Owning Jacob - SA

Chapter thirteen

Gradually, with each visit, he began to discern the patterns that the Kales lived by, the rhythm and routines which ruled them. He was literally seeing just one side, only what went on at the rear of the house, but from that he was able to draw conclusions about the rest. He picked it up piecemeal, making the hour-and-a-half journey to the woods whenever he could steal the time from work, until he was able to fit the pieces of their lives together like Jacob would a jigsaw puzzle. Slowly, a picture of the whole began to emerge from the separate parts.

On weekdays Kale and Jacob would have left before he arrived. He presumed that Jacob would be taken to school by the local authority’s minibus while his father went to work.

But that was part of the front life of the house, the part that Ben never saw. All he observed was their absence. And the time they spent in the garden.

As far as he could tell Kale hadn’t endangered Jacob again.

The lump of metal he’d hoisted over his son remained where it had landed that first time, and Ben was finding it harder to convince himself that it had been anything other than an isolated incident. Yet the rest of Kale’s activities there followed a strict order. While Jacob lost himself in one of his puzzles, he would exercise and busy himself with his scrap. He would switch pieces around, arranging them with such precision that Ben began to wonder if he was missing something obvious.

Perhaps it depended on the angle. Perhaps, if he could see through Kale’s eyes, he would be able to understand what the point of it all was. He even considered the possibility that the entire scrap pile was some sort of free-form sculpture, tried to imagine Kale as an aspiring artist. But no matter how he tried to rationalise it, he always came back to his earlier theory.

The man was a fucking nutter.

His exercise regime always ended with him going into the shed. Even on Sundays, when he would be at home all day, he didn’t go into it in the morning or afternoon. Only in the evening, at final light, and Ben would wonder what part of the picture that he was piecing together was concealed by the flimsy wooden walls. He toyed with the idea of slipping down to look inside when the Kales were at work, but the prospect of having to climb over the high fence in full view of the neighbours was too daunting.

Often when Kale came out, drenched in sweat and streaked with red weals as though he had been whipped, he would set a piece of scrap on the ground in front of Jacob like an offering. He would sit close to the boy and begin to talk to him, making Ben wish that he could hear as well as see them. Kale would eventually stop, looking expectantly at his son as if he were waiting for a response. When he didn’t get it he would calmly move away and contemplate the mountain of wreckage surrounding him, his own little kingdom of rust.

Ben would always be driven out of the woods by darkness before he tired of it.

That was the pattern that Kale and Jacob’s back-of-the house lives took. But, except for weekends, they weren’t played out until the evening.

During the day the house belonged to Sandra Kale.

No friends or neighbours called round, and if the man he’d seen sneaking out of the garden went to visit her again it was when Ben wasn’t there. She rarely did any housework except washing dishes and making the bed. Most of the time she stayed in the kitchen, drinking coffee (instant, with milk and sugar) or just sitting at the table, smoking and staring into space. The main event of her day came at about half past eleven, when she would leave for work.

Sometimes she dressed in the bedroom.

The first time it happened Ben had guessed she was going to get ready when she stubbed out her cigarette and left the kitchen. On the previous occasions he’d been there that had been the signal for the bathroom light to come on, and for her to reappear fully-clothed twenty minutes later, with wet hair that she would dry with a blower next to the sink. That morning, though, she had gone straight into the bedroom.

He waited for her to gather her clothes together and go out. Instead she unbelted the bathrobe she was wearing and tossed it on the bed.

The glare on the window restricted his view, but he could still see her clearly enough to tell that she was naked underneath.

She crossed to the dressing table and picked something up. Deodorant. Her breasts lifted as she rolled it under her arms, jiggling with the brisk motion. They were low, heavy but not sagging, with small, very dark nipples. Her stomach was flat and, he saw when she came nearer the window, had lines across it, as though the folds of her bathrobe had dug into her flesh.

Below them the trimmed black stripe of her crotch made a lie of her bleached yellow hair.

