Owning Jacob

by Simon Beckett

  He glanced around to make sure that the woods were empty. The last thing he wanted was some local with a dog overhearing him. Satisfied, he looked through the viewfinder again.

  Sandra Kale was still in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette.

  Mounted on the wall a few feet from her was a telephone. Ben had seen her answer it occasionally, although she never seemed to call anyone herself. It was at the far end of the room, but with the new filter on the lens he could see it clearly. Still looking through the camera, he set the tape recorder running and dialled the Kales' number.

  The ringing tone in his mobile coincided with an irritated glance towards the telephone from Sandra. She pushed back her chair and went to answer it.

  'Hello?' The thin reproduction of her voice was synchronised with the mime of her lips. In the background he could hear the tinny jangle of a radio. It surprised him. He'd taken for granted that the kitchen would be as silent for her as it appeared to him. He glanced at the tape recorder to make sure it was running.

  'It's Ben Murray,' he said. 'I thought I'd remind you that it's my contact day this weekend.' The microphone pressed against his ear like a cold button.

  It was a compromise solution he'd reached a few days earlier. He had at least to try to claim his contact rights, but he knew there was nothing to be gained by another mano a mano confrontation with Kale. This way he could prove he had made the attempt, and perhaps record Sandra saying something incriminating. The cancelled shoot was a bonus that gave him the opportunity to see her reaction as well as hear it.

  He tried to disregard the accusing inner voice that sneered he was only avoiding Kale because he was afraid of him.

  'So is it okay for me to come and collect Jacob on Sunday morning?' he prompted.

  An exasperated sigh came down the phone. In the viewfinder he saw her chest rise and fall in time to it.

  'Are you thick, or what?'

  'I'm entitled to contact every fourth Sunday. That's this weekend.'

  Ben watched her draw on the cigarette and shoot out an angry line of smoke. The bathrobe gaped loosely.

  'Big deal.'

  'You wouldn't let me take him last time. Are you telling me I can't again?' He'd wanted to spell it out for the tape recorder, but either she was naturally wary or something in his tone alerted her. Her voice became more cautious. 'Like I told the social worker, you were drunk and late. You weren't fit to have him.'

  'I was on time, stone cold sober, and your husband threatened me. You were there, you know that.' He took a hold of his temper. 'Will you let me see Jacob on Sunday or not?'

  There was a minute pause. He could see her chewing her lip. 'He's got a cold.'

  'Cold?'

  'Yeah, that's right, cold. Might even be flu. You know what flu is, don't you?'

  'So you're saying I can't see him?'

  'I've told you, he's not well. He's in bed.'

  He'd watched Jacob in the garden the evening before. There had been no sign of a cold then. 'Have you sent for a doctor?'

  She took a last draw on the cigarette and turned around to stub it out in something behind her. 'Not yet. We'll have to see how he goes on.' She leaned against the wall, her back still to the window.

  Turn round.

  What?' she said.

  Ben realised he'd muttered out loud. But she'd moved to face the window again. He could see her frowning, one hand cupping the elbow of the arm that held the phone.

  'Nothing. So when can I see him?'

  'How do I know? I'm not psychic. You never know how long kids are going to have something for, do you?'

  Ben swallowed his anger. 'Perhaps I should speak to your husband.'

  She glanced out of the window. At the scrap pile. 'He's at work.'

  I know. 'I'll call when he gets back then.'

  'He works late,' she said, and Ben knew that he'd just lost any chance of getting Kale on the phone. She would make sure she answered it first in future.

  Oddly, though, he didn't get any real sense of antagonism from her. He looked at her, bare-legged in the short robe. She was twirling the telephone wire as she waited for him to speak, unaware that he was watching her.

  What colour underwear are you wearing? The question popped into his head without warning, and he had to bite back a bubble of laughter. But at the same time it disturbed him.

  'You still there?' she asked.

  'Yes.' There was a pause. She seemed to be almost smiling as she bit on her thumbnail. He wondered why she didn't put the phone down. Come to that, he wondered why he didn't either.

