Inseparable Bond

by David Poulter

  Jennifer had a snooze every afternoon, probably because the house was warm. The old house had been impossible to heat, whereas now they had several big radiators keeping the rooms warm, despite large windows that provided a view of the open sea.

  On the wall there was one large painting that dominated the room. It was a typical eighteenth century battle scene, which Jennifer had acquired for £7 from the chapel jumble sale.

  He walked to the window, clasping his hands together behind his back, watching the traffic race past and some people waiting to cross the esplanade, hunched against the bitter cold wind.

  The sound of a car horn disturbed Jennifer from her sleep. She heaved herself out of the chair and went to prepare the evening supper as John studied the vast coastal landscape.

  He threw a log on the fire, which exploded in sparks, before going in to lay the table.

  Jennifer grilled two chicken breasts wrapped in smoked bacon. Cauliflower and rice bubbled in the pans under the grill. John set the table and neatly folded two serviettes.

  Jennifer had felt tired all afternoon and decided to go to bed straight after supper.

  John went upstairs to change into his old corduroy trousers, now whitened and worn to the under-fabric. His shaggy crimson roll-neck sweater came almost to his knees and his scuffed leather boots had zipper sides and two-inch heels.

  He turned all the lights off in the house except the standard lamp in the bay window.

  He walked out to the car, looking up at Jennifer’s window as he slid into the seat. The wind had decreased and the night air was clear as he drove along the esplanade towards the sex shelter on the unlit section of the promenade.

  A few cars had already arrived. The voyeurs and hopefuls were resting their arms out of the driver’s open windows. He reversed the car between a BMW and a Range Rover which he had seen on his way back from the car wash a few days earlier, with the same two occupants inside.

  A middle-aged guy confidently walked along the cars, bending down to see the drivers as he slowly ambled along, his hands in the pockets of his faded designer jeans, his white trainers and tartan shirt illuminated by the sidelights of the cars.

  Nobody interested him as he continued to walk over to the sea wall towards the other shelter further along.

  There were two silhouettes at the far end of the dark shelter. One guy was leaning against the wall; the other crouched down between his legs performing oral sex.

  The door of the BMW opened. The bright cab light briefly illuminated the interior, displaying its fine leather upholstery as the driver walked towards John’s car. He was smartly dressed in dark trousers, loose collared white shirt and unbuttoned waistcoat. John watched him as he hovered around the shelter, looking at the two guys by the wall, keeping a polite distance so as not to disturb them. He had a tall, thin figure but his face was undisclosed in the darkness.

  John leaned out of the window, smoking a cigarette as the guy approached him.

  ‘It’s not very safe here, I know a better place,’ he said, leaning against the car.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure, how far is it?’ John asked, looking up at his thin face and dark, neatly trimmed Mexican moustache and large white teeth.

  ‘It’s not far, just follow me,’ he said, standing upright and walking towards his car.

  John turned the ignition and followed the bright rear lights of the car as it sped away from the shelter at high speed. The powerful BMW accelerated along the promenade, leaving John’s Astra struggling to catch up. He kept his eyes on the rear lights in the distance, not wanting to lose him in the heavy traffic.

  He caught up to the BMW as they approached traffic lights in St Annes. He followed the car along a wide avenue flanked on each side by large expensive looking modern houses, some of Mediterranean style.

  The car swung into a narrow drive, John parked on the street outside the Spanish looking property painted a burnt orange colour with white window shutters. The bright amber streetlights emphasised the colour, making the effect look tacky and cheap.

  The guy waited at the open front door as John walked up the drive. He smiled as John passed him, entering an arched passageway with rooms leading off.

  ‘I’m Simon,’ the guy said, walking through to one of the rooms.

  ‘I’m John,’ he replied, following him through. The room opened out into an open plan lounge-diner with a kitchen at the far end. The table still had the remains of breakfast; a vacuum coffee pot, a glass jug of juice and expensive-looking tableware of a sort that Jennifer would have liked.

