Inseparable Bond (31 page)

This was the
charity shop where he regularly bought used panties and could not
afford to be recognised with his sister.

She returned
clutching a carrier bag and produced a three-piece dark blue suit
and a conservative striped tie.

‘I got you
this dear, I hope it fits,’ she said, holding it from the hook on
the hanger.

He hesitated
for a moment, looking at this old fashioned well-worn suit.

‘That’s
lovely, Jennifer,’ he said, not wanting to offend, nor being in a
financial position to decline.

The drive back
was precarious. The tide was at its highest, lashing spray covered
the open part of the promenade, obstructing John’s vision as the
car was buffeted by the strong wind.

Once they were
home, Jennifer ran to her bedroom to watch the rough sea from her
window. The Irish Sea was greenish-grey, with dirty white crests
that broke off the waves to make a trail of spray, although it was
not as spectacular as pounding the sea wall on Blackpool
promenade.

Although being
denied the opportunity, she was pleased with her short outing and
happily criticised Blackpool for the rest of the day.

The wind
decreased about 4 o’clock. People surfaced from their homes and the
gull’s returned from their shelters, swooping and diving for scraps
of food washed up from the receding sea.

John relaxed
in a hot bath as Jennifer plated the cream cakes she bought in
Blackpool.

John Bell was
now one day over 60. He was still slim, but not a tailored figure.
He had retained his right jawed smile, and his hair, but now he had
aged. His cheeks were drawn and his face wrinkled, yet something of
that former youth had been replaced with distinction. He did gentle
arm exercises each morning and his garden kept him fit, although he
soon became out of breath, probably caused through smoking.

He had kept
himself fit in his prison years. The prison gym was well-equipped
and he had not been restricted to its use.

Jennifer
looked radiant and youthful, but some days she looked her age, her
afternoon naps got longer and at times, would have difficulty
getting up the stairs.

The move to
the new house had rejuvenated her, as the old house was dark, cold
and depressing, more so now as the entire roof had collapsed and
most of the windows had been vandalised.

The benefit of
the new house was the bay window that was her place, the garden was
his. She would sit in the window at any given opportunity, her feet
on the footstool, and her cup of tea on the side table and the
corner of an embroidered handkerchief held tightly in her
teeth.

They lived in
harmony and happiness, more like a married couple than brother and
sister, but occasionally they clashed, and when one thing went
wrong, other discords followed, but there had not been any major
disagreements in the new house.

They ate their
cream cakes and drank tea by the fire, watching television. The
Channel Four news was showing pictures of the gale-force winds,
which had lashed the coastline, bringing chaos and havoc to
Blackpool promenade.

‘So you saw
the waves after all,’ he said to Jennifer with a smile.

He got up and
tapped the old brass barometer on the wall. It had been his fathers
and his fathers before that. Jennifer had insisted it hung over the
large dresser where she proudly displayed her collection of
silverware.

‘It says it’s
going to be a fine day tomorrow,’ he said, tapping it with his
knuckle.

Jennifer
didn’t answer, she had fallen asleep.

He quietly
picked up the tray and crept into the kitchen, so as not to disturb
Jennifer. His face reflected in the window as he proudly gazed at
his garden and the two birds picking at the stale pieces of bread
Jennifer had thrown out of the window.

The large
dining room table was always dressed with plates and glassware, but
never used. They ate in the kitchen, occasionally on trays in the
front bay window, but they didn’t have visitors, only the odd bible
basher who called to see Jennifer from time to time. No one ever
stayed long enough for a meal, nor were they ever invited.

He went back
to the lounge, turning the volume up on the television while
Jennifer snored heavily in her chair, a cashmere shawl draped
around her thin shoulders. He watched her mouth quiver as she
slept, thinking to himself. Despite all the differences, there was
no mistaking the facial resemblance to his mother. She had the same
determined jaw and the large eyes and the mouth that could go
easily from smile to snarl.

