn’t return by suppertime she told her it had been more complicated than it should have been, but that Will assured her he’d be back as soon as possible to pick her up.

‘Do you need to get back for work?’ Gill asked her. ‘I could call a cab to take you to the station.’

Harmony hesitated. She was pretty sure he’d come back to his mother’s house and she wanted to be there when he did. ‘Do you mind if I stay? I’m a bit tired and I don’t have to be at the office tomorrow. I’ve got things I can be getting on with – if I can use your computer?’

‘Of course. It will be nice to have your company.’ Gill stood to leave the kitchen but paused at the doorway. ‘Are you all right, Harmony? You seem very distracted.’

‘I’m actually a bit worried about Will. I’d have thought he’d be back or called at least.’ She wondered if she should tell Gill she’d lied about the burglar alarm.

‘Good gracious, I’ve been worrying about that boy for the whole of his life.’ Gill smiled. ‘He’ll be fine. He always is.’

Harmony made them bowls of soup and buttered toast for supper, which they ate while watching a costume drama that Harmony found hard to concentrate on. When they finished she carried the empty bowls back to the kitchen and washed them up, staring out of the window as the night settled over Gill’s small, neat garden. It lacked the flare and excitement of the garden at her last house. It was as if the passion had gone, as if she didn’t have the time or energy to create anything special. It was easy to think their garden had been the place Gill escaped to on those occasions when her husband’s behaviour was too much to bear. On the other hand, perhaps gardening was a hobby they both enjoyed and it was this shared pleasure that revealed itself in the haven they created. There were always several sides to a story. Perhaps that’s why she felt safe with science. Options were minimised. There were rules and theories. You worked on a theory until you had a rule. Grey areas unsettled her. She dried the bowls and put them away. Then she called the flat and Will’s mobile again. But there was still no answer from either.

‘I think I’m going to go to bed,’ she said to Gill, poking her head around the living room door. ‘Is there anything you need before I go up?’

Gill was stroking the cat, who purred so loudly Harmony could hear it from the doorway. Gill glanced up and gave a brief smile. ‘No, thank you, I’ve got everything I need right here.’

At eleven-thirty her phone beeped a text. She grabbed at it. It was Luke.

Is Will back yet? No.

She wasn’t sure what else to say. She pressed send then stared at her phone until the screensaver gave way to black.

She lay awake for most of the night, as a confusing mix of feelings and emotions jostled in her head. She wanted to know where Will was. She was terrified he was lying dead or dying with the car wrapped around a lamppost somewhere. She hated how he drove when he was angry, and hearing him screech off like that was hideous.

She woke with a start as soon as she heard the front door open. She looked at her clock; it was four-thirty.

‘Will,’ she breathed. She leapt out of bed and ran to the stairs. He looked tired, deep grey bags beneath his eyes, his skin pale,

clothes rumpled with smudges of dirt over them. She put her arms around him, one hand against his head, held him close to her chest.

He pulled away from her and walked back down the stairs. She followed him and closed the kitchen door behind her so they could talk without waking Gill.

‘Where have you been?’

He wasn’t able to look her in the eyes. ‘I drove a bit. Walked a lot.’ He leant heavily against the work surface. ‘I had some thinking to do.’

‘And?’ Harmony sat at the table.

‘I love you. I don’t think I knew what that really meant until yesterday. All this time I’ve been coasting through life, hiding stuff from you – from myself, even. There was so much I should have told you, but I just hid it, hoped it wouldn’t interfere. It’s been like wearing invisible shackles that held me back, that stopped me being truthful to both of us. I’ve been living a lie. But when I thought about you with another man, when I thought about you leaving me, I saw my world fall apart.’

‘I was so angry, but it was wrong of me. Unfair to use my anger as an excuse to betray you like that.’

‘My father used to take great joy in telling me how unfair life was. “Life isn’t fair, William,” he used to say. “Life is ugly.” I used to think he was a dick for saying it, but I know what he meant now. Life isn’t fair. I wasn’t fair to you and you weren’t fair to me.’

‘Can we get through this?’

He took hold of her hand. ‘Yes, I think we can.’

‘What if he calls again? He hasn’t left me alone, Will. He even went to Sophie’s.’

‘You don’t need to worry about him anymore. I’m here now.’

They went upstairs and Will went into the bathroom. Harmony went into the bedroom and grabbed her phone from the bedside table.

He just got back. Now leave us alone.

C H A P T E R    T W E N T Y - S I X

Alastair Farrow settled down on the sofa to watch the television. His wife had got up to take the empty plates through to the kitchen, so he grabbed the remote and started to flick through the channels. There was no way he was watching some reality crap about orange-skinned nobodies he’d never heard of. Christ, her taste in television – no, in all things – was appalling. He trawled through until he found a repeat of
Have I Got News forYou
on Dave and then hid the remote beneath a cushion. He swilled his whisky gently, listening to the ice cubes clink against the glass, and began to laugh loudly along with the show.

When the phone rang he checked his watch and muttered under his breath. Who the hell could that be? It was nearly ten o’clock. He heard his wife answer with that irritating sing-song phone voice she put on, and a few moments later she came into the room.

‘There’s someone on the phone for you,’ she said.

‘For me? What do they want? If it’s someone trying to sell something you can tell them to piss off.’

‘He isn’t a salesman, he said he wants to talk to you. He said his name is Will English?’

‘For crying out loud,’ snapped Alastair. He took a heavy breath and shook his head. ‘What’s wrong with that idiot?’ He drank some whisky and turned back to the television. ‘You can tell him to piss off anyway. I’m not interested in talking to him.’

‘He sounded quite insistent.’

