Owning Jacob - SA (30 page)

I'm a friend of Mr Quil ey's. Does anyone know what happened to him?' It took her a moment to place who he was talking about.

'Oh, the man who was beaten up? No, I don't think so. He

I says he can't remember. We think it must have been more than one person, though, from the extent of his injuries. There's a lot of internal bruising. He's lucky he wasn't kil ed.' Ben thought he was very lucky.

He felt the pul of Tunford even after he had driven past the turn-off that led to it. For several miles afterwards he was conscious of where it lay behind him, as though part of his brain were looking backwards, watching it recede.

The snow had lingered here, piles of dirty white melting slowly by the roadside, staining the bare trees and dead grass like mould. Ben had turned the car heater up high, but the frigid damp stil seemed to cling to his clothes.

Or perhaps it was him it was clinging to.

The industrial estate had an abandoned Sunday air about it. The town itself looked similarly deserted. One or two windows of the terraced houses were decorated with tinsel and coloured baubles, but they seemed unconvincing in the grey daylight When he reached the street where the Patersons lived he saw that more of the boarded-up houses had gone. The strip of semi-level ed rubble now extended halfway along the row of terraces. The JCBs and earth-shifting machinery stood patiently amongst the bricks, waiting to be loosed on the rest.

Ben parked outside the house and knocked on the door.

The window box held only soil. The glass above it was misted over. He stamped his feet, feeling the dank atmosphere penetrate his lungs.

The door was opened. Ron Paterson nodded a greeting

and stood back to let him in. The kitchen smel ed of roasting meat. A coal fire burned in the smal grate set into the tiled fireplace. Ben felt the warmth close around him, snuffing the chil in an instant.

Paterson closed the door. 'Give me your coat.' Ben took it off and handed it to him. He went out to hang it at the bottom of the stairs. You sure you don't mind me coming?' Ben asked when he came back.

Td have said if I did.' He nodded at the table. "You might as wel sit down.' Ben had phoned the day before to ask if he could cal around. Paterson had told him to come before lunch

- he'd cal ed it 'dinner' - the next day. He hadn't asked why. It didn't need to be said that it would be something to do with Jacob.

'How's Mary?' Paterson was fil ing the kettle. 'In hospital.'

'Is she al right?' Ben had thought she must be upstairs.

'They're doing tests.' He said it matter-of-factly, keeping whatever he felt out of sight. He plugged in the kettle. 'Want a cuppa?' He set out the teapot and mugs, then came and sat at the table. 'So what can I do for you?'

"You said something last time I was here. About Sandra Kale.'

'I said a lot of things.'

'But you started to say that you'd heard something about her, and then you stopped. I wondered what it was you'd heard.' Ben had remembered the conversation after he'd visited Quil ey. He knew he might have made the journey just to hear a piece of useless gossip. But it wasn't as if his Sundays were so fun-fil ed any more that he couldn't spare the time.

Paterson sucked on a tooth. He didn't look at Ben, but

he didn't give the impression of looking away from him either.

'Just rumours.'

"What rumours?'

'I don't spread gossip.'

'It might be important.' Paterson considered that Why?' Ben told him.

Jacob's grandfather listened without making any comment.

Once he got up to unplug the kettle, although he didn't bother making any tea. Other than that he didn't move as Ben described Kale's activities in the garden, and Sandra's in the bedroom. Ben told him how Jacob was being kept off school, and what had happened when the two men had found him in the woods. He left nothing out, except the fact that he'd almost al owed himself to be sidetracked by Sandra Kale's ruttish sexuality. He wanted to emphasise how Kale was unbalanced, not only unfit to bring up Jacob but an actual danger to him.

But he saw the grimness in Paterson's face and knew there was no need.

There was a silence when he had finished. The coals of the fire tumbled in on themselves in a swarm of sparks. The gas oven hissed softly. Paterson went over and turned it down.

'We don't keep drink in the house,' he said, fetching Ben's coat.

