Footsteps sounded on the stairs. He looked around as Scott came down them. The boy regarded them sullenly, making no attempt to speak as he went past.
'Say hello to Ben, Scott,' Maggie said, but he didn't even slow. Her smile twitched as she watched him disappear down the hallway. 'He's still a little upset.'
Ben said goodnight and left. The door clicked shut behind him. He found he had tensed himself, as though the entire house would shatter like glass.
As he went back to his car he thought that a family could stay together and still be destroyed.
The case conference was scheduled for the following week.
He'd finally begun to accept that he wasn't going to get Jacob back. Or, if not accept, at least realise that there was nothing more he could do about it. He knew he'd have to come to terms with it and get on with his life. More than that, he had to try and rebuild one, because there wasn't much left of the life he'd had. But knowing that didn't make it any easier to do. He felt he was just treading water, waiting for the day of the conference to arrive.
He told himself things would be better afterwards.
The night before it was held he went to the launch party of a new magazine with Zoe. He had tried to cry off, but she wouldn't listen.
'What are you going to do if not? Sit at home by yourself, watching telly and getting pissed while you worry about what's going to happen tomorrow?'
Actually, that had been almost exactly what he'd had in mind. 'No,' he said. 'Of course not.'
The party was at a cellar bar in Soho, a dark place of blues and purples that made everyone look cyanosed. He knew a lot of the people there, had either worked or drunk with them at similar occasions. Zoe, her hair red once more, stayed with him long enough to make sure he wasn't going to go straight home, and then disappeared into the crowd.
Ben found himself talking to the magazine's picture editor, who seemed to presume he was there touting for work and obligingly offered him some. Then there was another photographer, an almost-friend he hadn't seen for over a year. Talk moved on to censorship, and Ben enmired himself in an argument with a writer, a vehement man with bad breath, over the responsibility of the artist. He was enjoying it until the writer called him a commercial photographer, as if that made him some sort of photographic hack whose views were invalid. Ben began to object, but realised he couldn't.
The man was right.
Everything that he did had a shelf-life. The fashion photographs were valid only for as long as the fashions they contained, and while some of his advertising work might lay claim to a sort of kitsch value, that was all. He was good at what he did, but what he did was nothing. It was disposable.
And he had chosen to do it.
So what did that make him? He had given up trying to achieve anything more than a technical competence because he'd believed that was ultimately all photography amounted to—a triumph of form over content, of craft over art. He wondered if the limitation hadn't been his, if he hadn't been blaming the camera because he'd had nothing to say. And what about now?
He didn't know. Nothing sprang to mind, but the knowledge that he no longer even tried gave him an unexpected ache of loss. For some reason he thought of Kale, tirelessly arranging damaged pieces of metal in his search for a pattern.
Perhaps it wasn't so much what you had to say as trying to say it anyway that mattered.
All at once the drinks felt heavy in him. He was on the verge of becoming drunk, and he didn't want that. He put his glass down. The writer was still talking animatedly, taking Ben's silence for acquiescence. Ben excused himself and moved away.
He looked around the room for Zoe's red hair, but the purple lighting made colours unrecognisable. He gave up and went out.
The night was cold and crisp. The street sparkled with the beginnings of a frost, not yet white but starring the dull concrete with pinpricks of light. Already the idea he'd felt on the verge of grasping was becoming less tangible. He tried to hold on to it, but then a cab drew up and the last remnants slipped away.
As he sat back in the taxi he was already thinking about what would happen at the case conference the next morning.
It was held in the main social services building of Kale's local authority. The room looked like an anonymous boardroom, with a long central table ringed by plastic chairs. Most of them were already taken when Ben arrived. Carlisle sat opposite him, speaking in low tones to someone whom Usherwood said was probably his manager. Next to them was the child protection co-ordinator, a grey-haired woman who would be chairing the meeting. There were several other people in the room, including a uniformed policewoman from a child protection unit, but Ben didn't know any of them.
