Simon Beckett - Owning Jacob - SA

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.”

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.

“What have you done to him?”

The social worker stepped forward. “I think perhaps we should all just take a seat. This is going to be very difficult for everyone, and it’s important to keep calm and remember that we’re here to discuss what’s best for Jacob.”

“Steven,” Kale said. His head swivelled from Ben to the social worker. “His name’s Steven.”

Carlisle faltered, then rallied. “I’m sorry, Mr Kale, but unless you want to confuse and upset him, you’ll have to start thinking of your son as Jacob now. That’s the name he knows and has been brought up with, and trying to change it now could prove very difficult for him.”

Ben saw Kale’s jaw muscles bunch as he looked down again at Jacob.

The social worker turned in silent appeal to the overweight man with a thick moustache and glasses sitting with Sandra Kale. By his dandruff-flecked suit and briefcase, Ben guessed he was their solicitor.

The man reluctantly rose to his feet. “Why don’t you sit down, Mr Kale?”

Kale ignored him. He fished in his pocket and brought out a small parcel. “Here.” He offered it to Jacob. Jacob just looked at it.

Kale unwrapped it for him. Ben saw that his hands were square and broad, the fingers stubbed and callused. The object was a puzzle, a clear plastic case in which two or three tiny silver balls rolled freely. It was similar to the ones Jacob had at home. Kale gave it a little shake, rattling the balls, and offered it to him again. This time the boy accepted it. He shook it himself, copying Kale, then began trying to manoeuvre the balls into holes in the puzzle’s base.

Kale passed his hand softly over the boy’s head before going back to his seat. As if that were their cue, the rest of them also went to the collection of low chairs set around a squat rectangular table. The informal setting did nothing to relieve the atmosphere in the room.

“Before we go any further, I think one thing I have to stress is the need for us all to co-operate,” the social worker said. He was careful to address all of them, not just Kale. “This is a very emotional time for everyone concerned, but we mustn’t lose sight that our priority is Jacob’s welfare, not, ah, not venting personal differences.”