Simon Beckett - Owning Jacob - SA

Without taking anything from it she impatiently pushed it shut and picked up a white scrap of cloth from the floor. It was a pair of pants. She gave them a quick shake before stepping into them. The stretch marks stood out like scars on her pale stomach.

She put on a bra, also from the floor, then pulled on a pair of tight jeans. With a wiggle of her hips she hitched up the waistband and fastened the zip with a swift tug. She took a cream-coloured sweater from the back of a chair, pulling it over her head as she walked out.

He continued to watch the bedroom until it became obvious she wasn’t coming back. He straightened, becoming conscious of the erection trapped painfully in his jeans. Trying to dismiss the now familiar, vaguely soiled feeling that watching her gave him, he manoeuvred until he was more comfortable and took the Snickers bar from his pocket. Biting into it, he idly looked down the hill towards the house. The diminutive figures of Kale and Jacob were still in the garden.

Kale was holding the engine over Jacob’s head.

Ben took in the strained stance, the way the weight was seesawing in Kale’s hands, and the chocolate turned to clay in his mouth. He dived for the camera, fumbling at it with cold and clumsy fingers.

“Oh, please, please, please,” he breathed, not sure if he was pleading for Jacob’s safety or enough time to photograph what was happening.

The garden swung dizzyingly across the viewfinder, then Kale and Jacob came into sight. He hastily adjusted the focus and changed the exposure as the engine slowly wobbled higher in what had to be the final lift. The filter was still on the lens but there was nothing he could do about that. As the tendons stood out in Kale’s neck and his mouth opened in a silent grimace, Ben switched on the motor and pressed the shutter release, praying there would be enough film left.

The camera began to whirr a second before Kale twisted to one side and dropped the weight. It thumped down beside Jacob, and in the same instant the film came to an end and started to rewind.

How much did I get? Enough? He didn’t know. He quickly snatched the filter from the lens and changed the film, then ran off half of it while Kale was still doubled over. He made sure the lump of metal embedded next to Jacob was included in each frame.

Kale straightened and began to limp away. Ben slumped back. He realised he still had a mouthful of semi-masticated chocolate. He spat it out. The rest of the Snickers bar lay at his feet where it had fallen out of the wrapper. He looked at the plastic film container in his hand and gave it a little shake to reassure himself.

Jesus.

He’d nearly missed it. All this time, all those weeks, and when it finally happened he almost hadn’t noticed. He’d been too busy watching a woman take her clothes off.

You pathetic bastard.

Over the top of the camera he saw the once again reduced figure of Kale going into the shed. Ben knew that when he came out he would go over to Jacob and deliver another of his monologues. There was a hint of movement in the kitchen window that would be Sandra Kale, doing whatever. Even through the bitter taste of self-contempt, Ben felt his curiosity piqued, felt himself drawn to bend forward and peer through the viewfinder again, to involve himself vicariously in their lives. Deliberately, he removed the lens from the camera.

He packed everything away, then stood up and folded the stool. He looked around to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. The nest of flattened grass he had made for himself looked as familiar as home.

He wouldn’t be going back.

The coffee and adrenalin had worked on his bladder.

Leaving his bag and the lens by the oaks, he moved a few feet away to urinate. His piss steamed like yellow acid on the dead grass. He shook off the last drops and was zipping up his fly when a barking shape exploded from the undergrowth behind him.

For an instant he thought it was Kale’s bull terrier, but the dog was smaller and white, a Jack Russell cross. It set up a hysterical yapping and snarling, prancing just out of kicking range as he sank back against a tree with relief.

“Bess! Get here!”

Two men were walking through the trees towards him. I never looked, he thought, his relief turning cold. T he first time I didn’t check to see if the woods were clear...

The dog’s barks subsided to low grumbles as it trotted away. “Sorry about that, pal,” said the man who had shouted. He gave the still-growling dog a nudge with his foot. “Quiet!”

Ben fought the urge to look over at where his camera equipment was half hidden by the oaks. The film of Kale and Jacob was amongst it. He managed a smile. “It’s okay. Just frightened me half to death.”

“She’s a noisy little bugger,” the man agreed, and Ben felt a lightening of hope as he began to turn away. But his companion didn’t move. He was staring at Ben.

“This is the bloke who told Willie Jackson to fuck off in the pub,” he said. “The one who had John’s kid.”

The wood’s silence pressed in on them. Ben could feel the smile stiffen on his face, but couldn’t seem to let go of it.

The man who’d recognised him was short and sallow-skinned, with pinched, rattish features. Ben couldn’t remember seeing him in the pub, but then he hadn’t taken much notice. Off to one side, the Jack Russell was bouncing and snuffling through the wet grass.

Its owner had stopped. He was older than the other man, in his fifties but with the burly look of a manual worker about him. He glanced towards the Kales’ house, visible at the bottom of the hill. His face was stony as he looked back at Ben. “What you doing here?”

“It’s a public wood, isn’t it?” Out of the corner of his eye Ben saw the dog heading towards his den.

“He asked what you’re fucking doing here,” the small man said, enunciating the words slowly, as if he were talking to an idiot.

Ben could hear the dog nosing around by the oaks. He tried to summon the reckless anger that had possessed him in the pub, but it wouldn’t come. “I’m going for a walk, okay?”

“Not round here it fucking isn’t.”

The small man’s fists were clenched. They were as undersized as he was, like knotted lumps of bone. He took an eager step forward, but the other’s voice checked him.

“All right, Mick.”

The small man turned, angrily. “Is it fuck all right! What’s he doing in our fucking woods?”

“He isn’t doing anything. He’s going.” Without taking his eyes from Ben, he jerked his head in the direction of the road. “Go on. Fuck off.”

Ben hesitated. The dog yapped from within the oaks, then the branches thrashed and it reappeared, shedding drops of water as it sprang through the tall grass. “Okay, I’m going.”

Rotting acorns crunched like marbles under his boots as he began to walk away, planning to wait nearby and come back for his gear later. He’d only gone a few paces when the small man stepped in front of him.

“You’re not fucking going anywhere.”

“Mick,” the older man warned.

“He’s taking the fucking piss coming round here!”

“It’s not your problem, Mick. It’s John’s business, not ours.”

“So let’s take the cunt down and let John sort him!”

Ben’s mouth had gone dry. “Look, I’ll just go, okay? I’m not going to come back.”

The small man’s grin was almost a snarl. “Dead fucking right you’re not.”

An impulse to run crossed Ben’s mind, but that seemed too abject even for him. The older man considered, then gave a short nod. The one called Mick reached out to give Ben a shove.

Ben knocked his hand away. “Keep your fucking hands to yourself.”