The only people not there were John and Sandra Kale.
The grey-haired woman looked at her watch. 'I take it Mr and Mrs Kale were notified what time to be here?' she asked Carlisle.
The social worker shifted uneasily in his seat. 'I spoke to them yesterday. They—' He broke off as the door opened.
The solicitor who had represented Kale before bustled in. He was red-faced and flustered. 'Sorry we're late,' he apologised. 'There was, ah, a bit of a hold-up.'
He didn't explain further and no one asked as first Sandra and then Kale himself entered.
Sandra didn't look at anyone as she took her seat by the solicitor. She was, for her, conservatively dressed in a long-sleeved sweater and a skirt that came down to her knees. Kale wore the same creased suit Ben had seen him in before. He gazed unblinkingly around the room as he walked in.
When he saw Ben he stopped dead.
'Er, Mr Kale…' his solicitor said. Sandra was looking down at her lap. Kale stayed where he was for a moment longer, then went and sat down. He didn't take his eyes from Ben.
The grey-haired woman cleared her throat. 'I'd like to thank everyone for coming. My name's Andrea Rogers and I'll be chairing this conference. Rather than have separate meetings, both Mr and Mrs Kale and Mr Murray have agreed to attend together and to share information.' She turned to the Kales. 'Ordinarily, I'd take a few minutes to have a word with you in private before we started, but as we're running late I'm afraid we'll have to move straight on.'
Sandra didn't lift her head at the implied censure. Kale continued to stare at Ben as the co-ordinator introduced the various welfare officers and professionals in the room. The last person she came to was a social worker from the local authority where Sandra Kale used to live.
Ben saw Sandra stiffen when he was introduced.
'Before we begin I'd like to stress that this isn't a legal hearing of any kind,' Rogers said. 'No one's on trial here. The aim of this case conference is to consider various concerns which have been raised about Jacob's welfare, and to decide whether or not they provide grounds to put him on the Child Protection Register.'
Kale swivelled his head towards her. 'You're not taking him away.'
'No one's suggesting that, Mr Kale. But a complaint has been made, and we have a duty to examine it.' She held his gaze calmly before turning back to her notes. 'The basis of complaint is with regards to Jacob's schooling and special needs. Also that some of your actions may have put him at physical risk, and may continue to do so. In addition we have to consider new information which has come to light about your wife that was overlooked by the local authority.'
Sandra seemed to shrink into herself. Ben felt the weight of Kale's stare shift back to him.
'Where is Jacob today?' Rogers asked.
'He's actually at school,' Kale's solicitor answered, throwing it up for approval. 'My client is now aware of the importance of his son's education, and has given me an undertaking that he will attend as normal in future.'
'I'm glad to hear it. But I'm afraid we still need to satisfy ourselves that the undertaking will be adhered to. And we also have to consider any additional action that may have to be taken to make up for such a long period of deprivation.'
'My client realises that, and—'
'He's not deprived
of anything,' Kale said.
'I was speaking in an educational sense,' Rogers said. 'Jacob's autistic. He needs—'
'He's my son. I'm all he needs.'
'I know the background to this case, Mr Kale, and I do appreciate how difficult this must be for you, but allowances can only be made so far. We're here to try and decide—'
'There's nothing to decide.'
Rogers glanced at Kale's solicitor. 'Perhaps you can explain to your client that it's in his own interests to co-operate, Mr Barclay. He'll have a chance to give his views later, but right now there's nothing to be gained by obstruction.'
The solicitor anxiously leaned towards Kale and began whispering to him. There was a general shuffling of papers as everyone else pretended not to take any notice. Kale didn't speak but his jaw muscles were bunched tightly.
Ben felt the policewoman looking at him. She gave him a cold stare when he smiled at her.
Finally Kale's solicitor sat back, but with the cautious air of a man willing a precarious structure to hold. He smiled unconvincingly at Rogers.
'Okay,' he said.
