He always felt uncomfortable in Blackpool, probably due to his sordid murderous past. He got the first available tram back, sitting on the front seat watching the large hands of the lesbian driver operating the heavy antiquated controls.
Jennifer was still at the chapel; he went straight up to his bedroom and inserted one of his videos into his recorder. He removed his trousers and pants, lay on the bed and fondled himself as the film progressed.
It was only ten minutes later; Jennifer returned calling up the stairs
‘John, are you back?’ He didn’t answer.
He switched off his video and placed the tape amongst his collection.
Jennifer was sitting at the kitchen table, browsing a glossy travel brochure as John walked in.
‘Sit down dear, I have something to tell you,’ she said, excitingly.
‘What’s that you’ve got?’ he enquired.
‘Well, that’s what I want to tell you,’ she said, as she frantically skipped over the pages, occasionally picking up her cup of tea. ‘It’s a brochure of Norway dear, you sleep on the ferry which goes from Hull to Stockholm, you then travel to Norway by luxury coach where you stay in this hotel for two nights,’ she said, placing the brochure in front of him, pointing at a hotel situated on a lakeside.
‘How much is all that going to cost?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know really, a couple of hundred pounds I think, Norman’s going to arrange it all,’ she said, lowering her face to the page.
‘Who’s Norman?’ he asked.
‘Norman, the vicar,’ she replied sharply.
John sat back in his seat, he didn’t answer for a few moments digesting what she had just said.
‘How many are going on this trip?’ he asked,
‘Well, it’s just the two of us, but it wouldn’t be over the weekend, it will be Monday to Thursday,’ she replied.
‘That will be nice for you, Jennifer, the break will do you good,’ John replied, his eyes were serious now, but he smiled lightly.
She put two spoonfuls of sugar in her precious china cup and continued flicking through the pages.
John took his coat off the hook behind the door, ‘I’ll be back soon, Jennifer,’ he said, leaving the house by the kitchen door. She was engrossed in her brochure and didn’t reply.
He walked to his usual café on the sea front overlooking the harbour. It was a hive of activity; a coach had just delivered its load of passengers. He pushed through the crowd and went further along the promenade to the small hut, which served as a café that was not busy.
He sat on a white plastic chair at a greasy table, lit a cigarette and ordered a cup of coffee. A large bearded man in a reefer coat and cloth cap, a greasy scarf knotted at his neck sat on the other table, smoking a cigarette, a large cup of coffee in front of him.
John was deep in thought. Naturally he was not in favour of Jennifer’s intended trip to Norway, he showed no outward anger other than his hands shaking with inner rage.
A young guy entered the café. He wore a corduroy jacket and tight denim jeans. The guy looked around and came over to John’s table.
‘Got a spare fag, mate?’ he asked, looking down at John from his tall build. John slowly raised his head; his eyes were wide and wild looking as he glared back at the dishevelled looking guy.
‘Fuck off,’ he shouted loudly. The bearded man turned around, the fat woman walked to John’s table from behind her counter, her husband’s head appeared around the kitchen door. As the fat woman approached, the guy fled to the door. ‘He’s a fucking nutter,’ he shouted as he left.
John’s hands started to shake violently, his coffee spilling out of the mug onto the plastic tablecloth, the fat woman returned with a wet cloth.
He sat back in his chair, hiding his shaking hands in his jacket pocket. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, to the woman as she wiped the table.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that love, we get all sorts in here,’ she said, sympathetically.
‘It’s the youth of today, they’ve no respect,’ the bearded man said, turning around in desperation to engage in a conversation.
John left his coffee on the table and went out onto the promenade. He watched the young guy walking towards town, kicking a discarded can of beer he had come across. John walked behind him keeping a lengthy distance, holding back his desire of a further confrontation.
The guy jumped the sea wall, running down to the waters edge.
