Owning Jacob - SA

Chapter seven

It took almost as long to get out of London as it did to get to the town itself. There was another Tube strike, and the roads were clogged with slow-moving snakes of traffic. The air was unbreathable. It was a close, muggy morning but they kept the window up, preferring the heat to the atmosphere of exhaust fumes.

They had taken Ben’s Golf. Colin had objected to travelling in what he called ‘a biscuit tin’, but couldn’t deny that his black BMW would look conspicuous in a scrapyard. Ben guessed it was the thought of what might happen to it there that finally convinced him.

Once on the M1 Ben made good time to the turnoff.

The main suburban sprawl was quickly left behind, but the countryside was still marred with blotches of industry, man-made cankers of brick and metal amongst the green. Some of the fields they passed still had yellow snatches of rape clinging to them, and then suddenly there was a brown patch of houses and they were in Tunford.

It was a new town, or at least had been in the 1950s. The brave new face of postwar housing development now looked ramshackle and depressed. They went along the high street, a short stretch of squat, dun-coloured shops, until they left the town again on the other side. Ben turned the car round in a lay-by littered with plastic bottles and tin cans and headed back for the town centre.

“What’s the address?” Colin opened the folder the detective had given Ben.

“Forty-one Primrose Lane.” The shops came into view again. Prefabricated semi-detached houses ran off to either side. “Do you think there’ll still be primroses there?” Ben asked, trying to conceal his nervousness.

“If there are they’ll be under the tarmac. Shall we try the next turning?”

Since they didn’t know where Primrose Lane was, one street was as good as another. They had no map of the town, and didn’t want to draw attention to themselves by asking for directions. Not that there were many people about to ask. Neither of them spoke as they drove through the empty streets at random. On one they passed a mongrel dog shitting on the pavement.

“Welcome to Tunford,” Colin said.

Primrose Lane was at the edge of the town, running parallel with the fields beyond. They drove down it slowly, counting house numbers.

Colin pointed. “There.”

The house was set behind a four-foot-high wire mesh and concrete post fence. The neighbouring properties were run down, with shaggy lawns and unkempt flowerbeds, and the garden in front of 41 was heaped with rusting piles of metal. Car wings, doors and bumpers, engine parts and motors were stacked haphazardly, grown through with uncut grass and weeds.

“Obviously a man who takes his work home with him.” Ben didn’t respond to the joke. He drove past slowly, taking in the peeling paint on the doors and window frames.

A woman appeared in an upstairs window. He had a glimpse of yellow hair and plucked eyebrows, and then the house was behind them.

Colin craned his head to see. “Was that the wife?”

“I suppose so.”

They were quiet as they went back to the main street.

“It might not be as bad as it looks,” Colin said, after a while.

“Just because they won’t get into House and Home doesn’t mean they might not be nice people.”

“No.”

“You can never tell from appearances.”

“Just leave it, Colin, will you?”

He headed out the way they had originally gone, before they had turned back. According to the detective’s report the scrap metal yard where Kale worked was on the outskirts of the next town along, about three miles away. For a while they were back in open countryside, but the taint of civilisation was in the litter-strewn hedgerows. They passed an untidy farm, then a garage. The scrapyard was the next building after that.

Ben pulled into the edge of the road before he reached it.

The yard was surrounded by a high brick wall, topped with barbed wire and shards of broken glass. Mounds of decaying cars were visible above it, stacked one on top of another. A battered sign saying ‘Robert Shaw’s Reclamation Yard’ arched across the top of the entrance. Below it, the spiked double gate was open.

Colin stirred. “You sure you want to do this?”

Not really.

Ben didn’t answer. He could see some sort of heavy vehicle moving about inside the yard. A crane. “What is it we’re supposed to be looking for?”

“Spares for an MG. But I’ll ask about that. You just keep your eyes open.”

Quilley’s report had given a basic description, but other than that Ben didn’t know what the man looked like.

The car spares story had been Colin’s idea, a pretext for wandering around the yard until they identified him.

“Shall we go in, then?” Colin said.

Ben started the car and drove through the gates. Once through them the yard opened up, bigger than it appeared from outside. The long drive ran between stacks of wrecked cars. It led to a two-storey brick building with a steeply-pitched corrugated roof. In front of this was a clearing where two obviously still-roadworthy cars were parked. Ben pulled in behind them. They got out.

There was an earthy smell of rust and oil. From somewhere behind the building a dog barked twice, then abruptly stopped.

There was the sound of heavy machinery, but they couldn’t see where it was coming from. No one came to meet them. A dirty window on the ground floor looked into an office.

“Let’s try in there.”

The door was down a short passageway. At the far end was a flight of concrete steps that presumably ran up to the next floor. A tinny radio played inside the office.

Colin knocked and pushed the door open when there was no answer.

