Simon Beckett - Owning Jacob - SA

“Next time I’ll kill you.”

Kale let him drop. Ben fought the wave of nausea the movement caused. Kale turned towards his wife. She was clinging to the fencepost, bleeding from a graze on her cheek. He levelled a finger at her.

“Don’t ever get in my way again.”

He limped back into the garden. Sandra Kale wiped her cheek and stared at the blood smeared on her hand.

“You all right, Sandra?” asked the older man.

She didn’t look at him. “What do you think?”

Unsteadily, she pushed herself off the fence and followed her husband.

There was a whoop from the small man. “Fucking hell! Eh? Fucking hell.” His eyes were feverish as they fixed on Ben. “Bet you won’t fucking come round here again, cunt, will you?”

He came forwards, fists balled. Ben tried to push himself to his feet.

“Leave him, Mick.”

The small man turned in surprise. “Why? Come on, Bri—”

“I said fucking leave him!”

He walked over to Ben and took a large handkerchief from his pocket. He held it out. “I didn’t know this was going to happen.”

Ben knocked his hand away. He felt like crying. “What the fuck did you think he was going to do?”

The man stood there for a moment, then put the handkerchief away and went to the edge of the track. He gave a sharp whistle. “Bess!” There was a rustling in the bushes further up the track. The Jack Russell emerged and ran towards him, tongue flapping in a dog grin. It trotted at his heels as he began walking back down the track. The small man followed sullenly a few steps behind.

For the first time Ben noticed the faces peering over fences and walls along the line of houses. One by one they disappeared, absolving themselves of any involvement.

He climbed to his feet. He felt sick and weak. He leaned against the fence. His mouth and nose were swollen. Several teeth were loose. He probed them, testing them with his tongue, rubbing his bruised stomach. He turned to spit blood, and saw he wasn’t alone after all.

The bull terrier was watching from the other side of the track. Ben looked around for something to defend himself with — a stick, anything. There was nothing. He risked a glance at the dog again. A low rumbling came from its throat. Slowly, he pushed himself off the fence, not making eye contact with it. He took a hesitant step.

It came for him.

He fell back against the fence, lashing out with his feet in an attempt to keep it away from his groin and body. The bull terrier made a noise like an unoiled buzz-saw as it caught his foot in its mouth and shook it. Ben gripped the wire mesh to keep from falling, arms spread out across it in a posture of crucifixion. His foot felt as if it were in a vice. The dog’s teeth pierced the thick leather of his boot. It let go of his foot when he stamped at its head, but slashed its teeth across his calf, tearing cloth and muscle. He heard shouts and saw the two men running back towards him. The Jack Russell bitch raced ahead of them. It ran up to the fence, barking excitedly, and the bull terrier rounded on it. The smaller dog yelped as it was bowled on to its back.

“Get off, you bastard!” the older man yelled as he pounded up. He tried to kick the dog away as the Jack Russell’s screams grew more hysterical.

Then Kale was there. He pushed the other man to one side and grabbed hold of the bull terrier’s studded collar. It gave a hacking cough as he yanked it back, holding it so only its hind feet were on the floor. It made another lunge for the smaller dog but he cuffed it across its head and gave it a single, violent shake. Gasping, it subsided, its muzzle shiny and wet.

“Oh, Christ, oh, Christ,” the older man moaned, going down on his knees. The little dog was spasming on the floor, its white coat matted from the blood that pumped from its throat and stomach. “Oh, look at her, look at her!”

He slid his hands under it and held it to his chest. It twitched spastically, smearing his coat as he tried to staunch the wounds with the same handkerchief he’d offered Ben.

“Your fucking dog, John! I’ll kill it! I’ll fucking kill it!”

Kale still held the bull terrier by its collar. It wheezed for breath, but the frenzy had gone out of it. He looked without expression at the Jack Russell, then turned and thrust his dog towards the gate.

“In.” The dog ran into the garden, stubby tail wagging. Kale followed it.

The Jack Russell’s spasms were dying down. Its owner was crying. “Did you hear what I said?” he shouted into the garden. “I’ll have it! I’ll fucking...!”

An explosion sent a cloud of birds clattering into the air. Ben and the two men froze, stunned, as its echoes died away. The small man, no longer smiling, ran to the fence and stared inside.

“Oh fuck! Oh fucking hell!”

Ben hobbled over, desperately trying to see over the scrap.

The bull terrier lay in the centre of the garden. Most of its head was blown away. One of its legs twitched, then was still. Kale stood over it with a shotgun.

“Fucking hell, John, you shouldn’t have just shot him!” The small man sounded appalled.

Kale cracked open the shotgun and let a shell fall from one of its chambers. “It’s my dog. I’ll do what I like.”

He looked at Ben as he spoke. Then he snapped the gun closed and limped back towards the house.

“Bastard,” the older man said, weeping over the motionless dog in his arms. He was covered in blood and shit. “Bastard.”

The smaller man took his arm. “Come on, Brian.”

They set off down the track.

Ben waited until they were well ahead before he followed them.

The solicitor took her time going through the photographs.

Her eyebrows dipped into a frown when she saw the ones showing Kale lifting the engine above Jacob’s head, rose for those of Sandra Kale and the man in the bedroom. She gave Ben a quick glance before moving on.

He waited silently until she had finished, resisting the urge to try to make himself more comfortable. The chair was well-upholstered, but even after a week his lower back was still painful. The swelling around his nose and mouth had mostly gone, and he hadn’t lost any teeth, but the flesh under his eyes remained discoloured. His calf itched unbearably as the chunk the dog had taken out of it slowly mended.

Usherwood came to the end of the photographs. She lay them on the desk in front of her, absently straightening the edges.

“Well...” She drew a deep breath, cleared her throat. “I can see why you’re concerned.”

He waited for her to say something else. She looked down at the photographs again, chewing one corner of her mouth in thought. “How long have you been watching the house?” she asked without looking at him.

Ben felt himself colouring. “Quite a while.” He didn’t let himself elaborate or make excuses.

She gave a small smile. “Perhaps it’s as well there aren’t stricter privacy laws.”

“I wouldn’t have cared if there were.” It came out more emphatically than he intended.

The solicitor looked again at the photograph on top of the pile, as though it could tell her something it hadn’t already. Her fingers lightly touched the images of torn metal, as though they still possessed the power to cut her. “So what exactly are you asking me?”

“I want to know how to get Jacob back.”

She pushed the photographs to one side with a sigh. “I’m afraid it isn’t that simple. Courts are very loath to take a child away from his or her parents — or parent in this case. And in Jacob’s case it’s compounded because he’s already had the trauma of being moved from one home environment. It’s extremely unlikely that anyone would want to submit him to another upheaval unless it was felt there was absolutely no other alternative.”