Inseparable Bond (19 page)

It was a quiet
journey to the railway station. Jennifer appeared to have enjoyed
her weekend guest. John had found it enlightening and relieved
after the weeks of apprehension. He felt happy with the close bond
which had developed with his sister.

As they
arrived at the railway station, she parked in the waiting area
outside the arrivals concourse.

John reached
over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Jennifer, that was a
lovely weekend, you have been very kind and I’m so pleased I came,’
he said, as Jennifer held his hands with tears in her eyes.

‘We’ll speak
in the week, I’ll telephone you,’ she said, as he crawled out of
the small car.

She drove off,
waving frantically through her open window. The car disappeared
from sight as she turned in to the main road.

John went into
the station. He had half an hour before his train departed. He went
to the station café to bide the time.

‘NO SMOKING’
signs covered the walls. He took his paper cup to the outside where
Jennifer had dropped him off. The coffee was to be avoided as he
threw the cup in the waste bin and the end of his bun to some
pigeons.

He looked at
where he last saw Jennifer’s car disappear, half hoping to see her
return, yet they were both aware of the severe consequences should
he not return to the hostel by 10 o’clock that night.

He heard the
announcement informing him of his approaching train. He walked to
the platform with a last look over his shoulder at the entrance to
the station. He boarded the train; there was an abundance of empty
seats. He took a window seat in the centre of the carriage,
reaching over to the opposite table with four vacant seats and took
the newspaper which a previous passenger had discarded.

As the train
slowly pulled out of the station, heavy rain clouds hid the sun
which he had noticed gathering over the horizon as they drove along
the promenade.

The carriage
lights flickered as the train crossed over the points on the rails,
swaying the carriages from side to side. The windows were dirty on
the outside and even the stations were only grudgingly illuminated
as the train sped through.

The train
pulled into Wakefield Central Station on time. The platform was as
deserted as the train had been, but it was Sunday and to be
expected.

Crossing the
roundabout to attempt the hill to the hostel, John felt as though
he had been away for two weeks not two days. He climbed the hill,
now feeling a sense of rejection and loneliness, a feeling only
Jennifer had been able to erase.

The dull
weather did not help his disheartened feeling. He passed the waste
ground, his bag weighing heavy with the jams and remnants of the
two sponge cakes Jennifer had secretly placed in his bag.

He approached
the hostel; it was only 5.30, four and a half hours before his
curfew.

He looked up
at the Victorian building, which now resembled Strangeways after
his weekend of freedom and pampering.

The similar
smell and sounds greeted him as he entered the dimly lit hall.
Raised voices could be heard from the television room. John quickly
went up the stairs and into his bedroom.

His room was
ice cold. In his excitement to leave he had inadvertently left his
window open. He lay on his bed, realising for the first time the
discomfort of the thin mattress, the cheap bed sheets and the
shabby condition of his small bedroom.

His thoughts
were of Jennifer, sitting by the fire curled up in her big
upholstered chair with the orange flames shining radiant light on
her kindly face, the smell of roast beef drifting from the kitchen
and the feeling of unconfined freedom and genuine care.

The weekend
had been successful for both Jennifer and John but realistically he
was a psychopathic killer who had performed the most horrific
crimes which had continued whilst on parole with the murder of the
gypsy clairvoyant where he had miraculously avoided detection yet
allowing an innocent man to pay for his crime.

The process of
his rehabilitation had not been as successful as the authorities
and Jennifer had anticipated. Deeply embedded in his subconscious
was the urge to kill at any given opportunity, like a animal
cornered into submission with the only means of escape being to
kill its predator, then returning to the fireside to be fed,
stroked and pampered by its keeper, reciprocating only by loyalty
and companionship. In the case of John Bell, the only keeper
prepared to tame the unknown beast was Jennifer.

He raised his
body from the bed and washed quickly before going downstairs to the
dining room. The foul odour of boiled cabbage greeted him on the
corridor as he walked down the threadbare carpet of the narrow
staircase.

