Simon Beckett - Owning Jacob - SA

He was setting up the tripod when Sandra Kale came out. She wore what looked like a long white T-shirt. Even at that distance, unmagnified, he could see that her legs were bare. She went to the bottom corner of the garden, where the junk was lowest. She stepped over it, and Ben noticed for the first time that there was a gate made from the same wire mesh as the fence. She opened it and glanced quickly up and down the track that ran along the backs of the houses, then turned to the house and beckoned. A man appeared and ran down the garden in a low crouch. He reached the fence and said something to her. She nodded, hurriedly pushing him through the gate, and it was only then that Ben realised he was gaping like an idiot.

“Shit!” He grabbed for his camera, fumbling to attach the telephoto lens. A film was already loaded, but there wasn’t time to waste with the tripod. The man was already moving down the track as Ben hefted the Nikon, struggling to support the huge lens while he focused. He only managed to fire off a couple of shots before the man cut up a path between two of the houses.

Swearing, he shifted his attention back to the Kales’ garden. Sandra had shut the gate and was almost at the door. Before she went in she took a last look around. Under the magnification she seemed to be standing right in front of him.

Her face was without make-up, the bleached hair uncombed and ruffled. Its dark roots contrasted with the artificial yellow of the rest. One cheek was marked by an angry-looking red spot, and her lips were puffy and bare of lipstick except for a smudge at one corner. Her nipples pushed at the T-shirt, and the bounce of her breasts as she moved suggested that she wore nothing under it. As she stepped into the house the T-shirt rode up fractionally, giving him a glimpse of a bare buttock. The door closed behind her.

There was a shadowy glimpse of her walking past the kitchen window, heading into the house. Ben automatically raised the camera. One of the upstairs windows was frosted, obviously the bathroom or toilet. He shifted his attention to the other. It was the one where he’d seen Sandra the first time he was there. The telephoto lens didn’t have a zoom capacity, but by sharpening the focus he could make out some of the details of the dark interior through the glare on the glass.

There was the pale square of a double bed, the bright sliver of a dressing-table mirror. Then a door opened and Sandra Kale appeared. Only her white T-shirt and yellow hair stood out in the room’s shadows, but she became more visible as she moved nearer the window. Ben took several shots as she changed the sheets on the bed, then bundled the dirty linen in her arms and left the room.

The ache in his arms made him lower the camera. The house was again reduced to an innocent part of the row. He stared down at it with a hollow feeling of excitement.

“You randy bitch,” he said, wonderingly.

He began setting up the tripod.

“Of course, that’s only my opinion.” the woman said. “But the courts are far too lenient. It’s so obvious I can’t believe there’s any argument about it. Sentences have dropped, and crime’s increased. Even a blind man could see the correlation. And yet — and this is what really amazes me — yet you still get these people crying on against sending criminals to prison!”

The woman looked around the table, hands spread, her incredulous smile inviting everyone to share her amazement.

The other guests looked back at her with uniformly bland expressions. Ben felt pins arid needles starting in his legs and recrossed them. He took another drink of wine and silently congratulated Maggie on another rip-roaring success.

She was sitting opposite him at the far end of the table, her russet-coloured dress clashing in an unhappy combination with her dark red lipstick. Neither of them suited her. The party was to celebrate her and Colin’s tenth wedding anniversary, but her inverted Midas touch applied to social events as it did to everything else. By some perverse gift of planning she had managed to invite exactly the wrong number of guests; too many for a dinner party and too few for anything else.

Even so, the food had been good, the wine even better, and it might not have been so bad if the chemistry between the guests hadn’t been non-existent. Sometimes a mix of different types could make an evening, but in this case they had simply cancelled each other out.

Except for the woman.

She had started before the cheese course, and as the other conversations had dried up, hers had expanded to fill the gap. Attractive in an overfed way, she had the loud, moneyed confidence that came from never having her opinions challenged, and not listening when they were.

“It’s like the whole question of capital punishment,” she explained, smiling reasonably. “Everyone knows its a deterrent, so why in God’s name we don’t use it heaven only knows! These people wouldn’t be so ready to murder and rape at the drop of a hat if they thought they’d be strung up for it. Instead, what do they get? Something ridiculous like a suspended sentence or community service half the time. I know that certainly wouldn’t deter me!”

Ben didn’t doubt it. It would take beheading just to shut her up. He looked across at Colin, surprised that he hadn’t stepped in to steer the party back on course. But Colin was staring with absorption into his glass, either unaware of or indifferent to the woman’s monologue. He had seemed subdued all night, which Ben thought was understandable after ten years with Maggie. She was shooting her husband meaningful glances, a fixed, desperate smile on her face.

Colin didn’t seem aware of that either. He drained his glass and silently refilled it. Ben thought that was a good idea and did the same. The woman droned on.

“Our entire society’s too soft, that’s the trouble. And it isn’t just the prison system. There’s no discipline in schools any more, so it’s hardly surprising we’re turning out generation after generation of uneducated louts. And as for this new vogue for parents not smacking their own children... well, I ask you!” She laughed at the absurdity of it. I’m sorry, but children need to be taught right from wrong. That’s why we’re getting so much crime amongst youngsters, because there’s no discipline and no respect for authority. It needs to be drummed into them.”

Ben had been drinking steadily since he had arrived. He’d had a couple of beers before he went out, partly because it was Saturday night and partly because he’d been to Maggie and Colin’s parties before and knew what to expect. But it wasn’t until his muttered ‘Hang ’em all’ came out louder than he’d intended that it occurred to him that he was drunk.

Oh shit, he thought as everyone turned to look at him.

The woman regarded him as if she’d only just realised he was there. She wore a faintly condescending smile, but her eyes were bright as spikes.

“I know common sense isn’t very popular these days. It’s much easier to mock than actually do anything about it. Perhaps you’d like to tell us what you think should be done.”

Ben didn’t want an argument. He wasn’t even sure how much he disagreed anyway. It was just the woman herself he didn’t like. He felt every glass of wine conspire to make his tongue lie thick and heavy in his mouth. “Not really.”

“No?” The woman looked around at the other guests, clearly considering herself to be their spokesperson. Ben felt his anger rise and tried to ignore it, knowing he’d had too much to drink.

“Do you have any children yourself?” she asked.

“Only by marriage.”

“Er, shall we—” Maggie began, but the woman wasn’t going to be diverted.