The professionals all had their say. An education welfare officer spoke first. He was a short, plump man with a stubbly beard.
He described the excuses made by Sandra for Jacob's absence from school; that he was ill, he had a cold, a temperature, then told how he had recently visited the scrapyard and found Jacob sitting in a derelict car while his father used a cutting torch near by.
'He didn't appear to be ill, and there was certainly no reason I could see why he shouldn't be at school. When I asked Mr Kale why he wasn't, he refused to answer.' He glanced at Kale. 'In fact he didn't say anything at all. He continued working as if I wasn't there.'
Ben imagined Kale with a cutting torch in his hand and thought the man had got off lightly.
A child psychologist spoke next. She was a specialist in autism, and stressed the importance of special schooling and mixing with other children. Depriving an autistic child of these was 'irresponsible', she said, and the way she avoided looking at Kale as she spoke was eloquence itself. Kale sat through it all as if it were nothing to do with him.
The social worker from Sandra's old authority had a boyish face that was falling in on itself. Speaking with a faint stammer, he told them that she had been drunk on the night when her daughter was taken into care. Police had raided the council flat where she lived with her husband, intending to arrest him on drug charges, and found the baby girl dehydrated and half starved, and lying in her own urine and faeces.
Sandra kept her head down as he described the injuries that had been discovered when the child had been admitted to hospital, the evidence of broken bones partially healed, internal bruising, a fractured skull.
'The father admitted hitting her,' the social worker said. 'He said it was to shut her up. He blamed his wife, but only because she couldn't keep the child quiet. He didn't appear to think he'd done anything wrong. The little girl died in hospital three days later, from pneumonia. Wayne Carter was sentenced to three years for manslaughter, and another two for drug-related charges. Mrs Carter—' he inclined his head at Sandra, who had her hand shielding her eyes '—was found guilty of neglect, but it was felt she'd been dominated and frightened by her husband. She was put on a year's probation. After that she moved out of the authority's jurisdiction.' He closed his file. 'That's all.'
There was a choked noise from Sandra. Her shoulders heaved as she covered her face. Ben saw that her nails were raw. He stamped on the involuntary stirring of pity.
'Are you all right, Mrs Kale?' Rogers asked.
She nodded without lifting her head. Her hair bounced up and down. The dark roots looked sad and vulnerable against the bleached yellow.
'Would you like to take a break? We can—'
'Just get it over with.' Sandra wiped her eyes and lowered her hands. Her face was red and blotchy. The solicitor handed her a tissue, which she took silently.
Kale watched her, impassive, then looked away. She might have been something he had never seen before.
Rogers turned to Carlisle. 'I think it's time we heard the social services' views, Mr Carlisle.'
The social worker drew a deep breath. 'Ah, well, to start with I think I should point out that although Mrs Kale—or Mrs Carter as she was then—failed to protect the child from its father, she had no direct involvement in her daughter's death. So while the, uh, breakdown in communication was unfortunate—'
'There was no breakdown,' the other social worker interrupted, calmly. 'We weren't approached. And it's all a matter of record anyway.'
'Even so, I'd like to make clear that—'
'Mr Carlisle,' Rogers interrupted, 'while I'm sure there will be questions to be answered as to why Mrs Kale's background was overlooked, that isn't the purpose of this conference. We're trying to assess what the present situation is and how to deal with it, not apportion blame or excuses.'
Carlisle seemed about to object, but the man Usherwood had identified as his manager put a restraining hand on his arm.
'Excuse us.'
They held a brief, murmured conversation. Carlisle straightened, reddening. He looked as though he had bitten on lemon rind. Ben felt a quiet chime of satisfaction.
As the social worker described the findings of their investigation, Ben could feel Kale staring at him. The weight of it was mesmeric. It required a physical effort to keep from looking back, but he didn't want to meet those eyes right then. He didn't even realise he was no longer listening to what was being said until the sound of his own name brought him around with a jerk.