  It was decorated in a theme of pink and white. On the walls there were three framed pictures of Spanish landscapes.

  He went through to the bedroom. John followed. Six amateurish watercolours of naked young olive-skinned youths covered the yellow walls. He reached over the bed to draw the yellow floral curtains and immediately started to undress.

  John sat on the bed to un-zip his heeled boots and removed his shabby corduroys, sweater and shirt. Simon stood naked as he fiddled with the alarm clock he had taken from the bedside table.

  His body was firm, smooth and tanned all over. His thick black hair and long moustache gave him the appearance of being Spanish, but he seemed to speak perfect English.

  They lay naked on the expensive multi-coloured bedspread and performed enjoyable sex for the next hour.

  They chatted over coffee afterwards. Simon lived permanently in Barcelona where he taught English in a primary school, visiting St Annes during holiday periods.

  He walked John back to his car and went back inside as John drove off, giving him a wave and a smile of appreciation.

  The wind had now decreased and the bright full moon shone over the Irish Sea and the offshore oilrigs, standing like anchored aircraft carriers in the mist.

  Blackpool promenade was now quiet. A few drunken souls staggered and swayed along the pavement, clinging onto each other for support.

  He drove back on the unlit section past the sex shelter, slowing down to peer through the windscreen at the huddle of silhouettes inside. He accelerated and drove on.

  Once in the house, he sank down in an armchair in front of the remnants of the fire, and sighed. He turned on the television and lit a cigarette. The late night horror film was timid and immature. He soon became uninterested, as the film didn’t contain excessive brutality and violence, which would retain his attention. He finished his cigarette, turned off the television and the standard lamp and went upstairs to bed.

  It was Sunday morning. Jennifer was polishing her brown shoes under newspaper on the kitchen work surface. The bacon spluttered in the pan as John quickly turned it over with a fork, standing back as a hot spray of fat hit the front of his striped apron.

  Jennifer had eaten a bowl of cornflakes, toast and marmalade. Her china cup and saucer sat on the kitchen surface next to her unfashionable but sensible brown lace-up shoes.

  John plated his greasy and disarrayed breakfast on the table and poured his tea.

  Jennifer sat on the chair, squeezing the polished shoes onto her small feet as Sylvia tooted her car horn at the front of the house.

  ‘Are you going out this morning, dear?’ she asked John, as she buttoned the top of her coat.

  ‘I’ll probably go for a walk along the esplanade, there’s nothing I can do in the garden,’ he mumbled through his mouth as he chewed his bacon.

  Sylvia impatiently tooted the car horn again as Jennifer looked in the mirror, tucking strands of white hair under her wide brimmed hat. She hurriedly ran through the front door, putting her glove on, giving John a quick wave with the other one as she got into the car and drove off.

  The church service normally lasted an hour and a half, but she wouldn’t be back until at least 1 o’clock as the bible class stayed behind in the vestry, drinking tea and gossiping.

  John cleared the breakfast pots, grabbed his hooded raincoat and walked down the esplanade towards town to view the artist’s exhibition he had read about in
the local Gazette. There were dark clouds racing over the rough sea and the drizzle of rain had now become spasmodic heavy showers and gusting winds. He wished he had now taken the car, but the park was in sight, so he continued to walk.

  Groups of people trudged through the downpour with grim determination. When he arrived at the park, the artists who displayed their paintings had covered them with sheets of plastic and gone to find shelter under the covered entrance porch of the Great Euston Hotel opposite the park.

  There was a rumble of thunder. It was cold and wet; it was a thoroughly miserable day and looked like it had set in for the day.

  The hotel did good business, the bar was busy and they were inundated with lunch bookings from the visitors who were determined to get something out of the day. John had a quick drink in the crowded bar and returned to the esplanade. The typical early winter weather didn’t relent.

