Owning Jacob

by Simon Beckett

  They acknowledged Ben with polite lack of interest, which mirrored the way he felt about them. He excused himself as soon as he could and wandered off to get a beer.

  That was his first mistake. With no one to talk to, he drank more quickly than he should have done. The camera dragged around his neck. Against his better judgment he had taken it with him, at Colin's insistence.

  'If you get some good shots of the night, you know, just snapping people, you might be able to get more work from the label,' Colin had said, despite the fact that Ben had repeatedly told him that he had no interest in working with bands. He liked working with either professional models or people who weren't aware they were being photographed, not four or five usually unphotogenic individuals, one of whom could always be guaranteed to blink as the shutter came down. Photographing live gigs was even worse. Ben had tried it for a while when he was scrabbling to find his feet after graduating, but soon gave up. When it came down to it, he wasn't interested enough in music for it to be worth the grind.

  He was on his fourth or fifth beer when Colin materialised at his elbow. 'Come on, I'll introduce you to the band,' he shouted, leaning closer to be heard above the thumping beat.

  Doing his best to look enthusiastic, Ben followed him through the crush of people. Empty glasses and bottles were spilled over a pair of tables pushed together in a booth, where twice as many people as it could comfortably hold were clustered around the four budding celebrities at one end.

  Colin greeted them familiarly. If he was aware of the condescending looks he received he gave no sign. He was still a few months shy of thirty, but his suit and neatly cut, already thinning sandy hair made him seem middle-aged even in comparison to Ben, who was only two years his junior.

  He reeled off their names, which Ben made no attempt to remember. 'They're going to be massive,' he enthused, aiming the comment at the band.

  There were self-congratulatory smirks. 'Yeah, that's right,' one of the band said. 'Massive.'

  Colin seemed not to notice the parody, or the sniggers it provoked. He clapped Ben on the shoulder. 'Ben's a photographer. He's here to take a few pictures.'

  Ben was uncomfortably aware of becoming the focus of attention. He felt his anger rise as the patronising looks were switched to him. You arrogant little pricks, he thought, staring back with his own fuck-you smile. Then Colin said, 'I'll see you in a bit, Ben,' and with an encouraging squeeze on his arm left him standing there.

  Ben silently cursed him. And himself, for not guessing that Colin would think he was doing him a favour. He would have left as well, but before he could one of the band spoke.

  'So you want to take our pictures, then?' It was the same one who had ridiculed Colin. He had been introduced as the singer. Even slouched back in his seat he was obviously tall, good-looking in a gangly sort of way, with a tight black T-shirt and mop of thick, dark hair. Despite the club's dim lighting his pupils were shrunk to pinpricks, a sign that he had been celebrating with more than alcohol.

  'Not really,' Ben answered.

  The singer pointed at the camera hanging on its strap.

  'So why the fuck have you got that round your neck? Is it a necklace, or what?' There were laughs from around the table.

  'Yeah, that's right,' Ben said, turning to go.

  'Hey, come on, man, you're here to take some photos, aren't you? How about this?' The singer sprawled back in an exaggerated model's pose, pursing his lips.

  Ordinarily Ben would have grinned and walked away. But the beers he had drunk had added to his already bad temper. And he had drunk them on an empty stomach. 'Get fucked,' he said.

  The mood around the table instantly changed. The singer sat up, no longer smiling. 'Don't tell me to get fucked, arsehole. Who the fuck invited you, anyway? You just come here to scrounge free drinks, or what?'

  Ben carefully placed his beer on the table. 'Fuck you, and fuck your drinks,' he said, which would have been a fine exit line if the singer hadn't picked up a glass and thrown its contents in his face before he could move.

  The table erupted with laughter, but his first concern was for his camera. It wasn't in a case, and liquid was dripping from it. Whatever had been in the glass smelled of blackcurrant, and if there was one thing worse than getting a camera wet, it was getting it wet with something sweet and sticky.

  'You stupid bastard!' he snapped, taking it from around his neck, and as he did the singer snatched it from him. The strap snagged on Ben's head, only briefly, but enough to jerk the camera from the singer's grip. Ben tried to catch it but missed.

