Inseparable Bond (40 page)

They sailed
back on the ferry, clutching a plastic beaker of strong black
coffee which Jennifer found impossible to drink, and poured it over
the railings into the river.

To avoid the
pushing and shoving on the subway platforms, George hailed a taxi
to take them to Bloomingdale’s department store, as Jennifer had
always wanted to see it after reading an article about it in the
church magazine.

She looked at
a crocodile wallet which was displayed in a glass cabinet. The
assistant removed it for Jennifer to see. Although it was very
expensive, she purchased it.

‘Will this be
for a gift, madam?’ the assistant asked.

‘Yes, it’s for
a friend of mine,’ she replied.

The sales
assistant carefully wrapped the wallet in gold wrapping paper,
sealing it with a black ribbon. She quickly popped it into her
handbag while George was looking through a row of brightly coloured
neckties.

They went up
the escalator to the top floor and had traditional afternoon tea in
the coffee shop, impeccably served by an extremely handsome
waiter.

They walked up
42nd street, smiling to each other as they passed the sex shops and
pornographic cinemas which lined the street on either side.
Prostitutes waited patiently on the street corners as the drivers
of smart cars peered through their windows at the scantily dressed
girls loitering from one corner to the other.

They ambled
slowly through the jostling crowds and along Lexington Avenue and
into the cool, air-conditioned lobby of the hotel.

‘That was a
very interesting day, George, thank you very much’ she said,
smiling like a young schoolgirl.

‘I’m pleased
you enjoyed it, I think I’ll go for a lay down before dinner,’ he
replied.

Jennifer had a
long soak in the bath; her feet were tingling as she lowered them
into the hot water. She had never walked that far for many
years.

She relaxed on
the bed, watching ‘Jerry Springer’ on television, he was trying to
control a violent couple that were attacking each other on the
stage; she pressed the remote control and settled her head against
the large, fluffy pillow to watch ‘Sons and Daughters’ although she
had little chance of relating to the story line of the daily soap
opera.

They agreed to
meet in the cocktail bar at seven. A table in the hotel restaurant
had been booked for 7.30. She changed into a long flowing black
dress she had purchased in Leeds after visiting John in prison.
This was the first time she had been given the opportunity to wear
it. She looked radiant as she walked into the bar clutching her
small silver handbag she had purchased at the same time.

George was his
usual immaculate self, dressed in a dark blue pin-striped suit and
gleaming polished shoes. The jewelled tiepin clipped to his new tie
he had purchased that day from Bloomingdale’s.

George had
taken the liberty of ordering a bottle of Chablis, which was
positioned next to him in a silver ice bucket on a tall stand. A
waiter approached the table with a selection of interesting looking
nuts, crisps and cheese portions on cocktail sticks.

He stood to
his feet as Jennifer nervously looked around the busy bar of
well-dressed couples and businessmen, shuffling through papers and
chatting on mobile phones.

The restaurant
manager escorted them to their table, followed by the barman who
carried the ice bucket and placed it next to George at the large
round table with plush velvet bench seating. The lights were dim
and it took Jennifer’s eyes time to adjust to the lighting before
she was able to read the menu.

The dining
room was remarkably quiet, seeing every table was occupied. A
pianist played a grand piano on a raised platform at the far end of
the dining room.

George lifted
the bottle of Chablis from the ice bucket, to be quickly
interrupted as the wine waiter took it from his hand and poured the
remaining wine into her glass.

Jennifer
ordered the lobster salad, which had been recommended by the
barman. George settled for the veal in sour cream.

They quickly
polished off the wine and George ordered another bottle.

Jennifer
chatted over the meal like an excited schoolgirl after her
interesting and enjoyable day. George sat back in the booth,
looking at her small clear face as she chewed her lobster,
occasionally swilling it down with her chilled wine. She talked
constantly through the meal.

‘I’m having a
lovely weekend, George, we should do this sort of thing more
often,’ she said, wiping her mouth with her white starched
serviette.

‘Well, we are
both retired and have no commitments, so why not?’ he replied.

After the meal
they went through to the lounge, followed by the waiter carrying a
silver tray which contained coffee and two glasses of brandy. The
lounge was designed on an English theme. The walls were clad in
wood; a large fire was lit at the far end. The Chesterfield leather
seating completed the effect, resembling a fine London members
club. Jennifer was in her element being pampered with the
impeccable service the hotel staff provided.

George was
looking increasingly tired as the evening progressed. Jennifer
could have easily carried on the evening out on the town, dancing
until the early hours.

It was after
eleven when they returned to their rooms. Jennifer watched the
television until she fell into a deep sleep.

The following
day was wet and gloomy. After breakfast they took a final walk
through Central Park, dodging the showers under the bridges and low
hanging trees. The skateboarders had found a more sheltered area;
the park was very silent with only a few down-and-outs looking
through the waste bins in desperation.

The flight
back to London left in the early evening, so they made their way
back to the hotel to pack their luggage for an early start.

George had
booked a car for the journey to the airport. A torrential downpour
soaked them in the few minutes it took from the hotel to the car
and the roads turned to rivers as people ran for shelter, cars
splashing water on their feet as they ran. Jennifer was used to
rain, but never to this extent. The wipers on the car thrashed from
side to side as they drove to the tunnel and out to the airport
highway. She turned her head to look out of the rear window to see
the city disappearing into the distance.

Getting
through the check-in and immigration was far more civilized than
when they had arrived and they were quickly seated comfortably in
the departure lounge.

Jennifer
looked through the huge glass window at the large nose of the
British Airways jumbo jet as fuel and delivery trucks circled it
like chickens feeding from a mother hen that had flown down from
the sky.

They made
their way down the covered gangway and were escorted to their
seats. The aircraft was soon pushed back from the stand as it made
its way slowly behind a long line of aircraft to its way to the end
of the runway.

