Inseparable Bond (43 page)

They drove a
few more miles along the coast road and George pulled in to a small
pub situated on the rise of a slipway that led down to the sea. The
Smugglers Inn was crowded with a mixture of businessmen and
walkers.

Five leather
booths faced the bar; each positioned next to a window and lit by
lanterns hanging overhead. The views from the windows looked
directly out to sea.

A waitress in
her early twenties, wearing a short black mini-skirt served them
roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, followed by apple pie and
custard.

Outside, a
crisp winter wind rattled the window. The overhead sky was dark and
threatened rain.

Jennifer
looked out to sea throughout lunch. She had always loved the ocean,
particularly when it was at its highest and roughest. They huddled
in the doorway of the pub as the rain lashed down, deciding when to
make a run for the car which was parked at the far side of the car
park.

Once inside,
they wiped the rain off each other’s faces and laughed like naughty
children.

George drove
back along the same route as Jennifer peered endlessly out to sea.
It was after four when they arrived back at Jennifer’s.

The sitting
room was cold and dark, lit only by the amber street lamps shining
through from the esplanade. George quickly laid a fire as Jennifer
prepared the evening supper.

She brought a
tray of tea and put it beside him as he fanned a piece of newspaper
in front of the fire in an attempt to raise a flame. Jennifer sat
back in the chair, pleasantly tired from another enjoyable day with
George.

By the time
they had finished supper, the fire was well ablaze and soon warmed
the room. They left the unwashed dishes and relaxed by the fire
watching television, sipping port with their cheese and
biscuits.

George stayed
until ‘News at Ten’ ended and drove back home.

Jennifer
washed the supper dishes, cleaned around the lounge and went to bed
about midnight. She didn’t sleep well. George had given her plenty
to think about.

As they felt
comfortable in each other’s company, George had suggested Jennifer
could sell her house, or rent it, and live in his house on the
Promenade. It was an interesting offer and worth considering as
they both rattled around in large houses.

Her lodger had
now found other accommodation, she only worked two afternoons a
week and that was coming to an end as Gladys was now recovering and
able to walk.

She would
definitely be a lot better off financially and she didn’t have any
commitments, apart from John. Whatever she decides to do, John
didn’t have a choice with his accommodation.

Bradshaw had
now been transferred to Dartmoor along with the others.

Big Bear and
Bell hung over the railings, looking at the new arrivals that were
being showered and de-loused below them.

Four more West
Indians, two Polish, three English and an African.

Paddy O’Leary
had been transferred to Brixton, which left two vacant beds in his
cell.

His request to
share with Big Bear had been refused and Big Bears application had
also been denied.

The screws
marched the new intakes along the landing, each carrying their
prison issues as one by one they were pushed through the open cell
doors to meet their new cellmates.

The line of
the new guys got smaller and smaller as they reached Bell’s cell.
As he leaned on the railings, he looked over his shoulder to see
the guard push a young white guy into his cell.

He let him
unpack his stuff and settle in before he went back in to meet
him.

He was Mick
Scott, a good-looking 23-year-old muscular teenager. This was his
first time inside. Bell looked over at him as Scott looked around
the small cell with tears in his terrified blue eyes.

‘Hi, I’m John
Bell, I’m your cellmate,’ he said to the guy as he walked into the
cell.

‘I’m Mick,
Mick Scott,’ he replied, as he shook Bell’s hand.

‘Which is your
bunk?’ he asked.

‘You’re the
top, I prefer the bottom, so it’s all yours,’ Bell replied.

He looked
around the stained cement walls of the small cell, his new home for
three years after a string of car thefts across the country.

Bell looked at
the guy’s young, innocent face thinking to himself, this guy will
need protection from the sex-crazed cons as he was just the type
they liked, unless Collins and Watson, the sex starved guards got
in first.

‘What’s it
like in this place, Bell?’ he asked.

