Owning Jacob (1998)

by Simon Beckett

  Ben couldn't look at either of them. 'He blames me,' he said. Me and my wife. He blames us for Jacob being autistic.' He felt as though the words had been cut out of him. He had to go on to fill the silence that followed. 'The doctors say it isn't caused by anything like that, being taken from his mother, but he still thinks it's our fault.'

  He heard Mary Paterson's chair creak as she stirred. 'I think sometimes things just happen. It doesn't do any good trying to guess why.'

  'I'm sorry,' Ben said, and it was only after he'd said it that he realised it was the first time he had apologised for what Sarah had done.

  'You've got nothing to apologise for.' She sounded weary. 'You weren't to know. And your wife…losing a child does strange things to you. Your wife did what she did because of it, and our Jeanette did what she did. One way or another you never get over it.'

  That was as much absolution as Ben could hope for. He wanted to thank her, but when he looked across he saw her face was drawn and pale.

  'You'll have to excuse me now,' she said. Her voice was slurred with fatigue. 'Ron…'

  In response her husband stood up and silently pushed her out of the room. Ben heard the chairlift start up, then her husband returned. His face was stoic.

  'Is she all right?' asked Ben.

  'Just tired. It's arthritis. Some days are better than others.'

  'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have stayed so long.'

  'She's glad you did.' He didn't sit back down, though, or invite Ben to stay any longer. Ben stood up to leave, but there was one more thing he had to ask. 'Do you think Jacob'll be all right with him? With Kale, I mean?'

  'He's his son. He's been missing him for the last six years.'

  That wasn't what Ben had asked. He rephrased the question. 'He's your grandson, as well. How do you feel about Kale bringing him up?'

  Paterson seemed to deliberate before he spoke. 'I don't know John Kale any more. I can't say what he's like now. The last time I saw him I thought he was a man on the edge. And that was before he got shot up in Northern Ireland. But it isn't for me to say.'

  'What about his wife?'

  Paterson's expression darkened. 'That one. I've heard—' He broke off.

  'What?' Ben asked.

  'Nothing.'

  Ben would have liked to have pushed, but he could see the old man had said all he was going to. He went to the door.

  'Can I ask a favour of you?' Paterson asked, abruptly.

  'Photographs…we haven't got any. Of Jacob, I mean. I wondered if you could let us borrow some. It'd mean a lot to Mary.' There was a minute trembling in his lip. 'Just so we can see what he's like.'

  He tried listening to the radio as he drove back to take away the silence in the car, but soon switched it off again. The quiet oppressed him, but the noise and chatter ran against his mood. He reached a junction where he had turned off earlier.

  A road sign pointed to Tunford. The indicator arrow on his dashboard clicked softly as it winked on and off, pointing in the opposite direction. Ben flipped it the other way and followed the sign.

  He didn't know why he was doing it. But he couldn't come this close to where Jacob was and just go home again.

  He tried to keep his mind clear as he approached the town, as though if he didn't think about what he was going to do something would occur to him. There was an acid tightening in his gut as he came to the shops, but no inkling of a plan.

  If Kale's car isn't there I'll stop and knock at the door. He took the first of the turnings that would lead him to the house.

  A group of small boys were playing football in the middle of the road. They grudgingly moved to the pavement as he drove past. There was a sudden bang that made his foot leap for the brake before he saw them sprinting away, and understood that they had kicked the football at the car. Little bastards. His grin of nervous relief faded as he turned on to Kale's street.

  The rust-coloured Ford Escort was parked outside the house.

  Ben gripped the steering wheel, agonising over whether or not to stop anyway. He slowly cruised past. He saw the piles of junk in the garden, gathered now into two big piles instead of several smaller ones; he saw the guttering hanging loose from the eaves, but he didn't see either of the Kales or Jacob.

  He stayed rigid with indecision until the house disappeared from the rear-view mirror, and the moment when he might have stopped was gone. He continued to the end of the street, deflated, as if he had failed some kind of test.

