Inseparable Bond (25 page)

Nervous energy
and adrenalin pumped through John Bell’s system, his perceptions
heightened and he felt totally focused and in control.

The vicar
turned to the door.

‘What are you
doing here?’ he asked, stepping backwards towards the kitchen unit,
his hands searching to grab the work surface to steady his balance,
John Bell slowly closed the kitchen door, keeping focused on the
vicar’s wide and terrified eyes.

The reek of
stale sweat invaded John’s nostrils as he walked over to the vicar,
his body shaking as he pinned himself against the work surface
turning his head away from his hooded face as he slowly
approached.

Bell reached
over the work surface, taking the largest kitchen knife from the
wooden rack, he placed it on the vicar’s cheek. He broke loose,
running out of the kitchen and up the flight of stairs, Bell in
close pursuit, wielding the long bladed knife as his victim
stumbled and fell on the top landing.

The vicar lay
on his back, his raised chest supported by his elbows. He opened
his mouth as if to speak but only fearfully gasped for air as Bell
stood on his shaking hands with his heavy body weight.

The vicar
screamed in pain as the metal tips of the shoes bore deep into his
skin. As the vicar screamed once more, Bell lifted his foot and
kicked the vicar in his face with full force. His head fell
backwards; his face fell to the left. Bell stared at his open and
motionless eyes, watching the Persian carpet absorb the blood
seeping from his ear and through the shattered remains of his
nostrils.

The heavy
force of his foot had broken his nose bone, which became embedded
in his brain. He was dead.

Bell stood
back against the banister, he could hear himself breathing, short
and shallow. He tried to break the rhythm, to slow the pace.

The carpet was
becoming saturated with the blood oozing from each facial
orifice.

He placed his
hands under the armpits of his victim. Using his full strength he
lifted the corpse, bending him forward and pushed the limp body
from the top of the stairs.

He watched the
vicar’s body clumsily roll to the bottom of the narrow staircase,
stopping with a heavy thud as it landed on the wooden floor.

He quickly
rolled up the blood soaked carpet, dragging it through to an open
bedroom door. He removed two suitcases from the top of the large
wardrobe, threw the carpet on top and replaced the suitcases,
disguising the carpet.

He rooted in
the cupboard under the bathroom sink and found cleaning materials;
he quickly wiped the blood from the parquet floor, which had seeped
through the carpet. Looking around to see that no signs of evidence
remained, he went downstairs stepping over the limp body. The
vicar’s eyes and mouth were wide open, staring at the ceiling,
blood still seeped from his battered face, becoming congealed
around the sockets of his eyes. His arm had broken in the fall and
lay up his back in a twisted angle.

Bell lowered
his face to the vicars, satisfying himself that he was dead. He
looked around the kitchen, placing the knife back into the rack
before leaving the house.

He lowered the
hood from his face as he approached the side street, briskly
walking across the road and down the avenue to Jennifer’s
house.

His heart was
beating rapidly, the stench of stale sweat drifted up to his
nostrils as he wiped his brow with the sleeve of his jacket. He
frequently looked behind him, increasing his speed as he approached
the house.

He jumped over
the wall, resting briefly by the side of the outhouse. The ladder
was lying alongside the building. He placed it against the wall and
climbed onto the roof, pulling the ladder up once he was secure. He
balanced the ladder on the roof of the outhouse and gently placed
it against the wall of the house directly under the small window.
He climbed up, squeezing himself through the small frame. Once
inside the safety of his bedroom, he lowered the ladder to the
ground. He watched the ladder fall to the ground as he pushed it
away from the wall.

Closing the
window, he quickly undressed and filled the bath with hot
water.

A tap came at
the bathroom door. ‘John, I heard you get up, I’ve left you a cup
of tea on the window sill, we’ll eat about seven,’ Jennifer said,
through the closed door.

He felt no
remorse, only satisfaction as he savoured his time in the hot water
of the steam filled bathroom. He smiled as he recalled the hostel
warden telling him on his release, ‘the percentage of murderers who
re-offend is minimal’.

