Owning Jacob (1998)

by Simon Beckett

  Ben stopped in the act of opening another envelope. 'Did he say anything?'

  'No, just wanted to know if this was where "Mr Murray" worked.' She looked worried, the brash shell crumbling at the thought she had done something wrong. 'Was it somebody important?'

  'No, I don't think so.'

  It couldn't have been Quilley. Ben realised he was biting his lip. He threw the rest of the unopened post on to the battered pine table by the sink.

  'I'd better go and pick Jacob up.'

  He phoned the detective as soon as he was in the car. The line was engaged. He tried twice more, then tossed the handset on to the passenger seat 'Fuck it.' He was being paranoid. If the man had any news he would have heard.

  Unless he'd left a message on the answerphone at home.

  Suddenly Ben was certain that was what had happened. He cursed himself for having an old-style machine that couldn't play itself back over the phone. He pulled out into the traffic, almost knocking over a motorcycle courier. The rider swerved and jabbed two fingers at him. 'Get fucked!' Ben shouted.

  He fretted at every stop-start of the clogged roads as he drove to the school. Knowing he had a clear afternoon, he'd told Maggie he'd collect Jacob himself, but now he regretted it.

  By the time he parked outside the school gates he was in a foul mood. He said hello and goodbye to Mrs Wilkinson as quickly as he decently could and hurried back to the car with Jacob.

  He forgot to let him run his hand down the side of it before they got in, and had to close the door again until he had.

  He barely looked at the little boy as he buckled him into the back seat.

  For a change there was a space miraculously close to the house. He parked and hurried Jacob inside. He went straight to the answerphone on the old cherrywood cabinet in the hallway. Its light was flashing. He pressed play.

  It was from Maggie, inviting them to lunch on Sunday.

  He listened to the tape rewind and then snatched up the receiver. Fuck it. He dialled the detective's number, tasting his nervousness at the back of his throat, a metallic sourness like blood. The phone rang four times and then a recorded message cut in. Ben looked at his watch, incredulously. It was just after five o'clock. He waited, hoping someone would pick up the receiver at the other end, but no one did. He slammed down the phone.

  'Fucking great!' He slapped the wall. 'Five past fucking five and they've gone home! Fucking brilliant!' He hit the wall again, harder this time, and kicked the door nearest to him. It swung back with a bang. Ben turned, looking for something else to take his frustration out on, and saw Jacob standing where he had left him in the hallway .

  The little boy was rocking himself, covering his ears. Don't start! 'It's all right, Jacob, it's just me being silly.'

  'No noise! No noise!'

  Ben ran his hand over the stubble of his hair. The rasp of it still surprised him. 'Okay, okay, no noise, I've stopped now.'

  'No noise!'

  'I said OKAY!' The shout hurt his chest. He looked down at his clenched fists, forced them open.

  Jacob was quiet, but his rocking had become even more pronounced. He had his head down so far that Ben couldn't see the utter misery on his face.

  The anger went out of him. 'Oh God, I'm sorry, Jacob.' He went and crouched in front of the boy. 'It's okay, it's all right, don't be frightened.'

  Jacob shook his head, violently. 'Not you,' he moaned, not you, not you, not you.'

  He reached out, but Jacob thrust him away. 'Mummy. Mummy.'

  Oh Christ. 'Mummy can't, Jacob. Mummy isn't here.'

  'Mummy. Mummy!'

  The boy was crying now, and Ben knew that would make things worse because Jacob didn't understand what tears were, was frightened by them. And Ben could feel his own control starting to crack. He clutched the small body to him, holding it tight against its struggles, his own tears running to dampen the back of Jacob's shirt. He squeezed his eyes shut. 'It's all right, it's all right, it's all right,' he chanted, even though he knew that it wasn't, that nothing was all right, but he repeated the words until he felt the rigidity go from the boy's body.

  He held him for a while longer, then wiped his eyes as best he could and sat back on his heels. Jacob's face was red and shiny with tears, his long lashes glistening. His chin was still on his chest, but Ben knew the worst was over. He ran his finger across the boy's cheeks, brushing away the runnels of water.

