Owning Jacob

by Simon Beckett

  The bathroom light winked out. The bedroom door opened and Sandra reappeared. Her hair was wet, slicked straight back on her head like an otter pelt, the chemical blond now darkened to a metallic sheen. Her face looked both younger and less formed without its covering of make-up. She hadn't bothered to fasten the bathrobe, and now she slipped it off. Her nipples were erect. He wondered if she'd had a shower, and his guess was confirmed a moment later when she used the bathrobe to dry her back. Dropping it on the bed she opened a drawer in the dressing table and rummaged around.

  Without taking anything from it she impatiently pushed it shut and picked up a white scrap of cloth from the floor. It was a pair of pants. She gave them a quick shake before stepping into them. The stretch marks stood out like scars on her pale stomach.

  She put on a bra, also from the floor, then pulled on a pair of tight jeans. With a wiggle of her hips she hitched up the waistband and fastened the zip with a swift tug. She took a cream-coloured sweater from the back of a chair, pulling it over her head as she walked out.

  He continued to watch the bedroom until it became obvious she wasn't coming back. He straightened, becoming conscious of the erection trapped painfully in his jeans. Trying to dismiss the now familiar, vaguely soiled feeling that watching her gave him, he manoeuvred until he was more comfortable and took the Snickers bar from his pocket. Biting into it, he idly looked down the hill towards the house. The diminutive figures of Kale and Jacob were still in the garden.

  Kale was holding the engine over Jacob's head.

  Ben took in the strained stance, the way the weight was seesawing in Kale's hands, and the chocolate turned to clay in his mouth. He dived for the camera, fumbling at it with cold and clumsy fingers.

  'Oh, please, please, please,' he breathed, not sure if he was pleading for Jacob's safety or enough time to photograph what was happening.

  The garden swung dizzyingly across the viewfinder, then Kale and Jacob came into sight. He hastily adjusted the focus and changed the exposure as the engine slowly wobbled higher in what had to be the final lift. The filter was still on the lens but there was nothing he could do about that. As the tendons stood out in Kale's neck and his mouth opened in a silent grimace, Ben switched on the motor and pressed the shutter release, praying there would be enough film left.

  The camera began to whirr a second before Kale twisted to one side and dropped the weight. It thumped down beside Jacob, and in the same instant the film came to an end and started to rewind.

  How much did I get? Enough? He didn't know. He quickly snatched the filter from the lens and changed the film, then ran off half of it while Kale was still doubled over. He made sure the lump of metal embedded next to Jacob was included in each frame.

  Kale straightened and began to limp away. Ben slumped back. He realised he still had a mouthful of semi-masticated chocolate. He spat it out. The rest of the Snickers bar lay at his feet where it had fallen out of the wrapper. He looked at the plastic film container in his hand and gave it a little shake to reassure himself.

  Jesus.

  He'd nearly missed it. All this time, all those weeks, and when it finally happened he almost hadn't noticed. He'd been too busy watching a woman take her clothes off.

  You pathetic bastard.

  Over the top of the camera he saw the once again reduced figure of Kale going into the shed. Ben knew that when he came out he would go over to Jacob and deliver another of his monologues. There was a hint of movement in the kitchen window that would be Sandra Kale, doing whatever. Even through the bitter taste of self-contempt, Ben felt his curiosity piqued, felt himself drawn to bend forward and peer through the viewfinder again, to involve himself vicariously in their lives. Deliberately, he removed the lens from the camera.

  He packed everything away, then stood up and folded the stool. He looked around to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. The nest of flattened grass he had made for himself looked as familiar as home.

  He wouldn't be going back.

  The coffee and adrenalin had worked on his bladder.

  Leaving his bag and the lens by the oaks, he moved a few feet away to urinate. His piss steamed like yellow acid on the dead grass. He shook off the last drops and was zipping up his fly when a barking shape exploded from the undergrowth behind him.

  For an instant he thought it was Kale's bull terrier, but the dog was smaller and white, a Jack Russell cross. It set up a hysterical yapping and snarling, prancing just out of kicking range as he sank back against a tree with relief.

  'Bess! Get here!'