He took Ben to the workingmen's club. It was non-political, an old and ugly brick building with an even uglier 1960s extension tacked on to its front. An elderly fat man in a three-piece brown suit sat behind a table in the entrance. He greeted Paterson with a wheezed 'Afternoon, Ron' as he pushed across a book for him to sign. Ben wrote his own name in the 'guest'

column and fol owed him inside.

It was a big room with a high stage at one end. Brightly

coloured paper streamers ran from the edge of the ceiling to its centre, and already deflated bal oons hung limply on the wal s. The stage itself was fringed with gold plastic tassels that could have been a part of the Christmas decorations except for a tired look of permanence about them. Round, dark wood tables and matching stools fil ed the floor space with no clear aisles in between. A few were occupied, mainly by men, but most were empty.

Ben tried to buy the drinks but Paterson would have none of it. "You're my guest,' he said, in a tone that spoke of protocols and tradition. They carried their pints to a table by the window. Paterson exchanged nods with one or two of the other customers but didn't stop to talk. They sat down, taking the top off their beer in the ritual that had to precede any conversation. The beer was cold and gassy. Ben stifled a belch as they set down their glasses.

The lul wasn't so much awkwardness as not knowing where to start.

'Gets busy in here at nights. Special y weekends.' Paterson lifted his chin towards the stage. 'Get some good acts on, as wel .'

'Right.'

'Used to come in here a lot, Mary and me. Before we moved to London, and then for a bit when we first moved back. Til Mary got real y bad. It's difficult now, though.' He looked around the room as if noticing it for the first time.

They took another drink.

'I can't vouch for anything,' Paterson said, abruptly coming to the point. 'It's only what people have said. Nothing specific' Ben nodded.

Paterson studied his pint. 'She's supposed to have a bit of a history, that's al '

'History?'

'Been a bit of a bad 'un. Taking money for it.' He looked across at Ben to make sure he understood.

You mean she was a prostitute?'

'That's what I've heard. One of the club members' sons had a mate who was based at Aldershot with Kale. Reckoned she'd sold it to half the regiment before she married him.' He pursed his lips disapprovingly. 'Sounds like she's stil at it, from what you've said.' Ben felt let down. Even if it were true it wasn't the revelation he'd hoped for. 'Was there anything else?'

He could see Paterson struggling with some decision.

'There were stories about some trouble she'd been in,' he said at last. 'Other trouble. But I couldn't tel you what I don't listen to that sort of thing.'

'Do you know anybody who might know?' The other man considered, then shook his head.

'How about the member's son you were talking about?'

'The family moved away last year. Couldn't tel you where they are now.' He must have read the frustration in Ben's face. "You thought I could tel you something to help get him back.'

It wasn't a question. Ben hadn't mentioned anything about why he wanted to know, only that he was worried about Jacob.

'I've been told there's no chance.' Paterson took a pul from the pint 'John Kale's not going to let him go. It won't matter what anybody tel s him.' Ben didn't answer.

'He was always possessive. Didn't like our Jeanette going out or doing anything without asking him. He was bad enough that way then. Now he's got his son back he won't let nobody take him again.' He tapped his finger on the table for emphasis.

'I mean nobody. And I wouldn't like to say what'l happen if anyone tries.'

"You think I should just give him up.' A weariness seemed to come over the older man, then it was gone. 'I don't like to think of my grandson in that house any more than you do. But John's not going to deliberately hurt him.

He's al he's got Forget her, that tart' He made a dismissive brushing-away gesture. 'She's just a bit of nothing. It's the boy he'd lay down his life for. If he thinks he's going to be taken away again, it'l be like losing everything twice. I don't think he'l care what he does then.'

'I'l be careful/ Ben said.

Paterson reached for his glass. 'It's not you I'm dunking about'

They had another drink at die club - which Ben bought, so obviously die protocol of guests not buying applied only to the first round - and dien went back to die house. Paterson invited him to stay for lunch. 'I've done enough for two,' he said. 'Force of habit' Afterwards they watched the footbal match on the smal TV in the lounge. Ben felt drowsy and comfortable.