Ben had watched as she pulled on bra and pants, short skirt and blouse. She had gone out, and as he’d waited to see if she would return a bird clattered in the branches above him.

He jerked away from the camera, then gave a nervous, silent laugh. Shit. He began to lean forward to look through the viewfinder again, but stopped.

What the fuck am I doing?

There was no excuse for spying on her when she was getting dressed. That wasn’t why he was there, but even as he told himself this he felt a tight band of excitement in his chest. And not just his chest, he realised.

He had an erection.

He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disgusted.

Although the unexpected resurrection delighted him, he felt uncomfortable over its cause. And confused. It wasn’t as if Sandra Kale was anything special, and nudity was hardly unusual in his line of work. Models changed in front of him as a matter of course, with neither he nor they thinking anything of it.

But they knew he was there.

You closet voyeur, Murray, he thought, but the attempt to laugh it off was a thin one. He didn’t stop going to the woods behind the house, though. And he didn’t stop watching Sandra Kale.

She puzzled him. Boredom and dissatisfaction were shouted from everything she did. She and Kale hardly seemed to speak, while Jacob she treated with either indifference or barely suppressed irritation. Unless Ben had completely misinterpreted what he’d seen when the man left the house, she was unfaithful as well. Yet she had helped Kale get his son back, had lied to protect him.

Was still lying for him.

The week before his next contact day was due, a shoot was cancelled at the last minute. Ben had gone out the evening before with some people from an ad agency, and as he went into the studio the next morning, he was regretting it. What had started out as a quick beer after work had developed into a full-blown whose-round-is-it-next session. At some point they’d stumbled off to a Lebanese restaurant where one of them insisted that the mezzes were to die for. Ben wasn’t wild about Middle Eastern food, but he let himself be carried along in their slipstream. It was either that or go back to the empty house.

They’d been led to their table by a waitress who was coldly unimpressed by their noisy arrival. The restaurant wasn’t busy, but she took them into a back room, as far away from the main part of it as possible. Only two tables here were occupied, a family group at one and a man and woman at the other. The man was Colin.

Ben hadn’t seen him since the anniversary party. What with work and travelling to Tunford whenever he could, he’d been too busy. And Colin had a new draw on his time himself.

The shared knowledge of his affair — and Colin’s clear shame over it — had made them both uncomfortable. Which, Ben admitted to himself, was probably the real reason they hadn’t seen each other.

But that night the drinks had diluted any awkwardness he might have felt. And also any subtlety. “Colin!” he’d exclaimed, delightedly, and it was only when he saw the guilty shock on Colin’s face that he realised that the dark-haired woman with him was young, slim and obviously not Maggie.

The girl from the record company, Ben thought. Oh fuck.

But it was too late to do anything other than keep on smiling and go over. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he said, belatedly aware of how tactless that sounded.

Colin’s face was crimson. “Er, Ben, this is Jo.” Ben had said hello. The girl seemed pleasant enough, but with a cool look about her he didn’t entirely like. He had excused himself and gone back to his own table, and for the rest of the evening he had avoided so much as glancing across.

Colin had said a quick goodnight when he and the girl left, but Ben could see from his face that he was still flustered.

He regretted meeting them, not only because he knew it had spoilt their evening, but because it complicated things.

Before, he had only known about Colin’s affair in abstract terms. But having seen him and the girl together, he felt implicated in it Not that he could say he actually blamed Colin. Christ knows, he had spent long enough trying to dissuade him from Maggie before they were married. He just couldn’t bring himself to approve either.

He was thinking more about that than the day’s shoot the following morning when he arrived at the studio, until Zoe told him that it had been cancelled. The designer had fallen out with the modelling agency over unpaid bills, and been blacklisted as a result.

“You don’t seem very upset,” Zoe said, when she broke the news.

He was already wondering how quickly he’d be able to get to Tunford. “It can’t be helped.”