  Two men were walking through the trees towards him. I never looked, he thought, his relief turning cold. The first time I didn't check to see if the woods were clear…

  The dog's barks subsided to low grumbles as it trotted away. 'Sorry about that, pal,' said the man who had shouted. He gave the still-growling dog a nudge with his foot 'Quiet!'

  Ben fought the urge to look over at where his camera equipment was half hidden by the oaks. The film of Kale and Jacob was amongst it. He managed a smile. 'It's okay. Just frightened me half to death.'

  'She's a noisy little bugger,'the man agreed, and Ben felt a lightening of hope as he began to turn away. But his companion didn't move. He was staring at Ben.

  'This is the bloke who told Willie Jackson to fuck off in the pub,' he said. 'The one who had John's kid.'

  The wood's silence pressed in on them. Ben could feel the smile stiffen on his face, but couldn't seem to let go of it.

  The man who'd recognised him was short and sallow-skinned, with pinched, rattish features. Ben couldn't remember seeing him in the pub, but then he hadn't taken much notice. Off to one side, the Jack Russell was bouncing and snuffling through the wet grass.

  Its owner had stopped. He was older than the other man, in his fifties but with the burly look of a manual worker about him. He glanced towards the Kales' house, visible at the bottom of the hill. His face was stony as he looked back at Ben. 'What you doing here?'

  'It's a public wood, isn't it?' Out of the corner of his eye Ben saw the dog heading towards his den.

  'He asked what you're fucking doing here,' the small man said, enunciating the words slowly, as if he were talking to an idiot.

  Ben could hear the dog nosing around by the oaks. He tried to summon the reckless anger that had possessed him in the pub, but it wouldn't come. 'I'm going for a walk, okay?'

  'Not round here it fucking isn't.'

  The small man's fists were clenched. They were as undersized as he was, like knotted lumps of bone. He took an eager step forward, but the other's voice checked him.

  'All right, Mick.'

  The small man turned, angrily. 'Is it fuck all right! What's he doing in our fucking woods?'

  'He isn't doing anything. He's going.' Without taking his eyes from Ben, he jerked his head in the direction of the road. 'Go on. Fuck off.'

  Ben hesitated. The dog yapped from within the oaks, then the branches thrashed and it reappeared, shedding drops of water as it sprang through the tall grass. 'Okay, I'm going.'

  Rotting acorns crunched like marbles under his boots as he began to walk away, planning to wait nearby and come back for his gear later. He'd only gone a few paces when the small man stepped in front of him.

  'You're not fucking going anywhere.'

  'Mick,' the older man warned.

  'He's taking the fucking piss coming round here!'

  'It's not your problem, Mick. It's John's business, not ours.'

  'So let's take the cunt down and let John sort him!'

  Ben's mouth had gone dry. 'Look, I'll just go, okay? I'm not going to come back.'

  The small man's grin was almost a snarl. 'Dead fucking right you're not.'

  An impulse to run crossed Ben's mind, but that seemed too abject even for him. The older man considered, then gave a short nod. The one called Mick reached out to give Ben a shove.

  Ben knocked his hand away. 'Keep your fucking hands to yourself.'

&n
bsp; The man's grin disappeared, but before he could respond the older one moved between them. 'All right, come on.'

  Ben thought about the film waiting in the bag. Without a word he turned and set off down the hill, leading them away from the vulnerable roll of celluloid.

  The hillside was slippery with mud, dotted with scrubby patches of briar and bramble. They had to skirt around them, cutting diagonally across the slope, and when they reached the track at the bottom Kale's house was out of sight. Ben walked ahead of his escort. His mind seemed to have slipped out of gear, so that he coasted along in neutral without taking in what was happening. Once he looked back up towards the woods. They seemed a long way away, and completely unfamiliar. He couldn't pick out the spot where he'd spent so many days watching.

  He was at the other end of the lens now.

  Ahead, he could make out the tall wire fence at the bottom of Kale's garden. From this angle the scrap metal formed a screen that blocked out any view of what lay on the other side.

  As he drew closer he could hear Kale's voice.

  Ben wondered at what point he'd come out of the shed.

  '…in everything. Everything locks in,' Kale was saying, invisible beyond the wall of wreckage.

  Ben pictured him squatting next to Jacob, looking earnestly at him. He slowed, listening.