  The road curled away around the last of the houses before climbing a hill behind them. Ben hadn't followed it this far before, but he didn't want to turn around and go past the Kales' again. The hill was covered with scrubby woodland, so that he soon lost sight of the town. Towards the top there was an overgrown lay-by leading to a wooden five-barred gate, thick with nettles. Impulsively, he pulled into it and switched off the engine. It ticked like a time bomb as it cooled. He sat in the car for a while, then got out.

  The wind had picked up. It slapped his coat around him, watering his eyes and tugging at his hair. The field beyond the gate dropped steeply to a flooded gravel pit. Each gust sent a shiver racing across its surface like goosebumps. He turned away and went across to the other side of the road.

  An old and uneven stone wall bordered the woods. Through the trees he could see snatches of the houses below. The branches thrashed in the wind, their remaining leaves showing dark green, pale green as they whipped about. Others were wrenched off, spinning through the fast air, abandoned to the death of another season. Ben thrust his hands in his pockets and faced the wind. He felt as though he had been torn loose from everything that had anchored him, that he was on the verge of being ripped up and blown away himself.

  A section of the wall had tumbled to a low heap of individual stones. It was topped with rusted barbed wire, but the posts that had held it up had also slumped and given up.

  Ben stepped over it into the woods. The trees were mostly scrubby and stunted oaks. He picked his way through them, no longer able to see the town as he descended. He came to a path, little more than a worn track. He followed it without really caring where it led, wanting only to lose himself for a while in an unfamiliar landscape.

  The path meandered gradually down the hillside, snaking around the trees, broken every now and then by exposed roots. It was uneven enough to make him watch his footing, and when it suddenly emerged from the trees on to an open slope he was surprised to see how close to the houses he'd come. Their back gardens butted up to the field at the bottom of the hill like an uneven strip of patchwork quilt. He could see the tarmac ribbon of road he'd driven on continue from where they ended and curve away up the hill to his right. He couldn't make out which was Kale's house, but he knew it couldn't be far away.

  He went back into the woods and began to head in its direction. He wasn't sure why he didn't just walk out in the open, but something in him didn't want to be seen, not just by Kale but by anyone.

  The grass was longer off the path, still wet from the last rain, and the bottoms of his trousers were soon soaked through. He slipped and skidded across the hillside, trying to gauge whereabouts on the street the Kales lived. He needn't have bothered. He could hardly have missed it.

  When he next paused to get his bearings he saw it immediately. The rear of the house was a scrapyard in miniature, a Pyrenees of metal crammed into the confines of a semidetached garden. Ben carried on through the woods until he was looking directly down on the sprawl of junk. He could see now that it wasn't a solid pile, as he'd first imagined.

  There was a clear area at its centre.

  In it were Kale and Jacob.

  The tree line was about a hundred and fifty yards from the garden, too far away to make out any details, but Ben could tell it was them. Jacob was sitting on something low to the ground. He was occupied with an object in his hands, and although Ben couldn't see what it was he guessed it would be some sort of puzzle. He felt a lump form in his throat at the familiar sight.

&
nbsp; Kale was a few feet behind his son. He was standing with his legs braced apart, and had something gripped in both hands behind his neck. It looked heavy. As Ben watched he slowly hefted it above his head, then lowered it in front of him until he was holding it outstretched directly over Jacob's head.

  Ben stiffened, but Kale was already raising the weight again.

  Keeping his arms straight, he reversed his motion until it was again grasped behind his neck. He held it there for a second, then repeated the entire procedure.

  Jacob continued to play, unconcerned with what was going on above him. The scene had the appearance of being a routine they were both used to, and Ben felt his anxiety give way to fury. It increased with each repetition until he was quivering with a hatred for the man he had never felt before. Whether Kale was doing it as a test of strength and endurance or just showing off, there was no excuse for it. It was fucking irresponsible, dangerous, stupid…the epithets trailed off as he saw Kale's movements begin to slow. The arms were taking an age to thrust the weight above his head. Once there they hesitated. Even at that distance there was an unmistakable wobble in them.