  It struck the edge of the table then bounced to the floor with a terminal crash.

  'Oops,' the singer said as Ben bent to pick it up. The lens came away in his hand, sprinkling glass. There were one or two giggles, but most people seemed to realise that what had happened wasn't funny. The singer wasn't one of them.

  'You weren't going to use it anyway,' he jeered, and the last of Ben's restraint disappeared. He flung the broken camera across at him, more of a reflexive gesture than anything else.

  He expected the singer to block it, but he had taken that moment to turn and laugh with the girl sitting next to him. He was still grinning when the camera struck him in the face.

  The singer cried out and fell back as blood spurted from a gash on his forehead.

  Ben had time to realise that things had got a little out of hand before another member of the band sprang up and swung at him. He ducked and felt the punch land on the top of his skull. His vision burst into popping lights and he flailed out himself as he stumbled and fell. The next seconds were a vague impression of bodies, shrieks and breaking glass. He felt himself being hit several more times and covered his head, then he was being hauled to his feet by a burly pair of arms. He looked out through the eye that didn't hurt to see Colin's anxious face as he tried to calm everyone down, including the door staff, who seemed inclined to join in themselves. Beyond him, the singer's face was slick with blood as he pressed both hands to the cut on his forehead, while the musician who had thrown the first punch was cradling one of his hands to his chest and moaning.

  'Okay, it's cool, it's cool,' Colin was assuring everyone, his anxious expression belying the words. He shot Ben a look that was part concern, part anger, then spoke to someone at Ben's side. 'Take him outside. I'll be along when I've sorted out this mess.'

  Ben thought he was talking to the bouncer who had helped him up, but it was a young woman whom he had seen at Colin's table earlier. 'Come on,' she said. 'Can you walk?'

  They made their way through the club to the exit.

  'Do you want to clean yourself up?' the young woman asked. She was wearing a matching dark jacket and skirt, the businesswoman's equivalent of Colin's suit. Ben shook his head.

  He still hadn't spoken to her yet. The adrenalin was draining out of him now, and mortification was flooding in to fill the gap. It was only just beginning to dawn on him what a fool he had made of himself.

  They went outside and waited by the club's entrance. The night air tasted like oxygen after the smoky atmosphere of the club. It was September, still warm but with enough of a cool edge to feel like a sobering flannel on his face. Ben pushed his hands into his pockets and tried to keep from shivering. He avoided looking at the woman, but he could feel her watching him.

  'So what happened back there? I take it they didn't want their photos taken?'

  Ben was uncomfortably aware that his teeth were starting to chatter from reaction. 'No, it, uh…it was because I wouldn't take any.' He could feel himself starting to blush.

  'Well, that's a new one. A photographer beaten up in a nightclub for not taking photographs.'

  He couldn't help but respond to her amusement. 'Yeah, well, you've got to be selective about these things.'

  Colin emerged from the club. Not even the neon light could disguise the flush on his cheeks as he strode over. 'Well, this is fucking great! Jesus, Ben, what the fuck were you thinking of?'

  'What
was I thinking of? They smashed my camera!'

  'I don't give a shit about your camera! I've been working on this deal for the past six months and the day it's signed I get a singer who's going to need stitches and a bass player with a broken hand! And it's my fucking guest who does it! I mean, thanks Ben, this makes a really good impression, doesn't it?' He had never seen Colin so angry, but a sense of injustice brought a spurt of his own anger. 'What do you expect me to do, smile and say thank you?'

  'Would it have killed you to take a few fucking pictures just to keep things quiet, if only for my sake? But no, that's too much to ask, isn't it? You have to get into a fight with the singer and chuck the bloody camera in his face! Their manager's talking about suing you, for Christ's sake!'

  Belatedly, it began to occur to Ben what an embarrassing position he'd put Colin in. 'I thought he'd catch it,' he said, lamely.

  'Yeah, well, he didn't.' Colin ran a hand through his thinning hair. 'Look, I'd better get back in there. And you'd better make yourself scarce. They'll be coming out to go to the hospital soon. I don't want any more trouble if they see you.'

  Ben nodded, chagrined. 'Sorry.'

