Simon Beckett - Owning Jacob - SA

“I want my boy,” Kale said. He was hunched forward on the edge of his seat, still watching Jacob.

In the next seat his wife was chewing on one corner of her red-painted mouth as her eyes darted from her husband to her stepson. Her eyebrows were plucked into thin dark lines. Her face was sharp-featured and the roots of her straw-coloured hair were dark brown, but there was a vulpine, shopworn attractiveness to her. An edge of white bra strap was showing on one shoulder. She looked up and caught Ben watching her. He turned away.

Carlisle nodded placatingly. “I know you do, Mr Kale, that’s why we’re here. But you must understand it isn’t a simple matter of you taking Jacob home with you. There are still procedures we have to go through.”

“Like checking up on us, you mean.” It was the first time Kale’s wife had spoken. She had a cracked cigarette voice.

“We’re not ‘checking up’ on you as such, Mrs Kale. But we can’t simply turn a child over to someone without assessing what’s best for him.”

“I’m his father,” Kale said. Ben could see him rhythmically squeezing his fists, pumping the veins on his forearms until they stood out. “He’s got no right to him.” His chin jerked in Ben’s direction. “He’s kept him from me all this time. He’s not keeping him any more.”

Ann Usherwood shifted forward slightly in her seat. “Mr Murray won’t contest your residence application if the local authority and social services are satisfied that it’s in Jacob’s best interests to live with you and your wife, Mr Kale. And for the record I must remind you that no blame for what happened is attached to my client whatsoever. The police have accepted that he believed the boy was his wife’s natural son until after her death, and if not for him acting on that information none of us would be here now.”

There was a snort from Sandra Kale. “Give him a medal.” She had a cigarette in her hand. As she raised it to her mouth the social worker said, “I’m sorry, it’s no smoking in here.” She looked across at him, the cigarette gripped between her lips. “You’re trying to tell me that I can’t have a fag?”

Carlisle looked flustered and strained. “No, I’m sorry.”

“Put it away,” Kale said without looking at his wife.

She glared at him, then angrily snatched the cigarette from her mouth. Ben noticed the red smudge of lipstick on the filter as she threw it in her handbag.

The social worker looked at her, then away. “As Ms Usherwood said, Mr Kale, there’s no question of anyone contesting your application for a residence order. But these things do take time, and meanwhile, although you’ll all be owed frequent contact, it’s best if Jacob remains with Mr Murray—”

“No.”

“I appreciate how you must feel, but—” He broke off as Kale abruptly rose to his feet. Ben stiffened as he came around the table.

“Ah, Mr Kale...?” Kale ignored the social worker as he went over to where Jacob was standing. He crouched down in front of him as he had earlier. “Steven?”

“Mr Kale, I really must ask you not to—”

“Look at me, Steven.”

Jacob continued playing with the puzzle as though he were unaware of Kale’s presence. Kale reached out and slowly pushed it down. Jacob gave a little grunt of annoyance and jerked away.

“You’ll upset him,” Ben said. Kale took no notice.

“Steven.” He took hold of Jacob’s chin and gently lifted it. “Don’t,” Ben began, but stopped when he saw that Jacob was paying attention.

“I’m your dad. Tell them you want to come home with me. Tell them.”

No one moved. Father and son regarded each other, and for an incredulous second Ben thought that Jacob was going to respond. Then the boy turned back to the puzzle.

The tinny rattle of the silver balls had broken the quiet.

“He can’t help it,” Ben had said, feeling obscurely sorry for Kale. Yet at the same time he couldn’t deny he was pleased.

Both emotions had chilled as the man turned to him with his wide-eyed stare. It was unsettling in its blankness. You can’t tell what he’s thinking, what he’s going to do. He’s like a fucking Rottweiler .

Kale went back to his seat and didn’t speak again for the rest of the meeting.

After that the days had sunk into a montage of dour offices and stern, official faces. The police interviewed Ben several times and took the newspaper cuttings. He didn’t care if he never saw them again. Besides, if it was newsprint he wanted, there was plenty of fresh material. The media had latched on to the story of ‘Baby Steven’s Return’ with glee.

Seeing the number of ‘exclusive’ interviews that Quilley gave, Ben guessed that the detective had finally found a market for his information.

He hoped he choked on it.

He had called Sarah’s parents before the news broke, wanting to spare them hearing about it first on the TV or radio. He spoke to her father, the words tripping him up so that he had to backtrack constantly to untangle himself.

“I don’t understand,” Geoffrey said when he’d finished. His voice was an old man’s.

“I didn’t want to tell you like this, but the press have found out. It’s... well, it’s going to get pretty bad.”

“Oh no. Oh no.”

“I’m sorry.”

But his father-in-law wasn’t listening. “What am I going to tell Alice?” he asked.

Ben was trying to think of something to say when the receiver was fumbled down at the other end.

His mother-in-law called him that same night, after it had been on the evening news. “Are you satisfied now?” she hissed. “You couldn’t leave well alone, could you? Isn’t it enough that Sarah’s dead? Did you have to destroy what we’ve got left?”

“Alice—”

“He’s our grandson! He doesn’t belong to you! He’s all we’ve got left, and you’re giving him away! God, I despise you! I despise you!”

Ben couldn’t blame her. He didn’t feel too good about himself.

The garden was completely in shade now. The swing creaked, almost at a standstill. Ben gave it a final push with his foot and stood up. His flesh under the dun white shirt felt brittle with goose-pimples.

He went inside. The front of the house was west-facing, and the lounge was still bright. A rhomboid of yellow light was shafting obliquely on to the carpet through the window. Ben sat in it, closing his eyes and turning his face up to the day’s last dregs of sun.

His vision became a red field. Red on red, backed by red, lit by a red glow. He gave himself up to it. It was a Friday night. He didn’t want to have to think about what he was going to do with himself for the rest of the weekend. Or the ones after that. Weekends spent with Sarah and Jacob had developed a rose-tinted distortion in his memory that he knew wasn’t real but didn’t question. He didn’t want to think about that either. It was easier to tilt his head to the dying sun and think of nothing.

The red universe darkened to black. He opened his eyes.

The sun had shifted so that a horizontal shadow of window frame fell across his face. The patch of sunlight had shrunk to a stripe, too narrow to sit in. Ben put his hand down to push himself up and felt something hard. A single piece of jigsaw puzzle was lying face down on the carpet, concealed by the tassels of a rug. He picked it up. The shiny side was bright blue. A thick orange line cut across it. Ben couldn’t imagine what it could be a part of, or which of Jacob’s jigsaws it was from. He turned the irregular piece of cardboard in his hand, then looked at his watch.

It was time for the news.

It was one of the last items, a feel-good wind-down to the programme. The newsreader had a smile as she announced that Steven Kale was now back with his real father. It’s Jacob. Not Steven. There was no mention that he’d been seeing the Kales more and more frequently as part of a supervised ‘rehabilitation’ process. The coverage showed John and Sandra Kale outside the social services building that afternoon, with Jacob between them. Journalists and photographers scurried alongside and in front. Kale acted as if they didn’t exist, but his wife was loving every second of it. She played up to the attention, cheaply sexual as she posed and postured, the only one of the reunited family who was smiling. She beamed at the cameras, holding on to Jacob’s hand, and Ben could see that her knuckles were white with the effort of keeping it there. Jacob’s head was down, refuting the activity around him. Ben felt his own chest tighten.