Taking a deep
breath, he lowered his head under the water, rubbing his hands
vigorously through his greasy hair.

He felt
relieved and accomplished after his latest gruesome murder. He felt
no remorse on taking another innocent life, but satisfied that his
manipulation over his sister would be revived without intrusion and
interference from the vicar.

It was 7
o’clock; Jennifer had made lamb stew for supper. She was a good
cook, always stayed on the side of caution when preparing food,
never over ambitious and carefully scrutinised everything she
purchased.

‘You slept for
a long time this afternoon, John,’ she said. ‘I brought you a cup
of tea earlier but your door was locked so I didn’t disturb you,’
she said, as she scooped a spoon of mashed potato on John’s
plate.

‘Yes, I was
tired, Jennifer, I only woke as you brought my tea to the
bathroom,’ he replied.

He thought it
was best to remain indoors for the night. He lit a fire in the
sitting room and they spent the night together watching television,
Jennifer curled up in her wing chair, her hands keeping warm under
her small legs hidden beneath her blanket.

‘I think we’ll
drive to St Annes tomorrow, Jennifer,’ he said, watching the
television as he spoke.

‘Now that
would be nice, dear,’ she replied, smiling over at him. ‘I should
go to chapel but they won’t mind if I miss just the once,’ she said
excitingly.

The late film
was a gripping thriller, they stayed up late to watch the end,
drinking mugs of hot chocolate and munching vanilla cream biscuits.
They went upstairs together, Jennifer giving him a kiss on the
cheek as she went into her bedroom.

‘That was a
lovely evening, John, sleep well,’ she said, turning to walk to her
room.

His alarm woke
him at nine. The strong sunlight lit his bedroom as he went to look
out of the window. The first cluster of daffodils was fighting
their way through the fallen branches in the overgrown garden. He
was looking forward to spending the spring days trimming the grass
and felling the trees.

Jennifer had
prepared one of her traditional breakfasts; the smell of grilled
bacon and sausage filled the air as he walked into the kitchen.

She looked
radiant in a red polo-neck sweater and red pleated skirt, dressed
for the occasion of the drive to St Annes.

John ate
breakfast, reading the local free paper which had been put through
the letterbox with a pile of junk mail.

They climbed
into a small Nova, the engine turns over and splutters into life.
Once on the promenade, the car went well as the road was flat the
entire journey. The car was getting old and the lack of use after
the recent winter hadn’t helped. The small engine would protest
when attempting steep hills, the bodywork was rusting and letting
in water which collected in the passenger foot well.

They parked at
the Queens Hotel and sat at a table outside overlooking the wide
grass esplanade adjacent to the vast beach, the sea in the far
distance. They drank coffee and walked arm in arm along the
esplanade in the cool air and spring sunshine.

It was still
light when they arrived back home. Jennifer went through to the
sitting room; John made a pot of tea and was carrying it through on
a tray when the telephone rang. He placed the tray on the hall
table and lifted the receiver.

‘Hello,’ he
said.

‘I must speak
to Jennifer, is she there?’ a woman’s voice answered.

‘I’ll just get
her for you,’ he said. John placed the handset on the table, picked
up the tray and took it through to the sitting room.

‘It’s for you,
Jennifer,’ he said.

She got up
from her chair and went through to the hall. ‘Hello,’ she said. The
conversation didn’t last for more than a couple of minutes.

‘Oh dear, oh
dear, are you sure?’ he heard Jennifer replied to the caller.
‘Thank you for telling me, I’ll call around tomorrow,’ she said,
putting the receiver back.

She slowly
walked back into the sitting, steadying herself by holding the
doorframe as she entered. John continued pouring the tea.

‘Oh, John,’
she said. ‘I can’t believe what I’ve just been told,’ she said,
sitting down on the sofa, putting her head in her hands.

‘What’s the
matter, Jennifer, you look as white as a sheet,’ John asked as he
casually poured the tea.

‘Marion Butler
from the bible class has just told me that the vicar has fallen
down the stairs, he didn’t arrive for the morning service and
Ronald Belington, the organist went over to the vicarage and found
him,’ she said, reaching into her handbag for a tissue to wipe the
tears from her face.

