Owning Jacob - SA

Chapter nine

Jessica’s trial was held three weeks after Jacob’s final handover to the Kales. It fanned fresh interest in the case, and as Ben walked into the court building on the day he had been called as a prosecution witness he was treated to a media phalanx barring his way.

“Mr Murray, are you relieved not to be standing trial yourself?” one woman demanded, walking backwards to keep pace with him. She held out a microphone like a baton, as if she expected Ben to take it and run with the question. He brushed past without even giving her the benefit of a ‘no comment’. When he was inside the court and safely out of camera shot he stopped and leaned against a corridor wall until he felt less like punching it, and the spasm that had gripped his stomach had passed.

He had tried not to think about what the trial would be like. But even reminding himself that his first contact day with Jacob was soon afterwards didn’t make the prospect any more palatable. He had done his best to move his life back to some sort of normal footing, or at least as normal as it could be now that two-thirds of it had been cut away. The only way he could think of to do that was to throw himself into his work. Ironically, he had never been so busy. The tame events that had wrecked his private life had brought a boom to his professional one. When the phone calls first started coming in he had thought it was a sign of support from editors and designers he’d known for years. That had been before he saw how his name had suddenly acquired a cachet that had nothing to do with his photography. One magazine editor had run a series of fashion shots that Ben had done months earlier completely out of context, hanging the piece entirely on his new notoriety. He had phoned her in the blazing heat of discovery and told her graphically what he thought, the result being one source of work he could cross off his Christmas card list.

There were plenty of others to replace it. Once his initial indignation had died down, he stifled the self-destructive voice that urged him to tell them all to fuck off and accepted everything he could. It was all work, and anything that kept him occupied at the studio and away from the hollow bricks and mortar he’d once thought of as home was welcome.

He contented himself instead with raising his fees.

It meant he could pay Zoe more, which helped ease the guilt he felt after their night out together. He’d woken on the Saturday with a sense of curdling shame and a full-body hangover. He’d folded himself over the toilet and vomited until only dry heaves were left and the sweet stink of it blocked his nose. Even then he’d had to wait until the throbbing in his head had eased enough for him to pull himself feebly to his feet. Rinsing his mouth and splashing cold water on his face and neck made him feel cleaner but no better. He’d braced his arms on the washbasin and studied the palsied wreck of his reflection in the mirror. His face was pouchy and colourless, except for his lips, which were an unnatural red. There were lines under his eyes he’d never noticed before.

He’d felt racked with self-hate as he’d looked at himself. His thirty-third birthday had been the month before. Christ had changed the world and been crucified by that age. Ben didn’t give much for his chances of founding a religion, but the way things were going he felt that crucifixion wasn’t out of the question.

He’d taken a pint glass of water and a bottle of paracetamol and gone back to bed.

The prospect of trying to apologise to Zoe over the phone was too daunting, so he’d waited until Monday morning. He hadn’t been sure if she’d turn up at the studio, but she had, no later than usual but uncharacteristically subdued. They’d skirted around each other, quietly polite, until Ben had finally blurted, “Look, I’m sorry for running out like that.”

She stopped with her back to him. “It’s okay.”

“It was just too soon.” He winced at the cliché.

Zoe had turned but didn’t look up. She ducked her head in agreement. “Yeah. Bad idea all around, really.”

There was a pause when they both found other things to look at.

“Do you still think we can work together?” Ben asked.

She was very still. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No, course not. I just didn’t know if you wanted to.”

“No. Unless you want me to.”

“I don’t.”

Zoe nodded. She put her hands in her pockets, then took them out again. Ben picked up the camera and examined it.

“So how did you feel on Saturday morning?” he asked.

She pulled a face. “Like death.”

They had grinned at each other then, and although there was still some embarrassment, at least it had been faced. When he heard her swearing down the phone at someone later he knew things were back to normal.

Yet not quite. Once, as Zoe crouched to adjust the hem of the model’s dress, an image of her kneeling in front of him flashed into Ben’s mind. He’d looked away, quickly, but the memory had triggered something else that had been tugging at his subconscious. Reluctantly, he’d let himself acknowledge it.

He couldn’t remember having an erection.

Specifically, he could remember not having one. He’d been drunk, anaesthetised with alcohol, and he was glad nothing more had happened, but he couldn’t deny that he’d been up for it until the point when he’d pulled away.

Except that one part of him obviously hadn’t been.

What was even more unsettling was the realisation that he hadn’t had an erection since Sarah had died. Which might or might not be a natural reaction, but the fact remained that it had been over four months now. Not a long time in itself, and it wasn’t as if he was ready to sleep with anyone else yet.