The room was empty. A tatty Formica desk was covered with stained mugs and folders. The radio served as a paperweight on a pile of grubby papers. Nude calendars were tacked on the walls. Big-breasted girls leaned across gleaming cars and straddled shining motorbikes, offering various body parts to the camera.

“Anybody here?” Colin shouted.

They heard someone coming down the steps. Ben tensed, but the man who appeared in the doorway was too old to be Kale. He was in his fifties, heavy with muscle and fat. Strands of greasy hair poked out from under a trilby, a darker grey than the silvery stubble on his chin. He wiped his hands on an oily rag as he came into the office.

“Mornin’, gents. What can I do for you?”

He had a wheezy, phlegm-filled voice. Ben looked quickly at Colin, all thought of their story vanished. But Colin was unperturbed.

“We’re looking for spares for a 1985 MG.” Ben saw the dealer take in the lightweight woollen suit and silk tie and wished that Colin hadn’t come dressed for work, but he had to be back for a meeting at twelve.

The man rubbed his chin. “MG?” He sounded doubtful. “What parts are you after?”

“Depends what you’ve got. I’m renovating one virtually from the bottom up, so I need just about everything. Provided it’s in reasonable condition.”

“Don’t think we’ve got anything from an MG,” the man muttered, partly to himself. His fingers rasped on his stubble again.

“Can we have a browse around anyway?”

The man wasn’t listening. He cast another glance at Colin’s suit. “I might be able to sort you out with something,” he said, obviously loath to let such a wealthy customer go empty-handed. “Come with me.”

“It’s okay, really—” Colin began, but the man was already on his way out.

There was nothing to do but follow him. He led them around the back of the building. The machine noises grew louder. A small crane on caterpillar tracks was behind the office. A man was in the cab, working control levers to manipulate the flat magnet that swung from hawsers and chains from the jib, suspending a burnt-out Ford by the roof. He wore a rimless leather skullcap and also looked too old to be Kale, Ben saw after an anxious second. The scrap dealer shouted up to him.

“You seen Johnny?” The man in the cab cupped an ear, and the dealer repeated the question more loudly.

The crane driver nodded towards the far end of the yard. “He’s with somebody by the crusher.”

The dealer set off again. “I’ll ask one of my blokes,” he said as they trailed after him. “He knows what we’ve got inside and out. If we’ve anything, he’ll be able to put his hands on it.”

Ben glanced worriedly at Colin, who shrugged helplessly. Neither of them had missed the significance of who ‘Johnny’ might be. Seeing Kale from a distance was one thing, but Ben was feeling less and less prepared to meet him face to face.

The scrap dealer took them past a towering stack of flattened cars, compressed to no more than thin stripes of colour, layers of red and blue, yellow and white. The angular bull k of a crushing machine was tucked behind them.

“Johnny!” the dealer bellowed. “Got a customer!”

There was a movement from the end of the machine. A man appeared, and Ben found himself looking at Jacob’s father. There was no doubt who he was. John Kale had written his features on his son’s face almost verbatim, discernible even under the blurring of childhood. There was the same colouring, the same cheekbones and straight nose, firm chin and mouth.

He had Jacob’s deep-set eyes, and as they settled on Ben the sense of recognition was so great that for an irrational second he felt sure it must be two-way. Then Kale looked away again, uninterested.

The dealer motioned with his thumb towards Colin. “They’re here looking for MG parts, John. We got anything?”

“No.” There was no doubt or hesitation.

The older man scratched at the open neck of his soiled shirt. “You sure? I thought there might be something—”

“That was a Midget. It went.” The voice was medium pitched and inflectionless. Kale no longer so much as glanced towards either Ben or Colin. For all the attention he paid them they might not have been there. He wasn’t particularly tall, two or three inches shorter than Ben’s six foot, but there was a sense of restrained physicality about him. The muscles in his bare arms were clearly defined, and he looked compact and fit in the oil-stained T-shirt and jeans.

The dealer’s regret was palpable, but he didn’t question the information. “Sorry, gents. If Johnny says we don’t, then we don’t. Wish I could help you.”

Ben couldn’t stop staring at Kale, who was standing motionless by his boss. He must have felt the scrutiny because his eyes suddenly flicked to Ben with a gaze as direct and unblinking as an animal’s. Christ, he even stares at you like Jacob.

Ben made himself look away as Colin gave a convincing shrug of resignation. “That’s okay. Thanks anyway.”

They turned to go. Ben was desperate to get out of the scrapyard now, to give himself time to think. He wondered if Colin would mind him smoking a joint in the car. Then another voice spoke from behind them.

“Well, fancy seeing you here, Mr Murray.”

He looked around, and felt himself deaden into shock as Quilley emerged from behind the heavy crushing machine.

The detective’s smile was more mocking than ever. “Talk of the devil. We were just discussing you, weren’t we, Mr Kale? Oh, sorry, you haven’t been introduced, have you?” he said in response to Kale’s puzzled frown. “Mr Kale, this is Ben Murray. He’s the photographer I was just telling you about. The one who might have got your son.”