John watched as he stripped to his underpants and ran out through the shallows, plunging through the waves. It wasn’t even a nice morning; the sky the colour of slate grey and there was rain on the wind. He watched him battle through the waves. John shook his head in disbelief as he crossed the road to make his way home.
The whining sound of the vacuum cleaner greeted him as he opened the front door. He passed Jennifer on the stairs, scraping the carpet with the hose attachment of the machine.
‘I’m going to lay down,’ he shouted over the deafening noise.
‘Alright dear, I’ll be finished soon so you won’t be disturbed,’ she shouted back.
Once inside his bedroom he locked the door and went to the small window on the side. He opened the bedroom window; it was smaller than the front window but wide enough to climb out. Underneath was the flat roof of the outhouse which stored wood for the Aga. The street was quiet; it was midday and the weather dull. Looking back to his room, he crept though the small opening, perched himself on the windowsill and jumped the short distance onto the roof of the outhouse.
He quickly jumped off the roof, falling sideways as his feet touched the soggy grass. He jumped the small stonewall surrounding the garden, walked briskly up the avenue, looking behind him as he brushed the mud from his jacket.
He approached the vicarage, the vicar was removing shopping bags from the open boot of his car as John casually walked across the road towards the house and watched him as he straightened his shoulders, his clerical collar showing above the collar of his tweed jacket. He carried his bags into the kitchen through the rear door, pausing briefly looking up at the dark threatening clouds in the sky.
John raised the hood from his jacket as he approached the open kitchen door. The vicar was unpacking shopping baskets and stacking them methodically on the shelves.
Nervous energy and adrenalin pumped through John Bell’s system, his perceptions heightened and he felt totally focused and in control.
The vicar turned to the door.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, stepping backwards towards the kitchen unit, his hands searching to grab the work surface to steady his balance, John Bell slowly closed the kitchen door, keeping focused on the vicar’s wide and terrified eyes.
The reek of stale sweat invaded John’s nostrils as he walked over to the vicar, his body shaking as he pinned himself against the work surface turning his head away from his hooded face as he slowly approached.
Bell reached over the work surface, taking the largest kitchen knife from the wooden rack, he placed it on the vicar’s cheek. He broke loose, running out of the kitchen and up the flight of stairs, Bell in close pursuit, wielding the long bladed knife as his victim stumbled and fell on the top landing.
The vicar lay on his back, his raised chest supported by his elbows. He opened his mouth as if to speak but only fearfully gasped for air as Bell stood on his shaking hands with his heavy body weight.
The vicar screamed in pain as the metal tips of the shoes bore deep into his skin. As the vicar screamed once more, Bell lifted his foot and kicked the vicar in his face with full force. His head fell backwards; his face fell to the left. Bell stared at his open and motionless eyes, watching the Persian carpet absorb the blood seeping from his ear and through the shattered remains of his nostrils.
The heavy force of his foot had broken his nose bone, which became embedded in his brain. He was dead.
Bell stood back against the banister, he could hear himself breathing, short and shallow. He tried t
o break the rhythm, to slow the pace.
The carpet was becoming saturated with the blood oozing from each facial orifice.
He placed his hands under the armpits of his victim. Using his full strength he lifted the corpse, bending him forward and pushed the limp body from the top of the stairs.
He watched the vicar’s body clumsily roll to the bottom of the narrow staircase, stopping with a heavy thud as it landed on the wooden floor.
He quickly rolled up the blood soaked carpet, dragging it through to an open bedroom door. He removed two suitcases from the top of the large wardrobe, threw the carpet on top and replaced the suitcases, disguising the carpet.
He rooted in the cupboard under the bathroom sink and found cleaning materials; he quickly wiped the blood from the parquet floor, which had seeped through the carpet. Looking around to see that no signs of evidence remained, he went downstairs stepping over the limp body. The vicar’s eyes and mouth were wide open, staring at the ceiling, blood still seeped from his battered face, becoming congealed around the sockets of his eyes. His arm had broken in the fall and lay up his back in a twisted angle.
