Owning Jacob - SA (40 page)

Ben stopped. He couldn't see Kale's face, but he could make out the barrel of the shotgun aimed at his chest. He put out his hand in a desperate staying gesture, knowing it wouldn't do any good.

'Wait-' he said.

There was a roar of light.

Smoke from the shotgun blast hazed the air. His ears were stil ringing as he swiftly reloaded, watching the photographer's body for any movement. The double impact of the twelve-bore shel s had flung it down the steps, crumpling it against the back of die smal landing. As his eyes adjusted from the muzzle flash, he made out the black splashes of blood on the wal s and floor.

He looked for a moment longer, making sure, then snapped the shotgun shut and went back into the office.

Keeping out of the direct line of the window, Kale crossed over and stood with his back against the wal to one side. He picked up the broken mirror tile he'd ripped from above the toilet sink and tilted it until he could see the barricade. The predictable bastards were starting to come over. He readied himself, then spun round and fired through the window, one barrel straight after the other this time, not both together as he had done with the photographer cunt. He ducked down, ignoring the pain in his knee, cracking the breech open and pumping in two fresh shel s, slithering on his arse to the other side of the window, and then he was up and firing again.

He dropped back to the floor, his bad leg stuck out awkwardly in front of him. He reloaded with one hand while he had another look with the mirror. Shouts and yel s, but the bastards had fucked off. The twelve-bore wasn't accurate at that range, probably not lethal, even with 'OO' buckshot cartridges which would put a four-inch hole through two-inch wood at ten feet, and blow photographer cunts practical y in half at eight, but it had a good spread. He made sure none of them had dropped down on his side before he lowered the mirror.

Keeping wel outside the perimeter of chairs, wastepaper bins and boxes he'd set up to mark the area where the police marksmen bastards could get a shot, he went over to the desk. It was tipped on its side in part of the room he knew would be out of any line of fire. Steven was curled behind it, eyes squeezed shut, hands over his ears, rocking backwards and forwards. Kale felt angry again for being made to use the shotgun. He stroked his son's head.

'Shh, it's al right. It's al right.'; >:?

'No bangs! No bangs!' His son's hair felt soft and fine under his fingers. He pushed his hands gently down from his ears. Steven shook his head violently.s> ;

'No bangs!'

'Not many more.'

There were seven shel s left. When he was down to two he would use them to make sure the bastards didn't separate him and his son again.

He stayed there for as long as he dared and then, skirting the area he'd marked out, he went back to the window to check with the mirror. The barricade was stil dear. He hoped it had taken some of them out when it went down. He'd rigged it so it would col apse if anyone gave it so much as a sour look.

It'd stil slow them up long enough to do what he had to when they cottoned on that they couldn't talk him out The telephone was ringing again downstairs, but he took no more notice of it than before. He returned to the desk. Steven's eyes were stil shut but his rocking wasn't quite so violent.

Kale lowered himself to the floor and put his arm across his shoulders. He unwrapped a stick of chewing gum, broke it in two and gave half to Steven, half to himself. The boy chewed without opening his eyes.

'They just don't give you any peace,' Kale said, looking down at him. 'There's no time. They can't just leave you alone.' He brushed a strand of hair from his son's face, then put his head back against the desk and looked at the paling sky through the window.

'We were almost there. I could feel it. I've been close before, but not like that. I was near to it in the desert, but I didn't realise, not then. Not until what happened to you and your mum. It was right in front of me, but I couldn't see it.

There was so much … broken … it took your breath away. It was like that was how things were supposed to be, that was normal. But it was too soon. I wasn't ready. You've got to be tempered first. You've got to be nearly broken yourself.

It purifies you, makes you see more clearly. You've got to go through that before you can see it's not al shit, there's no such thing as good or bad luck. Everything fits and works together, like a big machine. It's al part of the same thing, al part of the Pattern.'

He broke, off, tilting his head to listen. Outside, it had gone silent. He turned to Jacob again.

'There's a reason for it al , for everything,' he went on.