‘I don’t care!’ shouted Alastair, not taking his eyes off the television. ‘He’s a moron.’

‘I’m sure it won’t take long.’

‘Did he say what he wants?’ Alastair asked irritably.

‘No, he just said he needed a few moments and that he’s sorry to disturb us this late.’

‘Is that all?’ She nodded.

Alastair thought for a moment or two, remembering the things Will had said to him in the pub. He didn’t want to hear any of that rubbish again. It was a part of his life he didn’t need to revisit.

‘I don’t want to talk to him. It’s late. Go and tell him to write me a letter or something. In fact, no, don’t say that. Tell him to go fuck himself.’ He chuckled quietly at the thought of his wife passing that message on, and then drained his whisky.

‘Perhaps you could tell him yourself?’ she suggested. ‘It might be better coming straight from you. He’s got a very nice voice,’ she said, as if this might persuade him.

He banged his glass down on the side table. ‘Jesus, woman, this is ridiculous! It’s ten o’clock on a Sunday night!’

‘You talk to him and I’ll fill your drink. How about that?’ Alastair Farrow stood up and straightened his clothes. ‘I’m not happy about this at all,’ he grumbled as he passed her.

‘I know you’re not, dearest.’ She walked over to the side table and picked up his empty glass.

‘Farrow speaking,’ he said as he picked up the phone.

‘Listen very carefully. I need to see you. I didn’t say what I wanted to say last time. I lost control and I’m sorry about that.You’re going to tell your wife you need to talk to me and then you’re going to get into your car and drive to an address I’m going to give you.’

‘Ha!’ Farrow couldn’t help laughing. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Don’t say another word. If you do I will tell your wife what you did at school. I can show her. I have a photo. Of you that afternoon.’

‘You don’t have a photograph. You’re lying.’

‘I had my camera that day. You threw it into the bushes. You remember that? Well, I went into the bushes and found it. I have a photo. And it’s a good one. I have no qualms about showing your wife, your kids, your boss, I’ll tag it on your bloody Facebook page, do you hear me? All you have to do is give me five minutes of your time then you’ll never hear from me again. I need some … ’ he paused, ‘closure.’

Closure? Who did this guy think he was? Peddling politically correct American therapist claptrap like that. He was even more of an idiot than he thought.

‘You owe me that much.’

Farrow looked up to see his wife coming out of the kitchen with a glass of whisky in one hand and a large gin and tonic in the other. She handed it to him as she passed. He waited until she was back in the living room before replying. ‘You’re blackmailing me,’ he hissed.

‘I am asking that you talk to me and then we can both forget all about it.’

‘Where is this bloody place?’ he asked, keeping his voice down.

‘Not far. Under an hour.’

Farrow shook his head. ‘Address?’ he snapped. He tore a piece of paper off the pad by the phone and grabbed the pencil that lay beside it, wrote the address down, then slammed the phone into its cradle and swore. ‘You should never have picked up that bloody call!’ he shouted. ‘It’s some idiot I was at school with. He’s an utter lunatic and now I’ve got to go and talk to him.’

She ignored him and laughed at something on the television.

‘Did you hear me?’ he yelled.

She looked up at him. ‘Please don’t wake the children.’ Then she turned back to the television and drank some of her gin.

‘I’m going out. Don’t wait up for me.’ She didn’t look away from the television.

Alastair Farrow knocked his second whisky back in one and then took his car keys off the table in the hall. It was dark outside; not pitch black, but dark. Farrow noted it was past midsummer’s night now so the days would be getting shorter. Great, he thought. Cold, dark commuting to look forward to.

He looked out over the cul-de-sac they lived on. He hated it. Hated the dull tweeness of it. It was a dead-end street populated with dead-end people and nothing like where he imagined he’d be at forty-three. He thought he’d be in a large pile somewhere, with a couple of staff and an indoor swimming pool. His neighbours to the left were clearly out for the evening, no car in their driveway and all the lights off. Stupid idiots, he thought, why not leave a sign on the door telling all and sundry there’s nobody home? He made a mental note to speak to them about it in the morning. It wasn’t good to encourage attention from burglars in The Close. Burglaries always happened in clusters. Burglars were a lazy bunch.

He climbed into his company car, which was just about the best bit of his excuse for a life, and clipped his seatbelt. It was a four-year-old BMW and he kept it immaculate. The children weren’t allowed anywhere near it; they and their sticky fingers were only allowed in the rubbish-strewn Galaxy. Just looking at the crisp crumbs, books, plastic toys and accumulated child detritus turned his stomach.

As he turned on the engine he realised how utterly ludicrous this was. It was a farce. Raking up the past like this was pathetic. Will English was a wimp; he always had been. He’d deal with him quickly, get the photograph, burn it and get on with his life. He pulled the piece of paper out and then tapped the address into his satnav. Fifty-one minutes. If he put his foot down he’d do it in forty. Three minutes with the idiot. Then forty minutes home. He checked the clock on the dash. Nine minutes past ten. He’d be back by half past eleven for a large whisky and bit of internet porn before bed.

The monotone voice of the satnav told him he was nearly there. He put the indicator on and turned into a small business park. It was dark and set back from the road with a large pair of metal gates open against an overgrown hedge. There were a number of garage-type units. One of them, number three, the number Will English had given him, had its door ajar, throwing a stripe of fluorescent light across the forecourt. He pulled up and turned off the engine. Then he pulled down the visor and checked his appearance. He ran his hands over his head and straightened his shirt collar before getting out of the car.

‘Hello?’ he called, his voice echoing off the walls of the prefab building. A police siren sounded over the noise of the traffic on the road outside. He walked towards unit three. ‘Hello?’ he called again.

‘English?’

‘In here.’