The dining
room was full as usual. The clatter and chatter of unmannered
people. The odour of their unwashed bodies overpowered the smell of
the cabbage. A fat little transvestite, in a pink dress and cheap
blonde wig, sitting alone on a table for one. The echoing sounds of
soup being slurped above the grating of metal chair legs on the
wooden floor. His weekend of relaxation had given him a comparison
to the realisation of his life.

He sat down at
the table, looking at an orange-coloured concoction which had been
placed in front of him.

‘How was your
weekend?’ Gary asked, slurping his soup.

‘It was good
thanks, I enjoyed it very much,’ he replied.

John found his
soup inedible. He decided to take a shower while the others were in
the dining room.

John had
always been meticulous in the cleaning of the bathroom. Entering
it, he noticed someone had unscrewed and removed the cabinet from
the wall. He stood examining the contents, which had been thrown to
the floor – a can of shaving cream, a packet of razor blades, a
pair of scissors and a box of Elastoplasts. He opened the mildewed
shower curtain, and noticed the tub was ringed with flecks of dried
mud and leaf debris. A dirty wet towel had been discarded and
thrown over the side of the bath.

A soiled
pornographic magazine had been thrown in the corner. The small
potted plants he had displayed on the windowsill had disappeared.
He breathed in through his mouth, the stench was unbelievable.

He walked back
to his room and sat by his open window, taking deep breaths of
fresh air as he looked down at the passing traffic before returning
to the television room.

He took his
usual seat by the window overlooking the garden. He noticed a
stranger in the middle of the lawn. He was small, thin and
scruffily dressed as he walked in a circle around a small rose
bush, constantly shaking his head sideways, knocking a few inky
strands of hair out of his eyes so that he could see where he was
going.

‘Who’s the guy
in the garden?’ he asked Baxter, who looked up from his book and
peered through the glass.

‘That’s
Rogers, came in yesterday from Armley, strange bloke,’ he answered,
shrugging his shoulders as he turned back to his book.

Old Hutchinson
was swaying backwards and forwards in his chair, the television on
full volume, but not enough to silence to the snores of Hilda
Ratchet, precariously perched on a high back chair by the overgrown
cheese plant in the corner.

The pub half
way down the hill was considered out of bounds although most of the
residents went in from time to time, as alcohol was not allowed in
the hostel.

John decided
to walk down for a quick half before getting an early night for
work the next day.

He pushed by a
group of parked motorbikes blocking the door to the pub. It was
dimly lit inside, with only a handful of drinkers sitting around
the half-moon bar. He sat on the first bar stool he found. The
ageing male bartender had an oddly youthful hairdo, puffed out at
the sides and dyed a lustreless brown.

‘What can I
get,’ he asked John.

‘Just a small
glass of beer please,’ he replied. He went over to the beer pumps
and continued his interrupted conversation with his customer.

He looked
around to see a middle-aged woman seated at a small polished table
in the corner. The sun coming in through the plate glass window
shined on her arms, reflecting on the glass of red wine she held in
place, staring at it constantly.

He glanced
around the bar at the wide range of dusty bottles in disarrayed
fashion behind the bar above a selection of crisps and packets of
nuts piled in a grubby basket.

A small group
of guys of various ages sat with their feet hooked around the rungs
of their stools, their leather pants and jackets darkly gleaming.
He wondered if the motorcycles belonged to them.

A silver disco
ball was spinning around, sending flashes of mirrored light dancing
across the nicotine stained walls.

He walked to
the toilet, passing the woman sitting alone. She looked up at him
as she blew out a thoughtful plume of smoke, and then tapped her
cigarette in the ashtray. Her tongue was purple from the red wine.
She nodded and smiled as he passed.

The guy who
had been throwing darts pulled up a stool next to him, bringing his
half empty beer glass with him.

‘She’s got the
hots for you, mate,’ he said, sneaking a sly look at the woman at
the table.