  Oh, please, God, don't do it…

  They began inexorably to descend. The weight came to a halt over Jacob's head. It stayed there longer than before, hovering unsteadily. Ben could almost feel the strain on muscle and tendon. Jacob played on beneath it all, oblivious.

  Please…lift it. Fucking lift it.

  Slowly, the arms began to rise. They got so far and then stopped. The weight began to pull them back down. It halted above Jacob and slowly came up again. Now it looked as though Kale was deliberately rocking it from side to side as he struggled to raise it over his head. There was a long moment of impasse. Then he managed it, and in the same movement he pivoted and let it drop.

  The weight landed next to Jacob. Ben saw him turn to look at it, then go back to his puzzle as Kale collapsed to his knees.

  'Oh, you fucking mad bastard,' Ben said out loud. 'You fucking mad bastard!' He wanted to run down the hill and fling himself at the fence, climb over and club Kale with some of the metal he was so fond of. He wanted to hug Jacob and carry him away, back to safety, back to his fucking home, where he belonged.

  Except he knew if he tried Kale would beat him to a pulp.

  Kale had come to his feet but was still bent over, in the attitude of a man fighting for breath. Behind him, there was a movement as a figure appeared in an upstairs window. The yellow hair identified Sandra Kale. She seemed to be looking down at her husband.

  At that distance Ben couldn't be sure, but it looked like she was naked.

  The tableau held for a while. Then Kale limped over to a shed that was half obscured with junk. He went inside, closing the door behind him. When Ben looked back at the bedroom window it was empty.

  But he had seen enough. He felt as weak as if he had been the one lifting the weight. The memory brought a fresh resurgence of anger. Tamping it down into a hard core of resolve, he took a last look at Jacob and began to make his way back to the car.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ben could tell the social worker didn't believe him.

  'Look, he could have been killed! If Kale had dropped that thing it would've staved his head in!'

  Carlisle's face was studiedly neutral. 'But you didn't try to stop him.'

  'I've told you, I was too far away.'

  'So you just left without doing anything or letting him know you were there.'

  'I knew it wouldn't have done any good! He's already made it clear what's going to happen if I go there again. Christ, what more do you want?' He tried to calm himself down, knowing that losing his temper wasn't going to help. But the thought that those macho repetitions—and God knew what else—could be going on regularly made him break into a sweat. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that the testosterone-driven bastard wasn't just an unreasonable man.

  He was insane.

  Carlisle pulled on the lobe of one ear. 'What made you go around the back of the house in the first place?'

  'I don't know. Curiosity I suppose.' Ben could feel his face growing red. The fact that he felt guilty made him angrier than ever. 'I'm not making this up. If you don't believe me go and see for yourself! The place is like a…a scrapyard! God knows how you could let Jacob go somewhere like that!'

  The last remark came out before he could stop it.

  A flush darkened the social worker's neck. 'Contrary to popular belief, we aren't complete idiots. We visited the house and satisfied ourselves that it was a safe environment.'

  'It might have been then, but it isn't any more! Did anyone actually look in the back garden?'

  Ben knew he was moving the meeting towards a confrontation but was unable to stop himself. Carlisle's cheeks had now reddened.

  'We know our job, Mr Murray.'

  'Well, then, do it! Jacob isn't safe there! That madman's going to end up killing him!'

  'I don't think histrionics are going to get us anywhere.'

  'It isn't histrionics! I saw what he was doing!'

  'So you say.'

