Inseparable Bond

by David Poulter

  As they arrived at the railway station, she parked in the waiting area outside the arrivals concourse.

  John reached over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Jennifer, that was a lovely weekend, you have been very kind and I’m so pleased I came,’ he said, as Jennifer held his hands with tears in her eyes.

  ‘We’ll speak in the week, I’ll telephone you,’ she said, as he crawled out of the small car.

  She drove off, waving frantically through her open window. The car disappeared from sight as she turned in to the main road.

  John went into the station. He had half an hour before his train departed. He went to the station café to bide the time.

  ‘NO SMOKING’ signs covered the walls. He took his paper cup to the outside where Jennifer had dropped him off. The coffee was to be avoided as he threw the cup in the waste bin and the end of his bun to some pigeons.

  He looked at where he last saw Jennifer’s car disappear, half hoping to see her return, yet they were both aware of the severe consequences should he not return to the hostel by 10 o’clock that night.

  He heard the announcement informing him of his approaching train. He walked to the platform with a last look over his shoulder at the entrance to the station. He boarded the train; there was an abundance of empty seats. He took a window seat in the centre of the carriage, reaching over to the opposite table with four vacant seats and took the newspaper which a previous passenger had discarded.

  As the train slowly pulled out of the station, heavy rain clouds hid the sun which he had noticed gathering over the horizon as they drove along the promenade.

  The carriage lights flickered as the train crossed over the points on the rails, swaying the carriages from side to side. The windows were dirty on the outside and even the stations were only grudgingly illuminated as the train sped through.

  The train pulled into Wakefield Central Station on time. The platform was as deserted as the train had been, but it was Sunday and to be expected.

  Crossing the roundabout to attempt the hill to the hostel, John felt as though he had been away for two weeks not two days. He climbed the hill, now feeling a sense of rejection and loneliness, a feeling only Jennifer had been able to erase.

  The dull weather did not help his disheartened feeling. He passed the waste ground, his bag weighing heavy with the jams and remnants of the two sponge cakes Jennifer had secretly placed in his bag.

  He approached the hostel; it was only 5.30, four and a half hours before his curfew.

  He looked up at the Victorian building, which now resembled Strangeways after his weekend of freedom and pampering.

  The similar smell and sounds greeted him as he entered the dimly lit hall. Raised voices could be heard from the television room. John quickly went up the stairs and into his bedroom.

  His room was ice cold. In his excitement to leave he had inadvertently left his window open. He lay on his bed, realising for the first time the discomfort of the thin mattress, the cheap bed sheets and the shabby condition of his small bedroom.

  His thoughts were of Jennifer, sitting by the fire curled up in her big upholstered chair with the orange flames shining radiant light on her kindly face, the smell of roast beef drifting from the kitchen and the feeling of unconfined freedom and genuine care.

  The weekend had been successful for both Jennifer and John but realistically he was a psychopathic killer who had performed the most horrific crimes which had continued whilst on parole with the murder of the gypsy clairvoyant where he had miraculously avoided detection yet allowing an innocent man to pay for his crime.

  The process of his rehabilitation had not been as successful as the authorities and Jennifer had anticipated. Deeply embedded in his subconscious was the urge to kill at any given opportunity, like a animal cornered into submission with the only means of escape being to kill its predator, then returning to the fireside to be fed, stroked and pampered by its keeper, reciprocating only by loyalty and companionship. In the case of John Bell, the only keeper prepared to tame the unknown beast was Jennifer.

  He raised his body from the bed and washed quickly before going downstairs to the dining room. The foul odour of boiled cabbage greeted him on the corridor as he walked down the threadbare carpet of the narrow staircase.

  The dining room was full as usual. The clatter and chatter of unmannered people. The odour of their unwashed bodies overpowered the smell of the cabbage. A fat little transvestite, in a pink dress and cheap blonde wig, sitting alone on a table for one. The echoing sounds of soup being slurped above the grating of metal chair legs on the wooden floor. His weekend of relaxation had given him a comparison to the realisation of his life.