  He felt a perverse satisfaction to walking in the rain, probably being denied it for so long while in penal institutions. Passers-by bowed their heads from the oncoming rain lashing in across the beach. The biting wind got the better of him. He rushed into a café opposite the pavilion clock tower. It was crowded with people. Waitresses rushed around with plates of Sunday roast. The atrocious weather had certainly been a boost for business.

  All the tables were taken so he took a seat at the counter and had a cup of coffee and a Danish pastry. He left the money on the counter, as the bill he constantly asked for didn’t arrive. He put his hood well over his head and returned to the outside elements.

  He called into the public toilets, which had always been a popular meeting place for the gays of the town. It was deserted apart from some old guy having a coughing fit in the far cubicle. As he was leaving, a young man with a large moustache brushed passed him and went to one of the latrines, looking over his shoulder at John as he waited at the door.

  John slowly returned to the latrines, looking at the guys gleaming shoes and well-creased trousers. As he approached the latrine, he smelt trouble, even before he got a whiff of it. He turned back to the door and left the toilets, walking past a car which was parked directly outside the entrance. It containing three dodgy looking characters, their faces pressed against the car windows looking at John as he passed.

  He walked onto the esplanade looking behind him at the car. The guys watched him until he walked out of sight.

  The car cruised behind John at the same speed as he walked. He looked over his shoulder to see the driver was the guy at the latrine. He was bent low and hurried his pace as the welcoming sight of the house came into view. He quickly walked up to the front door and locked it behind him.

  His heart was beating rapidly as he peered through the side of the open curtain in the front bay window. The youths sat in the car looking at the house. John went through to the kitchen, taking his coat off and shaking the rain over the kitchen floor. He returned to the sitting room and peered through the curtains again. The car had gone.

  Jennifer arrived shortly afterwards with a large pork pie she had been given from Sylvia. She mopped the rainwater off the kitchen floor and put the kettle on.

  ‘Where did you go, dear?’ she asked, as she squeezed the mop in the bucket.

  ‘I went to the artist’s exhibition outside the Great Euston, but the weather was so bad, they cancelled it,’ he replied.

  ‘That’s the trouble with outdoor events, but they should realise the weather in December is unpredictable,’ she said, putting the mop back in the broom cupboard.

  ‘I’ll make stew and dumplings for supper dear, but we’ll have some of this pie with a nice cup of tea first, get the plates out, dear?’ she said, hanging her coat behind the door.

  John pulled a kitchen chair out for her. He took the plates and Jennifer’s china cup out of the unit and poured the water into the teapot. He drank his mug of tea, cupped in his hands to warm them, relieved to he home after his uncomfortable ordeal.

  They spent the rest of the evening watching television, drinking white wine. The more Jennifer drank the more she chattered about Mavis Butler’s idle son-in-law and her seven grandchildren. Norman appeared interested but his mind was somewhere else and he felt uncomfortable, regularly glancing over his shoulder at the sound of a slowing car, half expecting the youths to return.

  The next morning was bin day. John wheeled the green bin to the front of the house. Three doors up, a young guy was doing the same. He waved at John and seemed to light up with smiles. Jennifer followed behind carrying two bulging black bin liners, which she laid against the bin.

  He could hear the sound of waste bins being emptied into the approaching truck as it crept its way along the rows of houses.

  The weather was a lot warmer than yesterday, although the clouds were dark and brooding. It had been raining heavily overnight by the look of the large puddles that lined the road and the sandy soil on the other side was dark with moisture.

  He waited by the bin until the truck arrived, watching the guys bending down reaching for the bin liners, whose arses hung out over their dirty trousers. Jennifer watched three kids, all highly excited about taking a canoe on the boating lake opposite and already fighting about who was going to have the paddles. Their parents were sitting on the wall drinking cans of beer, undeterred by the cold weather.

