Owning Jacob - SA (33 page)

Sandra unlocked the padlock and opened the shed door.

It tore out of her hand and banged against the wooden side.

Ben went in after her.

There was a pungency of bitumen, pine resin and stale sweat. It was dark and cramped, forcing him to stand close to Sandra. Her hair was flattened against her head by the rain. He could feel water from his own trickling over his face and neck. He blinked it out of his eyes, trying to work out what the object that fil ed most of the interior was.

At first he thought it was simply an exercise machine, a multigym of some sort. There was an impression of a steel frame, pul eys and ponderous weights. Then he took in the straps attached to the long wooden bench and dangling from cables, the oil-covered cogs of what appeared to be gear wheels.

It looked like something designed to tear apart rather than exercise.

"This is why he comes in here,' Sandra said. She was shivering. 'He built it himself.' Ben was stil trying to work out what it was. He thought he knew, but couldn't quite believe it.

"What is it?'

'It's a rack, what's it look like?' There were smal straps for wrists and ankles, and a larger harness that had a forehead band and a chinstrap. Each was joined by cables to the weights, which hung like steel fruit at the head and foot of the bench, and were connected in turn to the heavy gear wheels. Sandra ran her fingers lightly over the frame. Her nails were bitten and ragged.

'He fastens himself into it and takes the brake off the weights. The gears stop them just smashing straight to the floor, but once they've gone past a notch you can't pul them back.

He's worked it so the further they go the heavier they get. The only way you can stop them's by that.' She pointed to a mechanism at the top end of the bench. It had a smal er set of weights, and was attached to the head harness. 'It's a clutch, or something. But you have to use your neck to lift those weights off the floor far enough for it to trip in.'

'Jesus.'

'John lets it go as far as he can, and then just holds it there. Tries to keep himself at breaking point for as long as he can. When he first built it and I came and saw what he was doing I panicked and made him lose concentration. It nearly 1

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kil ed him. When he managed to get out he threw up and told me never to come in here again. I thought he was going to hit me, but he didn't. Not then.' There was a deadness in the way she said it. 'I've never watched him since, but I can tel by how long he stays in here and what he looks like when he comes out that he's taking it further and further. One of these days

…' She didn't finish.

Ben tried to imagine what it would feel like to be strapped into the machine. "Why does he do it?'

'To help him see the Pattern. Why else?' She hugged herself and rubbed her arms. 'He thinks the pain focuses his mind. AH part of being "pure". Can't be impure if we want to see the Pattern, can we?' He stared at the sweat-stained straps. In places the edges of them were marked with what looked like dried blood. 'Are you sure he isn't just trying to punish himself?' Sandra looked at the rack as though she were frightened of it. I'm not sure about anything.' She turned away suddenly.

'Let's go in. I'm freezing.' As they went out he noticed the shotgun lying on a shelf to one side of the door. He remembered what it had done to the dog's head. At least he keeps the place locked, he thought as he watched Sandra snap the heavy padlock shut. He fol owed her back to the house. The kitchen began misting up as soon as they closed the door. They were both soaked, but at least he'd had a coat on. Her clothes were stuck to her. The outline of her bra was etched under her sweater. Her nipples stood out through both layers of fabric.

"You're dripping al over the carpet,' she told him. 'If you're going to stay you might as wel take your coat off.' He did, draping it over his bag. She handed him a towel. 'Here.' It was already damp and didn't look too clean, but he took it anyway. Sandra rubbed her hair vigorously with another.

I'm wet through.' Without coyness she pul ed off her

sweater and dropped it on a chair. The skin of her arms, chest and stomach was pale and covered with goose bumps.

Her white bra was semi-transparent.

'Don't mind, do you?' she asked, pushing her wet hair back with her ringers so that it hung behind her ears. Her heavy breasts lifted with the movement.

'No.' He tried to remember what he'd been going to say next 'Look-'

'Coffee?'

'Uh, please.' There was a smal rol of flesh above the waistband of her skirt. She went to the sink and fil ed the kettle. To the left of her spine below her bra strap was a mole the size of a smal fingernail. He hadn't noticed it when he'd watched her through the long lens.

He made himself look through the window at the scrap metal.