She was a
slight, shrivelled figure with thinning white hair. He looked at
her with interest. She was looking old, her withered arthritic
hands shook gently as she slept, but she was a woman who had come
to terms with ageing. She hadn’t dyed her hair or painted her face
to camouflage the wrinkles and always dressed conservatively.

Jennifer had a
snooze every afternoon, probably because the house was warm. The
old house had been impossible to heat, whereas now they had several
big radiators keeping the rooms warm, despite large windows that
provided a view of the open sea.

On the wall
there was one large painting that dominated the room. It was a
typical eighteenth century battle scene, which Jennifer had
acquired for £7 from the chapel jumble sale.

He walked to
the window, clasping his hands together behind his back, watching
the traffic race past and some people waiting to cross the
esplanade, hunched against the bitter cold wind.

The sound of a
car horn disturbed Jennifer from her sleep. She heaved herself out
of the chair and went to prepare the evening supper as John studied
the vast coastal landscape.

He threw a log
on the fire, which exploded in sparks, before going in to lay the
table.

Jennifer
grilled two chicken breasts wrapped in smoked bacon. Cauliflower
and rice bubbled in the pans under the grill. John set the table
and neatly folded two serviettes.

Jennifer had
felt tired all afternoon and decided to go to bed straight after
supper.

John went
upstairs to change into his old corduroy trousers, now whitened and
worn to the under-fabric. His shaggy crimson roll-neck sweater came
almost to his knees and his scuffed leather boots had zipper sides
and two-inch heels.

He turned all
the lights off in the house except the standard lamp in the bay
window.

He walked out
to the car, looking up at Jennifer’s window as he slid into the
seat. The wind had decreased and the night air was clear as he
drove along the esplanade towards the sex shelter on the unlit
section of the promenade.

A few cars had
already arrived. The voyeurs and hopefuls were resting their arms
out of the driver’s open windows. He reversed the car between a BMW
and a Range Rover which he had seen on his way back from the car
wash a few days earlier, with the same two occupants inside.

A middle-aged
guy confidently walked along the cars, bending down to see the
drivers as he slowly ambled along, his hands in the pockets of his
faded designer jeans, his white trainers and tartan shirt
illuminated by the sidelights of the cars.

Nobody
interested him as he continued to walk over to the sea wall towards
the other shelter further along.

There were two
silhouettes at the far end of the dark shelter. One guy was leaning
against the wall; the other crouched down between his legs
performing oral sex.

The door of
the BMW opened. The bright cab light briefly illuminated the
interior, displaying its fine leather upholstery as the driver
walked towards John’s car. He was smartly dressed in dark trousers,
loose collared white shirt and unbuttoned waistcoat. John watched
him as he hovered around the shelter, looking at the two guys by
the wall, keeping a polite distance so as not to disturb them. He
had a tall, thin figure but his face was undisclosed in the
darkness.

John leaned
out of the window, smoking a cigarette as the guy approached
him.

‘It’s not very
safe here, I know a better place,’ he said, leaning against the
car.

‘Well, I’m not
sure, how far is it?’ John asked, looking up at his thin face and
dark, neatly trimmed Mexican moustache and large white teeth.

‘It’s not far,
just follow me,’ he said, standing upright and walking towards his
car.

John turned
the ignition and followed the bright rear lights of the car as it
sped away from the shelter at high speed. The powerful BMW
accelerated along the promenade, leaving John’s Astra struggling to
catch up. He kept his eyes on the rear lights in the distance, not
wanting to lose him in the heavy traffic.

He caught up
to the BMW as they approached traffic lights in St Annes. He
followed the car along a wide avenue flanked on each side by large
expensive looking modern houses, some of Mediterranean style.

The car swung
into a narrow drive, John parked on the street outside the Spanish
looking property painted a burnt orange colour with white window
shutters. The bright amber streetlights emphasised the colour,
making the effect look tacky and cheap.

The guy waited
at the open front door as John walked up the drive. He smiled as
John passed him, entering an arched passageway with rooms leading
off.