'Would you like to talk us through these, Mr Murray?'
Ben looked at Rogers stupidly for a second. She was holding copies of the photographs he'd taken of Jacob and Kale. He glanced around and saw that so was everyone else. Or nearly everyone.
Sandra was still half curled in her chair.
Kale's blank gaze was still fixed on him.
He felt scalded by it as he haltingly described what he'd seen going on in the garden.
'If you were worried, why didn't you approach the authorities before you did?' Rogers asked at one point.
'There was no point. I'd already tried.' He looked at Carlisle. 'I knew no one would believe me.'
'And you didn't think it worthwhile to express your concerns to Mr Kale either?'
'He'd already warned what would happen if he saw me again,' Ben said. 'And when he did, he beat me up and shot his dog.'
There was a mild commotion at that, protests from Kale's solicitor, but Ben wasn't listening. He forced himself to meet Kale's stare across the table.
He saw his death in it.
They had to leave the room while the deliberations were being made. There was the choice of waiting either outside in the corridor or in an adjacent anteroom. Ben hung back until the Kales and their solicitor chose the anteroom, then went into the corridor. Usherwood came with him. She didn't offer any speculations, for which he was grateful.
He fetched coffee from a vending machine, and they sat in silence.
Before they had left, Rogers had asked Kale if there was anything he would like to say. 'Either about anything you've heard so far, or if there's something you'd like to add before we come to any decisions about Jacob.'
He had turned and looked at her. 'Steven. His name's Steven.' He didn't say anything else.
They were invited back into the conference room as Ben was on his third cup of coffee. He put the plastic cup under the bench and told himself that it was the caffeine that was making him shake as he stood up. The Kales were already sitting down as he and Usherwood entered.
He took his seat, conscious that Kale was already staring at him. Sandra was still avoiding looking at anyone. Her eyes were red and swollen as she gnawed at the corner of her thumbnail.
Rogers waited until everyone had settled.
'We've discussed the situation and are ready to make recommendations for a care plan based on the information
we've heard. While Mrs Kale's background has to be taken into account, we are prepared to accept that what happened twelve years ago does not necessarily have any bearing on her present family situation. There is no suggestion that Jacob—' she seemed to stress his name '—has suffered or is likely to suffer any deliberate physical harm. However, because of his special needs it's felt that he may suffer emotional harm if he doesn't attend school, and this matter can't be ignored any longer. We feel that this risk is enough to warrant placing him on the Child Protection Register. In addition, he'll have to be assessed to see if any supplementary schooling or therapy are necessary to make up for the time he's lost.'
Ben felt disappointment settle on him as the implications sank in. Jacob was staying with Kale. Although he'd tried not to expect anything else, the confirmation was still bitter.
'Another issue that needs to be addressed,' Rogers went on, 'is the possibility of Jacob being injured either because of the unsafe environment created by the, ah, excessive quantity of scrap metal at his home, and also by some of your own actions, Mr Kale.'
There was the slightest trace of a frown on Kale's forehead, as if it was only now occurring to him what was going on.
Rogers continued. 'Although we accept that he hasn't been physically harmed, and that there's no malicious intent on anyone's part, we nevertheless feel that it's in Jacob's best interests for the scrap metal to be removed. I'm sure that won't be too much of a problem, since you work at a scrapyard. If it is, then we can arrange its disposal for you.'
Kale was staring at her now.
'Do you understand what I've just said, Mr Kale?' she asked.
He was slowly shaking his head. 'You can't. I'm too close.'
There was an uneasy pause. Ben could almost see Rogers choosing her words.
'We're also going to suggest that you undergo an assessment by a mental health worker. I can—'
'Mental health worker?'
'I can assure you there's no stigma attached to this. But we do feel that it would be, ah, helpful in view of…well, of certain aspects of your behaviour.' When Kale didn't object she seemed to relax slightly. 'I suggest that we hold a review conference in three months' time, when we can hopefully—'