  He sat down at the table, looking at an orange-coloured concoction which had been placed in front of him.

  ‘How was your weekend?’ Gary asked, slurping his soup.

  ‘It was good thanks, I enjoyed it very much,’ he replied.

  John found his soup inedible. He decided to take a shower while the others were in the dining room.

  John had always been meticulous in the cleaning of the bathroom. Entering it, he noticed someone had unscrewed and removed the cabinet from the wall. He stood examining the contents, which had been thrown to the floor – a can of shaving cream, a packet of razor blades, a pair of scissors and a box of Elastoplasts. He opened the mildewed shower curtain, and noticed the tub was ringed with flecks of dried mud and leaf debris. A dirty wet towel had been discarded and thrown over the side of the bath.

  A soiled pornographic magazine had been thrown in the corner. The small potted plants he had displayed on the windowsill had disappeared. He breathed in through his mouth, the stench was unbelievable.

  He walked back to his room and sat by his open window, taking deep breaths of fresh air as he looked down at the passing traffic before returning to the television room.

  He took his usual seat by the window overlooking the garden. He noticed a stranger in the middle of the lawn. He was small, thin and scruffily dressed as he walked in a circle around a small rose bush, constantly shaking his head sideways, knocking a few inky strands of hair out of his eyes so that he could see where he was going.

  ‘Who’s the guy in the garden?’ he asked Baxter, who looked up from his book and peered through the glass.

  ‘That’s Rogers, came in yesterday from Armley, strange bloke,’ he answered, shrugging his shoulders as he turned back to his book.

  Old Hutchinson was swaying backwards and forwards in his chair, the television on full volume, but not enough to silence to the snores of Hilda Ratchet, precariously perched on a high back chair by the overgrown cheese plant in the corner.

  The pub half way down the hill was considered out of bounds although most of the residents went in from time to time, as alcohol was not allowed in the hostel.

  John decided to walk down for a quick half before getting an early night for work the next day.

  He pushed by a group of parked motorbikes blocking the door to the pub. It was dimly lit inside, with only a handful of drinkers sitting around the half-moon bar. He sat on the first bar stool he found. The ageing male bartender had an oddly youthful hairdo, puffed out at the sides and dyed a lustreless brown.

  ‘What can I get,’ he asked John.

  ‘Just a small glass of beer please,’ he replied. He went over to the beer pumps and continued his interrupted conversation with his customer.

  He looked around to see a middle-aged woman seated at a small polished table in the corner. The sun coming in through the plate glass window shined on her arms, reflecting on the glass of red wine she held in place, staring at it constantly.

  He glanced around the bar at the wide range of dusty bottles in disarrayed fashion behind the bar above a selection of crisps and packets of nuts piled in a grubby basket.

  A small group of guys of various ages sat with their feet hooked around the rungs of their stools, their leather pants and jackets darkly gleaming. He wondered if the moto
rcycles belonged to them.

  A silver disco ball was spinning around, sending flashes of mirrored light dancing across the nicotine stained walls.

  He walked to the toilet, passing the woman sitting alone. She looked up at him as she blew out a thoughtful plume of smoke, and then tapped her cigarette in the ashtray. Her tongue was purple from the red wine. She nodded and smiled as he passed.

  The guy who had been throwing darts pulled up a stool next to him, bringing his half empty beer glass with him.

  ‘She’s got the hots for you, mate,’ he said, sneaking a sly look at the woman at the table.

  ‘I’m not interested in that,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, it sure will cost you, she’s a known prostitute, same place, same table every night,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t realise, but I’m now less interested,’ John replied, as he smiled, looking into his beer.

  ‘So what are you interested in, mate?’ he enquired, turning his head to face John.

  ‘Well, not that’ he replied. He drank the last of his beer and climbed off the stool. The guy also climbed down. They walked out of the pub together.

  He was a reasonably good-looking guy. Thirty-something with rugged looks under his designer stubble growth. He wore a heavy black hooded coat, black jeans and trainers.