‘I’m Simon,’
the guy said, walking through to one of the rooms.

‘I’m John,’ he
replied, following him through. The room opened out into an open
plan lounge-diner with a kitchen at the far end. The table still
had the remains of breakfast; a vacuum coffee pot, a glass jug of
juice and expensive-looking tableware of a sort that Jennifer would
have liked.

It was
decorated in a theme of pink and white. On the walls there were
three framed pictures of Spanish landscapes.

He went
through to the bedroom. John followed. Six amateurish watercolours
of naked young olive-skinned youths covered the yellow walls. He
reached over the bed to draw the yellow floral curtains and
immediately started to undress.

John sat on
the bed to un-zip his heeled boots and removed his shabby
corduroys, sweater and shirt. Simon stood naked as he fiddled with
the alarm clock he had taken from the bedside table.

His body was
firm, smooth and tanned all over. His thick black hair and long
moustache gave him the appearance of being Spanish, but he seemed
to speak perfect English.

They lay naked
on the expensive multi-coloured bedspread and performed enjoyable
sex for the next hour.

They chatted
over coffee afterwards. Simon lived permanently in Barcelona where
he taught English in a primary school, visiting St Annes during
holiday periods.

He walked John
back to his car and went back inside as John drove off, giving him
a wave and a smile of appreciation.

The wind had
now decreased and the bright full moon shone over the Irish Sea and
the offshore oilrigs, standing like anchored aircraft carriers in
the mist.

Blackpool
promenade was now quiet. A few drunken souls staggered and swayed
along the pavement, clinging onto each other for support.

He drove back
on the unlit section past the sex shelter, slowing down to peer
through the windscreen at the huddle of silhouettes inside. He
accelerated and drove on.

Once in the
house, he sank down in an armchair in front of the remnants of the
fire, and sighed. He turned on the television and lit a cigarette.
The late night horror film was timid and immature. He soon became
uninterested, as the film didn’t contain excessive brutality and
violence, which would retain his attention. He finished his
cigarette, turned off the television and the standard lamp and went
upstairs to bed.

It was Sunday
morning. Jennifer was polishing her brown shoes under newspaper on
the kitchen work surface. The bacon spluttered in the pan as John
quickly turned it over with a fork, standing back as a hot spray of
fat hit the front of his striped apron.

Jennifer had
eaten a bowl of cornflakes, toast and marmalade. Her china cup and
saucer sat on the kitchen surface next to her unfashionable but
sensible brown lace-up shoes.

John plated
his greasy and disarrayed breakfast on the table and poured his
tea.

Jennifer sat
on the chair, squeezing the polished shoes onto her small feet as
Sylvia tooted her car horn at the front of the house.

‘Are you going
out this morning, dear?’ she asked John, as she buttoned the top of
her coat.

‘I’ll probably
go for a walk along the esplanade, there’s nothing I can do in the
garden,’ he mumbled through his mouth as he chewed his bacon.

Sylvia
impatiently tooted the car horn again as Jennifer looked in the
mirror, tucking strands of white hair under her wide brimmed hat.
She hurriedly ran through the front door, putting her glove on,
giving John a quick wave with the other one as she got into the car
and drove off.

The church
service normally lasted an hour and a half, but she wouldn’t be
back until at least 1 o’clock as the bible class stayed behind in
the vestry, drinking tea and gossiping.

John cleared
the breakfast pots, grabbed his hooded raincoat and walked down the
esplanade towards town to view the artist’s exhibition he had read
about in the local Gazette. There were dark clouds racing over the
rough sea and the drizzle of rain had now become spasmodic heavy
showers and gusting winds. He wished he had now taken the car, but
the park was in sight, so he continued to walk.

Groups of
people trudged through the downpour with grim determination. When
he arrived at the park, the artists who displayed their paintings
had covered them with sheets of plastic and gone to find shelter
under the covered entrance porch of the Great Euston Hotel opposite
the park.