  'Got anything else you'd like to ask?' she said, and although there was no mistaking the mockery there seemed something flirtatious about it.

  The high he'd felt a moment earlier was replaced by uncertainty. He blew on his fingers. It was bitterly cold. He took the Thermos flask out of his bag and poured himself a cup of coffee. He'd made it on the off-chance that he'd be able to go to Tunford before it got dark if the shoot finished early.

  He was glad of it now. Through the steam rising from the plastic cup he saw the tiny figure of Sandra Kale go into the garden. He dug into his bag for a Mars bar. The next time he looked she was walking away from the fence at the bottom.

  The steam flattened and dispersed as he blew on the coffee. He took a sip and winced when it burned his mouth.

  The liquid scalded all the way down his throat. He hissed, sucking in cold air to soothe it. He took another sip, more careful this time, and when he lowered the cup a man was in the Kales' garden.

  'Shit,' he said, spilling coffee down his front. He threw the cup to one side and dropped the Mars bar.

  By the time he was back at the camera the man was already going into the house. Ben fired off half a film on motor drive but he knew he hadn't caught him. With the polarising filter still on, Christ knew what the shots would turn out like anyway.

  Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

  Sandra Kale was already leading the man out of the kitchen. Ben raised the camera to the bedroom, focused and waited. 'Come on. Come on!'

  The bedroom door opened and she appeared. The man followed her. Ben switched off the camera motor and took two shots as they entered the bedroom. He watched as they spoke.

  With the window glare reduced by the filter, he could make out quite a lot of detail. The man seemed tall in comparison to Sandra—dark hair, medium build. Ben put him in his late thirties. He was grinning as he moved towards her. She stepped back and said something, unsmiling. The man's grin faded. He spoke and went towards her again, but she shook her head. He shrugged, reluctantly nodded.

  Now Sandra smiled and went to him. He was still frowning, but only until she reached out and put her hand on his crotch.

  She steered him towards the bed. He was smiling again as she sat on the edge and unbuckled his belt. She pulled down his trousers. Click.

  He stood in front of her in his underpants. She peeled them off. His erection sprang up in front of her face. She said something and they both laughed. Click.

  She stroked it with her hand, looking up at him all the while, and then bent and took it in her mouth. Click. Clickclickclick.

  Ben came to the end of the film. He cursed as it automatically rewound, begrudging the few missed seconds. He took it out, dropped it into his bag and swiftly installed a new one.

  The man had stripped off the rest of his clothes. He had a paunch, Ben was obscurely glad to see.

  Sandra was also naked. The striations he'd noticed before were livid on her white body. They looked like stretch marks.

  She lay back on the bed. The man climbed on to it and knee-walked towards her. She opened her legs as he settled on top. There was some manoeuvring, and then he began pumping his hips up and down. Sandra lifted her legs higher and wrapped them around him.

  Ben changed film again.

  He had run off most of another before the man stopped thrusting. He flopped on to the bed beside her. Sandra propped herself on one elbow, her back to the window. It
formed a clean curve to her buttocks. The man sat up and reached for his trousers. He took out a packet of cigarettes, offered her one, and then lit them both.

  'You clichéd bastard,' Ben grinned.

  Cigarettes finished, they dressed on separate sides of the bed. The man tucked in his shirt and picked up his jacket. Sandra put on a T-shirt. She watched, still smoking, as the man took out his wallet and placed a couple of notes on the dressing table. She snapped something and the man laughed and added another to them.

  Ben closed his gaping mouth and finished the rest of the film. By the time they came downstairs he had changed it.

  Like the last time, Sandra came out first before signalling for the man to follow. She locked the gate behind him but didn't go back into the house. She looked up at the hill that Ben was on, and for a moment he was convinced she was going to stare straight at him, acknowledge his presence. But her gaze came nowhere near.

  Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked cigarette smoke deep into her lungs. Her expression was tight and unforgiving as she stared at the car wreckage. Abruptly, she seized the nearest piece of scrap and tugged at it. A distant clatter carried to Ben on the wind as it came free. She flung it aside and began tearing at the rest of it, but soon stopped with a grimace of pain.

