Inseparable Bond

by David Poulter

  The amount of protection he received from the screws made the rumours well founded and he soon became alienated from the others.

  John Bell had only six months to go before his second attempt for parole. He was visited regularly by his social worker and probation officer who both appeared optimistic into this release, but Bell had already been turned down once by the parole board and remained pessimistic to avoid his hopes being dashed so cruelly.

  Should he be successful, he was aware that he would remain under the supervision of his probation officer until his sentence expired, if he gets into trouble or fails to report he may be recalled back to prison at any time throughout parole.

  The months passed quickly, a lot of hope had been concentrated on his parole application. The parole authorities found that Bell could be released but on strict conditions and only in the confinement of an ex-offenders hostel where he could find work, save some money and generally accustom himself to life outside.

  He was released two weeks after the hearing.

  A SECOND CHANCE

  The hostel was a large converted vicarage on the outskirts of Wakefield, in close proximity to the notorious Victorian prison, feared by the hardest of criminals.

  The hostel was sparsely furnished, a few odd chairs surrounded the walls of the entrance hall, the remainder scattered around in disarray in the television room.

  A few newspapers and magazines were piled on a centre table. The dining room was bright and cheerful with twelve paper-clothed tables against the walls, with two large un-curtained windows looking onto a large, well-kept gardens with two sheds at the end.

  The wide and red-paved drive contained a twelve-seat minibus; a silver Jaguar and a white rusted Honda Civic.

  John’s room was on the top floor, comfortably furnished yet basic, with a small window overlooking the rooftops of the city with the church steeple dominating the skyline.

  The bathroom and toilet was at the end of the corridor, shared by the four other rooms on the top floor.

  He lay on his bed looking around his room, noticing a damp patch in the corner of the wall between the two pictures of Winston Churchill and the Pope.

  There was an old fashioned wardrobe, which only closed shut by pinning a sock in the door. The curtains were thin and would render useless in even blocking out the moon.

  A small stained washbasin was equipped with a striped towel and a bar of soap.

  Compared to his previous accommodation, he could not complain as he went about unpacking his small case.

  He went down to the dining room at 5pm as instructed, and sat at the first available table with three other vacant chairs.

  A large girl came out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of soup which she put down in front of John. ‘You just arrived?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I have,’ he answered. ‘Am I alright to sit here?’

  ‘Oh yes, love,’ she answered. ‘The others will be in soon, they’ll show you around,’ she said in a kind and motherly way.

  As he started to eat his soup, a middle-aged woman joined him at his table. ‘Hi, I’m Dorothy, who are you?’

  ‘I’m John Bell’ he answered.

  ‘Oh, so you’re John Bell, Elizabeth said you were coming, you’re from the open place in Buckinghamshire aren’t you?’ she asked as she dipped her finger in the sugar bowl.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, got here today,’ he replied, ‘and who’s Elizabeth?’ he asked.

  ‘She works here, she brought you the soup,’ she said, as she turned her head around the dining room.

  Dorothy had been in the hostel for three months after her release from Style prison near Manchester airport after serving a two year sentence for child abuse.

  She was a portly woman with a kind looking face and obviously confident with her surroundings.

  Harold Brown, a tall, thin guy with big, long, bony hands soon joined them. He had spent five years in Strangeways also for killing his mother as they argued as to what programme to watch on television. He had a night job cleaning buses at the town’s depot. ‘This is John,’ Dorothy said to Harold.

  ‘Hi, John, are you just out then?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, came today,’ he answered.

  ‘This place is all right if you keep yourself tidy,’ Harold said to John as he peered over his half rimmed glasses held together with Elastoplasts. ‘Have they got you a job yet?’ asked Harold.

  ‘No, not yet, I’m to see my probation officer and social worker in the morning, I think they’ve got something lined-up for me,’ he answered.

  The dining room became noisier as the others came in for their evening meal, the sounds were now familiar to what John had been used to at meal times and he found comfort and a sense of security with this.