  'There we go. That's better.'

  Jacob glanced up. He reached out and tentatively touched Ben's cheek, then his own. He regarded his fingers. 'Wet.'

  Ben gave a shaky laugh. 'Yeah, that's right. We're both wet.' He stood up and hoisted Jacob on one arm. 'Come on. Let's make some tea.'

  After that, Ben felt he had stepped into a bubble of calm. It was as though he'd come through a high fever and been left drained but in a state of fragile peace. The fact that he hadn't heard from the detective no longer gnawed at him. It wasn't that he was holding out any false hopes, simply that there would be time enough to deal with that, and its consequences, later.

  The weekend seemed to exist by itself, and he accepted the respite gratefully, all the more so because he knew that it was only a respite.

  The pain left by Sarah's absence was still there, but at least now it was uncluttered with resentment and anger. He hadn't even realised he had felt any of those things until they had gone, and if the keenness of the hurt was undiminished, he would rather have that than the maddened, confused rage which had mocked everything he and Sarah had been together.

  No matter what she had done he still loved her, and missed her. It was almost a relief to recognise that.

  On the Saturday he took Jacob swimming. It was always difficult to know which activities he would enjoy, and which would either leave him indifferent or, worse, would bewilder and agitate him. Swimming had been a surprising success from the start. To begin with Sarah had been worried that he would not understand the concept of water, would try to breathe with his head submerged or drown himself in some other offbeat way, but her fears proved groundless. Jacob splashed about as enthusiastically as any other child his age, and although he didn't know how to swim he was safe enough in a pair of water wings. He looked all head and ribs in his swimming trunks, and Ben felt a surge of protectiveness towards him. He's mine as much as Sarah's, he thought; and then, We're a family. We've only got each other now.

  But that was too sombre a mood, belonging to the week ahead, not the present. Turning away from it, Ben took Jacob down the easiest water slide, and was rewarded with a beaming grin. The problem then became convincing him to stop while they still had some skin left on their legs and behinds.

  They went to a pub with a beer garden for lunch, and as Ben watched Jacob carefully shred his paper napkin into strips he reflected that at least the boy's condition made him different to the charms of McDonald's. There was always a light side, he thought, wryly.

  Jacob was yawning before they reached home. Ben knew he would want to go to bed early, but there was a brief flurry of rebellion at bath-time, when he refused to get into the tub.

  'Orange. Orange,' he repeated, brushing away the orange juice and fruit he was offered. Ben was at a loss, until he made the connection with the water. With his Dayglo armbands on, Jacob got happily into the bath and let himself be washed.

  Ben had been dreading the prospect of another Saturday night spent alone, with nothing to hold back the cold truth that Sarah wasn't there to share it with him. But the buffer of calm that had sustained him all day didn't desert him now.

  Tinged with sadness, it let him get through the hours easily enough, a bottle of wine and the occasional joint helping, until he began to doze on the couch during a late-night horror film and took himself off to bed.

  Maggie had been tartly surprised when he had declined the offer of Sunday lunch. Instead the next day he took Jacob to the river near Henley. It had been a favourite picnic spot of Sarah's, and he'd wondered if going there now was a good ide
a. But somehow it seemed the right thing to do. They walked along the riverbank, Jacob's hand small and warm in his.

  Jacob was ti-ti-ing a tuneless song, a sign that he was enjoying himself. He fell silent as they approached the familiar nest of willow trees that hung over the water. His eyes were big and solemn as they flitted over the two other groups of picnickers already there, and Ben felt his throat tighten as Jacob turned to look behind them, as though expecting to see someone following.

  We shouldn't have come.

  But the boy's quietness didn't last long. By the time Ben had spread out the picnic blanket, Jacob was humming softly to himself again as he plucked the seeds from stalks of grass and arranged them in a line on his bare leg. Ben had packed hard-boiled eggs and ham-and-tomato sandwiches, cut into the thin strips that Jacob liked. After they had eaten he brought out a football, but Jacob wasn't interested. Sometimes he would play with it, sometimes he wouldn't. Now he was more interested in the ripples his trailing hand made in the slow-moving water.

