Simon Beckett - Owning Jacob - SA

“What alternative is there? Leaving him in a dump full of scrap metal, with a stepmother who whores around and a father who’s a f—” He stopped himself. “—a maniac?”

“I’m not saying nothing would be done, but taking a child from its parents is seen as a last resort. It would have to be felt that there was a real risk to Jacob in remaining where he is.”

“Kale dangles half-a-hundredweight of metal over his head. Isn’t that risk enough?”

“But you admit yourself that he hasn’t been physically harmed. I’m only pointing out what the situation is, Mr Murray.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” He made an effort to calm down. “What will they do?”

Usherwood sat back. “Once you’ve voiced your concerns to the local authority they’ll hold a case conference to decide what, if anything, needs to be done. If it was thought there was enough of a risk of harm to Jacob — either physical or emotional — they might put him on the Child Protection Register. If the risk is considered significant, then an application for a care order can be made through the courts, and the child placed with a foster family. But that’s only in very extreme cases. Which this isn’t.”

“So there’s no chance of them letting me have him,” he said, flatly.

A rare look of sympathy crossed her face. “I’m sorry. You could make a residence application anyway. But for Jacob to be permanently taken from his father it would have to be felt that the situation was so bad there was absolutely no way he could ever safely live with him. And, to be blunt, that isn’t likely to happen.”

“What about the photos? Don’t they count for anything?” She picked them up again, but she was shaking her head as she fanned them out. “The fact that his wife’s having an affair — or affairs,” she added, with a quirk of her mouth, “isn’t going to be seen as significant one way or another, whether she’s accepting payment for it or not. Even prostitutes are allowed to have children. As for Kale himself...” She leafed through the photographs until she found one of him holding the block of metal above Jacob. The polarising filter had thrown out the exposure, but Ben had been happy to come out with anything at all. “Yes, these show he’s put his son at risk on one occasion. There’s no proof that he’ll continue to do so.” She held her hand up to forestall Ben’s protest. “He has a garden full of scrap metal — he’ll be told to get rid of it. He’s been reckless when he’s weight-training — he’ll be told to be more careful in future. The most serious charge against him is that he’s been deliberately keeping Jacob away from school, but provided he starts toeing the line there, then even that won’t weigh too heavily against him. I know you say he’s unbalanced and dangerous, but there’s nothing at present to actually prove it. Or to justify insisting he have a psychological assessment.”

Ben tasted a bitterness in his throat. “How about beating me to a pulp and blowing his dog’s brains out?”

“Didn’t you say you tried to hit him first? And in front of witnesses?”

He looked down at his hands. “What about the dog?”

“I’m afraid if the police aren’t going to take action there’s nothing we can do.”

Ben tiredly rubbed his face, accepting the truth of what she said.

After he had retrieved his equipment from the woods he had driven — slowly — to the local police station in Tunford.

The desk sergeant had perked up when he’d limped in, battered and bloodstained, but that had changed when he’d realised who he was talking to. Ben wondered if there was anyone in the town who didn’t regard him as lower than something they’d scrape off the bottom of their shoe.

“What exactly were you doing in the woods behind the house, sir?” the sergeant had asked.

“Walking,” Ben had told him, and held his stare while the policeman waited in silence for him to elaborate. He had tried to hold his anger in check as the questions became almost taunting in their bias.

“Sounds to me like he was defending himself, sir,” the policeman commented at one stage, with insulting courtesy. “If I were you I’d think myself lucky to have got off so lightly.”

Ben knew then he was wasting his time, but he still tried. “He shot his dog, for Christ’s sake!”

“Perhaps he was just being public-spirited, sir. If it had attacked you, like you claim, it’d have to be destroyed anyway.”

“So it’s okay for him to go around firing off a shotgun when he’s got a child in the house?”

“Provided he’s got a certificate for it, and I expect he has. He’s a responsible man, sir. Not like some. He knows how to handle firearms.” The sergeant gave a supercilious smile. “Besides, you get a lot of vermin in those woods.”

Ben had given up. He hurt all over, and reaction had left him weak and exhausted. He needed to have the bite dressed and his smashed nose looked at. More than anything, he needed to get away from that town.

“Drive carefully, sir,” the sergeant had said as he left. “You look a bit worse for wear. You don’t want to get arrested.”

Usherwood was looking at Ben with concern. “I know none of this is what you want to hear, but I can only tell you what would probably happen. There are very definite rules laid down in situations like this.”

Ben managed a smile. “I didn’t think there were any other situations like this.”

The solicitor looked down at the photographs. “Can I keep these?”

He nodded. He’d printed several sets of the best ones. All the others, including those of Sandra Kale, naked and clothed, he’d burned.

“I’m not saying the local authority will ignore the evidence. If nothing else it should make them apply pressure to ensure Kale allows you your contact to Jacob,” Usherwood said, with the air of offering an unconvincing consolation prize.

“And what happens if he still refuses?” When. “Will they take Jacob off him then?”

“No, but you’ve a legal entitlement. He’s got to let you see him eventually.”

Ben gently kneaded the bridge of his nose. It was still tender. “You’ve met him. Did he strike you as the sort of man who’s got to do anything?” He stood up while she was still considering that. “I’ll be in touch.”

There were too many hours in the day now that he wasn’t travelling up to the woods behind Kale’s house. He didn’t know what to do with the free time, and so he filled it by working.

Zoe was clearly relieved that he was reliable again, seeing it as a sign that things were returning to normal. But Ben couldn’t even remember what ‘normal’ was any more. It was something that had stopped, perhaps for good, when Sarah had died. If anything, he felt more out of synch with himself than ever. He seemed to be functioning on a purely surface level, going through the motions of talking, eating, going out, but without any of it making any impression on him. He couldn’t even say he felt depressed, because he wasn’t really feeling anything. It was as though he were using only a single room of a large house. Sometimes he was aware of the rest of the rooms waiting for him to retenant them, but he felt no urge to leave his emotional bedsit. That would involve asking himself what his next step was going to be.

And facing up to the fact that there wasn’t one.

He had come to the end, without accomplishing a thing.

Kale wasn’t going to change. He might appear to if he was forced, but only until he was left alone again, and then Ben would be in the same position as he was now. The closest he would be able to get to Jacob would be through a telephoto lens. He’d already been down that route.