Bell lowered his face to the vicars, satisfying himself that he was dead. He looked around the kitchen, placing the knife back into the rack before leaving the house.
He lowered the hood from his face as he approached the side street, briskly walking across the road and down the avenue to Jennifer’s house.
His heart was beating rapidly, the stench of stale sweat drifted up to his nostrils as he wiped his brow with the sleeve of his jacket. He frequently looked behind him, increasing his speed as he approached the house.
He jumped over the wall, resting briefly by the side of the outhouse. The ladder was lying alongside the building. He placed it against the wall and climbed onto the roof, pulling the ladder up once he was secure. He balanced the ladder on the roof of the outhouse and gently placed it against the wall of the house directly under the small window. He climbed up, squeezing himself through the small frame. Once inside the safety of his bedroom, he lowered the ladder to the ground. He watched the ladder fall to the ground as he pushed it away from the wall.
Closing the window, he quickly undressed and filled the bath with hot water.
A tap came at the bathroom door. ‘John, I heard you get up, I’ve left you a cup of tea on the window sill, we’ll eat about seven,’ Jennifer said, through the closed door.
He felt no remorse, only satisfaction as he savoured his time in the hot water of the steam filled bathroom. He smiled as he recalled the hostel warden telling him on his release, ‘the percentage of murderers who re-offend is minimal’.
Taking a deep breath, he lowered his head under the water, rubbing his hands vigorously through his greasy hair.
He felt relieved and accomplished after his latest gruesome murder. He felt no remorse on taking another innocent life, but satisfied that his manipulation over his sister would be revived without intrusion and interference from the vicar.
It was 7 o’clock; Jennifer had made lamb stew for supper. She was a good cook, always stayed on the side of caution when preparing food, never over ambitious and carefully scrutinised everything she purchased.
‘You slept for a long time this afternoon, John,’ she said. ‘I brought you a cup of tea earlier but your door was locked so I didn’t disturb you,’ she said, as she scooped a spoon of mashed potato on John’s plate.
‘Yes, I was tired, Jennifer, I only woke as you brought my tea to the bathroom,’ he replied.
He thought it was best to remain indoors for the night. He lit a fire in the sitting room and they spent the night together watching television, Jennifer curled up in her wing chair, her hands keeping warm under her small legs hidden beneath her blanket.
‘I think we’ll drive to St Annes tomorrow, Jennifer,’ he said, watching the television as he spoke.
‘Now that would be nice, dear,’ she replied, smiling over at him. ‘I should go to chapel but they won’t mind if I miss just the once,’ she said excitingly.
The late film was a gripping thriller, they stayed up late to watch the end, drinking mugs of hot chocolate and munching vanilla cream biscuits. They went upstairs together, Jennifer giving him a kiss on the cheek as she went into her bedroom.
‘That was a lovely evening, John, sleep well,’ she said, turning to walk to her room.
His alarm woke him at nine. The strong sunlight lit his bedroom as he went to look out of the window. The first cluster of daffodils was fighting their way through the fallen branches in the overgrown garden. He was looking forward to spending the spring days trimming the grass and felling the trees.
Jennifer had prepared one of her traditional breakfasts; the smell of grilled bacon and sausage filled the air as he walked into the kitchen.
She looked radiant in a red polo-neck sweater and red pleated skirt, dressed for the occasion of the drive to St Annes.
John ate breakfast, reading the local free paper which had been put through the letterbox with a pile of junk mail.
They climbed into a small Nova, the engine turns over and splutters into life. Once on the promenade, the car went well as the road was flat the entire journey. The car was getting old and the lack of use after the recent winter hadn’t helped. The small engine would protest when attempting steep hills, the bodywork was rusting and letting in water which collected in the passenger foot well.
They parked at the Queens Hotel and sat at a table outside overlooking the wide grass esplanade adjacent to the vast beach, the sea in the far distance. They drank coffee and walked arm in arm along the esplanade in the cool air and spring sunshine.