  Colin looked at him for a moment, as though considering whether to accept the apology or not, then sighed, 'Don't worry, I'll sort it out.' He gave a tired smile. 'It could be worse. At least it's only the bass player's hand that's broken. We're probably going to get rid of him anyway.'

  Ben was about to laugh when he saw that he wasn't joking.

  Colin turned to the young woman, who had been standing in the background during the exchange. 'Sarah, can you make sure he gets a taxi? And you might as well go home yourself then. There's no point you hanging about any longer.' Without waiting for an answer he hurried back inside.

  There was a silence afterwards. Ben wanted to crawl under something.

  'Come on,' Sarah said. We can get a taxi down here.' They walked away from the club.

  'I don't need a taxi,' he told her when they reached a side road. 'My car's parked down here.'

  She stopped and looked at him. 'I don't think you should drive.'

  'I'm okay. My eye isn't that bad.' He tentatively felt the swelling.

  'I didn't mean your eye. How many drinks have you had?'

  'I'm not drunk,' he retorted.

  'Perhaps not, but don't you think tonight's been eventful enough already?'

  The amused expression was still on her face. She had light brown, jaw-length hair tucked back behind her ears and a smattering of pale freckles running across her nose and cheeks. It was difficult to tell what colour her eyes were in the light from the streetlamps, but Ben thought they were probably hazel. She was quite attractive, he realised. He felt his scowl slipping away.

  'Yeah, perhaps you're right.'

  They flagged down a taxi. Ben offered it to her first, but she declined. 'Colin'll only quiz me about it tomorrow. I want to be able to tell him I saw you safely on your way.'

  There was something vulnerable and yet aloof about her slim figure as she waited for him to get in. He felt strangely nervous. 'Where are you going?' he asked. 'We might as well share.'

  She lived in Clapham.

  'You've done me a favour, actually,' she said, as the taxi pulled away. I'd have had to stay for another hour or so, and I don't like being late for the baby-sitter.'

  'You've got children?' He was surprised at how disappointed he suddenly was.

  'A little boy. Jacob. He's nearly two now.'

  'Is your husband out tonight as well?'

  'I'm not married.' It was said without emotion, a flat statement.

  Ben realised he was pleased. She's got a kid. Don't get carried away.

  'So are you a lawyer too?' he asked.

  'No, just a lowly clerk. But I'm studying in my spare time. With a bit of luck I should take my articles in a few years. It's a roundabout way of doing things, but at least you get paid while you're doing it.' She shrugged, dismissing the problems of being a working single mother. 'How about you? Do you actually take photographs, or do you only use cameras as offensive weapons?'

  He grinned, sheepishly. 'Only when provoked. When I'm not throwing cameras in people's faces, I do fashion shoots for magazines, bits and pieces for advertising agencies. Stuff like that.'

  'Sounds glamorous.'

  'About as glamorous as the music business.' He fingered his swollen eye and they both laughed.

  When the taxi stopped outside her flat he couldn't believe the journey had passed so quickly. As she climbed out of the cab he felt an urgency come over him he hadn't felt since he was a teenager.

  'Look,' he said, hurriedly, 'if you aren't doing anything later this week, perhaps we could go for a drink some time?'

  She smiled, bending to the open door. 'I can't really. It was difficult enough finding someone to baby-sit tonight. But thanks for asking.'

  Leave it at that. Don't get involved, she's got a kid. She was straightening, beginning to close the door. 'How about lunch?' he asked.

  She looked at him. Her smile had become quizzical, as though this wasn't what she'd expected either. 'Call me at work,' she said.

  Two years later they were married. And two years after that a vein burst in her head and killed her.

  Jacob sat on the settee in the crook of Ben's arm, watching The Lion King on video. It was one of his favourites, which for Jacob meant that he could watch it through to the end, then go back and watch the whole thing again straightaway. He'd learned how to work the video machine when he was four, but never bothered rewinding if a tape was halfway through. He just watched it from whatever point it started. The narrative never interested him, only the visuals.

  He yawned now as he watched the cartoon. Ben knew that he should really put him to bed.