Oh, Jesus. Oh fuck, no.

“Now, hang on a second,” Colin began.

Kale ignored him. The Jacob-stare was fixed on Ben.

“That true?” His face was still expressionless, only now there was a terrible intensity about it. “You’ve got my boy?”

“It isn’t how it seems—” Ben stammered.

“Okay, that’s it. We’re leaving now,” Colin said, taking hold of his arm.

But Kale had already started towards them. One leg was stiff and unbending, and Ben remembered Quilley saying how he had been wounded in Northern Ireland.

Colin stepped forward. “Okay, let’s all calm down a little—”

Kale didn’t so much as glance at him as he rammed the heel of his hand into his face. There was a solid meat-and-bone impact. Colin rebounded from the out-thrust hand and staggered backwards. Ben moved to help him and suddenly found himself lying on the rough concrete floor.

He had no memory of getting there. He became aware of a commotion nearby and turned his head to look. The movement caused a shaft of pain that served as a vanguard to a much bigger one throughout his entire body. A few yards from his head he saw two pairs of boots scuffling, and followed them upwards to see the scrap dealer struggling to restrain Kale.

Kale was staring fixedly at Ben, and although the dealer was straining with his full weight he was being pushed inexorably backwards.

“Go on, fuck off out of it!” he snapped.

Ben felt a hand under his arm as Colin helped him up. His mouth and chin were shiny with blood.

“Come on, let’s go.” Colin’s voice was clogged and nasal.

Ben tried to get his feet under him and the world tilted to one side. He nearly vomited.

“Where’s my boy?” Kale didn’t shout, but the demand was no less imperative for that Ben was still searching for some way of taking them back to a better start as Colin began pulling him away. Behind them Quilley watched, no longer smiling but making no attempt to intervene.

“Let ’em go, John!” the dealer gasped, feet scrabbling for purchase in his effort to hold Kale.

“Get out of the way. Now,” Kale told him. There was a final warning in his voice.

The dealer said, “Leave it, John, for Christ’s sake!” but dropped his arms. Kale thrust him aside.

Ben knew the man was beyond reasoning and hobbled into a shambling run as Colin urged him to go faster. He couldn’t remember what Kale had done to him but he felt he had been transposed into an unfamiliar, pain-racked body. As they stumbled past the stacks of flattened cars he glanced back and saw the ex-soldier limping after them with grim determination. But he was falling steadily behind, slowed by his unbending left leg. They reached the crane, ignoring the bewildered looks from its operator as they ran by. The office building was just ahead of them, the car around the other side of it.

“Get the keys ready,” Colin panted. Ben was pulling them from his pocket when there was a piercing whistle.

He looked round. Kale had two fingers hooked into his mouth, and without breaking stride he gave another short, sharp blast. A low brown shape streaked out from amongst the wrecked cars. Kale didn’t speak, simply snapped his fingers in their direction. The dog tore towards them. Ben said, “Oh fuck,” and they began to run in earnest.

The Golf was in sight now. He sprinted for it, Colin beside him. The sound of the dog’s claws on concrete grew swiftly louder. It was closing fast.

“Get on the bonnet!”

They leapt on to the car at the same time. The dog overshot, its claws scrabbling as it braked in a tight circle.

It was a Staffordshire bull l terrier, all wedged-shaped head and slabbed muscle. Ben slid off the bonnet and thrust the key into the lock. He threw himself inside and slammed the door as the dog came tearing back. There was a bang and the car rocked as the animal hit it. He reached across and unlocked the passenger door. Colin had climbed on to the car roof.

He scrambled inside while Ben fumbled with the ignition and the dog jumped up at the window on the driver’s side. Ben heard him say “Shit!” and looked up to see Kale heading for them from around the building. The dog snarled and slavered at the glass inches from his head as he crashed the gears into reverse and accelerated for the gates. The car shot through them backwards into the road.

He stamped on the brake, crunched into first, and put his foot down hard. The scrapyard disappeared behind them.

He took turnings at random until he felt sure that Kale had no chance of following, then pulled into an overgrown lay-by and switched off the ignition. The car subsided into silence. Ben kept his hands on the steering wheel. Beside him Colin held a carmine-splashed handkerchief to his nose. His shirt was dappled with blood.

“You all right?” Ben asked.

“I don’t think it’s broken.” His voice still sounded honky and strange. “How about you?”

Ben looked down at himself. He didn’t even seem to be bleeding. But it wasn’t the physical hurt that stopped him answering. What had happened was too calamitous for him to take in. It was as though he’d been gored, knowing it was serious but too numbed by shock to gauge how bad the damage was. He couldn’t begin to think what the consequences would be.

He turned on the ignition. “I think now’s the time to find a good solicitor.”