‘Well, it’s
not the Hilton,’ Bell replied. ‘The foods cold and tasteless, the
sleeping conditions dismal, as you can see, the atmosphere in the
gym and the yard is well charged and there is always a sense of
impending danger, so watch your back.’

‘Sounds
great,’ the lad answered, reaching to look out of the small
window.

‘When you’re
ready, I’ll take you down to the food hall and show you around,’
Bell said.

‘Thanks mate,
I’d appreciate that,’ he replied, offering Bell a cigarette.

They left the
claustrophobic cell and walked down the landing and onto the main
corridor towards the food hall. Bell pointed out the gym, library,
shower block and the door to the closed exercise yard.

The food hall
was packed and the noise overpowering.

Mick Scott
took his meal to the table and elbowed his way in alongside Bell.
He didn’t eat his meal. He looked around at the hard prisoners as
they shovelled food into their mouths. The guy looked frightened
and close to tears.

‘You’ll soon
get used to it,’ Bell said to him, reassuringly.

Lock up was at
9 o’clock, lights out five minutes later.

Mick Scott
laid on his top bunk for his first night inside. He put a pillow
over his head to muffle the sounds of moans and groans, the
constant coughs, the occasional scream, the flushing toilets and
the music from hidden radios, none of it ceased until daylight.

Bell listened
to him sobbing in his pillow, but he was unable to remove the
sounds. Maybe he would get used to it. Bell never could.

Warm breath
against his neck and strong legs wrapped around his, woke Bell from
his light sleep. His back was wet with the sweat of Mick Scott’s
body. His arm was around Bell’s waist as he snored lightly in his
ear.

The young guy
had found the sounds of the night too frightening and had crept
into Bell’s bed for companionship and a sense of safety and
protection.

The rattle of
guard’s keys woke Scott from his sleep. He sprinted out of bed,
realising the embarrassing situation he had put himself in.

‘Wow, sorry
mate,’ he said to Bell, stepping back from the bunk.

‘No worries, I
understand, you’re a kid and the night sounds in this place would
break the hardest of men. I’d have done the same with my
ex-cellmate,’ Bell said.

‘So why didn’t
you?’ young Scott asked.

‘You didn’t
see the ex-cellmate,’ Bell replied.

The lights
came on and the guard unlocked the cell door. The daily clatter and
clambering of inmates soon filled the landing as they piled into
the showers and the food hall. Bell was working in the kitchen this
week. Scott had not been given a work detail so he spent the day
hanging around the yard, meeting up with the younger prisoners.

It was midday
when Bell was sent off kitchen duties as he was coughing and
sneezing over the food. He had a high temperature and spent the
rest of the day in his bunk. His nose was stuffed and his eyes
watered as he tried to sweat it out in the hot cell.

With the
prisoners either on work detail or in the yard, the wing was
relatively quiet.

He lay there
clutching his blanket up to his chin, thinking to when he was in
the same condition after getting soaking wet while doing Jennifer’s
garden. She would try everything to take away the aches and chills
and fussed over him like a mother more than a sister, filling a
large jug of hot water where she would throw slices of oranges and
lemons and two spoonfuls of honey in, then boiled everything down
until the contents were reduced and ready for him to sip
gently.

The heat on
the wing and in the kitchen was intense, and the extreme cold in
the yard resulted in many inmates coming down with the same, which
would easily spread from cell to cell.

By the
following day the fever had passed but he remained in his cell
feeling tired and weak.

Mick Scott
lingered around the cell making sure he was all right, bringing him
food on a tray like a son looking after his sick father.

He was
bed-bound for a couple of days until Scott and Big Bear wrapped him
up well, and took him out to the exercise yard for fresh air.

The older
lifer’s had been transferred to a separate wing, leaving the wing
population composed of the toughest of kids from some of the
poorest and more dangerous towns in the country. Some of the harder
teenagers didn’t seem worried about what they had done or appeared
to be on the brink of any rehabilitation.

Many had come
from a family of offenders and seemed to fall into groups or gangs
with little trouble and appeared to enjoy their stay, viewing it as
an opportunity to gain information on drug-related crime on the
outside.