  They had a strict routine—Jacob would wash his hands when he arrived home from school, watch children's TV for half an hour, eat his tea, spend some time playing or watching more TV with them, then have a bath and go to bed. Routines for Jacob meant safety and security, and any departure could upset him. Ben had already helped him assemble a rudimentary car from Lego bricks, and now they were running into his bath time. But he hadn't seemed to notice, and Ben was loath to put him to bed just yet. He needed the contact as much as Jacob did. More, perhaps, right then.

  The phone had been ringing all night, various people wanting to see how he was. He was touched by their concern, but was glad when the calls had finally stopped. Most of 'their' friends were really Sarah's, parents of children who either went to Jacob's school or that she had met through autistic contact groups. Ben didn't feel he had much in common with them, and the conversations only made him more aware then ever that Sarah wasn't there. Only Jacob.

  And he couldn't look at Jacob any more without thinking about the newspaper cuttings.

  He'd been tempted to tell Colin about them when he'd phoned, but in the end he hadn't. He wanted to think it through first, satisfy himself that he wasn't being paranoid.

  One moment he would be convinced of the worst, the next certain that there was a mundane explanation. Sometimes a conviction that the entire thing was ludicrous would blow away his suspicions like a spring wind. He had seen photographs of Sarah when she was pregnant, for one thing, talked with her parents about the birth of their grandson. He knew that she had been seeing a bastard called Miles, who dropped her when she became pregnant—there was the usual surge of jealousy-tipped anger at the thought—and that she had moved in with her friend Jessica afterwards. Ben had dubbed her The Awful Jessica because in his opinion she was, although Sarah didn't like him poking fun. But, awful or not, she had been a trainee midwife, and when Jacob had been born prematurely and suddenly it had been Jessica who had delivered him in the middle of the night.

  That was the truth as he had known it. He would remember it and feel relieved, but then, imperceptibly, his certainty would slip through his fingers and the whole process of argument and counter-argument would begin again.

  Jacob g
ave another yawn and rubbed his eyes. Ben smiled despite himself as he watched him struggling to stay awake.

  'Come on. Time for bed.' He gave him the expected piggyback upstairs and ran the bath. The boy was so tired he was yawning continuously, but he still followed the routine detailed in the little pictograms on the bathroom door. Sarah had drawn them herself, basing them on the Rebus symbols used at the school. They were simple drawings showing matchstick figures flushing the toilet, washing their hands and brushing their teeth. Some had a sun added to them to show they were for the daytime, others a crescent moon, and Jacob stuck to the sequences religiously. Ben had once made the mistake of trying to remove them, thinking they were no longer needed, but Jacob had made such a fuss he'd quickly put them back. Needed or not, the pictograms themselves had become part of the comforting order.

  Ben kissed him goodnight and stood back as he pulled the quilt up to his chin, turned over and fell asleep instantly. He felt guilty for keeping him up so long. The boy had given no outward indication of being aware of his mother's death but it must have affected him. Ben was sure that, on some level at least, he knew something was wrong. He didn't expect Jacob to understand what a funeral was—an ordinary day was full of confusion enough for him—but during the service he had stared at the coffin and rocked, which he only did when he was disturbed. Maggie, with her usual subtlety, had tried to persuade Ben not to take him, arguing that nothing would be gained by it and that he'd only cause a fuss. But Sarah would have wanted him there. She had always believed in treating Jacob as much like a normal child as possible, giving no more concessions to his autism than she had to.

  'He's a bright boy,' he had said. 'I'm not going to patronise him because he's autistic. He isn't retarded.'

  For a time they'd thought he might be. At least Ben had.

  He had never said as much to Sarah, even though he was sure it must have occurred to her. As a baby, Jacob had been slow first to crawl, then to walk. When he was three he still hadn't spoken so much as a word, and the excuse that he was a 'slow starter' no longer held any conviction. But it was his lack of response that convinced Ben there was something wrong. It seemed to make no difference to Jacob if he was being cuddled or left in a room by himself. He rarely smiled, and when he looked at anyone, even Sarah, it was with no more recognition than he would give a piece of furniture. For a long time Ben found his indifferent stare eerie, though that was something else he never mentioned.