  Ben watched him tilting his head to catch the light sparkling from them and quietly took his Nikon from the bag.

  Storing up your memories in advance. The thought came without warning. He lowered the camera, feeling the balance he'd held all weekend begin to disintegrate. But the movement attracted Jacob's attention. He rolled over on to his back and smiled upside down through splayed fingers. Ben grinned back, glad once more that they had come.

  They stayed until the heat had gone out of the sun and all the other picnickers had left. Jacob had fallen asleep, and Ben had to wake him when it was time to go. When he was bathed and in bed, Ben took a chair and sat out in the small back garden, watching the sun set behind the sycamore tree at the bottom.

  If I could hold on to things like this I'd manage, he thought. It wouldn't be as good, but I could cope.

  But he knew that was only a weekend mood that would disappear just as quickly. And when he woke up the next morning the heaviness was waiting for him, ready to be put on again like a pair of dirty jeans. He grabbed for the serenity he'd felt the day before but it had gone, already as faded and insubstantial as a childhood holiday.

  He took Jacob to school and went to the studio. At eleven o'clock Quilley called to say he had found the Kales.

  Chapter Six

  The girl looked as tired as the last time Ben had seen her. She greeted him as unsmilingly as before. You can go straight in.'

  He went to the door and tapped.

  Quilley's voice came from inside. 'Come in.'

  The detective was sitting behind the desk. The small room was still thick with stale cigarette smoke, but at least the pneumatic drills outside were silent. Quilley motioned Ben towards the spare chair without looking up from what he was writing. 'Take a seat, Mr Murray. I won't be a moment.'

  Ben sat down. He stared at the top of the detective's head and wondered if he went through the same rigmarole with every client. He felt an irrational burst of dislike for the man.

  Quilley put down his pen. 'There we go.' He sat back. 'And how are you keeping?'

  'Fine.' Get on with it.

  'Locating the Kales was a bit more complicated than I'd thought it would be. It involved…well, quite a lot more digging around, shall I say, than I expected.' His smile was blandness itself.

  He opened a cardboard folder. 'Right, here we go. John Kale. Currently lives with his wife in a place called Tunford, which is a small town halfway between Northampton and Bedford. Kale's from the area originally—he was brought up in an orphanage, don't know if you knew that—and moved to Tunford when he left the army four years ago. He was discharged after he was wounded in a border incident over in Northern Ireland. Leg injury. That was after his first wife was killed, so perhaps—'

  'His first wife was killed?'

  'Sorry, didn't I mention that? That was Jeanette, who you already know about. She died in a road accident six years ago. Quite tragic, really.'

  Six years. The significance of that wasn't lost on Ben.

  Quilley was watching him with that half-smile. 'Are you all right, Mr Murray? You look quite pale.'

  'I'm fine. Go on.'

  'Where was I? Yes, John Kale. Remarried about the same time he moved to Tunford. His second wife's called Sandra. Met her when he was stationed at Aldershot after he was wounded, not long before he was discharged.' The detective turned down his mouth. 'Doesn't look a very select article, Mr Murray, if you don't mind my saying. Works as a barmaid in the local pub. Kale's employed in a scrapyard in the next town. Quite well thought of, from what I can gather. Bit of a local hero. You know, local boy goes off to fight, wife dies, he comes back injured. All very tragic.' He looked across at Ben, as though waiting for him to say something.

  Ben took it as his cue to ask what he had been dreading. 'Do they have any children?'.

  There was a subtle change in Quilley's attitude, as though the question pleased him. 'No, and that's another tragedy. Kale had a child by his first wife, a little boy, but it seems the baby was stolen from the hospital not long after it was born. Jeanette Kale was staying down in London with her parents at the time. They never did find out what happened to it.' He tut-tutted. 'Makes you wonder if that had anything to do with what happened afterwards. You know, her getting herself killed, him getting shot. Almost like everything went to pieces for them after that.' His smile remained, but his eyes were unmistakably watchful now. 'Still, they say things happen in threes, don't they?'