But even the guilt he felt at thinking of such a thing couldn’t stop him worrying about it.

As he sat outside the courtroom in the roped-off waiting area, though, his lack of a hard-on wasn’t foremost in his thoughts. There were other people waiting to be called as witnesses but he didn’t recognise them. No one spoke to anyone else. There was a heavy-set, middle-aged woman whose bust filled her dress like a roll of carpet. She had red hair piled up into a bun and squinted with concentration at the paperback novel she held with the cover bent back against the spine. The hand that gripped it had thick sausage fingers, scrubbed pink as if they were used to being in water.

Ben decided she was a nurse from the hospital Jacob had been taken from. The Asian man a few seats away he tagged as the doctor who’d attended Sarah after the ‘birth’. There were two policemen, one in uniform, one in plain clothes but with a jacket, trousers and short haircut that identified him just as clearly. He kept scratching in one ear with a finger, giving it a surreptitious wipe afterwards on his trousers. There was another man, and two other women, but by then Ben had tired of the game. He’d probably guessed them all wrong anyway.

His turn came in the afternoon. He felt something like stage fright as he went into the courtroom and took the stand.

His voice sounded unnaturally loud when he read the oath.

He couldn’t see Jessica at first; there were too many faces all staring at him. And when he saw the woman in the dock it wasn’t the Jessica he remembered.

She’d lost weight. Her brown frock hung on her like a sack. She was still pudding-faced but now the line of her jaw and cheeks was visible, and a wattle of loose skin hung below her chin. Her skin was pallid, her hair lank and lifeless.

Even across the court, Ben could see the streaks of grey in it. She only once looked at him, an apathetic glance without recognition or interest, before staring off again at some point on the floor. With a peculiar mingling of revulsion and pity, Ben realised that the trial was irrelevant. Nothing anyone did would make any difference to her now.

The prosecuting counsel questioned him, then he was passed over to the defence. It was as bad as he’d expected.

When he was told to stand down his legs shook. He kept his eyes set straight ahead as he left the court.

The verdict was reached two days later. Ben heard it on the radio as he was driving. Jessica had been found guilty of aiding and abetting, and sentenced to three years.

He turned the radio off.

Once the trial was over there was nothing to get in the way of his anticipation of seeing Jacob. He expected to feel excited, but as the Sunday he was due for his first contact approached, the anxiety he’d felt over the court case seemed simply to be transferred to the new target.

Colin had offered to go with him but he’d declined.

There was still a bump on the bridge of Colin’s nose from the last time he had provided moral support, and Ben’s relationship with Maggie was strained enough as it was. He didn’t want to risk anything making it worse, if only for Colin’s sake.

But the real reason was that he wanted to see Jacob by himself.

The journey seemed quicker now that he knew the route. It was a close, cloudy day. The fields were stripped bare, bleached to a golden stubble instead of the lush green they’d been the last time. Some of them were blackened from fires that in places were still burning, trailing curtains of smoke like mist across the road. Ben had thought that stubble-burning was illegal now. If it was no one around Tunford seemed to care.

He had phoned the Kales the night before to arrange what time he should arrive, but there had been no answer.

He hadn’t been in touch with them since the handover — not that they’d spoken much then, either. He’d been tempted to call several times to see how Jacob was, rehearsed what to say, assured himself it could be kept casual. But he hadn’t. No matter how much he worried about Jacob, he wanted to be seen to be keeping his side of the bargain. He didn’t want to give John Kale any excuse not to keep his.

The possibility that Kale might not need an excuse was something he tried not to dwell on.

As he drove through Tunford he wondered if they could have forgotten it was his day for contact and gone away for the weekend. Or remembered but gone away anyway. That stirred up all the other fears, and he was wondering if Jacob could have forgotten him in a month when he turned on to their road and saw Kale’s car outside the house.

It was an old Ford Escort, a 1980s model, dappled with rust but with a serviceable air about it. A coating of dried mud and dirt dulled the original red paint. He had seen the Kales getting into it once outside the local authority building, but he would have known who it belonged to anyway. It seemed to fit Kale, somehow.

At least they’re home. He parked behind the Escort and looked inside as he walked past. The seats were covered with a black nylon stretch fabric, holed and gritty with crumbs. A puzzle, the one Kale had given Jacob at their first meeting, lay on the back seat. The sight was strangely painful. Ben turned away and went down the path.

