Inseparable Bond (16 page)

Due to his
particular expertise, he soon found his way onto in a gang of safe
breakers and armed robbery experts.

He was also
registered with a central London escort agency and frequently in
demand by a string of repeat customers who paid him handsomely for
companionship and sex.

He talked
freely with the other residents, giving hair raising details of the
robberies and saw his efforts from petty thievery to shooting,
worthy of laughter. He would demonstrate how they shot two
customers in a bank raid which went wrong after the police had been
tipped-off by an informer. Although he didn’t do the shooting, he
got a five-year sentence for his involvement.

He could not
tolerate the confinement of prison and went on a rampage, attacking
other cons along with two failed suicide attempts in his cell. He
was diagnosed as mentally insane and after a ten-year
rehabilitation programme in the hospital wing, he was transferred
to the hostel.

John put
Baxter’s cigarettes in his pocket and quietly closed the door as he
left.

It was a warm
afternoon. He sat on the small chair with his door open in an
attempt to cool his bedroom with the fresh-air from the small open
window.

The door
opposite was also open; it was number 8, the room of Graham Banks,
the resident transvestite.

John smiled,
watching him sitting at his small mirror as he painted his
eyebrows. He was naked and his large belly rested on the top of his
legs as he touched up his bouffant blonde wig. He wore an elaborate
bra and his nipples showed through the dusky lace showing a cluster
of hair from under his arms as he reached to fasten it at the back.
He stood up and turned sideways as he sensually stroked his
buttocks in the reflection of the mirror, and adjusted his bra
where his beefy hairy chest actually filled the tiny cups.

He cocked one
leg forward, bent his knee with a well practised movement, watching
himself he bent down to the corner of the bed and picked up a
garter belt, spread it open flattening the lace, and again watched
himself in the mirror as he stepped into it with pointed toes, his
hair falling across his face with a springy, sexy bounce.

He flicked it
back with a toss of the head, a gesture he loved, and then stepped
into the garter belt with the other leg. With his thumbs inside the
elastic, he pulled the belt up over his fat stomach and flattened
it against his waist.

Sitting in
front of the dresser, he watched himself as he slipped the toe of
one raised leg into a gathered stocking. He stood up and watched
himself pull and smooth the stocking over his foot, over the ankle,
tightening it from behind with a caressing gesture of his cupped
hand, slowly stretching it over his calf and up his leg, never
moving his eyes off the mirror.

The second leg
followed as he pulled down the elastic straps and hooked on the
stockings.

He stood back
from the mirror, looking at himself and smiled at the pleasure he
must have felt from the fine silk embracing his short fat hairy
legs.

He went over
and took a dress hanging on his wardrobe door. For this evening he
had chosen a light blue flowing number of rayon and crepe, but the
colours had faded due to years of washing. It was of tropical leaf
design with an off-white colour. He opened the wardrobe door and
adjusted his frock in the full-length mirror fastened on the back
of the door.

He tilted his
head from one side to the other and returned to his dressing table.
He opened a silver case and screwed on two large pearl earrings and
white pearls as a choker, which he often wore. Finally he stepped
into a pair of white high-heeled shoes and snatched a small blue
handbag off the dresser, took one last pose in the mirror and
smiled at the woman who pleased him enormously before leaving his
room.

He closed his
door and looked over at John sitting by his window. He would have
been aware of John’s presence throughout, which would have
encouraged him further.

He smiled at
John, and with a flick of the head he went downstairs for his
evening meal. He always ate alone, often lighting a candle at his
table overlooking the garden.

John went down
for his meal and joined Dorothy, Gary and Harold.

He looked over
at Graham Banks as he sat at his table touching up his bouffant
hair in the reflection of the window with a silver hair pick, and
looking totally at ease with himself.

John stared in
amazement, but regarded his appearance as outstanding although he
had accumulated many years of experience.

Peter Scott
walked into the room. The earphones of a Walkman were hanging
around his neck. He was wearing tight jeans and butter-coloured
cowboy boots. He looked across at Gary and gave him a seductive
smile; Gary reciprocated with a wink of his eye. Dorothy and Harold
had noticed his returned gesture, but it went ignored and without
comment.

Ronnie Baxter
had woken from the small reading room and walked in for his evening
meal, clutching a paperback book in his hand. He always walked
quickly and never in a straight line, constantly sidestepping or
giving the effect of avoiding land mines with sudden unpredictable
pivots that left you watching the space where he had been instead
of the place he was going. ‘Who’s nicked my fucking fags?’ he
yelled as he looked around the room walking to his table.

They shrugged
their shoulders and continued to eat, hunched over their meals.

It had been a
warm day, resulting in a balmy evening. John went to the car park
to smoke a cigarette from the packet he had stolen previously from
Baxter as he slept.

He cupped his
hands to shield his lighter from the warm breeze and lit his
cigarette as he walked slowly up the hill. The warmth of the
evening intensified as the setting sun sends almost horizontal
shafts through the gaps in the trees. The light fades as John
returns and enters the car park hostel.

Plastic dining
room chairs had been scattered around the lawn, most of them
occupied, leaving only a handful of residents in the lounge.

He decided to
have an early night and went to his bedroom where he lay on his bed
and watched his small television perched precariously on the edge
of his washbasin.

It was
Wednesday. John walked to work to start the early shift. It was hot
and humid with a warm wind, which cut across the wasteland as he
passed. The sun was breaking through the heavy dark clouds, and the
weather forecast was for a wet and miserable day. It took twenty
minutes on foot from the hostel to the hotel, including his brief
visit to the shop for his daily packet of cigarettes.

Today would be
slightly longer, as he needed to obtain a train ticket from the
railway station opposite the hotel for his weekend visit to his
sister in Fleetwood.