'That's what the Pattern is, it's the reason. You've just got to be able to see it, that's al . Scientists say everything's made out of the same stuff, al these little … little bits. They think they've found out what the smal est bit is, but then they realise there's something smal er. So that means that you, me, this floor, that desk - everything - is al connected. And if it's al connected then what happens to one thing or person, even if it's on the other side of the world, it's stil part of everything else. Part of us. It stil affects us, even though we don't know it.

There's al this …' He frowned, locking his splayed fingers together.

'... this meshing going on, al the time. Everything interlocks.

So long as the Pattern's in sync it's okay. But sometimes you can go out of sync with it, and then-' He clenched his hands together in a double fist. 'Things break. Like those wrecks out there. Each one's sort of … frozen.' He savoured the word.

'They're like recordings. The Pattern's there, in each bit of them, and if you could see it you could understand why things happen like they do, you could avoid the breaks. But you've got to know how to look.' He stopped as the loudhailer started up again. He pushed himself across the floor to the window. The sky was lighter now. The wrecks in the yard were no longer just frost-covered shadows. Through the mirror he could see the bastards stil weren't doing anything on the far side of the barricade. Just mouthing off.

He went back to the desk. Steven was rocking again. Kale held his son and rocked with him.

'When you came back it was a sign that I was getting close to seeing it. Things were fal ing back into place again, I was getting back into sync. Even the way you are is part of it. I didn't understand at first, but it is. You're locked in

here-' He rubbed his son softly across his forehead. 'You see everything as a pattern. I'm trying to see one, and you're trying to get out of one.' His expression hardened.

'They wouldn't leave us alone, though. A bit more time, that's al we needed. Just a bit more time.' He put his head back, tiredly, then snapped it round at new noise from the yard.

Crouching awkwardly, he left the desk and went to check through the window with the mirror.

There was movement. An engine was being revved. The cars in the barricade suddenly shuddered. As he watched, one of them slewed around and fel . He had a glimpse of a yel ow mechanical arm and then the mirror exploded into fragments.

The belated report of the rifle came as the bul et chunked into the wal on the far side of the room. Kale counted to ten, ignoring the cuts from the glass, then fired one barrel blindly through the window. He dodged back before anyone could draw a line on him, moved to a different position and snapped off the second barrel.

He dropped to the floor, reaching for the shel s. Five left.

Three more for the bastards. A sound came from behind him.

He slapped the breech closed with only one shel in it and spun round, bringing the gun to bear.

The photographer was in the doorway.

It had taken al the strength Ben had to crawl up the steps.

He saw Kale aiming the shotgun at him for a second time but couldn't move. He'd no idea how long it had taken him to drag himself up there, how long he'd lain unconscious. He was slick with his own blood. He cradled what was left of his left hand in the crook of his right arm. Every now and again, without warning, the pain from it would whirr closer until he almost blacked out. It was the one he'd stretched out towards Kale. The shotgun blast had taken most of it away before smashing into him.

Through the ragged hole in his coat, the armoured vest that he'd picked up from the street outside was visible, its outer fabric shredded above his heart.

It had been damaged before he put it on, looked as though it had been struck by something when the barricade col apsed on the police. Ben had hidden it beneath his own coat so that if Kale did shoot him he wouldn't see it and blow his head off instead. It had stopped the blast from kil ing him, but his ribs felt as if they'd been crushed. Each breath seemed to tear something inside his chest. His vision was blurred, either from loss of blood or from cracking his head in the fal He clung to the door frame to keep from fal ing again now, and saw Jacob huddled behind an upturned desk. Thank God. Jacob's eyes were tightly closed. His face had the pinched, set expression he wore when he was upset or frightened. Ben knew the boy didn't realise he was there. He tried to say something to him but his voice wouldn't come. He looked back at Kale, noticing without real y comprehending that the furniture and various objects had been arranged to form a loose square in front of the window. Standing outside it, Kale stared at him down the length of the shotgun barrel.

He lowered it and came towards him.

Ben saw the stock of the shotgun swinging into his face but couldn't avoid it A light burst in his head, and a new pain spun into the others. He felt himself hit the floor, but only distantly.