  They walked up the hill together, with the hostel soon coming into sight.

  The guy stopped at a large house, converted into flats.

  ‘Fancy another beer, mate? I’ve got a couple of cans in my place,’ he said, as he reached in his deep pockets for his door keys.

  ‘Well I’ve got a bit of spare time so why not?’ John answered, without hesitation.

  He followed the guy through the door and up the stairs. The stairwell held a mingling of smells; exhaust fumes, cat piss, faint traces of booze from an array of empty beer cans and bottles which littered the hall. The cement walls were painted nicotine yellow. He followed the guy down the corridor to a battered and scratched door at the end.

  He braced himself for the nightmare, which would surely flare before his eyes once the door was opened. A terrible odour hit him, and he drew back slightly before he entered.

  Black bin liners bulged as they littered the hall; they hadn’t been taken out for weeks. The curtains were closed, and the place was dark and stifling. The guy went over to the window and drew back the curtains. He saw steel blue carpeting, cream coloured walls and rubbish strewn about. A rancid smell pervaded everything.

  The windowsill was full of dead plants. Posters of pop groups were on the walls. The ceiling was leaking in places, producing damp black patches. The three-piece suite was haphazardly placed, with the foam cushioning showing through the worn and filthy upholstery. There was a stereo system on the floor; it looked in good condition, along with a computer.

  A large glass ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts on the small coffee table. A bunch of toffee papers and banana peelings were strewn about.

  The guy went into the kitchen, John followed. Two cockroaches skittered across the Formica worktop. An old fashioned clock ticked on the wall above the greasy cooker, and the stained and chipped refrigerator hummed noisily. He stared at the sink full of dirty dishes. Some of the dishwater had flooded over the aluminium basin and trailed across the worktop, leaving a visible residue as it spilt over the edge and dripped down onto the floor.

  The guy turned to John offering him a chipped mug of coffee. Out of politeness he accepted and walked back into the lounge.

  ‘Come, let’s go in the bedroom,’ the guy said, as he walked out of the room.

  John followed him. He passed the bathroom, the door was open. The scum and residue in the porcelain tub was grotesque. A little cactus struggled to grow on the small windowsill. Toilet paper littered the floor and a stained laundry basket was overflowing with dirty clothes.

  In the bedroom the guy had begun to undress, kicking off his shoes as he peeled his shirt over his head.

  The stench of old sweaty socks and stale body odour overpowered him as he turned his head back to the hall for a deep breath of air.

  The sheets on the bed had not seen a washing machine for many months, if not years. A pile of clothes was on the floor in the corner of the room. More posters were pinned on the deep red walls, a single bulb hung from the ceiling.

  A small table at the side of the bed contained a tube of lubrication jelly, a bottle of Amyl-nitrate and a box of tissues. A further glass ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts and stained fossilized condoms.

  The guy lay naked on the bed, his knees up and his legs apart. His body was whiter than his face. A few strands of hair covered his overlarge nipples and flabby chest. His legs were hairless. A small erect penis struggled to reach the top of his pubic hair. He lay back with one hand behind his head; the other hand circled the clump of hair around his small potbelly as he curiously watched John remove his clothes.

  Not a word was spoken as John climbed over his body to lie beside him.

  The guy turned on his side, stoking John’s body with his wet clammy hands. John turned his head away as the guy tried to kiss him. His breath smelt of stale tobacco and beer, the stench of his body odour was overpowering.

  John became inwardly enraged as the guy lowered his body and placed his face between his legs. He looked down at his thinning crown realising how simple it would be to place his firm hands around his neck and throttle him, but was astute enough to realise they had been seen leaving the pub together. He could not allow anything further to jeopardize his parole and desperately controlled his natural urge. He unwillingly allowed the guy to perform oral sex on him.

  As soon as his uncomfortable ordeal was over, the stranger masturbated while watching John dress. He left the guy on the bed and let himself out of the filthy flat.

