Simon Beckett - Owning Jacob - SA

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 smiling 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.”

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.