There was even more junk in the front garden than he remembered. It was all car parts; chrome bumpers spotted with corrosive acne, doors with gaps where the handles used to be, decaying bonnets, wings and headlamps. The colours were gradually oxidising into a universal shade of brown. Grass and weeds sprouted through glassless windows, tangling dead metal with splashes of living green. Where pieces had been moved there were telltale imprints of flattened yellow stalks and slimy soil. Wondering why anyone would want to litter his own outlook with scrap metal, and what the hell Kale did with it all anyway, Ben skirted the radiator grille of a Mini and went to the front door.

It had been white once, but what paint was left was peeling away like fragments of eggshell. The wood underneath was grey and weathered. The entire house and garden were a working model of entropy, a physical reminder of the natural trend cowards dissolution and decay. Ben felt fresh outrage that this was the environment to which Jacob had been entrusted, then immediately ashamed for thinking it. Don’t be a snob. But the objection he felt was both more intrinsic and less definable than that.

Using the mottled flap of the galvanised letterbox, he knocked and stepped back. The sound was loud in the Sunday stillness. It died away.

There was a noise from the next garden. He turned. A woman had emerged from the house, holding a long-handled sweeping brush. Ben gave her a smile. “Morning.”

The greeting went unacknowledged. She regarded him silently, making a few half-hearted sweeps at the path with her brush. Across the street a man in a vest was leaning on his gate, openly watching. Ben turned his back on both of them.

It’s the Hall of the fucking Damned.

He knocked on the door again, conscious of their scrutiny as he waited. The scrape of the woman’s brush punctuated the quiet. He wished someone would hurry up and answer the door. He counted to ten then knocked again, harder.

The door opened. Sandra Kale regarded him sullenly. Her eyes were puffy and her bleached hair rumpled and uncombed.

She had on a pale pink bathrobe that ended mid-thigh. It needed washing. A sour, warm smell of bed came from her.

Ben waited for her to say something. When she didn’t he said, “I’ve come for Jacob.”

She folded her arms under her breasts. The movement pushed them up against the terry-towelling bathrobe. “He’s not here.”

There wasn’t as much anger as he would have thought. It was as though he’d been expecting it.

“But I’m supposed to be picking him up today. It’s my day to see him.”

She hitched one shoulder indifferently. It caused the bathrobe to gape, showing cleavage where her arms pressed her breasts together. Without make-up her face was younger and less hard, but no more friendly. “Tough. I’ve told you, he isn’t here.” She began to close the door.

Ben put his hand flat on it to stop her. He caught a waft of the odour of the house from behind her, a staleness of fried food and unemptied ashtrays.

“So where is he?”

“Gone out with his dad.”

“When will he be back?”

“Don’t know.”

“Can I wait?”

“Do what you fucking like,” she said, and pushed the door shut.

A shard of loose paint shot off and stung his face like miniature shrapnel. He heard the woman with the brush chuckling in the next garden. Feeling his face burning, he banged on the door with the side of his fist. The sharp-edged paint crunched underneath it, digging into his flesh before flaking off. He carried on hammering.

The door was yanked open. Sandra Kale’s face was pinched and angry. “He’s not fucking here! Now fuck off!”

“Not until I’ve seen him.”

“Are you fucking deaf? I’ve told you—”

The door was pulled from her hand. Ben instinctively stepped back as Kale appeared in the doorway. He was naked except for a pair of brief black shorts. His wife looked startled, then moved meekly aside.

He had been exercising. His entire body was beaded with sweat and flushed pink, as though he had been scalded. The thin shorts moulded his hips and genital bull ge, but tight as they were there was no overhang of fat. Each muscle was clearly defined, not with the sculptured physique of a body-builder but with a cleanness that was entirely functional. Ben automatically pulled his own stomach in.

“I’ve come to collect Jacob,” he said.

Kale was breathing deeply and rhythmically. He didn’t answer. Ben went on. “It’s my day to see him. We agreed on every fourth Sunday. That’s today.”

Moisture dripped from Kale’s brow. He made no attempt to wipe it. Ben looked past him into the hallway. There was no sign of Jacob.

“There’s nothing here for you.” Kale spoke flatly.

Ben turned to him. “Where’s Jacob?”

“I said there’s nothing here for you.”

“I’m not going without seeing him at least.” He held his ground against Kale’s stare. It was like leaning into the wind.

Kale moved his head fractionally towards his wife. “Fetch him.”

“John—”

“Fetch him.”

Her face reflected her unease for a second longer, then settled into the hard lines of irritation. She disappeared inside the house.