  She examined her palm, then began sucking it. The fit seemed to have exhausted itself. She looked listlessly at what she had done and passed her injured hand tiredly across her eyes, leaving a smear of blood. She took a last, defeated drag of the cigarette which she'd held throughout. Flicking it away in a trail of sparks, she turned and went back into the house.

  The darkroom was full of wet eight-by-ten prints. In the dim red light they hung from the drying line like surrealist washing.

  His darkroom at home wasn't as well air-conditioned as the one at the studio, and he could taste the pungency of the developing chemicals at the back of his throat. Ben clipped the last print up and turned the fan higher as he studied the results. He was pleased with how well the new lens was working with the Nikon. Although the photographs of the bedroom were grainy, that was only to be expected. Even with the filter he could hardly expect good definition shooting from light to dark through glass.

  It was good enough, though.

  He examined one of the dryer prints. In it Sandra Kale sat on the bed, the man's penis disappearing into her mouth. His lips were pursed in concentration, her face distorted as if she were mid-yawn. Both she and the bedroom were easily recognisable.

  Ben moved to another print. It showed the man putting the money on the dressing table, his wallet frozen on its way back to his pocket. Next to it was one of him leaving the house. His features were much clearer on that. Ben considered it for a moment, then unclipped it and went over to a filing cabinet. He opened a drawer and flicked through the index tabs until he came to the photographs he had taken weeks earlier, as Sandra's visitor hurried away from the garden. Ben compared them with the still-wet print he had just developed and gave an incredulous laugh. He hadn't been sure before, but there wasn't any doubt.

  It was two different men.

  Chapter Fourteen

  'You can answer me any time today if you feel like it.'

  Ben looked up from the reflector and stand he was dismantling. Zoe was waiting in front of him, a heavy tripod clutched in her arms, her face patiently exasperated.

  'What?'

  She sighed and rolled her eyes. 'I said shall I put this in the car?'

  'Oh, right. Yeah, please.'

  Zoe continued to look expectantly at him. 'And do I get the car keys as well?' she said in answer to his obvious incomprehension. 'Or am I supposed to smash a window?'

  He fished in his pocket and gave them to her. 'Sorry. I wasn't thinking.'

  'Tell me about it,' she grumbled, walking away.

  Ben rubbed the bridge of his nose. He felt gritty and tired. The shoot had been for an advertising campaign for a new range of jeans 'to wear anywhere', as the ad would claim. They had been trying to find the right location for it since after Sarah had died, and had only recently settled on a ninth-century chapel in Sussex with beautiful stained-glass windows behind the altar. A mock wedding had been set up, everyone in formal dress except the bride, who wore jeans and T-shirt with her veil. It should have been straightforward enough, except that he'd left a box of filters he needed back at the house. It wouldn't have been so bad if he could have sent Zoe, but the box was in the darkroom, and the darkroom was full of prints of Sandra Kale. So he'd had to make the trip himself, leaving behind a chapel full of waiting models, make-up people and an apoplectic art director.

  By the time he got back the man—who Ben usually got on well with—was almost cross-eyed with frustration and Zoe was seething because she'd had to stay and bear the brunt of it.

  The shoot had run on till late at night. Ben had silently blessed the fact that they were using artificial lights to simulate the sun shining through the stained-glass windows, and so could continue when it was dark. Afterwards he and Zoe had stayed to clear up, but when Zoe had only just managed to catch the tripod and camera he'd knocked over, he decided enough was enough and called it a day. Only the rector had another set of keys, so Ben had broken his usual rule of not leaving equipment untended, locked the big wooden doors on the mess and driven back to the hotel.

  Now he regretted not finishing the previous night. The hire firm had taken away the big Kliegs they'd used to illuminate the chapel, and without them the air inside was cold and damp.