  He wheeled the green bin back to the garden and washed it out with hot water and disinfectant. He wore gloves, which were a bit embarrassing as they were like Marigold washing-up gloves with lots of little bumps on the fingers for grip, and worst of all they were bright yellow. Jennifer had bought them for him, thinking they were gardening gloves. He wore them to avoid her being offended.

  While he wore the gloves, he picked up more branches which had blown onto the lawn in the previous days wind.

  Jennifer had made him a sandwich and left it on the small table in the bay window where she sat watching the group at the boating lake.

  A guy staggered over the road to join the kid’s parents sitting on the wall. He too seemed worse for wear, his cigarette hanging out of his mouth and clutching onto his can of beer.

  ‘They’re obviously from out of town,’ Jennifer said, shaking her head in disgust.

  ‘Well, I haven’t seen them around here before,’ John replied, thinking how attractive the drunk could be if he hadn’t been dressed in light green fleece jacket and stained tracksuit bottoms. He had a handsome rugged face, the type that John preferred.

  ‘Probably from Blackpool,’ she said, sighing deeply.

  The group looked up to the sky as an air sea rescue helicopter appeared to hover over the house. The noise of the throbbing rotors could be heard inside the lounge. Jennifer quickly stood up and gazed at the large yellow machine as it disappeared out to sea. The deafening sound of its rotor blades could be heard faintly in the distance. The group of drinkers ran up to the sand dunes to follow the path of the helicopter as the kids scrambled out of their canoe to join them.

  It was just after three when a police car parked outside the house. The two uniformed officers remained in the vehicle, glancing briefly up at the house and across the road at the helicopter in the distance, hovering over the sea.

  ‘Either something had happened to a fishing boat or they are going to move that group on,’ Jennifer said, as she sat reclined in the wing chair.

  John didn’t answer, his stomach churned, his mouth became dry and rasping and his chest heaved as he looked over at the helicopter, trying to ignore the presence of the police car.

  It was ten minutes before the second car pulled up behind the police car, a dark blue Ford containing two plain-clothed officers and a uniformed woman police officer in the back seat.

  They all got out of their cars simultaneously and approached the front door. One of the uniformed officers remained at the front gate. Jennifer answered the doorbell.

  ‘I’m Detective Sutherland and this is Detective Morgan. We’d like to speak with John Bell, is he in?’ they asked Jennifer.

&n
bsp; ‘He’s in the lounge, is there anything wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘May we come in? This won’t take long,’ the detective asked as Jennifer opened the door wider. They came through to the lounge and introduced themselves to John, showing him their identification badges.

  ‘We’d like to have a look around your bedroom, John, if that’s alright with you?’ he asked. Jennifer offered them tea, her hands shaking nervously as she went through to the kitchen. John, who walked up the stairs ahead of them, directed the detective and the uniformed officer into his bedroom.

  They looked through the collection of pornographic videos and a pile of gay magazines piled knee high by the wardrobe. They picked up two pairs of trainers, turning them over to look closely at the soles.

  ‘We’d like to take these with us, if we may?’ they asked John.

  ‘Yes, but why, what did I do?’ he replied, as he nervously fiddled with his watch.

  They put the shoes in a plastic bag while the uniformed officer took a cigarette butt from the ashtray and carefully placed it in a smaller bag which he had taken from his pocket. They walked back down to the lounge. Jennifer was sitting in her chair, the policewoman standing next to her.

  The drunken group had returned to the wall, drinking from their cans as they watched the house. The activity being of more interest to them than a hovering helicopter.

  ‘We’d like you to accompany us back to the police station, John, it’s just routine to help us with our enquiries,’ the detective said, with a reassuring smile.

  A solicitor had been appointed, who sat next to John in the interview room at Blackpool police station. He was questioned for two hours into the death of Norman Young, the vicar of Fleetwood Methodist church.

  A witness had come forward who recognised John Bell as he entered the back kitchen door of the vicarage on the day Norman Young was murdered. The description had fitted that of John. A cigarette butt had been found stamped-out on the drive, along with footprints below the study window.