Simon Beckett - Owning Jacob - SA

She looked down the street as if something there had caught her attention. “There’s a party in a new club in Soho. I’ve got an invite. Fancy going?”

It occurred to him that perhaps she hadn’t been asking about his long-term plans after all. He took in the lipstick and make-up. The orange top she had on was even briefer than the ones she wore to work, little more than a bra that clung to her small breasts. “No, I don’t think so. Thanks for asking, though.”

“You got something else on?” She squinted up at him.

“I don’t really feel like going out.”

She nodded. “So you’re just going to stay in and get shit-faced by yourself?”

“Zoe, it’s nice of you to come round, but...”

“But you’re going to stay in and mope, yeah?”

He felt too enervated to be angry. “I’m not feeling very sociable.”

“Who said anything about being sociable? You can get shit-faced in company.” She looked more serious. “I just don’t think you should stay in by yourself tonight.”

That was exactly what he wanted, to stay in and surround himself with memories of Sarah and Jacob, to wallow in his lost family. It was easier than making the effort to drag himself out of the hole he was sliding into. All he wanted to do now was give up and enjoy the ride down.

Except that Zoe was looking at him, waiting for an answer.

He tried to produce one, but somehow couldn’t get beyond shaking his head.

“Come on,” she said, sensing blood. “You’ll feel better.”

I don’t want to feel better . But it was too much of an effort to argue. “I can’t go like this,” he said feebly, glancing down at the creased trousers and the shirt smudged with dirt from the garden wall. He realised when he saw the grin spread across Zoe’s face that she’d won.

“I’ll tell the taxi to wait while you get changed.”

The club was a sweat-box. It was small and dark and cramped, humid with the breath and perspiration of too many bodies. Anonymous buttocks, hips and crotches pressed up to their table, leaning on the edge, the sharp corners digging into denim and leather and satin and flesh.

“They don’t know what causes it,” Ben said. “They say it’s some kind of brain disorder, like epilepsy, but when it boils down to it they haven’t a clue why some kids are autistic and some aren’t. It might be hereditary, it might be linked with childhood illnesses or vaccinations, lack of oxygen at birth. You name it.”

Zoe sat with her elbows propped on the table, chin resting on cupped hands as she listened, sitting close to him to hear above the thump of music. She took another drink from the neck of the beer bottle. Ben nursed his own, peeling off the corner of the label. Paper scraps were scattered around it.

“It’s not something like Down syndrome, where it’s obvious if a kid has it or not. It isn’t always easy to diagnose. Sometimes it’s so mild kids can go to a normal school, and sometimes it’s so bad they have to wear nappies all their lives. And it changes all the time — you get different symptoms as the kid grows up.”

He took a drink from the bottle. The beer tasted warm and stale, although it was a new bottle. Or was it? His head was fuzzy. It was difficult to tell. He set it back down and carried on peeling the label.

“Jacob’s pretty mild compared to some of the poor little sods. With him it’s more of a communication difficulty. He couldn’t cope at an ordinary school yet, but there’s always the chance he’ll improve. Sometimes, he looks at you and you feel he’s just on the edge, that one little nudge and he’d be a normal kid. And then he’ll go away again, and it can be like he’s from a different planet. It’s really frustrating, you feel he’s sort of stuck inside his own head, but if you could only get him to come out...” He broke off. “Sorry, I’m talking bollocks.”

“No, you’re not.” Zoe shrugged. “It’s interesting bollocks, anyway. You don’t normally talk much about him.”

“There’s nothing more boring than listening to people going on about their kids.” Especially when they’re not really theirs. He raised his bottle to his mouth again but it was empty.

“Did you ever think about adopting him?” She immediately grimaced. “Sorry, that was tactless.”

“It’s okay, I don’t mind. Sarah and I talked about it, and agreed that I should at some point. We’d talked about having kids of our own as well. But there didn’t seem to be any rush.”

That sank the conversation like the Titanic. Ben felt his mood going down with it. He knew he was on the way to being drunk and maudlin, that he should stop talking and stop drinking and go home, but the thought was whisked away from him almost as soon as it occurred. “It wouldn’t have made any difference,” he said. “I’d probably still have let Kale have custody — sorry, I mean ‘residence’ — anyway.” He moved on to safer ground. “I just can’t believe they’ll only let me see Jacob once a month. Once a fucking month.”

“Can’t you talk to his father? Explain, I mean. He might let you see him more often.”

Ben thought about the way Kale looked at him. He shook his head slowly and deliberately from side to side. “Not a chance.”

“But that’s so unreasonable.”

“I don’t think he’s a reasonable man.”

It struck him that he had put his finger on a simple truth. Whatever reasoning processes went on behind Kale’s tan-coloured eyes were unfathomable. Perhaps he was like Jacob in more than just looks. Ben tried to pin the idea down so he could scrutinise it further, but it got away from him. Another thought replaced it. “I hope Jacob’s okay with him.”

Zoe put her hand on his arm. “I’m sure he will be. They wouldn’t have let him have him if there was any doubt.”

“God, I hope so.” But he remembered the house, and the junk piled up outside, and Sandra Kale’s feral face that had only smiled for the cameras. Jacob seemed small and vulnerable amongst all that hardness and sharp edges.

Someone nudged him. He looked up. Zoe was holding out a glass. He hadn’t even noticed that she’d been to the bar.

“Beer time’s over,” she said. “Time to get serious.”

He sniffed at the drink. Vodka. Zoe anticipated the refusal before he could make it.

“I thought you wanted to get shit-faced,” she said.

There were windows of sobriety, when he would emerge from the alcohol like a drowning man coming up for air, just long enough to look around and see where the current had carried him before he sank under its pull again. The club became hotter and more crowded. The air was thick with body odours, perfume, cigarette smoke and spilt beer. The angry lights and screaming music pounded with migraine intensity. The only way they could hear themselves speak was to lean close and shout. He found himself at one point aware of the sensation of Zoe’s mouth brushing his ear as she shouted into it. Her breath was hot on his skin. She smelled of sweat and a spicy perfume, and ever so faintly of garlic. She had her hand on his shoulder as she spoke. It was warm and damp through his shirt.

He could feel the heat coming off her bare flesh. The halter top clung to her, exposing her midriff, arms, shoulders and chest. He closed his eyes. Everything was physical sensation, noise and touch without sense. He could hear her words but no longer understood them. He went away for a while and when he came back he was in the same place and nothing had changed. There was a pressure in his ear, small pushes of air that he finally associated with someone talking to him.

He opened his eyes. Zoe’s head filled his vision, too big to focus on. He drew back and watched her lips forming shapes.