His voice sounded unnaturally loud when he read the oath.
He couldn't see Jessica at first; there were too many faces all staring at him. And when he saw the woman in the dock it wasn't the Jessica he remembered.
She'd lost weight. Her brown frock hung on her like a sack. She was still pudding-faced but now the line of her jaw and cheeks was visible, and a wattle of loose skin hung below her chin. Her skin was pallid, her hair lank and lifeless.
Even across the court, Ben could see the streaks of grey in it. She only once looked at him, an apathetic glance without recognition or interest, before staring off again at some point on the floor. With a peculiar mingling of revulsion and pity, Ben realised that the trial was irrelevant. Nothing anyone did would make any difference to her now.
The prosecuting counsel questioned him, then he was passed over to the defence. It was as bad as he'd expected.
When he was told to stand down his legs shook. He kept his eyes set straight ahead as he left the court.
The verdict was reached two days later. Ben heard it on the radio as he was driving. Jessica had been found guilty of aiding and abetting, and sentenced to three years.
He turned the radio off.
Once the trial was over there was nothing to get in the way of his anticipation of seeing Jacob. He expected to feel excited, but as the Sunday he was due for his first contact approached, the anxiety he'd felt over the court case seemed simply to be transferred to the new target.
Colin had offered to go with him but he'd declined.
There was still a bump on the bridge of Colin's nose from the last time he had provided moral support, and Ben's relationship with Maggie was strained enough as it was. He didn't want to risk anything making it worse, if only for Colin's sake.
But the real reason was that he wanted to see Jacob by himself.
The journey seemed quicker now that he knew the route. It was a close, cloudy day. The fields were stripped bare, bleached to a golden stubble instead of the lush green they'd been the last time. Some of them were blackened from fires that in places were still burning, trailing curtains of smoke like mist across the road. Ben had thought that stubble-burning was illegal now. If it was no one around Tunford seemed to care.
He had phoned the Kales the night before to arrange what time he should arrive, but there had been no answer.
He hadn't been in touch with them since the handover—not that they'd spoken much then, either. He'd been tempted to call several times to see how Jacob was, rehearsed what to say, assured himself it could be kept casual. But he hadn't. No matter how much he worried about Jacob, he wanted to be seen to be keeping his side of the bargain. He didn't want to give John Kale any excuse not to keep his.
The possibility that Kale might not need an excuse was something he tried not to dwell on.
As he drove through Tunford he wondered if they could have forgotten it was his day for contact and gone away for the weekend. Or remembered but gone away anyway. That stirred up all the other fears, and he was wondering if Jacob could have forgotten him in a month when he turned on to their road and saw Kale's car outside the house.
It was an old Ford Escort, a 1980s model, dappled with rust but with a serviceable air about it. A coating of dried mud and dirt dulled the original red paint. He had seen the Kales getting into it once outside the local authority building, but he would have known who it belonged to anyway. It seemed to fit Kale, somehow.
At least they're home. He parked behind the Escort and looked inside as he walked past. The seats were covered with a black nylon stretch fabric, holed and gritty with crumbs. A puzzle, the one Kale had given Jacob at their first meeting, lay on the back seat. The sight was strangely painful. Ben turned away and went down the path.
There was even more junk in the front garden than he remembered. It was all car parts; chrome bumpers spotted with corrosive acne, doors with gaps where the handles used to be, decaying bonnets, wings and headlamps. The colours were gradually oxidising into a universal shade of brown. Grass and weeds sprouted through glassless windows, tangling dead metal with splashes of living green. Where pieces had been moved there were telltale imprints of flattened yellow stalks and slimy soil. Wondering why anyone would want to litter his own outlook with scrap metal, and what the hell Kale did with it all anyway, Ben skirted the radiator grille of a Mini and went to the front door.
It had been white once, but what paint was left was peeling away like fragments of eggshell. The wood underneath was grey and weathered. The entire house and garden were a working model of entropy, a physical reminder of the natural trend cowards dissolution and decay. Ben felt fresh outrage that this was the environment to which Jacob had been entrusted, then immediately ashamed for thinking it. Don't be a snob. But the objection he felt was both more intrinsic and less definable than that.
