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 smil
ing 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.'
Chapter Eight
The sun had almost disappeared behind the rooftops. The small garden was dappled by shade. Jet contrails criss-crossed the orange-to-indigo vignette of evening sky, slowly dispersing into petrochemical imitations of cirrus clouds. Ben blew his own contribution up at them and stubbed out the joint on the heel of his sandal. He dropped it in his empty beer bottle and leaned back against the garden wall. The bricks still retained some of the sun's heat, but that was the only comfort to be had from their ungiving roughness. There were perfectly good wooden sun chairs a matter of feet away, and Ben had no reason not to sit in them instead of on the hard-baked ground. But he wasn't uncomfortable enough for it to merit the effort of moving.
The creak of the swing provided a metronomic counterpoint to the sweeter but unstructured birdsong from the trees. Whenever it began to slow, Ben reached out with his foot and set it going again. The empty seat arced lazily backwards and forwards. Jacob could sit on it for hours without growing bored, just watching the grass zip by under his feet. Ben had taken photographs of him, using a high-speed film to capture the movement without blurring.
A camera lay beside him now. He'd focused it once on the untenanted swing, but had put it down again without pressing the shutter release. It would have made too bald a statement.
Another plane crossed the sky, invisible except for the white chalk mark that trailed behind it. Ben raised the camera and took a couple of shots of the geometric tracery above him. He knew it was the wrong sort of camera, wrong sort of film, and that he was in the wrong sort of mood to get anything decent, but, just as there was no reason to go and sit in a chair, neither was there a reason why he shouldn't waste some film if he wanted to. Nothing seemed any more or less worthwhile than anything else.
It was amazing how quickly things could turn to shit.
Objectively, it was only three months since the disastrous visit to the scrapyard, but so much had happened that to his subjective timescale it seemed much longer. When he had gone to see the solicitor the day after the encounter with Kale he still hadn't any real idea what was in store for him. Ann Usherwood was in her late forties, tall and sparely built with greying hair and a severe business suit. Her office was smart but unpretentious, functional almost to the point of being spartan. She had been professionally blunt as she told him he was in a legally vulnerable position. 'A step-parent doesn't have any automatic rights to their spouse's children. You ought to have made an application to the court for something called a "residence order" as soon as your wife died, so Jacob could continue living with you.'
'Won't Kale be able to just take Jacob back anyway?' he'd asked.
'It doesn't work like that. Although, from what you say, there's no doubt that John Kale is the natural father, the child's welfare is always the first consideration. No one's going to simply tear Jacob from his home and hand him over to a total stranger, natural father or not. Mr Kale will still have to apply for a residence order himself, unless you voluntarily agree to return Jacob to him.'
The fact that Jacob was stolen…' supplied Ben, brutally.
'I was going to say unlawfully taken by your wife, but, however you put it, a child isn't a piece of property to be returned to the original owner, regardless. Taking him was a criminal act, however, and I imagine the midwife will be investigated and quite possibly charged.' She paused. 'You'll have to satisfy the police that you didn't know anything about what your wife had done until you found the cuttings. Taking steps to find Jacob's father will weigh in your favour, although it might be argued that you should have gone to the police straightaway instead of going to the scrapyard.'
'I only wanted to see Kale for myself.'
'Hopefully the police will accept that. In any event, you've got to make a decision on how you want to proceed. Given that John Kale will probably make an application for residence, are you going to contest it?'
Ben rubbed his temples. 'What'll happen if I do?'
'A court welfare officer—or in this case perhaps a social worker—will be appointed to consider Mr Kale's application and make recommendations. Then the court will decide where Jacob's going to live. They'll take into account his own wishes and feelings, which is obviously more difficult when there are communication difficulties. But under normal circumstances you'd probably have a reasonable prospect of keeping him.'
He felt too tired to think. 'And if I don't contest it?'
'Then, after a period of assessment, Jacob will probably go to live with his natural father.'
'Will I still be able to see him?'
'You might be allowed some contact, but I can't say how much. That'll depend on what's felt to be in his best interests.'
&
nbsp; Best interests? Ben thought about the shabby little town, the house with its junk piled in the garden. He hated the idea of Jacob living somewhere like that. He didn't want to give him up, couldn't imagine how he'd feel if he did. The thought of what Sarah would say, what she would think, was a dry anguish in his gut. The rights and wrongs of how she came by him apart, Jacob was her son. She had loved him, looked after him. And so had he. How could he just let him go now? But against that was the memory of Kale limping forward with six years' pent-up grief. Where's my boy? He realised the solicitor was waiting.
He gave her his answer.
John Kale saw his son for the first time in a dirty concrete-and-glass social services building. Ben held Jacob's hand as they went with Ann Usherwood to the room where the meeting was to take place.
The social worker appointed to carry out the assessment was a man called Carlisle. He was a few years older than Ben, with a stubble cut, chinos and a habit of looking down his nose.
John Kale and his wife were there already, Kale in a dark green suit that was too heavy for the weather, his wife in a short, sleeveless pink dress. Ben braced himself as Kale stood up, but the other man didn't so much as glance at him. He was staring at Jacob.
Everyone in the room seemed to hang on the moment.
Kale limped over and stood in front of his son, never taking his eyes from him. His face was as unrevealing as it had been in the scrapyard, but now Ben fancied there was a tentativeness about him. He squatted down, looking intently into the boy's face without speaking. Ben expected Jacob to make his pushing-away gesture, but he didn't.
'Hello, Steven,' Kale said. 'I'm your dad.' Jacob kept his gaze averted, then cautiously shifted it to the man crouching in front of him. They looked at each other, and Ben felt a little slip of unreality at the resemblance between them. Then Kale turned and fixed him with an unblinking stare.
Owning Jacob (1998) Page 9