  The two of them worked with their coats on, breath steaming like ectoplasm within the dark stone walls. He knew he'd been unprofessional, and would have to come up with spectacular results if he wanted to work for the ad agency again.

  More than anything, though, he resented the lost time.

  He took the reflector out to the car. Zoe had the boot open and was moving the overnight bags to make room.

  Her latest hair colour was a blond that made her dark eyebrows stand out to startling effect. As he approached, she straightened.

  'What's this?' She was holding the telephoto lens. It was in its carrying case, but there was no escaping what it was.

  'It's a lens,' Ben said.

  Zoe snorted. 'Yeah, I think I guessed that. Bit big, though, isn't it? Can I have a look?' She was unzipping the case as she spoke, used to handling all his cameras and equipment without thinking. 'God, what is it, four hundred millimetre?'

  He felt caught 'Six hundred.'

  'Six! Fucking hell, you taking up astronomy, or what?' She looked up from the lens, grinning. 'What do you need a long lens for? Not turned into a paparazzo, have you?'

  Ben's face was burning. 'I just felt like getting it.' He knew it sounded feeble, that it would have been better to have laughed with her. Instead he took the lens from her and put it back in its case. 'Come on, stop wasting time. We've got a lot to do.'

  She stared at him. 'Well, excuse me! It wasn't me who forgot the fucking filters yesterday, was it?' She stomped off into the chapel.

  Well, you handled that beautifully, he thought, closing the car boot.

  The drive back to London passed in a constrained silence.

  He knew he should apologise but couldn't bring himself to mention it. He told himself he had nothing to be embarrassed about, that it was only a lens, for fuck's sake, and that in any case he was using it in a good cause. But his rationalisations had the feel of sophistry. He pulled up outside Zoe's flat. She got out of the car without a word. Her expression was stony as she jerked her bag from the back seat.

  'See you tomorrow,' he said.

  She slammed the car door without answering.

  Shit. He was on the verge of going after her, but something was tugging at his mind, distracting him as he watched her go into the house. He looked at her bleached hair, the eyebrows that appeared almost black in contrast, and an image of Sandra Kale naked in the bedroom came to him. The sound of the front door banging shut registered, but only peripherally.


  As he pulled out into the traffic, he'd already forgotten about Zoe.

  It was after lunch when he arrived in Tunford. He'd made no conscious decision to go, but neither did he ever really question where he was heading. He just avoided thinking about the reason. When he reached the turnoff that brought him to the woods, he slowed, then drove past. The house would be empty, so there was no point in watching it. Jacob would be at school, Kale at the scrapyard and Sandra at the pub. His mouth dried at that last thought, and finally he had to admit to himself where he knew he'd been going all along.

  He pulled into the pub carpark.

  He turned off the car engine but made no move to get out. The Cannon stood on the street corner, a few hundred yards from where the Kales lived. It was a squat block of dun brick, newer than the rest of the estate but still the worst sort of 60s architecture. A badly painted sign hung above the door. Ben looked at it and wondered what the fuck he was doing. His heart was thudding. He knew the sensible thing would be to drive off before anyone noticed him. But now he was there that would have seemed like cowardice. Not giving himself time to think about it, he climbed out, locked the car and went inside.

  The carpet in the entrance was threadbare and sticky. There were two doors facing each other inside—one to the taproom, the other to the lounge. Ben went into the lounge first. The room was long, with a brown carpet, upholstery and curtains, and a pervading smell of stale beer. No one was about and steel shutters were drawn over the bar. He let the door swing shut and went into the taproom.

  A blue haze of smoke hung in the air. A handful of men nursed pints at the Formica-topped tables. The solid crack of ricochet came from the pool table where two middle-aged skinheads played with stubby cues. The bar was lit but he couldn't see anyone serving.

  One or two men glanced incuriously at him as he hesitated in the doorway. No one seemed to recognise him. He tried to appear relaxed as he walked in. There were only scuffed, non-coloured lino tiles on this side instead of carpet. An upbeat Elvis song was blaring from the wall-mounted jukebox, giving the room a semblance of liveliness.