  'We can't see it, but it's only a matter of looking, looking in the right place, looking hard enough. And once you've seen it, seen the pattern—'

  'John!' The small man slapped his hand against the wire fence, rattling it 'John! Got somebody to see you!'

  Kale's voice broke off. They waited by the gate, still unable to see much of the garden.

  Ben felt the slipping gears inside him spin loosely, felt an almost out-of-body detachment.

  There was a noise and then the bull terrier bounded over the lowest point of the scrap pile. The fence shook as the dog hit it. It stood on its hind legs against the mesh, growling. Then Kale appeared, and Ben suddenly spiralled back into the here and now of himself.

  They looked at each other over the metal wreckage.

  'Found him sneaking about in the woods, John,' the small man said, barely containing his excitement. 'Thought you'd want to see him.'

  Kale didn't say anything. His bad knee made him ungainly as he stepped through a gap in the scrap pile, taking a bunch of keys from the pocket of his track-suit bottoms. He was red-faced, the fleecy cotton of his sweat shirt dark with perspiration. He unlocked the gate and swung it open.

  The bull terrier shot through. Ben tensed but it was more interested in the Jack Russell. The smaller dog had its ears flattened and its tail curled between its legs as the other sniffed at it. As if at some signal they bolted off together into the long grass.

  'Bess!' the older man shouted after them.

  'She'll be all right,' Kale said, looking at Ben.

  But Ben had moved to see through the gap to where Jacob was sitting in the car seat. A mangled car radiator and hubcap lay on the floor in front of him like a sacrifice.

  'Jacob!' The boy looked up, blankly, and something inside Ben's chest felt like it was being crushed. Oh, God, he doesn't even remember me.

  Then Jacob's face split into a smile.

  He pushed himself off the car seat and began running down the garden. Ben made to go through the gate but the breath was suddenly jolted from him as Kale hit his breastbone with the heel of his hand. He staggered back. Jacob stopped dead, his smile vanishing.

  'I told you not to come here again,' Kale said.

  Ben tried not to show how winded he was. 'I've got a right to see him.'

  'You've got no rights.'

  'What about him? Doesn't he have any?'

  'I'll decide what's right for him.'

  'Like keeping him away from school, you mean?'

  Kale stared back without blinking. 'He's my boy. Nobody's going to tell me what to do with him.'

  Before Ben could say anything else there was another sound from the garden. He turned and saw Sandra Kale picking her way across the scrap. She was wearing the clothes he'd seen her put on earlier. It seemed like weeks ago. She stopped at the gate.

  'All right, Sandra?' the small man said, leering.

  She ignored him, looked briefly at Ben, then fixed her attention on her husband.

  'What's going on?'

  'Take Steven inside,' Kale told her.

  'Why?'

  'Take him inside.'

  'For Christ's sake, John—'

  'Now.'

  Her cheeks flushed, then she turned and roughly grabbed hold of Jacob's hand. Jacob grunted and pulled against her.

  'Nonononono!'

  She took no notice, dragging him squealing towards the house. She lifted him up the steps by his wrist before slamming the door.

  Ben faced Kale. He shook, but from anger now rather than fear. 'You don't give a shit about what's best for him, do you? You're only bothered about yourself!'

  Kale started towards him.

  'Look, John, don't do anything stupid,' the older man said, half-heartedly, but Kale took no notice.

  Ben automatically stepped back and hated himself for it.

  Fuck this, he thought, and swung at Kale's head.

  Kale deflected the punch effortlessly. He clamped a hand just above Ben's elbow, thrust his other under his outstretched arm, and Ben felt himself swung weightlessly against the fence. The wire gouged his face as he smashed into it, then his arm was jerked between his shoulders and pain exploded in his lower back as something rammed into his kidneys.

  It pistoned into him twice more, and if he hadn't emptied his bladder in the woods it would have emptied itself then. It hurt so much his cry strangled in his throat, but there was no respite before he was yanked round. He had a glimpse of Kale, impassive even now, and then a fist drove into him just below his ribcage.

  It felt as if his heart had stopped. He doubled up, saw Kale's knee fill his vision, and there was a burst of light and pain.

  Images of sky and ground wheeled about him. From far away there was an impact of landing. He felt soil beneath his fingers, then a sensation of being lifted.