"Why only wrecked cars?' What?' She pushed the kettle plug into the socket with a firm jab from the palm of her hand. A muscle jumped down the side of her ribs.

'Al the scrap. Why is it just cars? Why not bits of fridges and washing machines as wel ?'

'Because a car wreck's violent. One minute it was driving around, the next it's junk And somebody with it. He thinks each piece he brings home is some sort of memento of that Somebody's life being smashed.' She had turned to face him, but for a moment she seemed to forget he was there. Then she came back from wherever she'd been and smiled.

'I can't see the point in looking for reasons,' she said.

'Things happen, don't they? You just have to make the most of what you've got' Ben didn't say anything because she had started walking towards him. She didn't take her eyes from his. The smile was stil on her mouth. She came close and stood in front of

him. He was surprised at how smal she was. He could feel the fabric of her bra brushing his shirt. The weight of her breasts was an implied threat. She rested her hands flat on his chest.

They felt cold, then the heat of them came through.

'What have you got?' she asked, looking up at him. She began to slide one hand lower. It burned a slow path down his stomach. There was a thrumming in his head, twinning the one in his crotch. Her hand reached it, pressed against it, and a vibration went through him as though she had struck a tuning fork. He stepped back slightly for balance and something crunched under his shoe.

He looked down. One of Jacob's puzzles was crushed under his heel. Tiny silver bal s had spil ed from the broken plastic. He lifted his foot and more of them escaped, running like beads of mercury across the dirty carpet.

'Don't worry about it,' Sandra told him. 'John's bought him loads of them. They're al over the place.' But Ben felt something shifting inside him, something that had nothing to do with the pressure of her hand. He took another step backwards. She looked surprised, then her expression grew closed at whatever she saw in his face. Her hand fel to her side.

'Wel ,' she said, looking away. She self-consciously folded her arms across her breasts. 'Sorry if I'm not good enough for you. I expect you're too used to models.' Ben couldn't think of anything he could say that would make things any better. The kettle clicked off, its steam adding to the fog on the window. He moved further away, careful not to step on any of the silver bal s. He tried to reassemble his reason for being there.

'I'm going to tel the social services that I don't think your husband's mental y fit to look after Jacob,' he said.

Sandra went to where her sweater was discarded on the chair. 'Do what you like.'

'Al that stuff in the shed. He's self-destructive. I'm not

going to let anything happen to Jacob because he's got some fixation.'

'Bul y for you.' She felt the wet sweater and dropped it back down with a grimace of annoyance. She picked up a sweat-shirt from another chair.

'Wil you back me up?' She paused in the act of pul ing on the sweat-shirt and stared at him. 'Back you up? Don't be fucking stupid!'

'You've just told me what he's like.'

'That doesn't mean I'm going to say he's some sort of nutter so you can get his son taken off him.'

'He needs help.' She laughed, harshly. 'Don't we al !' She jerked the sweat-shirt over her head. 'And don't pretend you're bothered about John. You don't give a shit about him. You're only worried about the kid.'

"Wouldn't you be?' She raised a shoulder, indifferently. 'He'l just have to take his chances with the rest of us. And since that's al you came for you can fuck off. I've got to get tea ready.' Ben went to his bag and took out the photographs of her and the men in the bedroom. Her expression became hunted as he held them out. 'What are they?' When he didn't answer she came forward and took them.

She stared at the first one, then quickly at the next few.

She flung them at him.

"You bastard! You fucking-!' He thought she was going to hit him, but she let her arms fal . She hung her head. 'I hope you enjoyed watching.

You fucking shit.' His cheek was stinging from the edge of one of the photographs. He put his fingers to it. They came away coloured with blood. He groped in his pocket for a tissue.

His arms seemed sluggish. He felt he was moving through a mire of shame.

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'So what are you going to do with them?' she asked. 'Do a Quil ey? Blackmail me into saying John wants locking up?' He held the tissue to the cut. 'I only want you to tel the social services what you've told me.'

'So you can get Jacob taken away? What do you think he'd do to me if I did that?'