Using the mottled flap of the galvanised letterbox, he knocked and stepped back. The sound was loud in the Sunday stillness. It died away.
There was a noise from the next garden. He turned. A woman had emerged from the house, holding a long-handled sweeping brush. Ben gave her a smile. 'Morning.'
The greeting went unacknowledged. She regarded him silently, making a few half-hearted sweeps at the path with her brush. Across the street a man in a vest was leaning on his gate, openly watching. Ben turned his back on both of them.
It's the Hall of the fucking Damned.
He knocked on the door again, conscious of their scrutiny as he waited. The scrape of the woman's brush punctuated the quiet. He wished someone would hurry up and answer the door. He counted to ten then knocked again, harder.
The door opened. Sandra Kale regarded him sullenly. Her eyes were puffy and her bleached hair rumpled and uncombed.
She had on a pale pink bathrobe that ended mid-thigh. It needed washing. A sour, warm smell of bed came from her.
Ben waited for her to say something. When she didn't he said, 'I've come for Jacob.'
She folded her arms under her breasts. The movement pushed them up against the terry-towelling bathrobe. 'He's not here.'
There wasn't as much anger as he would have thought. It was as though he'd been expecting it.
'But I'm supposed to be picking him up today. It's my day to see him.'
She hitched one shoulder indifferently. It caused the bathrobe to gape, showing cleavage where her arms pressed her breasts together. Without make-up her face was younger and less hard, but no more friendly. 'Tough. I've told you, he isn't here.' She began to close the door.
Ben put his hand flat on it to stop her. He caught a waft of the odour of the house from behind her, a staleness of fried food and unemptied ashtrays.
'So where is he?'
'Gone out with his dad.'
'When will he be back?'
'Don't know.'
'Can I wait?'
'Do what you fucking like,' she said, and pushed the door shut.
A shard of loose paint shot off and stung his face like miniature shrapnel. He heard the woman with the brush chuckling in the next garden. Feeling his face burning, he banged on the door with the side of his fist. The sharp-edged paint crunched underneath it, digging into his flesh before flaking off. He carried on hammering.
The door was yanked open. Sandra Kale's face was pinched and angry. 'He's not fucking here! Now fuck off!'
'Not until I've seen him.'
'Are you fucking deaf? I've told you—'
The door was pulled from her hand. Ben instinctively stepped back as Kale appeared in the doorway. He was naked except for a pair of brief black shorts. His wife looked startled, then moved meekly aside.
He had been exercising. His entire body was beaded with sweat and flushed pink, as though he had been scalded. The thin shorts moulded his hips and genital bull ge, but tight as they were there was no overhang of fat. Each muscle was clearly defined, not with the sculptured physique of a body-builder but with a cleanness that was entirely functional. Ben automatically pulled hi
s own stomach in.
'I've come to collect Jacob,' he said.
Kale was breathing deeply and rhythmically. He didn't answer. Ben went on. 'It's my day to see him. We agreed on every fourth Sunday. That's today.'
Moisture dripped from Kale's brow. He made no attempt to wipe it. Ben looked past him into the hallway. There was no sign of Jacob.
'There's nothing here for you.' Kale spoke flatly.
Ben turned to him. 'Where's Jacob?'
'I said there's nothing here for you.'
'I'm not going without seeing him at least.' He held his ground against Kale's stare. It was like leaning into the wind.
Kale moved his head fractionally towards his wife. 'Fetch him.'
'John—'
'Fetch him.'
Her face reflected her unease for a second longer, then settled into the hard lines of irritation. She disappeared inside the house.
Kale remained where he was. Ben watched the empty hallway, glad of the excuse to look away. He'd always thought that Kale's eyes were expressionless, but that wasn't true. Their gaze was unsettling because it gave a view of a personality that, like his body, had been rendered down and stripped of non-essentials. It was like looking into the sun.
