Owning Jacob - SA Read Online Free PDF Page A

Sarah's paler colour. His eyes were a pale, tawny brown, and his features had none of the fineness of her bone structure. Ben had always taken for granted that the boy took after his father.
    Perhaps he does.
    He left the bedroom and went downstairs. The house was quiet. He took an old tobacco tin from the bag that held his camera equipment, col ected a beer from the fridge and went into the lounge to rol himself a joint. Sarah never liked him smoking them at home, but Jacob was in bed, and if ever there was a time when he needed one this was it. He lit up and drew on it, holding his breath. When he final y let it go it was explosively, as if he could expel everything else along with the used smoke.
    Taking another drag from the joint, he crossed to the bookshelf and reached up for the strongbox. He carried it back to the settee and spread out the newspaper cuttings on the cushion next to him, where Jacob had been sitting earlier. He picked out the one that had a photograph of the baby's parents. It was impossible to make out what John Kale looked like but at least, if Jacob didn't take after Sarah, he didn't resemble the newspaper picture of Jeanette Kale either. Ben tossed the cutting on to the rest. He had already gone through them countless times without learning anything else. A newborn baby had gone missing, and it happened to coincide with Jacob's birth. So what? Hundreds of babies would have been born on the same day. It didn't mean anything.
    So why had she saved the cuttings? That was where al his reasoning, al his reassurances, fel apart. He could tel himself that it was ridiculous to be disturbed by a few pieces of old newsprint, that the dates were only a fluke. Reading about it on the same day she gave birth herself was probably what had prompted Sarah to save the reports in the first place. Then she'd put them to one side and typical y forgotten to throw them away.
    Simple.
    Except it didn't work. Sarah might have kept an entire newspaper, or even several, but he'd never known her cut out individual stories. That sort of neatness wasn't part of her character. He couldn't even begin to think why they'd been in a locked box with the birth certificate.
    Or rather he could.
    Confusion gouged at the rawness of his grief. He pushed his hand through his hair. Even that brought a pang - she had liked it long, liked running her fingers through it. 'Jesus, Sarah,' he said. The need to talk to her, to see and hear her again, was so vast it terrified him. He couldn't believe he never would. It was as though someone had cut holes in the world where she should have been. He felt his throat begin to constrict and took a last steadying pul at the dying joint, welcoming the hotness of the smoke. He held his breath, but when he let it go it came out in a sob, and suddenly he was crying.
    When it passed he felt drained but more himself. Sarah had been his wife and he had loved her. Jacob was her son, and that was al there was to it. He despised himself for doubting her. He stubbed out the roach and blew his nose.
    The cuttings were stil spread out on the settee, but now they had lost their potency. They were just scraps of paper. He felt slightly foolish for overreacting. And ashamed.
    He gathered them together, intending to throw them away.
    The phone rang as he was screwing them up. He sniffed and cleared his throat, banishing the last of the tears before answering. 'Hel o?'
    'Hel o, Ben. It's Geoffrey.' Ben felt a twinge of conscience at the sound of his father-in-law's voice. 'Sorry, Geoffrey, I was supposed to cal , wasn't I?' It had been the last thing he'd said to Sarah's parents after the funeral the day before.
    'Not to worry. You've got enough on your plate at the moment without worrying about us. I just thought I'd ring and see how you were getting on.'
    'Oh … okay.' He changed the subject. You got back to Leicester al right?'
    'No trouble at al .'

    "You could have stayed here overnight, you know.' He knew Geoffrey