Kale remained where he was. Ben watched the empty hallway, glad of the excuse to look away. He’d always thought that Kale’s eyes were expressionless, but that wasn’t true. Their gaze was unsettling because it gave a view of a personality that, like his body, had been rendered down and stripped of non-essentials. It was like looking into the sun.

Sandra Kale came back into the hallway. She had Jacob by the hand. Ben could see that he didn’t want to go with her. He squatted in front of him.

“Jacob? It’s me. Ben.” Jacob kept his head down, but Ben thought there was a glimmer of recognition. He seemed healthy enough. He wore a T-shirt and a pair of shorts that, if not completely clean, were not exactly dirty either. His hair was longer than the last time Ben had seen him.

“I’ve come to take you out, Jacob. Would you like that?”

“His name’s Steven.” Kale bent and effortlessly lifted the boy. He held him easily in the crook of one arm as Ben straightened. “You wanted to see him. You have done.”

“I’m supposed to be taking him out.”

Sandra Kale came forward, her face pinched with spite. Her bathrobe was flapping loose, revealing more of her breasts. “Why don’t you just get lost? Just leave us alone!”

“Cover yourself up,” Kale said.

She glared at him, then flounced into the house. A door banged.

Ben tried again. “I’m entitled to contact once a month. That was part of the agreement.”

Kale stared at him, then raised his free hand. Ben tensed but there was no blow. Kale rotated it studying it as he slowly flexed his fingers as if its workings were new to him.

“It killed her,” he said, still watching his hand, almost absently. “Losing him. It killed her. They said it was an accident, but it wasn’t. I knew her. I’d seen it coming, but I couldn’t do anything. Jeanette carried him for nine months, bled and screamed to get him out, and then some bitch came along and took him before she’d even had a chance to hold him properly.” The hand clenched into a fist. The curled edge of the forefinger was thickly callused and cross-hatched with ingrained oil. Kale rubbed his thumb over it. It made a faint rasping noise.

He lowered the hand as though he’d grown bored with it and looked at Ben again. His eyes were unbearable.

“He never knew her. His own mother, and he never knew her. Now he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t talk. Your whore did that to him. She took my wife and kid away from me. Six years. That’s how long she had him. That’s how long I thought he was dead. Six years. Now you come here wanting to take him away again.”

Ben wanted to tell him he was wrong, that he was being unfair. But he knew it wouldn’t make any difference. The man’s viewpoint was as rigid as his body. “It isn’t like that. I’m only—”

“He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t need you. You’re not part of the pattern any more.”

Ben didn’t know if he’d heard right, didn’t know what the fuck the man was talking about. “Look, it was agreed. Jacob won’t understand why he doesn’t see me—”

“His name’s Steven.”

Ben bit back the objection. One thing at a time. “You Can’t just cut us off from each other.”

“I can do what I want.” It was said without petulance or bravado.

Looking at him, Ben saw that nothing he could say, no talk of rights or court action, was going to alter anything. Jacob sat on his arm, apparently content. He was wriggling his fingers.

After I moment Ben realised that he was copying Kale’s earlier movements with his hand.

“Can we at least talk about this? You know, perhaps sit down—”

“I don’t want you in my house.”

“Oh, come on, this is getting stupid!”

Kale’s whistle made him jump even as he was regretting the choice of words. There was a scrabble of claws from within the house. Oh fuck, Ben thought as he saw the bull terrier from the scrapyard materialise in the hallway. It trotted towards them, bow-legged with muscle. He felt childishly betrayed when he saw Jacob trying to whistle himself.

The dog stopped at the doorstep and glared up at him. A threatening rumble came from its throat. He quickly checked to see how far away the fence was. Kale held his hand over the animal’s head, restraining it without touching it.

“Go on.” Ben thought that Kale was speaking to the dog before realising it was to him. He flinched back as it gave a single, yapping bark, its front legs bouncing clear of the ground.

Then Kale pushed it back into the hall with his foot and shut the door in his face.

He angrily raised his hand to bang on the peeling grey wood, then lowered it. He knew it wouldn’t do any good. All he’d achieve would be an assault by Kale, or the dog. Or both. He didn’t want that to happen in front of Jacob.

He didn’t want that to happen full stop.

He turned to leave. The woman with the brush hadn’t moved. Other people had also come out of the nearby houses to watch. Ben tried to ignore their collective hostility as he went down the path. When he reached the Mini radiator grille he gave it a savage kick that sent it spinning into the overgrown garden. It hurt his foot, but he refused to limp as he walked back to his car.

Across the street, the man in the vest leaned over his gate and spat on the pavement.