“I know, but that’s the third this month. It pisses me off.” The others had been postponements rather than cancellations, but Zoe took them all personally. At one time so had Ben, but not any more. He had seized those opportunities as well.

“I wondered about phoning that guy who wants some portrait stuff doing,” Zoe suggested. “The writer. He said he wanted it as soon as we could fit him in.”

Ben struggled to remember who she meant. “Oh... no, it’s too short notice.”

“It’s worth a try.”

“No, let’s leave it.” He could feel her disapproval. “I tell you what, why don’t you do it?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, why not? You’re good enough.”

“But he wants you.”

“Tell him I can’t do it. Say we’re fully booked, but you can squeeze him in yourself.”

She was looking doubtful. “Do you think he’ll go for it?”

“Like you said, it’s worth a try.” He went to put on his coat as she mulled it over.

“So what will you do instead?” she asked.

“I’ve got some things to sort out.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“No, it’s okay.” He was at the door. “Give that writer a ring and see what he says. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

She nodded, but she still didn’t seem happy as he went out.

He stopped off at an electronics shop and then headed straight for Tunford. It was late morning when he arrived at the woods. He parked in his usual place by the overgrown gate and took his bag and case with the lens in it out of the boot. An elderly couple walking a Yorkshire terrier gave him an odd look as he climbed over the fallen wall, clumsy with all the equipment. He gave them a confident smile and hoped they didn’t recognise him, or realise what he was carrying.

A light drizzle had started by the time he reached his den, so he set up the camera and lens in their weatherproof jackets. It was cold and wet in the trees, a prelude to the final close down of winter. Ben was shivering, but he still felt a buzz of anticipation as he focused on the house.

Sandra was in her bathrobe in the kitchen, partially screened by the reflection of the garden on the window. Ben fitted a polarising filter on to the lens and the glass turned transparent. It was a new acquisition, expensive, but worth it for how much glare it cut out. With that attached to the lens he could see into the house much more clearly.

He delved in his bag again and took out the compact cassette recorder and the microphone he’d bought from the electronics shop on the way. He connected them and placed the microphone against the earpiece of his mobile phone. He’d tested the set-up earlier to check that it picked up both his voice and that of whoever he was calling. The sound quality wasn’t wonderful, but he didn’t need high fidelity. Just proof.

He glanced around to make sure that the woods were empty. The last thing he wanted was some local with a dog overhearing him. Satisfied, he looked through the viewfinder again.

Sandra Kale was still in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette.

Mounted on the wall a few feet from her was a telephone. Ben had seen her answer it occasionally, although she never seemed to call anyone herself. It was at the far end of the room, but with the new filter on the lens he could see it clearly. Still looking through the camera, he set the tape recorder running and dialled the Kales’ number.

The ringing tone in his mobile coincided with an irritated glance towards the telephone from Sandra. She pushed back her chair and went to answer it.

“Hello?” The thin reproduction of her voice was synchronised with the mime of her lips. In the background he could hear the tinny jangle of a radio. It surprised him. He’d taken for granted that the kitchen would be as silent for her as it appeared to him. He glanced at the tape recorder to make sure it was running.

“It’s Ben Murray,” he said. “I thought I’d remind you that it’s my contact day this weekend.” The microphone pressed against his ear like a cold button.

It was a compromise solution he’d reached a few days earlier. He had at least to try to claim his contact rights, but he knew there was nothing to be gained by another mano a mano confrontation with Kale. This way he could prove he had made the attempt, and perhaps record Sandra saying something incriminating. The cancelled shoot was a bonus that gave him the opportunity to see her reaction as well as hear it.

He tried to disregard the accusing inner voice that sneered he was only avoiding Kale because he was afraid of him.

“So is it okay for me to come and collect Jacob on Sunday morning?” he prompted.

An exasperated sigh came down the phone. In the viewfinder he saw her chest rise and fall in time to it.

“Are you thick, or what?”

“I’m entitled to contact every fourth Sunday. That’s this weekend.”