Scott was the
exception. He hated it and had started scratching lines against the
concrete wall in the cell.

Many of the
youngsters were on assault charges and drug-related crimes. Cocaine
and heroin and a choice of more tranquil drugs were widely
available in the prison, brought in by wives and sometime their
kids at visiting periods.

Scott was
gradually being broken down by the system. He spent most of his
time in the cell, refusing to engage in any prison activity other
than an occasional walk around the yard with Bell. He would watch
the television and listen to music through his headphones but
didn’t engage in much conversation with anyone other than Bell. He
would occasionally go down to the gym, but only with Bell, where he
would do a strenuous mix of aerobics and weights, building up his
already firm and strong body.

He soon looked
upon Bell as a father figure and when Bell wasn’t on work detail he
followed him around like a lost puppy, often sleeping alongside him
throughout the night, yet never attempted to engage in sex.

Bell also
spent more time in his cell, unlike before when he would avoid
returning after his work in view of Bradshaw. He was now happy with
his new cellmate.

Bell had been
imprisoned for three years; seven years remained of his sentence
with little hope of a transfer to an open institution. He would
willingly go back to his former prison in Manchester than to remain
in this hellhole, but all the applications he submitted were
refused.

Scott had
saved the peelings from his daily orange on his breakfast tray and
stuffed them into the air vent, which was connected through to the
next cell. It was a great idea as the vent now exhales the sweet
odour of citrus and eliminated the foul smell of unwashed bodies in
the constant oppressive heat on the wing. He also took a thread out
of his blanket, which he used as dental floss, things which Bell
would never have thought of doing.

Bell had
persuaded one of the guards to place Scott with him on cleaning
duties. This was approved and it helped to raise Scott out of his
loneliness and depression.

Big Bear had
been transferred back to the ‘A’ wing but still shared the yard so
Bell remained to have contact with his best mate.

It was the
20th of December. A thin, sparsely decorated Christmas tree was now
suspended from the roof over the suicide net, reminding the
prisoners what they were to be further deprived off over the
festive season; family gatherings.

The bright
morning seemed more like late afternoon as Jennifer switched on the
kitchen light. She made an immediate start on the dishes from last
night’s supper.

George had
left earlier than usual, not very happy at Jennifer’s decision to
remain in her own home and refusing the invitation to move in with
him. She enjoyed his company and their outings, but she was an
independent woman who liked her own space and her own
surroundings.

After a deep
clean of the kitchen, she walked along the esplanade on her way to
her short afternoon shift in the charity shop. The wind was cold
but the air was fresh and clear, scented with just a slight tang of
the sea. The water slapped against the dock pilings and against the
hulls of the few moored boats as she stepped between the
fishermen’s tackle and baskets which littered the esplanade
pavement.

She was sad at
upsetting George and disrupting his plans, but had thought long and
hard before she had come to her decision.

The shop was
quiet. The high street was packed with Christmas shoppers as they
trudged their way up and down the street with their heavy bags,
brimming over with food and gifts from the neighbouring quality
shops.

She looked up
at the door each time it opened, hoping it was George as he always
called in on Thursday afternoon, but not this Thursday. The
afternoon passed at an agonizingly slow pace as Jennifer stood at
the window watching the heavy rain soaking the shoppers and half
expecting George to walk in.

She polished
some of the brass items, dusted the shelves, arranged the books
back in order and returned a couple of old coats back on their
hangers.

Enid Nettleton
from bible class came in for a brief chat and a free cup of tea
while she sheltered from the rain. A couple of other women
disturbed her arrangement of well-placed books and left the shop
without a purchase.

Jennifer
decided to close the shop early and pushed her way through the
crowds until she entered the quiet esplanade and walked home
slowly, looking at the moored boats rocking slowly in the light
breeze and the seagulls which swooped low over a fishing boat on
its way back to harbour with its cargo of fish.