  Ben clenched his fists, fighting for restraint. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

  The social worker too seemed to be trying to bring things back to a more controlled level. 'Mr Murray, I explained last time that this sort of situation, when a child has been taken from one parent, or step-parent, and placed in the care of another, is always difficult. Okay, I appreciate that it can't be easy to accept that Jacob no longer lives with you, but I've got to remind you that, as you know, you didn't contest Mr Kale's residence application. Now I know that there was a misunderstanding over your first contact day—no, please, hear me out.' He held up a hand as Ben tried to interrupt. 'But there quite often are disputes to begin with, until both sets of parents have come to terms with the new situation. I have stressed to Mrs Kale that you are entitled to your contact days, and she had no objection to that—'

  'I bet.'

  '—so what I suggest is that you wait until your next contact is due, and I'm sure that all these…these problems will be resolved amicably.'

  The man genuinely believed there was nothing to worry about, Ben saw. As far as the social worker was concerned, the happy ending had already happened.

  'And what if Kale drops a lump of metal on Jacob's head before then?'

  Carlisle looked as though he had made a tasteless joke. 'We will look into your complaint, obviously. We take everything like this seriously, but you have to understand that we can't act on an uncorroborated allegation.'

  'In other words you think I'm making it up.'

  'It isn't that I think you're making it up.' The implication in his voice was that he didn't think Ben was telling the whole truth, either. 'We just can't do anything without evidence.'

  'So that's it, then?'

  The social worker spread his hands. 'I'm sorry, Mr Murray. I can assure you that—'

  Ben walked out. His head seemed to hum with the force of his frustration.

  I'll get you fucking evidence, he thought.

  He bought the lens from his usual supplier. He already had zoom lenses for detailed and portrait work, but nothing that was up to the kind of specifications he had in mind now.

  It was a 600mm telephoto, a more-than-half-metre-long beast that still wasn't as powerful as some of the long lenses press photographers used, but with muscle enough for his needs.

  When he fitted it to his Nikon and looked through it he felt as though he had an artillery gun strapped to his head.

  On the afternoon he collected it he told Zoe not to expect him back and set off for Tunford. A thin and insincere afternoon sun broke through the clouds as he left the motorway.

  Bypassing the town altogether, he headed directly for the hill.

  He parked by the same overgrown gate as before, shouldered his camera bag and set off through the wood. This time when he hit the track he knew exactly where to go. He caught glimpses of the houses through the trees.
When he thought he had gone far enough, he left the track and cut straight downhill.

  He was a little too high, but he backtracked until he was directly above the house. There was no sign of anyone, but he'd expected that. Jacob would be at school, Kale at the scrapyard and Sandra at the pub where she worked as a barmaid.

  He looked around. Not far from where he had stood the previous Sunday was a cluster of bushy young oaks, their lowest branches almost sweeping the ground in places. Ben cautiously pushed his way through them. They clutched and scratched at him but once he was inside there was a relatively clear area where he would be hidden. He set his camera bag and lens case down and snapped off one or two small branches that were in the way. After he had broken off the overhanging twigs in front of him, he had an uninterrupted view down into Kale's back garden.

  He took out the telephoto lens and fitted it on to his Nikon. The weight made the familiar camera feel unbalanced. It would have been unmanageable without a tripod. When it was fully supported he put his eye to the viewfinder, and suddenly the back garden was in his face. He drew back, startled, then looked through the camera again. 'Wow,'he murmured, adjusting the focus.

  Compared to this the zoom lenses he was used to were like bifocals. The rear of the house leaped into close-up; the grainy texture of the bricks, the flaking paintwork, even the brand-name of a box of matches on the windowsill above the sink, all were as clear as if he were only a few feet from them. He panned around the garden, which he now saw was contained by a high wire fence. In the centre of the bare, compressed earth was the car seat where Jacob had sat while Kale performed his lunatic exercises. Embedded in the ground next to it was the weight he had used, a finned metal cylinder which looked like part of an engine. He couldn't tell if it had been moved again or not. The scene had a flat, slightly unreal quality as the compression of distance made the perspective lose its depth.

  In the foreground the mounds of scrap became individual metal shapes, precariously stacked and pockmarked with corrosion.