Ben watched her draw on the cigarette and shoot out an angry line of smoke. The bathrobe gaped loosely.

“Big deal.”

“You wouldn’t let me take him last time. Are you telling me I can’t again?” He’d wanted to spell it out for the tape recorder, but either she was naturally wary or something in his tone alerted her. Her voice became more cautious. “Like I told the social worker, you were drunk and late. You weren’t fit to have him.”

“I was on time, stone cold sober, and your husband threatened me. You were there, you know that.” He took a hold of his temper. “Will you let me see Jacob on Sunday or not?”

There was a minute pause. He could see her chewing her lip. “He’s got a cold.”

“Cold?”

“Yeah, that’s right, cold. Might even be flu. You know what flu is, don’t you?”

“So you’re saying I can’t see him?”

“I’ve told you, he’s not well. He’s in bed.”

He’d watched Jacob in the garden the evening before. There had been no sign of a cold then. “Have you sent for a doctor?”

She took a last draw on the cigarette and turned around to stub it out in something behind her. “Not yet. We’ll have to see how he goes on.” She leaned against the wall, her back still to the window.

Turn round.

“What?” she said.

Ben realised he’d muttered out loud. But she’d moved to face the window again. He could see her frowning, one hand cupping the elbow of the arm that held the phone.

“Nothing. So when can I see him?”

“How do I know? I’m not psychic. You never know how long kids are going to have something for, do you?”

Ben swallowed his anger. “Perhaps I should speak to your husband.”

She glanced out of the window. At the scrap pile. “He’s at work.”

I know. “I’ll call when he gets back then.”

“He works late,” she said, and Ben knew that he’d just lost any chance of getting Kale on the phone. She would make sure she answered it first in future.

Oddly, though, he didn’t get any real sense of antagonism from her. He looked at her, bare-legged in the short robe. She was twirling the telephone wire as she waited for him to speak, unaware that he was watching her.

What colour underwear are you wearing? The question popped into his head without warning, and he had to bite back a bubble of laughter. But at the same time it disturbed him.

“You still there?” she asked.

“Yes.” There was a pause. She seemed to be almost smiling as she bit on her thumbnail. He wondered why she didn’t put the phone down. Come to that, he wondered why he didn’t either.

“Got anything else you’d like to ask?” she said, and although there was no mistaking the mockery there seemed something flirtatious about it.

The high he’d felt a moment earlier was replaced by uncertainty. He blew on his fingers. It was bitterly cold. He took the Thermos flask out of his bag and poured himself a cup of coffee. He’d made it on the off-chance that he’d be able to go to Tunford before it got dark if the shoot finished early.

He was glad of it now. Through the steam rising from the plastic cup he saw the tiny figure of Sandra Kale go into the garden. He dug into his bag for a Mars bar. The next time he looked she was walking away from the fence at the bottom.

The steam flattened and dispersed as he blew on the coffee. He took a sip and winced when it burned his mouth.

The liquid scalded all the way down his throat. He hissed, sucking in cold air to soothe it. He took another sip, more careful this time, and when he lowered the cup a man was in the Kales’ garden.

“Shit,” he said, spilling coffee down his front. He threw the cup to one side and dropped the Mars bar.

By the time he was back at the camera the man was already going into the house. Ben fired off half a film on motor drive but he knew he hadn’t caught him. With the polarising filter still on, Christ knew what the shots would turn out like anyway.

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Sandra Kale was already leading the man out of the kitchen. Ben raised the camera to the bedroom, focused and waited. “Come on. Come on!”

The bedroom door opened and she appeared. The man followed her. Ben switched off the camera motor and took two shots as they entered the bedroom. He watched as they spoke.

With the window glare reduced by the filter, he could make out quite a lot of detail. The man seemed tall in comparison to Sandra — dark hair, medium build. Ben put him in his late thirties. He was grinning as he moved towards her. She stepped back and said something, unsmiling. The man’s grin faded. He spoke and went towards her again, but she shook her head. He shrugged, reluctantly nodded.

