The Judas Tree, page 25
Harmony sat at the kitchen table and watched the hands of the clock march slowly around, willing him to come back. When Gill asked, she said everything was fine and that Will just wanted some space. Gill looked worried so Harmony tried to reassure her, despite feeling anything but reassured herself. She held her breath when the phone in the house rang, terrified it was going to be the police saying he’d been in an accident. By six o’clock she began to think about people he might have gone to. She phoned Sophie and Frank, and sent deliberately vague texts to a couple of Will’s other friends, asking them to let her know if he happened to show up. Then she telephoned Emma.
‘If he turns up at yours, you’ll call me? Even if he tells you not to?’
‘Yes, of course. We’re in tonight. Ian wants to watch some hideous war film. Anything but talk to me.’ She paused. ‘Hey, it’s going to be OK. I’m sure Will will be back soon.’
Harmony closed her eyes. ‘I hope so.’
She hesitated before calling Luke. Cold dread filled her at the thought of Will confronting him. But she knew that there was every chance that he might have made contact with him. She dialled Luke’s number.
‘Luke?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is Will with you?’
‘No.’
‘I told him what happened. He’s left in the car. That was hours ago and he’s not come back. I thought he might have come to talk to you.’ The churning in her stomach was unbearable.
‘Where are you?’
‘Jesus, Luke. 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.’
Harmony swore. ‘Just call me if he turns up.’
There was silence from Luke.
‘Please,’ Harmony said, trying hard to keep her voice calm.
Still silence.
‘Luke, please tell me you’ll call the if you see him.’
‘Yes, and will you let me know when he shows up with you?’
‘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, whatever you think about me, I’d never forgive myself. It’s happened before, remember? Not to mention I’d quite like to know he’s not about to appear here and kick the shit out of me.’
Harmony lied to Gill and told her Will had been called to a client whose wine had been stolen. It was a tenuous lie and one that Gill didn’t believe for one moment.
‘Do you need to get back to London?’ Gill asked her. ‘We could call a cab to take you to the station.’
Harmony hesitated. She was fairly sure he’d come back to his mother’s house and wanted to be there when he did. ‘Do you mind if I stay? I’ve got my laptop here and work I can be getting on with. If you don’t mind?’
‘It will be nice to have your company.’ Gill stood to leave the kitchen but paused at the doorway. ‘Are you all right? You seem very distracted.’
‘I’m a bit worried about Will. We had an argument. I’d have thought he’d be back or called at least.’
‘Good gracious, I’ve been worrying about that boy for the whole of his life.’ Gill smiled kindly. ‘He’ll be fine. He always is.’
They had soup and buttered toast for supper, which they ate while watching a costume drama Gill loved but 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 back garden. It was tidy and well-kept but it lacked the flair and excitement of their garden at the rectory. It was as if Gill’s passion had gone, as if she didn’t have the time or energy to create anything special, but instead merely went through the motions of gardening. 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 Will’s parents had enjoyed together, and without him it didn’t hold the same allure. There were always several sides to a story. She’d often wondered if this was why she felt safe with science, where there were right and wrong answers. Rules and theories. You worked on a theory until you had a rule. Grey areas unsettled her; she liked absolutes.
When she’d dried the bowls and put them away, she called the flat and Will’s mobile again. But 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 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 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 must have dozed off as 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.
It was him and she felt weak with relief. He looked tired, deep grey bags beneath his eyes, his skin pale, clothes rumpled and smudged with dirt. She put her arms around him, one hand against his head, held him close to her chest. They walked into the kitchen.
‘Where did you go?’
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.’
‘I’m so sorry, Will.’ Harmony sat at the table. ‘Truly. I love you so very much but I understand if you can’t be with me.’
‘I love you too. 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 hid it, and hoped it wouldn’t interfere. But the stuff I kept inside has held me back and 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 and hurt, but that’s no excuse. What I did was wrong. I should never have used it 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. Get used to that.” I used to think he was a prick 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. I hope so. I’d like to try.’
Harmony lifted his hand and kissed it. But then her face fell. ‘But what about Luke? What if he calls again? He hasn’t left me alone. He’s insane.’
‘You don’t need to worry about him anymore. I’m here now.’
They went upstairs. While Will was in the bathroom, Harmony grabbed her phone.
He’s back. Now leave us alone.
Chapter Twenty-Five
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 trying to bonk each other. Christ, her taste in television – no, in all things – sickened him. He trawled through until he found a repeat of Have I Got News for You on Dave then tucked the remote beneath a cushion to hide it from her. He swilled his whisky gently, listening to the ice cubes clink against the glass, and began to laugh 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 voice she put on for the telephone, 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 pillock.’
‘Alastair?’
‘Jesus,’ he muttered. ‘Did he say what he wants?’
‘No, he just said it wouldn’t take long and 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 crap again. It was a part of his life he didn’t need to revisit.
‘I don’t want to talk to him. Tell him to write me a letter or something. In fact, don’t say that. Tell him to go fuck himself.’ He chuckled quietly at the thought of his wife passing that message on, and 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, it’s ten o’clock on a Sunday night!’
‘You talk to him and I’ll fetch you another 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.
She walked over to the side table and picked up his empty glass.
‘What the fuck are you doing calling me?’ he said, as he grabbed the phone.
‘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 need to listen to me. You’re going to tell your wife you have to talk to me then you’re going to get into your car and drive to an address I’m going to give you.’