The beer, the roast lunch and the coal fire popping in the grate combined to make him feel more relaxed than he had in ages. Whole swathes of the afternoon passed without them talking, but there was no awkwardness in the silences. When Paterson announced that he would have to get ready to visit his wife, Ben offered to go with him to the hospital. The decline came without fuss or self-consciousness.. >

'She's not at her best just now. You can cal round again when she's back at home.' Ben understood, without feeling offended, that it was time for him to go. Paterson saw him to die door, but diey didn't shake hands. It wouldn't have felt right.

'Don't push him too far,' the older man told him as he left Ben almost said okay.

But he didn't.

He spent Christmas in the Caribbean. It was one of the plum jobs that came along every now and again, a scramble from an advertising agency who had decided to switch photographers at the last minute and needed something to show their clients early in the New Year. They sounded relieved when Ben accepted the job.

Almost as relieved as he felt.

He sent Jacob a big parcel of Christmas presents, but he had no idea if he'd understand who they were from.

Or if Kale would let him have them. Before he went away he spoke to Ann Usherwood about investigating Sandra's background. The solicitor had been doubtful. She'd warned it would be expensive, and probably not tel them anything they didn't already know. 'If there was something incriminating the social services would have it on record,' she pointed out. But Ben insisted.

If it had got Quil ey nearly kil ed, it had to be worth knowing.

He left for the shoot without having heard anything. At the last minute a heavy weight of reluctance descended and almost made him back out. He felt certain that he was letting down his guard, struck by a superstitious conviction that something disastrous would happen if he wasn't at hand to prevent it.

Only the fact that he wouldn't hear anything from Usherwood over Christmas anyway, and the knowledge that his professional reputation might not stand another dent, made him go.

When he came off the plane and felt the sun bake down on him he was glad he had. It was so far removed from anything he associated with Christmas - and any stinging reminders of Sarah and Jacob - that the period he'd been dreading slipped by almost without him noticing. Even Christmas Day passed relatively painlessly. They worked in the morning then spent the rest of the day getting slowly pissed at a beach bar. By the evening Ben had even forgotten what time of the year it was.

There was no escaping New Year's Eve, though. He was back in London by then. He had been invited to several parties, more even than usual, but while he knew the reason for it and was grateful, he had no intention of going to any. He planned to lock the door, turn the clocks to the wal , then watch videos and drink until January had safely started.

But memories of other years came at him like a juggernaut.

Only four of them; that was al they had spent together. It seemed incredible that it had been so few. The best had been their second, when he and Sarah had left Jacob with her parents and gone to a New Year's Eve party in Knightsbridge. The house had been ridiculously opulent but they hadn't known many people there and had left not long after midnight.

Slightly drunk, they had returned home, gigglingly stripped off and made love on the lounge floor. Sarah had gone down on him, teasing him with hands and tongue, and when he came in a spine-arching spurt she had grinned up at him and mock-roared, 'Hap-py New Year!' The previous year's hadn't been so memorable - Jacob had come down with flu, so they'd stayed in - but looking back on it now as die last they would spend together, the last Sarah had been alive for, made it if anything more poignant.

It seemed at once close enough to touch, yet much further removed than a mere twelve montfis.

He put the vodka bottle on the floor within easy reach and chain-watched one mindless video after another.

When the phone rang it startled him out of a doze. He jumped, spil ing vodka from the glass loosely balanced on his chest The room spun as he stood up. On the TV a mass of images refused to congeal into any coherent picture. The phone continued to ring. He wished he'd thought to disconnect it He didn't want to hear anyone wishing him a Happy New Year.

He didn't think there was any such thing.

Resenting the intrusion, he answered it. 'Yeah?' he said, deliberately surly. Sounds of a party came down the line; cheers, hooters, the cracks of party poppers. 'Ben? Is that you?'

The unexpected voice cut through the vodka. 'Dad?'

'Can you hear me?'

"Yeah.1 Where are you?' We're at some friends' house.' Ben couldn't stop the drop of disappointment that he wasn't near by, even while he recognised its absurdity.

1 thought I'd cal and see how you were.'