  Dark shapes came between him and the grey light above. A heavy shock seemed to shatter his face, then he was falling back. He heard the crack of his skull breaking as the man outside the pub landed on it with both feet. He lay on the pavement, brain, membrane and blood seeping through the splits in his head. He could feel them with his fingers, wide and deep and cold, full of pebbles and dirt, rutted with the patterns of bicycle wheels.

  People were shouting nearby. His lungs surged against the pain in his chest, sucked in air, and as though that had cleared a blockage he rolled over and vomited. There was blood in it. He put his hand to his nose. It felt odd. His mouth was swollen and bloody. The voices were still shouting.

  He looked and saw that Sandra Kale had both arms around Kale's chest and was straining to push him back. The older of the two men who'd brought Ben down was hovering beside them, one hand on Kale's shoulder in token restraint. The small man's face was lit with excitement as he watched.

  'Leave him, John, do you want to fucking kill him?' Sandra was yelling. 'Just let him go—you've done enough!'

  'Move.' Kale's eyes were fixed on Ben.

  'What, so you can show everybody how fucking hard you are? Do you think anybody fucking cares?'

  With a sudden twist he pushed her aside. She fell against one of the support posts, shaking the entire fence.

  'Come on, John, enough's enough,' the older man said, but he made no attempt to stop him.

  Ben tried to get up but everything swung around. There was no strength in any of his limbs. Kale gripped the front of his coat in both hands and lifted him half off the ground.

  'Next time I'll kill you.'

  Kale let him drop. Ben fought the wave of nausea the movement caused. Kale turned towards his wife. She was clinging to the fencepost, bleeding from a graze on her cheek. He levelled a finger at her.
r />   'Don't ever get in my way again.'

  He limped back into the garden. Sandra Kale wiped her cheek and stared at the blood smeared on her hand.

  'You all right, Sandra?' asked the older man.

  She didn't look at him. 'What do you think?'

  Unsteadily, she pushed herself off the fence and followed her husband.

  There was a whoop from the small man. 'Fucking hell! Eh? Fucking hell.' His eyes were feverish as they fixed on Ben. 'Bet you won't fucking come round here again, cunt, will you?'

  He came forwards, fists balled. Ben tried to push himself to his feet.

  'Leave him, Mick.'

  The small man turned in surprise. 'Why? Come on, Bri—'

  'I said fucking leave him!'

  He walked over to Ben and took a large handkerchief from his pocket. He held it out. 'I didn't know this was going to happen.'

  Ben knocked his hand away. He felt like crying. 'What the fuck did you think he was going to do?'

  The man stood there for a moment, then put the handkerchief away and went to the edge of the track. He gave a sharp whistle. 'Bess!' There was a rustling in the bushes further up the track. The Jack Russell emerged and ran towards him, tongue flapping in a dog grin. It trotted at his heels as he began walking back down the track. The small man followed sullenly a few steps behind.

  For the first time Ben noticed the faces peering over fences and walls along the line of houses. One by one they disappeared, absolving themselves of any involvement.

  He climbed to his feet. He felt sick and weak. He leaned against the fence. His mouth and nose were swollen. Several teeth were loose. He probed them, testing them with his tongue, rubbing his bruised stomach. He turned to spit blood, and saw he wasn't alone after all.

  The bull terrier was watching from the other side of the track. Ben looked around for something to defend himself with—a stick, anything. There was nothing. He risked a glance at the dog again. A low rumbling came from its throat. Slowly, he pushed himself off the fence, not making eye contact with it. He took a hesitant step.

  It came for him.

  He fell back against the fence, lashing out with his feet in an attempt to keep it away from his groin and body. The bull terrier made a noise like an unoiled buzz-saw as it caught his foot in its mouth and shook it. Ben gripped the wire mesh to keep from falling, arms spread out across it in a posture of crucifixion. His foot felt as if it were in a vice. The dog's teeth pierced the thick leather of his boot. It let go of his foot when he stamped at its head, but slashed its teeth across his calf, tearing cloth and muscle. He heard shouts and saw the two men running back towards him. The Jack Russell bitch raced ahead of them. It ran up to the fence, barking excitedly, and the bull terrier rounded on it. The smaller dog yelped as it was bowled on to its back.