  They all glanced over but showed no hostility towards their new house guest although he could hear muttering at tables and assumed he was the centre of their topic.

  Elizabeth approached the table, undignified with her shuffling trainers and smokers cough, she took the soup plates away as she placed a small plate of three un-buttered slices of white bread in the centre of the table.

  Dorothy continued to dip her wet finger in the sugar bowl and lick it off as she constantly scratched the back of her head where her black greasy hair was tied-back with an elastic band.

  ‘What’s your number, John?’ Harold asked.

  ‘37109,’ he replied,

  ‘No you dickhead, your room number?’ he replied as he smiled at Dorothy.

  ‘Sorry, its number 4 on the top,’ he replied with a smile.

  ‘There’s no numbers in here mate, how long were you in?’ Harold asked.

  ‘Fourteen years in all, twelve in closed and two in an open in Buckinghamshire,’ John answered.

  ‘Phew, that’s some sentence mate, it’s going to take you time to adjust to the outside, so much has changed in fourteen years,’ he said, as he shook his head.

  The conversation is broken by the bang on the kitchen door as Elizabeth hits the door with a trolley piled high with plated meals, each covered with a tin plate ring. She loudly placed a pile on each table un-ceremonially as she continued to cough over the trolley as she pushed her way though to our table. She delivered the meals and left, wheeling her empty trolley back to the kitchen.

  The meal was mince, cabbage and mashed potato, not dissimilar to that of prison food, along with the similar surrounding noises, the only difference being the occasional laughter of a female voice.

  As Harold scooped up his meal with a dessert spoon, Dorothy circled her mince uninterestingly with her fork and continued dipping her finger in the sugar bowl, which she seemed to prefer.

  Another bang on the kitchen door revealed Elizabeth again with bowls of rice pudding and pots of tea, which she placed at each table as they crudely ate their mince and mash.

  ‘Fancy a game of snooker later, mate?’ Harold asked John.

  ‘O.K. that’s fine with me, I’m not going anywhere else,’ he replied. Dorothy left the table and went to the kitchen.

  ‘Why has she gone in there?’ John asked.

  ‘It’s on the roster, have you seen it, it’s in the kitchen, you’ll be on it by now, wash-up and kitchen cleaning, we all get a stint.’

  ‘I’ll have a look when I finish,’ he said.

  ‘Come on mate, let’s go for a game before this lot get there first,’ Harold said, as he gave John a reassuring pat on his arm.

  John Bell was now 48. From his teenage years he had spent half of his life in institutions in the hope of reforming him to a law-abiding citizen, but it was yet to be discovered if his time of imprisonment and hospital treatment has proved a success.

  He was under the supervision of the welfare and probation officer who would be immediately notified by the hostel warden in view of any immediate crisis.

  Due to his lengthy sentence, John needed gradations so he can gradually test out increasing freedom and responsibility as well as the ability to earn a living.
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br />   He was to face many special problems as he had no family members apart from his sister, but her husband would not allow him to visit the house and his sister had been restricted to the occasional prison visit to see her brother but with no outside contact.

  John had a restless night’s sleep, he found the silence of the house fearful as the last fourteen years had been spent by the sounds of cell doors banging, the constant jingling of keys and sobbing of inmates.

  Both probation and social officers who were eager to get employment for John as soon as possible visited him the next day. They had arranged an interview for him as a dishwasher in a local hotel, an unskilled and low paid job and it was only a temporary position without interest or excitement.

  He had to remain in the hostel until the officers were satisfied that he could adjust into society and not return to his criminal neighbourhood in Blackpool and Thornton.

  The hostel was a safe environment for the short-term, but he was reduced to sharing this accommodation with the mentally defective, the psychologically disturbed, the alcoholics and the drug addicts, but he had been assured the hostel would play a major part in reforming him, his parole being granted with a condition of residence at a probation hostel.