Sandra Kale came back into the hallway. She had Jacob by the hand. Ben could see that he didn't want to go with her. He squatted in front of him.
'Jacob? It's me. Ben.' Jacob kept his head down, but Ben thought there was a glimmer of recognition. He seemed healthy enough. He wore a T-shirt and a pair of shorts that, if not completely clean, were not exactly dirty either. His hair was longer than the last time Ben had seen him.
'I've come to take you out, Jacob. Would you like that?'
'His name's Steven.' Kale bent and effortlessly lifted the boy. He held him easily in the crook of one arm as Ben straightened. 'You wanted to see him. You have done.'
'I'm supposed to be taking him out.'
Sandra Kale came forward, her face pinched with spite. Her bathrobe was flapping loose, revealing more of her breasts. 'Why don't you just get lost? Just leave us alone!'
'Cover yourself up,' Kale said.
She glared at him, then flounced into the house. A door banged.
Ben tried again. 'I'm entitled to contact once a month. That was part of the agreement.'
Kale stared at him, then raised his free hand. Ben tensed but there was no blow. Kale rotated it studying it as he slowly flexed his fingers as if its workings were new to him.
'It killed her,' he said, still watching his hand, almost absently. 'Losing him. It killed her. They said it was an accident, but it wasn't. I knew her. I'd seen it coming, but I couldn't do anything. Jeanette carried him for nine months, bled and screamed to get him out, and then some bitch came along and took him before she'd even had a chance to hold him properly.' The hand clenched into a fist. The curled edge of the forefinger was thickly callused and cross-hatched with ingrained oil. Kale rubbed his thumb over it. It made a faint rasping noise.
He lowered the hand as though he'd grown bored with it and looked at Ben again. His eyes were unbearable.
'He never knew her. His own mother, and he never knew her. Now he doesn't know me. He doesn't talk. Your whore did that to him. She took my wife and kid away from me. Six years. That's how long she had him. That's how long I thought he was dead. Six years. Now you come here wanting to take him away again.'
Ben wanted to tell him he was wrong, that he was being unfair. But he knew it wouldn't make any difference. The man's viewpoint was as rigid as his body. 'It isn't like that. I'm only—'
'He doesn't want you. He doesn't need you. You're not part of the pattern any more.'
Ben didn't know if he'd heard right, didn't know what the fuck the man was talking about. 'Look, it was agreed. Jacob won't understand why he doesn't see me—'
'His name's Steven.'
Ben bit back the objection. One thing at a time. 'You Can't just cut us off from each other.'
'I can do what I want.' It was said without petulance or bravado.
Looking at him, Ben saw that nothing he could say, no talk of rights or court action, was going to alter anything. Jacob sat on his arm, apparently content. He was wriggling his fingers.
After I moment Ben realised that he was copying Kale's earlier movements with his hand.
'Can we at least talk about this? You know, perhaps sit down—'
'I don't want you in my house.'
'Oh, come on, this is getting stupid!'
Kale's whistle made him jump even as he was regretting the choice of words. There was a scrabble of claws from within the house. Oh fuck, Ben thought as he saw the bull terrier from the scrapyard materialise in the hallway. It trotted towards them, bow-legged with muscle. He felt childishly betrayed when he saw Jacob trying to whistle himself.
The dog stopped at the doorstep and glared up at him. A threatening rumble came from its throat. He quickly checked to see how far away the fence was. Kale held his hand over the animal's head, restraining it without touching it.
'Go on.' Ben thought that Kale was speaking to the dog before realising it was to him. He flinched back as it gave a single, yapping bark, its front legs bouncing clear of the ground.
Then Kale pushed it back into the hall with his foot and shut the door in his face.
He angrily raised his hand to bang on the peeling grey wood, then lowered it. He knew it wouldn't do any good. All he'd achieve would be an assault by Kale, or the dog. Or both. He didn't want that to happen in front of Jacob.
He didn't want that to happen full stop.