‘Ha!’ Farrow exploded with laughter. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Don’t say another word. If you do I will tell your wife what you did at school. I’ll show her. I have a photo of what happened that afternoon. Of you and what you did.’
‘You’re lying.’ Alastair turned to check where his wife was. He lowered his voice. ‘I know 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 got it back and took a photo. It’s a good one. No denying who it is and I have no qualms about sending it to your wife and your kids’ school and your boss. I’ll put it on Facebook and make sure everybody you know has seen it. Do you hear me? All I want is five minutes of your time and 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 a pathetic prick than he first thought.
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 him the whisky as she passed. He waited until she was back in the living room before replying. ‘You’re blackmailing me,’ he hissed.
‘All I am asking is you give me five minutes of your time. A quick, calm chat. Then we can both forget all about it.’
‘Where is this bloody place?’ he asked, keeping his voice low.
‘Not far. Under an hour.’
Farrow shook his head and rolled his eyes. ‘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.
‘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.
‘Don’t wait up for me.’
She didn’t look away from the screen.
Alastair Farrow knocked his second whisky back in one then took his car keys off the table in the hall. As he unlocked his car, he looked out over the cul-de-sac. He hated living here. 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 this age. He’d always imagined himself with a large pile somewhere, a couple of staff, an indoor swimming pool and a holiday home in Spain. His neighbours to the left were clearly out for the evening, no car in their driveway, and all the lights off. Stupid idiots. 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 in that heap turned his stomach.
As he turned on the engine he realised how utterly ludicrous this was. A gold-plated 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-two minutes. If he put his foot down he’d do it in forty-five. Three minutes with the idiot. Then forty-five 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 a 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 English had given him, had its door ajar, throwing a stripe of fluorescent light across the forecourt. He parked 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?’ His voice echoed off the walls of the prefab building. A police siren sounded over the noise of the traffic on the street beyond. He walked towards unit three. ‘Hello?’ he called again. ‘English?’
‘In here.’
As soon as he stepped inside he saw it was some sort of photographic studio, with painted breeze-block walls and lights on stands, and cloth backgrounds hung from metal clips. The door closed behind him with a thud.
He turned and saw a man with his back to him sliding closed the bolt on the door.
‘You’re not Will English.’
‘No,’ said the man, who was well dressed in an expensive suit with a foppish haircut framing his pretty-boy face. He smiled. ‘I’m not.’
‘Who the hell are—’
The man walked over to Farrow and the next thing he knew he’d taken a punch to the stomach. The pain shot around his body. Farrow bent double, too winded to call out. He tried to stand upright, tried to catch his breath, but then there was a kick to his head.
When he came round he was lying on the floor and the left side of his head throbbed. He tried to get up, but found his hands were tied behind his back. Both his wrists and ankles hurt. He looked down and saw his feet were also tied with a couple of brightly coloured bungee cords. Where the hooks met they pushed into his skin. His mouth ached and he realised with horror that he’d been gagged. Fear took hold and he began to panic. He kicked his legs in an attempt to free himself, wriggled back and forth. The man who’d locked him in, who’d punched him, and who, Alastair assumed, had tied him up like this, came into his sights. He crouched beside him and stared down at him. His eyes were dark and cold, but his clothes and the way he held himself were at odds with his menacing look; he looked more like a management consultant than a mugger.
The man grabbed Alastair by his arm, hooking his hand through the crook of his elbow, and yanked him to his feet. He gestured to a chair a few feet from him.
‘Sit down.’
Alastair glared at him and shook his head as he retched at the stench of the rag stuffed in his mouth.
‘Sit.’ The man held up a Swiss Army knife, the blade open, glinting in the light.
Farrow didn’t move.
The man lifted his hand and brought the knife down across Farrow’s face, over the scar that ran down his cheek. The pain was excruciating and Farrow tried to cry out but the sound was muffled by the gag.
‘Did that hurt as much as last time?’ hissed the man. ‘Does that turn you on?’ He stepped closer, until his mouth was next to his ear. ‘Does that make you want to fuck me?’
And then Farrow knew who it was and his legs buckled beneath him.
Luke Crawford grabbed hold of his shoulders and sat him on the chair. Alastair’s face stung and he was aware he was bleeding profusely. Crawford spent a few moments tying him to the chair with more bungees that he got from a large holdall. He closed his eyes and thought back to that day. That little shit, that skinny runt – Bible Boy, Puke Crawford – humiliating him in front of his friends. He’d seen their faces when he’d looked at them, his face sliced open; they hadn’t known whether to laugh or scream. One of them – Toddy, was it? – had clamped his hand over his face to cover a smirk. Rage had balled inside him as he’d looked back at that crazy scrap of a boy with his mad eyes and lunatic temper. Standing tall and strong, telling him to leave pathetic Will English alone. They’d all had so much fun with him, pressing his buttons, watching him fly off the handle, sending himself straight to the end of Drysdale’s cane. But that cut. The river of blood that had flowed. His face, he knew even then, would be scarred forever, and there he was, that little shit, bony fists clenched at his sides, knife gripped tightly, facing him like David against Goliath. He’d grabbed him, knocked the knife out of his hand and growled words he couldn’t remember. A red mist descended. Anger like he’d never felt. The boy needed to be taught a lesson. You didn’t fuck with Alastair Farrow.