  Shortly after his probation officer left, he took his first steps into the outside world and walked down the steep hill into the town. He dodged the traffic as he entered Wakefield shopping centre. Sitting on a seat in the glass-covered arena, he watched the hundreds of people pass as they went about their shopping.

  Fashion had drastically changed over the years, girls with midriffs and the majority of youngsters wore baseball caps, piped music filled the air with a strong smell of coffee from the café stall behind him.

  He went into the café and sat at an isolated table at the far end. He had been sitting for over half an hour watching people eating and chatting, until realising it was a self-service café. Not being used to that system other than at meal times in prison, he left the café and headed back to the hostel where he felt safer and comfortable.

  As he walked through the front door, the warden was behind the small desk, ‘You’re soon back John, everything all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, yes,’ he said hesitatingly.

  The warden came from behind his desk. ‘Now sit here a minute,’ he said, as he took a seat next to him. ‘It’s been a long time, John, things have changed, you have changed and it will take time to adjust to the outside. I know what you are going through,’ he reassuringly said to John as he placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘You’ve got an interview in the Station Hotel tomorrow; your probation officer is going with you, so you’ll be all right, don’t worry.’ The warden went back to his desk and John went to his bedroom.

  He missed his evening meal and lay on his bed watching his small television when a knock came to his door. He reached over from his bed and opened it to see Harold holding a dish of peaches and ice cream.

  ‘What happened to you mate, you missed liver and onions, but I bribed Elizabeth to give me this for you, can I come in?’

  ‘Thanks, that’s very kind of you,’ John said. as he pushed the door open.

  Harold sat on his bed and passed John the bowl of peaches with a spoon.

  ‘I didn’t feel like anything to eat, I was in town today,’ John said, as juice trickled down his chin.

  ‘You don’t need to stay in your room, mate,’ Harold said.

  ‘I’m fine up here thanks, Harold. I’ve got an interview at the station tomorrow so I’ll be down for breakfast at eight, and I’ll see you then.’ John said.

  ‘If you want company, just bang on room 8 mate. I’ve got to work soon so I’ll be off then,’ Harold said, as he left the room, rubbing John’s hair with his hand.

  He had a better night’s sleep with only a few whimpering cries from the rooms along the corridor. He woke early at 6.30am and got dressed in the dark grey suit the social worker had supplied him with in preparation for his interview.

  He went down for breakfast and sat with Dorothy. Harold was not due back from his night shift at the bus depot until 8.30.

  ‘Did you enjoy your peaches last night?’ Dorothy said with a sly grin.

  ‘Yes, I did, it was kind of Harold to bring them to me,’ John replied.

  ‘Is that all he gave you?’ she said as she turned to the girl on the next table laughing.

  ‘What do you mean Dorothy?’ he innocently asked.

  ‘Oh, I just thought he might have given you something else, if you know what I mean;’ John knew exactly what she had meant but ignored her question and left the table, listening to he giggling as he walked out of the dining room.

  His probation officer was reading paperwork in the hall while he waited for John.

  ‘Now you do look smart, that fits you well John, are you ready?’ he asked as he opened the front door. ‘How do you find the place, are they all friendly?’ he asked John as he opened his car door.

  ‘Now the head chef knows all about your time inside, so you don’t have to mention that, just answer his questions and you’ll be fine. I’ll be waiting outside for you when you’re finished,’ the probation officer said, as he pulled out of the drive.

  As they drove to the hotel, John looked over at the public park with the children’s swings and roundabouts. The officer grabbed his arm. ‘You know that’s out of bounds John, get found in there and you’re back inside, you do know that, don’t you?’ the officer said. John nodded his head in agreement.

  Arriving at the hotel, they walked to the staff entrance and into the kitchen to the head chef’s office. He was a huge man with his tall hat, which emphasised his height.

  ‘Just sit there, John and we’ll quickly go through it,’ the chef said from his desk.

  ‘Now I know all about your previous so there’s no need to go into that, the job’s straightforward enough, you’ll be shown what to do by the other three porters and after a couple of shifts, you’ll be on your own, how does that sound John?’ he asked as he leant over his desk.