Now Sandra smiled and went to him. He was still frowning, but only until she reached out and put her hand on his crotch.

She steered him towards the bed. He was smiling again as she sat on the edge and unbuckled his belt. She pulled down his trousers. Click.

He stood in front of her in his underpants. She peeled them off. His erection sprang up in front of her face. She said something and they both laughed. Click.

She stroked it with her hand, looking up at him all the while, and then bent and took it in her mouth. Click. Clickclickclick.

Ben came to the end of the film. He cursed as it automatically rewound, begrudging the few missed seconds. He took it out, dropped it into his bag and swiftly installed a new one.

The man had stripped off the rest of his clothes. He had a paunch, Ben was obscurely glad to see.

Sandra was also naked. The striations he’d noticed before were livid on her white body. They looked like stretch marks.

She lay back on the bed. The man climbed on to it and knee-walked towards her. She opened her legs as he settled on top. There was some manoeuvring, and then he began pumping his hips up and down. Sandra lifted her legs higher and wrapped them around him.

Ben changed film again.

He had run off most of another before the man stopped thrusting. He flopped on to the bed beside her. Sandra propped herself on one elbow, her back to the window. It formed a clean curve to her buttocks. The man sat up and reached for his trousers. He took out a packet of cigarettes, offered her one, and then lit them both.

“You clichéd bastard,” Ben grinned.

Cigarettes finished, they dressed on separate sides of the bed. The man tucked in his shirt and picked up his jacket. Sandra put on a T-shirt. She watched, still smoking, as the man took out his wallet and placed a couple of notes on the dressing table. She snapped something and the man laughed and added another to them.

Ben closed his gaping mouth and finished the rest of the film. By the time they came downstairs he had changed it.

Like the last time, Sandra came out first before signalling for the man to follow. She locked the gate behind him but didn’t go back into the house. She looked up at the hill that Ben was on, and for a moment he was convinced she was going to stare straight at him, acknowledge his presence. But her gaze came nowhere near.

Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked cigarette smoke deep into her lungs. Her expression was tight and unforgiving as she stared at the car wreckage. Abruptly, she seized the nearest piece of scrap and tugged at it. A distant clatter carried to Ben on the wind as it came free. She flung it aside and began tearing at the rest of it, but soon stopped with a grimace of pain.

She examined her palm, then began sucking it. The fit seemed to have exhausted itself. She looked listlessly at what she had done and passed her injured hand tiredly across her eyes, leaving a smear of blood. She took a last, defeated drag of the cigarette which she’d held throughout. Flicking it away in a trail of sparks, she turned and went back into the house.

The darkroom was full of wet eight-by-ten prints. In the dim red light they hung from the drying line like surrealist washing.

His darkroom at home wasn’t as well air-conditioned as the one at the studio, and he could taste the pungency of the developing chemicals at the back of his throat. Ben clipped the last print up and turned the fan higher as he studied the results. He was pleased with how well the new lens was working with the Nikon. Although the photographs of the bedroom were grainy, that was only to be expected. Even with the filter he could hardly expect good definition shooting from light to dark through glass.

It was good enough, though.

He examined one of the dryer prints. In it Sandra Kale sat on the bed, the man’s penis disappearing into her mouth. His lips were pursed in concentration, her face distorted as if she were mid-yawn. Both she and the bedroom were easily recognisable.

Ben moved to another print. It showed the man putting the money on the dressing table, his wallet frozen on its way back to his pocket. Next to it was one of him leaving the house. His features were much clearer on that. Ben considered it for a moment, then unclipped it and went over to a filing cabinet. He opened a drawer and flicked through the index tabs until he came to the photographs he had taken weeks earlier, as Sandra’s visitor hurried away from the garden. Ben compared them with the still-wet print he had just developed and gave an incredulous laugh. He hadn’t been sure before, but there wasn’t any doubt.

It was two different men.