He turned to leave. The woman with the brush hadn't moved. Other people had also come out of the nearby houses to watch. Ben tried to ignore their collective hostility as he went down the path. When he reached the Mini radiator grille he gave it a savage kick that sent it spinning into the overgrown garden. It hurt his foot, but he refused to limp as he walked back to his car.
Across the street, the man in the vest leaned over his gate and spat on the pavement.
Chapter Ten
The floodlights caught the fine drizzle as it fell and turned it into beads of silver. The harsh glare bathed the football pitch in unnatural brightness, shifting once-familiar colours into an unreliable spectrum and giving objects a hard-edged focus that was both more vivid and unreal. Beyond the light there was only blackness, so that the floodlit pitch seemed to exist by itself in an ocean of shadow.
Ben's head hung between his knees. Next to him Colin squatted with a football between his legs. His hands were bulky in the goalkeeping gloves, and his track suit was smeared with mud. He nudged Ben and offered him a plastic bottle of water. 'You okay?'
Ben nodded without lifting his head. He was still too winded to speak. His throat hurt as he drank. He lowered the bottle after a couple of swallows, swilling the last of it in his mouth before spitting it out. He was thirsty but he knew if he had any more it would only give him a stitch in the second half. He handed the bottle back.
Colin's Adam's apple jerked as he drank deeply, eyes shut.
Ben felt the burning in his thighs and calves and wished he played in goal himself. His breath was beginning to come back, but his chest still ached.
Colin's chin shone wetly when he lowered the bottle. He wiped it with one gloved hand. 'How's the leg?'
Ben examined the scrape on his shin. Dried blood and dirt obscured it. 'I'll live.'
Colin looked over to where the opposing team were sprawled around the goal mouth in a mirror image of their own.
'He's a dirty bastard. He has somebody down every game.'
The match was a 'friendly' between Colin's firm and a rival practice. The teams were supposedly made up of lawyers from each, but a blind eye was turned to ringers such as Ben, provided they weren't too good. Which, right then, he certainly wasn't. He kneaded his calf muscle and looked over at the player Colin had indicated. He was in his twenties, with curly black hair and an arrogant strut. He had brought Ben down with
a late tackle, unnoticed by the referee, and run on without a backward glance. Ben hadn't seen him before, but then he hadn't played for weeks. He felt every one of them now in every part of his body.
Since seeing Kale's ripped torso and corrugated belly he'd been making an effort to get fit. He'd been drinking less and cutting down on joints, even doing sit-ups and push-ups at home. It didn't seem to help. Having a bruised and scraped leg helped even less. During the game he had been too busy to dwell on it, but now, with time to catch his breath and thoughts of Kale and Jacob still in his mind, he looked over at the laughing player with a gathering of animus.
The second half was easier than the first. Either he had caught his second wind or was pacing himself, and he no longer envied Colin his stationary spot in the net quite so much as he huffed around in midfield.
There was still no score when the ball came to him on the break. He ran with it, seeing the greyhound-thin shape of one of the forwards sprinting towards the goal. He swung his leg into the pass, and suddenly he was sprawling face down in the wet grass. He looked up to see the curly-haired player running off down the pitch.
Ben was barely aware of the whistle blowing as he scrambled to his feet. The other player turned around just as he reached him. Ben threw a punch and felt the jar shoot along the length of his arm. He was hit himself, and then they both slipped in the mud and fell over.
They scrabbled about on the ground for a few seconds before they were dragged apart. As Ben was pulled to his feet the curly-haired player caught him on the cheek. Ben kicked him on the thigh, then other players were between them. Colin had both his hands on Ben's chest, pushing him back.
'All right, Ben, all right, cool it.'
'The bastard hacked me!'
'I know, I know, but—'
'The cunt!'
'Look, calm down, will you? I've got to fucking work with these people!'
The intensity in Colin's voice penetrated even Ben's anger. He looked at his friend, took in the thinning hair stuck darkly over his scalp with the rain, the face that was beginning to show incipient jowls where a jawline used to be, and felt as though he were looking at someone he didn't know. The heat went out of him.