Simon Beckett - Owning Jacob - SA

“So is it okay for me to come and collect Jacob on Sunday morning?” he prompted.

An exasperated sigh came down the phone. In the viewfinder he saw her chest rise and fall in time to it.

“Are you thick, or what?”

“I’m entitled to contact every fourth Sunday. That’s this weekend.”

Ben watched her draw on the cigarette and shoot out an angry line of smoke. The bathrobe gaped loosely.

“Big deal.”

“You wouldn’t let me take him last time. Are you telling me I can’t again?” He’d wanted to spell it out for the tape recorder, but either she was naturally wary or something in his tone alerted her. Her voice became more cautious. “Like I told the social worker, you were drunk and late. You weren’t fit to have him.”

“I was on time, stone cold sober, and your husband threatened me. You were there, you know that.” He took a hold of his temper. “Will you let me see Jacob on Sunday or not?”

There was a minute pause. He could see her chewing her lip. “He’s got a cold.”

“Cold?”

“Yeah, that’s right, cold. Might even be flu. You know what flu is, don’t you?”

“So you’re saying I can’t see him?”

“I’ve told you, he’s not well. He’s in bed.”

He’d watched Jacob in the garden the evening before. There had been no sign of a cold then. “Have you sent for a doctor?”

She took a last draw on the cigarette and turned around to stub it out in something behind her. “Not yet. We’ll have to see how he goes on.” She leaned against the wall, her back still to the window.

Turn round.

“What?” she said.

Ben realised he’d muttered out loud. But she’d moved to face the window again. He could see her frowning, one hand cupping the elbow of the arm that held the phone.

“Nothing. So when can I see him?”

“How do I know? I’m not psychic. You never know how long kids are going to have something for, do you?”

Ben swallowed his anger. “Perhaps I should speak to your husband.”

She glanced out of the window. At the scrap pile. “He’s at work.”

I know. “I’ll call when he gets back then.”

“He works late,” she said, and Ben knew that he’d just lost any chance of getting Kale on the phone. She would make sure she answered it first in future.

Oddly, though, he didn’t get any real sense of antagonism from her. He looked at her, bare-legged in the short robe. She was twirling the telephone wire as she waited for him to speak, unaware that he was watching her.

What colour underwear are you wearing? The question popped into his head without warning, and he had to bite back a bubble of laughter. But at the same time it disturbed him.

“You still there?” she asked.

“Yes.” There was a pause. She seemed to be almost smiling as she bit on her thumbnail. He wondered why she didn’t put the phone down. Come to that, he wondered why he didn’t either.

“Got anything else you’d like to ask?” she said, and although there was no mistaking the mockery there seemed something flirtatious about it.

The high he’d felt a moment earlier was replaced by uncertainty. He blew on his fingers. It was bitterly cold. He took the Thermos flask out of his bag and poured himself a cup of coffee. He’d made it on the off-chance that he’d be able to go to Tunford before it got dark if the shoot finished early.

He was glad of it now. Through the steam rising from the plastic cup he saw the tiny figure of Sandra Kale go into the garden. He dug into his bag for a Mars bar. The next time he looked she was walking away from the fence at the bottom.

The steam flattened and dispersed as he blew on the coffee. He took a sip and winced when it burned his mouth.

The liquid scalded all the way down his throat. He hissed, sucking in cold air to soothe it. He took another sip, more careful this time, and when he lowered the cup a man was in the Kales’ garden.

“Shit,” he said, spilling coffee down his front. He threw the cup to one side and dropped the Mars bar.

By the time he was back at the camera the man was already going into the house. Ben fired off half a film on motor drive but he knew he hadn’t caught him. With the polarising filter still on, Christ knew what the shots would turn out like anyway.

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Sandra Kale was already leading the man out of the kitchen. Ben raised the camera to the bedroom, focused and waited. “Come on. Come on!”

The bedroom door opened and she appeared. The man followed her. Ben switched off the camera motor and took two shots as they entered the bedroom. He watched as they spoke.

With the window glare reduced by the filter, he could make out quite a lot of detail. The man seemed tall in comparison to Sandra — dark hair, medium build. Ben put him in his late thirties. He was grinning as he moved towards her. She stepped back and said something, unsmiling. The man’s grin faded. He spoke and went towards her again, but she shook her head. He shrugged, reluctantly nodded.

Now Sandra smiled and went to him. He was still frowning, but only until she reached out and put her hand on his crotch.

She steered him towards the bed. He was smiling again as she sat on the edge and unbuckled his belt. She pulled down his trousers. Click .

He stood in front of her in his underpants. She peeled them off. His erection sprang up in front of her face. She said something and they both laughed. Click.

She stroked it with her hand, looking up at him all the while, and then bent and took it in her mouth. Click. Clickclickclick.

Ben came to the end of the film. He cursed as it automatically rewound, begrudging the few missed seconds. He took it out, dropped it into his bag and swiftly installed a new one.

The man had stripped off the rest of his clothes. He had a paunch, Ben was obscurely glad to see.

Sandra was also naked. The striations he’d noticed before were livid on her white body. They looked like stretch marks.

She lay back on the bed. The man climbed on to it and knee-walked towards her. She opened her legs as he settled on top. There was some manoeuvring, and then he began pumping his hips up and down. Sandra lifted her legs higher and wrapped them around him.

Ben changed film again.

He had run off most of another before the man stopped thrusting. He flopped on to the bed beside her. Sandra propped herself on one elbow, her back to the window. It formed a clean curve to her buttocks. The man sat up and reached for his trousers. He took out a packet of cigarettes, offered her one, and then lit them both.

“You clichéd bastard,” Ben grinned.

Cigarettes finished, they dressed on separate sides of the bed. The man tucked in his shirt and picked up his jacket. Sandra put on a T-shirt. She watched, still smoking, as the man took out his wallet and placed a couple of notes on the dressing table. She snapped something and the man laughed and added another to them.

Ben closed his gaping mouth and finished the rest of the film. By the time they came downstairs he had changed it.

Like the last time, Sandra came out first before signalling for the man to follow. She locked the gate behind him but didn’t go back into the house. She looked up at the hill that Ben was on, and for a moment he was convinced she was going to stare straight at him, acknowledge his presence. But her gaze came nowhere near.

Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked cigarette smoke deep into her lungs. Her expression was tight and unforgiving as she stared at the car wreckage. Abruptly, she seized the nearest piece of scrap and tugged at it. A distant clatter carried to Ben on the wind as it came free. She flung it aside and began tearing at the rest of it, but soon stopped with a grimace of pain.