  Ben told himself he was being over-sensitive about the man's manner. 'Did they have any idea you were checking up on them?'

  'Oh, no need to worry about that. I wouldn't be very good at my job if I let people know when I was checking up on them, would I?'

  The impulse to get out of the office and away from the man on the other side of the desk was growing stronger. 'So is that everything?' He found himself hoping it was.

  'I think it more or less covers what you wanted to know, wouldn't you say?'

  Ben found himself nodding. 'How much do I owe you?'

  The detective's smile was no longer so bland. He settled back in his chair, folding his hands across the top of his stomach. 'Well, now we come to a bit of a problem, actually.'

  Ben's hand slowed on the route to his cheque book. 'I'm not with you. We agreed on a rate.'

  'Yes, yes we did. But that was before…how shall I put it? Before I was fully aware of the nature of the research.' He nodded, as if appreciating the phrasing. 'You see, Mr Murray, the reason I'm so good at my job is that I believe in thoroughness. I don't like leaving things half done. And if I come across something that puzzles me, well, I can't rest until I've got to the bottom of it, if you take my meaning. How is the book going, by the way?'

  The walls of the office seemed to be closing in. 'Okay.'

  'Good, good. Because I got to thinking that it's rather unusual for a writer—or a photographer, such as yourself—to hire a private investigator to locate someone just to interview for a book. To say nothing of expensive. Anyone doing that must either want to interview them very badly indeed or…' The smile broadened. '…or have their own reasons for doing it. Now you might say that those reasons are none of my business, and perhaps you're right. But as I pointed out to you at our last meeting, I do like to know a little about who I'm working for. And so I took the liberty of carrying out a little "extracurricular" research, for want of a better term.'

  Ben thought about the phone call to the studio. The detective had been checking up on him. Oh, Jesus, what have I done?

  'I must offer my condolences on the death of your wife.' Quilley shook his head, slowly. 'A terrible thing to happen at that age. Terrible. And leaving you to look after a little boy as well. A handicapped one at that. It can't be easy. Particularly when, if you'll pardon me saying, he isn't actually yours.'

  'What's that supposed to mean?'

  'Only that he's your stepson. What else could I mean?'

  The edge of the chair seat dug into Ben's palms w
here he gripped it. 'If there's a point to this why don't you get to it?'

  'No need to be defensive, Mr Murray. I'm only commenting on the facts. And I'm sure that when you come to interview Mr Kale for your book you'll find it helpful that the two of you have so much in common. Quite a catalogue of coincidences, really. His first wife also having died young, and you both having sons—or in your case a stepson—born on virtually the same day. Except that Mr Kale doesn't know where his son is, of course.'

  The urge to walk out and the desire to lunge at the face across the desk were equally strong. 'I don't see how any of that's relevant. Or anything to do with you.'

  The detective grinned as if Ben had made a joke. 'I take your point, Mr Murray. Of course, it isn't anything to do with me. Nothing at all. And I do apologise if I've touched on a nerve. I'm sure you're very fond of the boy. Look on him as your own after all this time, I dare say.'

  Ben felt uncoordinated as he took out his cheque book. 'I asked how much I owed you.'

  'So you did, Mr Murray. And, as I said, it's a difficult question. You see, what we basically have here are two separate issues. On the one hand there's the fee for my time and expenses, which is fairly straightforward. But then there's the question of…how shall I put it? The value of information, let's say. And I'm sure you can appreciate that's less easy to put a price on. What's worth one thing to one person may be worth much more to another. How do you judge these things?' The detective's smile was indulgent. 'I'm sure you appreciate the problem.'

  The pen seemed cumbersome as Ben wrote out a cheque.

  'It's six days by my reckoning. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and include Saturday at the same rate. There's fifty pounds for expenses as well.' He tore out the cheque and dropped it on the desk. He stood up. I'll take the report with me.'

  Quilley's smile had shrunk a little but it was still there. He handed Ben the cardboard folder. 'As you wish, Mr Murray. As you wish.'