A strict
senior steward checked the cabin, making sure they had all complied
with his instructions. He firmly told a well-dressed businessman to
close his portable laptop computer and fold away his table.

The roar of
the great engines soon lifted the big bird into the grey sky,
throwing them around until we cleared the thick clouds, which had
dumped their load of rain over the city of New York.

Many of the
passengers declined the champagne and told the crew they intended
to work right through the meal service; reading reports, ticking at
accounts and under-lining bits of ‘projections’ with coloured
marker pens, as others were tapping at their portable computers
with hinged screens, or reading the New York Times.

George
reclined his seat as soon the ‘seat belt signs’ were switched off.
Jennifer peered out of the window watching the setting sun dip
behind the clouds, occasionally looking at the ground between the
gaps in the clouds.

The captain
gave a brief announcement with details of the flight, assuring us
that he would not speak again to enable passengers to get a
peaceful and undisturbed nights sleep.

Once the
aircraft reached its cruising altitude and commenced its Atlantic
crossing, the cabin crew set our tables in preparation for the
dinner service. George declined dinner as he had stuffed himself on
a hamburger and apple pie in the airport coffee shop.

After the meal
service, Jennifer closed the window blind and settled back into her
reclined seat, wrapping a blanket around her as she watched a film
of unrecognisable actors on the small video screen built into the
headrest of the seat in front, stringent voices assaulted her inner
ear from the uncomfortable head set.

The main cabin
was in darkness, illuminated only by the small individual reading
lights shining down on the computers and paperwork while the
dedicated business men concentrated on their night’s work, sipping
mineral water from their bottles.

Jennifer soon
slipped into a deep sleep, woken only by the bright lights which
the cabin crew had switched on in preparation of the breakfast
service.

George had
slept right through, the businessmen still tapping away at their
computers.

George left
his seat and went to the washroom, followed by a queue of others
before they were trapped in their seats behind a breakfast
tray.

Jennifer
raised the window blind to see a magnificent sunrise turning the
clouds gold with the early morning rays. She looked down to the
ground to see the Atlantic below.

The captain
announced that we were approaching Southern Ireland and would
commence our decent over Cardigan Bay in half an hour’s time.

Jennifer
looked down as they entered the Welsh coastline, her eyes searching
for the Castell Malgwyn Hotel she had stayed at while on honeymoon
after the ceremony in Fleetwood. She was disappointed as a bank of
cloud restricted her view. The aircraft lowered its nose slightly
as they approached Heathrow airport.

They landed on
a bright and clear morning. The warm sun was rising on the horizon
as they walked from the aircraft and into the arrivals hall.

George
insisted on carrying the cabin bags, staggering under the weight of
chinaware she had purchased in the hotel shop before they left.

Ahead of them,
other passengers straggled on their way to Immigration and customs
control. Mothers carried their sleeping babies in their arms,
unaware they had arrived at their destination. The airport was
virtually empty apart from the normal police presence, standing
around scrutinizing the passengers as they walked past.

It was Sunday
morning, which would probably explain the lack of passengers at the
immigration desk.

An over-tired
customs officer demanded to see inside the box which George was
carrying. He carefully opened it as though it would explode in his
face as he lifted the flaps. He appeared disappointed when he
discovered only chinaware, which had been carefully wrapped in
bubble-wrap. George got annoyed with the unnecessary delay.

‘Do we look
like bloody terrorists or drug smugglers?’ he said, as he stormed
through the arrival doors where crowds of people had gathered to
meet passengers off the plane.

They climbed
onboard the transfer coach that would take them to the car park
where George had left his car during their two day break.

The roads
around the normally busy airport were quiet. They were quickly on
the motorway making their way back to Lancashire. They stopped
briefly at Hilton Park Service Station for a quick, over-priced
lunch and a wash and brush-up before continuing their long
journey.

George was
tired as they approached Blackpool, although he had slept for six
hours of the seven-hour flight.

The promenade
was busy with weekend visitors, although the bright sun they had
left in London had now decided to spend the rest of the day behind
the dark clouds.

George parked
outside Jennifer’s house and took her small bag into the house,
supervised by Molly next door peering under her net curtains.

George was
extremely tired and drove back home after a quick cup of tea.

Jennifer left
her case at the bottom of the stairs as she relaxed in her chair,
looking over at the boating lake while she finished her cup of tea.
Disorientated and jet-lagged, her mind reeled with the memories of
the weekend.

She carried
her case up the stairs, the bed looking too inviting to ignore
although it was only 2 o’clock in the afternoon. She had a quick
shower, drew the curtains and climbed into bed.

As she was
sinking into a deep sleep, a crash of thunder startled her. Gusting
winds and rain beat on the window and her bedroom became cold.

She went
downstairs, wrapped a blanket around her and watched the people
passing along the esplanade as she relaxed in her chair.

Unlike the
variety of Jennifer’s weekend, things remained the same in Armley
prison.

The only trips
John Bell had taken over the past two years were to the doctors,
psychologists, education officers and social workers. They assessed
him all on a monthly basis.

As Jennifer
was looking at the esplanade, Bell was looking at the urine and
excrement he had to clean up from the broken toilet in cell 61.

Once that was
done, he had to mop the floor of the day room on the hospital wing,
along with the bathrooms and kitchen.

There were
five rows of chairs across the day room and a television set at the
end. Down the side of the walls was a row of chairs where the
officers would sit and watch every move, but mainly to listen to
the inmate’s conversation.

The bathroom
consisted of twelve baths placed side by side. Bell cleaned the
floor around a bath where a guy sat naked in only six inches of
water. That was the maximum amount in case he tried to drown
himself. A nurse stood over him, watching his every move.