It was still light when they arrived back home. Jennifer went through to the sitting room; John made a pot of tea and was carrying it through on a tray when the telephone rang. He placed the tray on the hall table and lifted the receiver.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘I must speak to Jennifer, is she there?’ a woman’s voice answered.
‘I’ll just get her for you,’ he said. John placed the handset on the table, picked up the tray and took it through to the sitting room.
‘It’s for you, Jennifer,’ he said.
She got up from her chair and went through to the hall. ‘Hello,’ she said. The conversation didn’t last for more than a couple of minutes.
‘Oh dear, oh dear, are you sure?’ he heard Jennifer replied to the caller. ‘Thank you for telling me, I’ll call around tomorrow,’ she said, putting the receiver back.
She slowly walked back into the sitting, steadying herself by holding the doorframe as she entered. John continued pouring the tea.
‘Oh, John,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe what I’ve just been told,’ she said, sitting down on the sofa, putting her head in her hands.
‘What’s the matter, Jennifer, you look as white as a sheet,’ John asked as he casually poured the tea.
‘Marion Butler from the bible class has just told me that the vicar has fallen down the stairs, he didn’t arrive for the morning service and Ronald Belington, the organist went over to the vicarage and found him,’ she said, reaching into her handbag for a tissue to wipe the tears from her face.
‘Is he hurt, Jennifer?’ John asked, sympathetically,
‘Hurt, no, he’s not hurt, he’s dead, John, he’s dead!’ she screeched, sobbing uncontrollably into her tissue.
He placed a cup of tea on the side table and sat alongside her, his arm around her shoulder as she leaned over against his chest.
‘I just can’t believe it, John, I only saw him two days ago,’ she said, her small hands shaking as she peeled off a row of tissues. ‘I’ll have to go upstairs, dear,’ she said, leaving the room, shaking her head in disbelief, trying to staunch the flow of tears running down her face.
John sat back in the sofa with an icy smile, his protruding teeth on his weasel face below unkempt hair. He somehow looked like one of life’s losers, the one who is permanently unemployed and the one w
ho manifests in violent outbursts. The dangerous man the vicar had always thought, and the psychologically disturbed
Schizophrenic, the prison psychiatrist had said.
He sat back drinking tea and smoking a cigarette, without conscience, without remorse and without feelings for his heart broken sister as she lay in her room, inconsolable with grief.
The vicar had been a strong pillar of the small community, a kind and popular man who was liked and respected by all. Everybody in the town would be in shock on the announcement of his death, everybody that is, except John Bell. Word soon circulated around the town, the local newspaper wrote an article, praising the good work he did for the community. People in the shops talked openly about his untimely and unfortunate death. His daughter was driving up from Bournemouth, his son and family flying over from Melbourne.
The town was stunned; Jennifer was mortified, concentrating on the flower arrangements in preparation for the funeral to be held in his chapel.
The atmosphere in the house was cold and uninviting. Jennifer had drawn all the curtains, this time in respect of Norman’s death, not for retaining the heat.
She spent every day at the chapel, where she sought the company of others who were equally devastated and anxious as she was. She clearly didn’t want to be at home, she had to get out.
John was saddened and disappointed that Jennifer didn’t turn to him for compassion and support and she rejected him when he tried.
He spent much of the day in his bedroom, listening to visitors frequently calling to the house, offering their condolences to Jennifer while sipping tea in the sitting room.
Once the endless stream of visitors had gone, John made a couple of mushroom omelettes for supper, placing one on a tray for Jennifer who was sitting in darkness on the sofa in the sitting room. She took the tray without saying a word, picking at the omelette with her fork.
‘I know the vicar’s death had upset you Jennifer, I know how you must feel,’ he said.
She looked up from her plate with an icy glare. ‘How would you know how I felt, you didn’t like Norman, you never liked Norman because he liked me,’ she snapped back to him.
Inseparable Bond Page 18