'What wil he do if he finds out you've been sleeping with other men while he's at work? And taking money for it?' She covered her eyes. Something inside Ben was curling up and withering. He did his best to ignore it. 'They probably won't take Jacob off him, anyway.' You fucking hypocrite. 'But if somebody doesn't do something, sooner or later he's going to kil one of them. Either Jacob or himself. You'l lose him then either way.' Her throat was jumping in little spasms. She wiped her hand across her cheeks, dragging the skin like a rubber mask.;

Streaks of mascara fol owed her fingers.i

"You think you can leave things behind,' she said. You think you've got away from them, but you never do. You take it al with you. When I met John I thought …'; She didn't finish. The smeared mascara made her face look] like something left out too long in the rain.

'We haven't had sex in a year.' I don't want to hear this, Ben thought, but he didn't move.

He owed her that much.

She stared at the photographs scattered on the floor. 'Not since before al this started. He isn't interested any more. He's like one of these bloody monks. Sex is "impure", it'l stop him seeing his Pattern. Special y with someone like me. He doesn't say as much, but I can tel by the way he looks at me. I'm a cheap tart. More pricks than a pin-cushion, that's me. So one day I thought, right, if that's what he thinks I am, I wil be. The next time a bloke in the pub made a pass at me I said okay. And after I'd done it once there was no reason not to do it again, was there? The money came in handy. That's

something else John isn't interested in. We could have sold the story to the newspapers for a fucking fortune, but oh no! That would have been "impure", wouldn't it?' The flare of indignation died. She raised one shoulder in a shrug. 'I let blokes come around every now and again. Not many, because most of them are too frightened of John. But there are some who get a kick out of it Sometimes I even kid myself it's me they want You'd think I'd have learned by now.

Even John was only after something he thought he saw in me, and now he doesn't even want that any more.' She looked Ben up and down. He felt burned by the contempt he saw.

'But it doesn't matter, does it? I'm only a fucking whore.

I should be used to sel ing myself He pul ed to mind an image of Jacob sitting beneath the suspended, mud-smeared engine, imagined it dropping. He tried to crush his conscience with it. 'Wil you help me?' Sandra stared dul y at the photographs on the floor. She looked old and beaten. 'Do I have any choice?'

'We can keep whatever you say confidential. He doesn't have to know.'v

'Just get out'if He picked up his bag and coat. She was stil standing among the photographs when he left When he got into the car he realised he was stil holding the tissue he'd used to staunch his cheek. The blood on it formed a Rorschach pattern of spots and swirls. He screwed it up and thrust it into his pocket without trying to see what it told him.

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Colin tried to kil himself in the same week that the social services agreed to hold a case conference about Jacob. Ben had presented them with the photographs of Kale's activities in the back garden, and told them of Sandra's wil ingness (if it could be cal ed that) to verify that her husband was mental y il and a threat to his son. That would have been enough to spark an investigation in itself, but his news that she had a past they had completely overlooked was like dropping a lighted match into a box of fireworks.

Ben told himself he had no choice. He was under no obligation to Sandra, and he couldn't afford to ignore anything that would strengthen his case. He tried to convince himself that it would eventual y have been discovered anyway, that he was protecting her enough by keeping quiet about her more recent affairs.

It didn't make him feel any better.

Her request for confidentiality was agreed to by the local authority, although not happily. In spite of everything, Ben stil felt they didn't believe that Kale was actual y dangerous.

He didn't know if this was a reluctance to accept that their original assessment had been wrong or simple miscalculation, but Carlisle in particular responded with the grudging compliance of a child that'd had its fingers smacked. By now

there was no disguising the antipathy the social worker felt for him. He obviously regarded Ben as a troublemaker who was trying to split up the newly formed family. Ben hoped that wouldn't blind him to the risk Kale posed to Jacob.

He was trying to be realistic about what to expect. Even now Ann Usherwood insisted there was no chance of him getting Jacob back. That wasn't something the case conference would even consider. 'As I've said before, Mr Murray, a definite threshold of risk would have to be reached for them to even consider taking Jacob from his father, and this fal s wel short of that. They might put him on the Child Protection Register, and insist on close monitoring while his father's mental health is assessed, but that's probably al . I real y think you should put anything else out of your mind.' He couldn't, though. The feeling remained that it wouldn't be so simple. It was no longer just a matter of Jacob and Kale, now it was Ben and Kale as wel .