He opened his eyes and saw Kale's boots. He rol ed over and looked up. Kale was a giant, towering above him. The shotgun butt was raised in slow motion. Ben watched, incuriously, for it to begin its descent.

Wo, Daddy, no, Daddy, no, Daddy!' The cry gradual y penetrated the fog in his head. Kale was no longer looking down at him. Ben moved his head until he could see Jacob. The boy had his eyes open now, but they were darting about, looking at everything but Ben and Kale as he frantical y rocked himself.

'Nonono!'

'It's al right,' Kale said, but the boy only rocked harder, chanting his denial. There was a huge grating of metal from the yard. Kale glanced uncertainly towards the window. A grey daylight was coming from it now. Ben began to drag himself towards Jacob. His hand shrieked, and so did he.

Kale looked from him to the window and back again.

Another huge clamour came from outside. Ben pushed himself along the floor with his feet. His hand left a giant slug-trail of blood. He saw Kale's face contort. The man pressed the heel of his fist against his forehead as if he were trying to crush it He took a step forward.

'Get away from him!' Ben shoved himself the rest of the way and pul ed Jacob to him with his good arm. Jacob moaned and rocked, eyes shut again. Kale gripped the shotgun.

'I said get away!' Ben stared up at Kale as he held their son. He wanted to speak but the effort to reach Jacob had taken the last of his strength. There was a rushing in his ears. His vision was breaking up. He struggled to keep his head upright as Kale raised the shotgun and level ed it at them.

The room lit up as the sun crested the scrapyard's walL Kale winced at the sudden brightness. He looked out across the frosted tops of the cars as the light bounced and splintered from their uneven surface. Ben saw him frown.

Then his face cleared.

Stil staring outside, he lowered the gun. Through the rushing in his ears, Ben heard him murmur, 'There … It's there …' Like a man in a dream, Kale slowly turned back to them.

He no longer seemed aware of Ben as he gazed down at Jacob.

A screech of metal from outside made him glance at the window again. Going to the makeshift cordon of furniture, he moved aside a broken chair with the same deliberation he'd applied

to rearranging his pieces of wreckage. He stood by the breach he'd made for a moment, letting the sunlight fal on his face.

Then, fixing his eyes on his son, he put the shotgun stock to his shoulder and stepped backwards through the gap.

The crash came immediately. Ben cringed, clutching Jacob to him, but there was no pain, no impact. After a moment he cautiously looked up.

Kale had been hurled sideways by the marksman's bul et.

It had taken him through the chest. He lay twisted on the floor, one arm thrown above him, the other straight out in a parody of the exercises he performed in his garden. His eyes seemed to be staring at a point above Ben's head, at something behind and beyond him, and Ben felt an urge to turn and look. But his eyes were drawn to the blood soaking through Kale's sweat-shirt. He lay in a puddle of it. Streaks and splashes fanned out from him in dark whorls, hieroglyphs of an unknown language which changed and grew as their substance spread across the floor.

Jacob was keening. Ben pressed the boy's face into his shoulder to spare him the sight of his father's corpse. The rushing in his ears became very loud. He put his head back against the wal and saw an oblique strip of sunlight running over the ceiling. Motes of dust danced in it, spinning frenzied patterns. He tried to focus on them, and was stil struggling to decipher their semaphored message as his vision faded away.

The wasp bumped against the window. The sun streamed in through the whole length of the west-facing wal , fil ing the studio with light. The next window along was open. Zoe went over and tried to cuff the wasp towards it with her hand. 'Go on, piss off.' Its buzzing rose in pitch until it found the gap and flew out. 'Stupid things.'

"You should just squash them,' the girl said, unscrewing the cap from a bottle of mineral water. 'I always do.' Zoe looked embarrassed. 'If it had been a fly I would have.' Ben didn't say anything. He'd seen her usher out flies as wel , but she did her best to keep her humanitarian tendencies strictly in the closet. He saw her glance at him as he struggled with the camera lens, but she made no offer to help. After a few false starts they'd established that he would manage by himself, no matter how long it took. Sometimes the shoots ran a little late, but so far no one had complained. The quality of his work wasn't affected.