‘I’m not
interested in that,’ he replied.

‘Well, it sure
will cost you, she’s a known prostitute, same place, same table
every night,’ he said.

‘I didn’t
realise, but I’m now less interested,’ John replied, as he smiled,
looking into his beer.

‘So what are
you interested in, mate?’ he enquired, turning his head to face
John.

‘Well, not
that’ he replied. He drank the last of his beer and climbed off the
stool. The guy also climbed down. They walked out of the pub
together.

He was a
reasonably good-looking guy. Thirty-something with rugged looks
under his designer stubble growth. He wore a heavy black hooded
coat, black jeans and trainers.

They walked up
the hill together, with the hostel soon coming into sight.

The guy
stopped at a large house, converted into flats.

‘Fancy another
beer, mate? I’ve got a couple of cans in my place,’ he said, as he
reached in his deep pockets for his door keys.

‘Well I’ve got
a bit of spare time so why not?’ John answered, without
hesitation.

He followed
the guy through the door and up the stairs. The stairwell held a
mingling of smells; exhaust fumes, cat piss, faint traces of booze
from an array of empty beer cans and bottles which littered the
hall. The cement walls were painted nicotine yellow. He followed
the guy down the corridor to a battered and scratched door at the
end.

He braced
himself for the nightmare, which would surely flare before his eyes
once the door was opened. A terrible odour hit him, and he drew
back slightly before he entered.

Black bin
liners bulged as they littered the hall; they hadn’t been taken out
for weeks. The curtains were closed, and the place was dark and
stifling. The guy went over to the window and drew back the
curtains. He saw steel blue carpeting, cream coloured walls and
rubbish strewn about. A rancid smell pervaded everything.

The windowsill
was full of dead plants. Posters of pop groups were on the walls.
The ceiling was leaking in places, producing damp black patches.
The three-piece suite was haphazardly placed, with the foam
cushioning showing through the worn and filthy upholstery. There
was a stereo system on the floor; it looked in good condition,
along with a computer.

A large glass
ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts on the small coffee table.
A bunch of toffee papers and banana peelings were strewn about.

The guy went
into the kitchen, John followed. Two cockroaches skittered across
the Formica worktop. An old fashioned clock ticked on the wall
above the greasy cooker, and the stained and chipped refrigerator
hummed noisily. He stared at the sink full of dirty dishes. Some of
the dishwater had flooded over the aluminium basin and trailed
across the worktop, leaving a visible residue as it spilt over the
edge and dripped down onto the floor.

The guy turned
to John offering him a chipped mug of coffee. Out of politeness he
accepted and walked back into the lounge.

‘Come, let’s
go in the bedroom,’ the guy said, as he walked out of the room.

John followed
him. He passed the bathroom, the door was open. The scum and
residue in the porcelain tub was grotesque. A little cactus
struggled to grow on the small windowsill. Toilet paper littered
the floor and a stained laundry basket was overflowing with dirty
clothes.

In the bedroom
the guy had begun to undress, kicking off his shoes as he peeled
his shirt over his head.

The stench of
old sweaty socks and stale body odour overpowered him as he turned
his head back to the hall for a deep breath of air.

The sheets on
the bed had not seen a washing machine for many months, if not
years. A pile of clothes was on the floor in the corner of the
room. More posters were pinned on the deep red walls, a single bulb
hung from the ceiling.

A small table
at the side of the bed contained a tube of lubrication jelly, a
bottle of Amyl-nitrate and a box of tissues. A further glass
ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts and stained fossilized
condoms.

The guy lay
naked on the bed, his knees up and his legs apart. His body was
whiter than his face. A few strands of hair covered his overlarge
nipples and flabby chest. His legs were hairless. A small erect
penis struggled to reach the top of his pubic hair. He lay back
with one hand behind his head; the other hand circled the clump of
hair around his small potbelly as he curiously watched John remove
his clothes.