‘Is he hurt,
Jennifer?’ John asked, sympathetically,

‘Hurt, no,
he’s not hurt, he’s dead, John, he’s dead!’ she screeched, sobbing
uncontrollably into her tissue.

He placed a
cup of tea on the side table and sat alongside her, his arm around
her shoulder as she leaned over against his chest.

‘I just can’t
believe it, John, I only saw him two days ago,’ she said, her small
hands shaking as she peeled off a row of tissues. ‘I’ll have to go
upstairs, dear,’ she said, leaving the room, shaking her head in
disbelief, trying to staunch the flow of tears running down her
face.

John sat back
in the sofa with an icy smile, his protruding teeth on his weasel
face below unkempt hair. He somehow looked like one of life’s
losers, the one who is permanently unemployed and the one who
manifests in violent outbursts. The dangerous man the vicar had
always thought, and the psychologically disturbed

Schizophrenic,
the prison psychiatrist had said.

He sat back
drinking tea and smoking a cigarette, without conscience, without
remorse and without feelings for his heart broken sister as she lay
in her room, inconsolable with grief.

The vicar had
been a strong pillar of the small community, a kind and popular man
who was liked and respected by all. Everybody in the town would be
in shock on the announcement of his death, everybody that is,
except John Bell. Word soon circulated around the town, the local
newspaper wrote an article, praising the good work he did for the
community. People in the shops talked openly about his untimely and
unfortunate death. His daughter was driving up from Bournemouth,
his son and family flying over from Melbourne.

The town was
stunned; Jennifer was mortified, concentrating on the flower
arrangements in preparation for the funeral to be held in his
chapel.

The atmosphere
in the house was cold and uninviting. Jennifer had drawn all the
curtains, this time in respect of Norman’s death, not for retaining
the heat.

She spent
every day at the chapel, where she sought the company of others who
were equally devastated and anxious as she was. She clearly didn’t
want to be at home, she had to get out.

John was
saddened and disappointed that Jennifer didn’t turn to him for
compassion and support and she rejected him when he tried.

He spent much
of the day in his bedroom, listening to visitors frequently calling
to the house, offering their condolences to Jennifer while sipping
tea in the sitting room.

Once the
endless stream of visitors had gone, John made a couple of mushroom
omelettes for supper, placing one on a tray for Jennifer who was
sitting in darkness on the sofa in the sitting room. She took the
tray without saying a word, picking at the omelette with her
fork.

‘I know the
vicar’s death had upset you Jennifer, I know how you must feel,’ he
said.

She looked up
from her plate with an icy glare. ‘How would you know how I felt,
you didn’t like Norman, you never liked Norman because he liked
me,’ she snapped back to him.

This was not
how he had anticipated her reaction. The room went silent except
for his shallow breathing.

He took his
tray into the kitchen, scraped the half eaten omelette in the bin
and went back to his bedroom.

He had
momentarily lost control of Jennifer. The last few nights he had
found impossible to sleep, even though he felt sick through the
lack of sleep. He would cry each night, thinking to himself it
should not have been like this, this wasn’t his plan. He cried so
loudly he felt ashamed, but swore and hit himself in the face
through inner rage. He had expected Jennifer to turn to him for
compassion and sympathy, not the church-going bible bashers who
constantly invaded the house, disrupting their privacy.

The next
morning was another dull and grey day, an ideal climate to
complement the mood of the town John Bell thought as he looked out
of his bedroom window.

Jennifer was
downstairs, sitting at the kitchen table, gazing out of the window.
She had made herself a cup of tea. She looked tired and withdrawn,
wearing an old shabby sweater. She looked up as he entered the
kitchen. ‘Marion has just phoned, the police are all over the
vicarage, they say his daughter has found something incriminating,
it may not be an accident after all,’ she said, looking back at the
stained kitchen window.

His daughter
and son-in-law had arrived from Bournemouth. They stayed at the
vicarage while making funeral arrangements for their father and
sorting out the house. They were sorting out her father’s clothes
and reached for a suitcase from the top of the wardrobe.