John’s alarm
clock woke him at 7.30. It was a dull day after a night of heavy
rain. He showered in the bathroom at the end of the corridor, and
shaved when he returned to his room.

He dressed in
his new trousers and shirt, which he had purchased purposely for
the trip, and slipped on a pair of cheap new shoes. He packed his
small bag with a change of clothes and a wash bag. He left his room
with his recently dry cleaned jacket, which he folded and neatly
placed across his arm.

He ate his
breakfast early and sat outside the warden’s office, waiting for
him to arrive. The warden rushed in carrying his briefcase and
wearing an overcoat.

‘Good morning
John, you look smart, come through,’ he said, as he unlocked his
office door.

The warden
explained the procedure of weekend visits, with emphasis placed on
his return by 10pm Sunday evening.

He left the
hostel with a spring in his step, looking back at the building as
he entered the street for his walk to the railway station. The
morning sun was burning off the overnight mist from the wasteland.
He crossed the road to the shop for his cigarettes.

The station
platform was busy with commuters as he pushed his way through to
the cafeteria at the far end. He purchased the daily paper and
ordered a cup of tea. He went to the only unoccupied table,
situated at the far end. He took one sip of his tea and noticed his
train arriving at the platform.

Leaving his
tea behind, he raced to the platform and stood amongst the usual
confusion of people pushing their way through. He peered through
the steamed up windows as the train slowly pulled to a halt
alongside him. He pushed through the scrambling passengers and made
his way down the aisle. He found a vacant seat where an obliging
lady removed her shopping bag as if reserving it for him. Although
the sun had begun to force its way through the clouds, it was cold
in the unheated carriage. The train slunk beneath the old bridge
opposite the station hotel, gathering speed as it left the
platform.

After an hour
in the chilly carriage, he went to the lavatory and read the
scribbled feelings of previous passengers as he sat on the pan,
getting warmth from an air-vent at his side.

He returned to
his seat just in time to see the outskirts of Manchester where he
was to connect to his Blackpool train.

The passengers
left their seats as if they had been instructed to evacuate. They
raced to the doors as the train approached the station.

He had only
five minutes connection time as the inaudible voice echoed through
the station informing passengers that the train to Blackpool was
ready for departure.

He briskly
walked to platform 4 and boarded the awaiting train.

He was
relieved on entering the half empty carriage and took the first
available seat by the window. He removed his jacket and settled
into his seat, relieved at catching the train and finding a heated
carriage for the one-hour journey.

He found the
views of the open countryside were unfamiliar, along with the
buildings. It had been over twenty years since he last visited his
neighbouring towns. As the train approached the outskirts of
Blackpool, the only recognised structure was Blackpool Tower which
stood high and proud in the distance as the train slowed into the
station.

He left the
train, correcting his jacket as he walked up the platform searching
for a glimpse of Jennifer among the group of people at the barrier.
His eyes were directed to a waving hand at the far end, it was
Jennifer desperately trying to attract his attention.

Her face was
grey, unfeminine and without make-up; she wore a long tan coloured
coat with a small grey brimmed fur hat covering most of her dark,
short cut hair. She looked older than he had remembered five months
earlier when she visited him at the hostel. She firmly gripped the
sides of his head pulling his face to hers and gave him a
reassuring kiss on his cheek. He did not reciprocate. He smiled at
her as she led him through the concourse and into the car park.

‘It’s so good
to see you John, how was your journey?’ she asked, as she gave him
a slight squeeze on his arm.

‘It was fine,
but the first train was cold and very busy,’ he replied, as
Jennifer reached into her pocket for her keys.

It was a small
red Vauxhall Nova with grey seats. John threw his bag in the back
seat as Jennifer excitingly got into the driving seat.

‘Do you still
drive, John?’ she asked, as she started the ignition.

‘Yes, but I
haven’t driven since I came out of…’ he hesitated as Jennifer
continued with his sentence. ‘Prison, John, there is no reason to
feel embarrassed about it, it’s over now, and you must try and
forget about it. You are coming home for a weekend, away from all
that, it’s only two days, so you must enjoy yourself,’ she said, as
she pulled out of the car park. Her seat was pulled to its most
forward position as she peered over the small steering wheel, which
appeared to rest on her knees. The whine of the underpowered engine
sounded like a sewing machine as they drove along the promenade
towards Fleetwood.

‘Do you
recognise anything, John?’ she asked, as she stared at the
road.

‘Yes,
nothing’s changed except the new tram shelters,’ he replied.

‘Did you eat
anything, John?’ she asked, facing him as they stopped at a set of
traffic lights.

‘Well, I had
breakfast before I left but nothing since,’ he replied.

‘Well, I’ve
made you a bit of dinner, it’s not much but it will keep you going
before tea time,’ Jennifer said, as she accelerated heavily, making
the engine scream as if in agony.

He noticed the
drastic changes as they drove through Fleetwood town centre. The
old school was now the town’s library, the old fishing port now
housed a huge glass shopping centre, and the newly-built health
centre occupied the land where his old school had stood.

As Jennifer
carefully turned into Redwood Drive, he recognised the houses,
although they had been extended over the years, and many supported
conservatories and paved drives. The trees were large and well
established; which gave the road a more affluent feel, affording
extra privacy to the large houses which lined each side.

As she turned
into the drive, hitting the curb as she entered, the house looked
larger from the outside to what he remembered. It was surrounded by
a large un-kept garden. It had been nearly forty years since his
father had evicted him, refused to accept him as a son and cutting
him out of the family will.

Jennifer
parked the car facing the doors of the double garage. They were in
desperate need of a paint and repair.

‘We’re home,
John,’ she said, as she struggled out of her seat. John followed
her along the uneven path to the large front door; also in need of
paint along with the window frames.