  ‘That sounds fine with me.’

  ‘Good,’ said the chef. He sat back in his chair and his facial expression changed. ‘Now look John, you’ve been a bad lad, so there’s no need to be telling anyone about that, let’s just keep that to ourselves, shall we?’ he said.

  ‘Yes I think that’s best,’ John replied.

  The chef stood up and opened the door. ‘Right, John; see you Sunday morning at seven,’ as he showed John out.

  John sat in the car as the chef spent a much longer period with the probation officer than he had with John. The officer returned smiling at the outcome. ‘Well done John, you’ve got yourself a job,’ he said, as he drove out of the hotel car park.

  The probation officer dropped John at the gates of the hostel on his way to Wakefield prison. He went to his room feeling slightly humiliated as he felt he had been treated like a child in search of his first job, but the welfare authorities had secured it. And he was not in a position to refuse.

  He had just taken his suit off when there was a knock on his door. ‘John, its Harold.’

  John opened the door and Harold pushed through. ‘Oh sorry mate, you’re half naked, how was the interview, did you get it?’ Harold asked as he sat on the end of the bed.

  ‘Yes, I start on Sunday morning at seven,’ he replied.

  As Harold sat on the bed, his eyes following John’s every move, he said, ‘My God, you’ve got a hell of a packet under them pants mate, a right mouthful. I bet the cons had a good time with you inside,’ as he got up from the bed putting his hands on Johns waist.

  ‘Sorry Harold, it’s not my thing,’ he said, as he removed Harold’s hands from his waist.

  Harold stood up from the bed, ‘Fuck you,’ he said, and slammed the door as he left.

  John had been subject to many similar situations with the cons inside, but mainly under forced conditions or when he had the urge to join into group sex sessions. Harold was a strange
looking guy; John didn’t feel comfortable with him in close proximity, irrespective of the friendship he showed. His teeth appeared too big for his thin face and his large eyes seemed to spark when he got angry, a typical psychopath and with previous convictions.

  Peter Stout was watching some cartoons. He was a 21-year-old black guy, and had arrived at the hostel a couple of weeks before John, after being released from a young offenders’ institution.

  His father had been a drunkard and a bully. Stout had first been convicted at the age of 12 for indecently assaulting a woman on the top deck of a bus, and he himself had been the victim of attempted buggery by his father, who he had stabbed three times in the chest for revenge. His father survived but Stout was convicted and received a six-year sentence.

  A mild-faced, sturdily built middle-aged man wearing gold-rimmed glasses; opened the door. He was wearing an open dressing gown revealing his stained underwear.

  It was Tommy Marsh. He had spent most of his life in and out of prisons for a string of crimes. His latest was in Nottingham, where he entered a school in an attempt to abduct a young girl, but when a teacher intervened, he stabbed her to death and drank the blood that spurted from her wounds. To look at him he appeared like a friendly village vicar or a kindly grandfather.

  He went to sit next to Peter Stout and whispered in his ear.

  ‘Fuck off, you sick bastard,’ Peter said, as he got up and slammed the door as he left.

  Tommy moved onto the chair which Peter had left, and changed the television channel to a quiz show. Tommy shouting the answers out occasionally disturbed the silence of the room. The kitchen door swung open and Nancy appeared peeling an orange. She was a strange girl, very thin and bit of a hippie with her long flowing hair, bells and beads, she was a vegetarian, fruit and vegetables only, she loved oranges and ate up to twelve a day, even her perfume smelt of oranges. She went over to sit with Tommy, placing a slice of her orange in his mouth.

  Nancy liked setting fire to things, she had burnt a wool factory to the ground in Batley and went on a rampage though the Bradford bus depot, setting fire to the parked vehicles. She was finally caught in Otley before the fire took hold in a paper factory. She looked over at John and with her staring eyes she said, ‘Don’t give me that pissie look, creep, else I’ll burn you.’ John looked away.