  Once back in the hostel, he peered around the door of the television room. The mental health professionals were clapping and chanting as Dorothy performed circular dance movements in the centre of the room.

  His scalp itched, and he scratched it violently as he walked to his bedroom.

  He was desperate to wash his body after his ordeal. Due to the condition of his own bathroom, he could only strip wash at his small basin in his room.

  He quickly grabbed a towel on hearing a knock at his door. He opened it slightly and peered into the corridor. ‘Just checking your back in time, John,’ the large bulky male nurse said, as he looked down at his clipboard.

  He closed the door and climbed into his bed.

  The next morning was another fine day. He was due to start work at 10 o’clock, his first day back after his weekend away.

  He didn’t want breakfast and left the hostel early for his walk to work.

  He called in at the grocers for his daily packet of cigarettes and idly walked into town.

  He went into a small café and ordered a cup of coffee and a piece of toast before crossing over the road to the hotel.

  The kitchen was sweltering. He felt the sweat collecting underneath his arms and soaking into his pinstriped shirt as he fastened the tapes of his green plastic apron.

  He scrubbed the endless mountain of pans, remembering his enjoyable walk along the promenade, wishing he were back.

  The afternoon breeze was strong and hot as he dragged himself back up the steep hill with beads of sweat dripping down his neck.

  He sat on the low wall to rest, grateful for the shade of the spreading sycamore tree. He watched the lawn sprinklers spinning around in the public park, occasionally feeling a spray of water across his face carried over on the strong breeze.

  A boy sat on his bicycle, which leaned against the public toilets.

  The boy caught John’s eye and went inside, looking back at him as he entered.

  Tempted by this unspoken invitation, he remained on the wall aware of the consequences he would face from the probation authorities should he enter the park and play area. It was strictly out of bounds to all residents.

  The bo
y came out of the toilets and loitered around the building before coming over to where John sat. His young face was beautiful, although pock marked. He had prominent cheekbones, a straight nose and thin mouth, the aggressive line of his jaw disappeared into his strong neck and square shoulders. His upper body was impressive. He’d cut the sleeves off his sweatshirt in order to show off his biceps and hard muscles.

  John could hear him breathing steadily through his nose as he approached. John looked at him as he athletically jumped onto the wall with ease. He looked around at his face, the prominent brow, the thin, well defined lips and his oddly unresponsive eyes.

  The young boy slowly ran his hand up the inside leg of his shorts to his crotch, keeping his eyes firmly of John, his mouth curling up at each end as he smiled.

  ‘£20 mate and its yours,’ the boy said. John smiled at him shaking his head.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ John jumped off the wall and continued his climb in the unrelenting heat.

  He smiled to himself, as he recalled the days he would do the same when he had been a teenager, relieved that in this modern and enterprising world of change, that is something that never will.

  John hurried along the corridor to his room, the odour of disinfectant reaching his nostrils. A male nurse was mopping the bathroom floor with some strong germicidal detergent while a maintenance engineer was attaching a cabinet to the wall.

  He washed his shirt in his washbasin, hanging it on a wire coat hanger suspended from the curtain rail to dry in the warm evening breeze.

  Mince and cabbage was Monday’s supper, it had not changed since John Bell was first admitted. He decided to climb into his bed, watch his small television and sleep.

  The hostel warden, Probation Officer and psychiatrist were reviewing Bell’s records in preparation for his pending release. His licence would expire in three months.

  John Bell had been listed under the psychologically disturbed category throughout his prison and parole term. His prison record was good, the open prison had regarded him as a model prisoner and the hostel warden also gave a glowing report of his exceptional good behaviour.

  The psychiatrist raised his concern into Bell’s release. He appreciated the authority’s observations regarding his good behaviour while in prison confinement and the more relaxed atmosphere of hostel rehabilitation, but in view of the severity of his crimes, which had been exceptional, he considered him to be a schizophrenic, aggressive manipulative individual with psychological and sexual difficulties.