When he’d shown it to Sarah she had looked at it for a while, then quickly handed it back. “It’s horrible.”
He tried to make light of his disappointment. She had given him an apologetic smile, but there were shadows in her eyes.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so blunt. I mean, it’s very good as a photograph, but...” She hugged herself. “He just looks... so different, that’s all. Cold. And peering out through his fingers like that. It’s like he’s in a cage.” Ben didn’t say that those were the very reasons he was so pleased with it, that it worked because that single shot somehow communicated all of Jacob’s isolation, his differentness. He had put the photograph away and later presented Sarah with a shot that caught Jacob smiling, which he knew she would like. But he had kept the other, and although he hadn’t hung it even at the studio, not wanting Sarah to see it and be upset, he had given it pride of place in his portfolio. It was as near as he was going to get to what he had originally set out to do.
None of the photographs he produced now gave him anything resembling that sort of satisfaction. But he took pleasure in doing his job, and doing it well, just the same.
He threw himself into his work as he waited to hear from the detective, trying to bury any other thoughts under the sheer weight of it. Quilley had said he would be in touch by the end of that week, and as it approached Ben’s nerves became strung out like harp strings, twanging at the slightest provocation.
On the Friday morning he had to go out to check on a possible site for a location shoot for a jeans ad. He kept his mobile with him the whole time, but the detective didn’t call.
It was mid-afternoon before he got back to the studio. Music was blasting from the sound system and the red warning light outside the darkroom was on. There was rarely anything for Zoe to do in the studio when Ben wasn’t there, but she often went in anyway to develop her own work. She was only two years out of art college, following a route similar to that Ben himself had taken. She seemed to regard the time spent as his assistant as a sort of apprenticeship, and he knew she looked up to him as a role model. It either flattered or depressed him, depending on what mood he was in.
She came out as he was opening the post. “Didn’t hear you come in,” she said, going to the coffee machine. A faint chemical smell clung to her. “You should have knocked. I’d have come out sooner.” Zoe felt guilty about using the darkroom, although he had told her there was no need.
“I’ve only just got here.”
He shook his head when she held up the coffee jug in invitation. She poured herself one and leaned against the back of the couch. She was wearing black jeans and a yellow vest top that clung to her small breasts. With her black hair it gave her a faintly bee-like appearance.
She regarded him over the steaming rim of her mug. “You okay? You look knackered.”
“Just tired.”
Two of the envelopes contained cheques. He pocketed them, went on to the rest.
“Any messages?”He had given the detective only his home and mobile number, so he knew none of them would be from Quilley.
“The photo editor of Esquire wants you to phone him back, didn’t say what for. You’ve got to call Helen about the shoot next week, as well. Oh, and some guy called and asked for you but didn’t leave a name. Sounded Irish.”
Ben stopped in the act of opening another envelope. “Did he say anything?”
“No, just wanted to know if this was where ‘Mr Murray’ worked.” She looked worried, the brash shell crumbling at the thought she had done something wrong. “Was it somebody important?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
It couldn’t have been Quilley. Ben realised he was biting his lip. He threw the rest of the unopened post on to the battered pine table by the sink.
“I’d better go and pick Jacob up.”
He phoned the detective as soon as he was in the car. The line was engaged. He tried twice more, then tossed the handset on to the passenger seat. “Fuck it.” He was being paranoid. If the man had any news he would have heard.
Unless he’d left a message on the answerphone at home.
Suddenly Ben was certain that was what had happened. He cursed himself for having an old-style machine that couldn’t play itself back over the phone. He pulled out into the traffic, almost knocking over a motorcycle courier. The rider swerved and jabbed two fingers at him. “Get fucked!” Ben shouted.
He fretted at every stop-start of the clogged roads as he drove to the school. Knowing he had a clear afternoon, he’d told Maggie he’d collect Jacob himself, but now he regretted it.
By the time he parked outside the school gates he was in a foul mood. He said hello and goodbye to Mrs Wilkinson as quickly as he decently could and hurried back to the car with Jacob.
He forgot to let him run his hand down the side of it before they got in, and had to close the door again until he had.
He barely looked at the little boy as he buckled him into the back seat.
For a change there was a space miraculously close to the house. He parked and hurried Jacob inside. He went straight to the answerphone on the old cherrywood cabinet in the hallway. Its light was flashing. He pressed play.
It was from Maggie, inviting them to lunch on Sunday.
He listened to the tape rewind and then snatched up the receiver. Fuck it. He dialled the detective’s number, tasting his nervousness at the back of his throat, a metallic sourness like blood. The phone rang four times and then a recorded message cut in. Ben looked at his watch, incredulously. It was just after five o’clock. He waited, hoping someone would pick up the receiver at the other end, but no one did. He slammed down the phone.
“Fucking great!” He slapped the wall. “Five past fucking five and they’ve gone home! Fucking brilliant!” He hit the wall again, harder this time, and kicked the door nearest to him. It swung back with a bang. Ben turned, looking for something else to take his frustration out on, and saw Jacob standing where he had left him in the hallway.
The little boy was rocking himself, covering his ears. Don’t start! “It’s all right, Jacob, it’s just me being silly.”
“No noise! No noise!”
Ben ran his hand over the stubble of his hair. The rasp of it still surprised him. “Okay, okay, no noise, I’ve stopped now.”
“No noise!”
“I said OKAY!”The shout hurt his chest. He looked down at his clenched fists, forced them open.
Jacob was quiet, but his rocking had become even more pronounced. He had his head down so far that Ben couldn’t see the utter misery on his face.
The anger went out of him. “Oh God, I’m sorry, Jacob.” He went and crouched in front of the boy. “It’s okay, it’s all right, don’t be frightened.”
Jacob shook his head, violently. “Not you,” he moaned, “not you, not you, not you.”
He reached out, but Jacob thrust him away. “Mummy. Mummy.”
Oh Christ. “Mummy can’t, Jacob. Mummy isn’t here.”
“Mummy. Mummy!”
The boy was crying now, and Ben knew that would make things worse because Jacob didn’t understand what tears were, was frightened by them. And Ben could feel his own control starting to crack. He clutched the small body to him, holding it tight against its struggles, his own tears running to dampen the back of Jacob’s shirt. He squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right,” he chanted, even though he knew that it wasn’t, that nothing was all right, but he repeated the words until he felt the rigidity go from the boy’s body.
He held him for a while longer, then wiped his eyes as best he could and sat back on his heels. Jacob’s face was red and shiny with tears, his long lashes glistening. His chin was still on his chest, but Ben knew the worst was over. He ran his finger across the boy’s cheeks, brushing away the runnels of water.