The Judas Scar (37 page)

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.’

She smiled up at him. ‘You look terrified,’ she said, and reached up to kiss his cheek.

He forced a smile back in an attempt to mask the nerves he was battling.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It’s going to be fine.’

The truth was, he
was
terrified; so much so, he could barely walk straight.

He pressed the button to go up and glanced at Harmony. Her hand was on her stomach, resting lightly on its roundness. A picture of Luke, dressed in his suit, shaking hands with him in Emma and Ian’s garden, flashed into his head. These unwanted images would always be there, however much he fought to keep them at bay.

It was two older boys, sixth-formers, who’d found his body. The boys had been bunking off prep for a cigarette and stumbled upon him. Will had heard enough detail for him to picture the scene: Luke hanging from the oak tree, bare-footed, his hand cut across the palm. It was an image he knew would haunt him forever.

The story had made the national news and triggered a police investigation into abuse at the school when Luke and Will had been pupils. Will had found no satisfaction or release while raking over those days with the police, but there was an element of uneasy relief when Drysdale and a handful of ex-members of staff found themselves facing prosecution. He’d followed the trials closely. He hadn’t wanted to appear in court so sent a statement to be read on his behalf. His was circumstantial evidence, more linked to the atmosphere and culture of the school than specific events. It was hard reliving those unpleasant days. In the end he was left feeling empty as the full extent of the rot was revealed and Will discovered there were numerous men whose lives had been torn apart as children. He knew he’d got off lightly. The policewoman who’d talked to him had shown him a photograph that was found inside Luke’s jacket at the scene of his death. It was the Polaroid of the two of them taken in the summer before it all went wrong. Luke had wanted to send it to his parents to show them who Will was. They’d asked one of the other boys to take it, then hooked arms around each other’s shoulders and grinned. Luke had loved the photo so much he’d decided to keep it. Seeing it in the police file, knowing he’d had it on him when he took his life, was heartbreaking.

The receptionist called Harmony’s name and he followed his wife into the small windowless room off the main waiting area. She took her coat off and a nurse asked her to climb onto the bed and lift her sweater over her bump and unzip her trousers.

The sonographer smiled and introduced herself and then pulled the top of Harmony’s knickers well below the swell of her stomach and tucked green paper towel into them.

‘This will feel cold to start with,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’

‘That’s fine.’ Harmony smiled at her.

She squeezed a large dollop of gel onto Harmony’s tummy. Then she took hold of the ultrasound scanner and pushed it hard against her, moving it around in the gel, while staring at the screen.

Will noticed Harmony wince. ‘Does it hurt?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she whispered back. ‘Just a bit uncomfortable. I drank a pint of water before I came out and haven’t peed.’ She looked at the woman, who stared intently at the screen. ‘Apparently, it makes the picture easier to see.’

‘That’s right,’ the woman said with a nod, her eyes still fixed ahead.

Will looked at the screen too but found it hard to see anything that resembled a baby, just a mass of shapes in black and white. Then there was a deep, fast, beating sound and the sonographer centred on that part of Harmony’s stomach, pushing the scanner deeper into her, making her wince for a second time.

‘Are you sure it doesn’t—’ Will began.

‘This is the baby’s heartbeat,’ the woman said.

Will looked at the screen again and saw a tiny black mass pulsing in time with the sound they could hear.

Harmony reached for his hand.

‘And there’s baby’s head.’ She paused and moved the scanner.

‘There’s the spine.’

‘I can’t see it,’ he said, leaning towards the screen and squinting.

‘Don’t worry, most people can’t,’ she said. She pointed at the screen with her fingers. ‘This is the face. The nose, lips.’

Just then the baby opened its mouth and seemed to yawn.

‘Oh my God,’ said Harmony, a small laugh escaping her lips.

‘That’s amazing.’

It was a peculiar feeling. One of dread and excitement. This is it, he thought, as he stared at the indistinct face of the child on the screen. There was his second chance.

Luke’s child.

He thought back to when she’d told him. She’d been devastated. He sat on the sofa and stayed quiet as she dropped to her knees at his feet, took his hands in hers, and apologised over and over.

‘If you want me to … ’ She couldn’t finish the sentence. ‘I will though … I will understand. If you want me to do that … I’m sorry, Will. I’m so, so sorry.’

He’d sat in the garden, at the wrought iron table, tracing his fingers over the filigree patterns in the rusting metal. Harmony was pregnant. He faced a huge decision. This wasn’t what he wanted. If he was to have a baby, it had to be his. The pain inside him was intense. He wanted her to be carrying his child. Could he ask her to get rid of it? He heard his mother’s words in his head:
You selfish, selfish boy.
She was right, he knew that. He’d learned a lot about himself in the last seven months. He thought back to Drysdale’s office, of how he’d watched the light seep out of Luke’s eyes when he’d failed to stand beside him.

He was responsible, not alone but in part, for the jigsaw puzzle of Luke’s tragic life. He knew that if ever there was a chance for atonement this was it. This was his opportunity to make amends for those things he’d done wrong, the selfish decisions he’d made again and again over the years. He could be a father to Luke’s child and give it all the love and support that had been denied Luke himself. He finally had the chance to prove his own father wrong, that life isn’t always ugly, and that, sometimes, it is fair.

‘Is the baby healthy?’ Harmony asked. ‘There’s nothing we should be worried about?’

‘Everything looks fine,’ she replied with a reassuring smile. ‘I’ve got a few measurements to take but otherwise all good.’ She turned to them both. ‘Do you want a picture of the baby?’

Will smiled at Harmony, who gripped his hand as if her life depended on it, then leant forward and kissed her forehead.

‘Yes,’ he said then. ‘We’d like a picture of our baby.’

N O T E S    F R O M
T H E    A U T H O R

An idea for a book can come from anywhere. From an overheard snippet of conversation. From a newspaper article. From an exchange you witness between two strangers in a supermarket quite by chance. Sometimes, of course, an idea will spring from personal experience, from something close to home, something that affects you directly.

A few years ago my husband got a telephone call from the police whilst he was at work. It was a call that threw him completely off balance for a period. As the woman took a moment to explain who she was he experienced a familiar and unwelcome wave of nausea that he had not felt since childhood. Beyond the fact that it was a female police detective asking him to confirm his identity he had no clues as to what the call might be about. An odd thirty seconds ensued. He described to me how the world seemed to close in around him, his conscious awareness of the situation diminished and he became an almost third party observer of the call. His subconscious took over and released waves of long and very deliberately buried memories and emotions from many years before. As the detective finished introducing herself he experienced a strange conviction that he knew what the call was about. “Does this relate to what went on at my school 25 years ago?” When she asked how he’d guessed he replied that he’d been expecting the call for years, but until that moment hadn’t realized it.