‘Thanks, mate, you’re a good friend,’ replied Bell.
‘I’ve also had a word with one of the screws and we can use the showers later,’ he said with a wide grin on his face.
Big Bear reached into his pocket and gave Bell a piece of white paper. On the paper was a list of cigarettes, stationary, postage stamps, sweets and chocolate, toiletries and groceries. The bare essentials of prison life.
‘You tick off what you want and I’ll have it delivered tomorrow,’ said Big Bear.
Bell and Big Bear grabbed their towels and made their way to the shower block. They showered as the others were leaving.
Bell stretched out his arms, leaning against the wall, and hung his head so that the water cascaded down his face. The rushing water blocked out the noise from the wing and he could have been anywhere.
His eyes were closed, it was easy for him to imagine he was only seventy miles from Jennifer’s house, where he would lay undisturbed in the bath for over an hour before going to the kitchen for one of her casseroles.
He dried off and dressed in the tracksuit which Big Bear had nicked and went back to his cell, passing the screws walking down the landing, locking the cells.
‘Come on, Bell, move it, move it, move it,’ the officer shouts.
He was working in the kitchen at ten, back in the cell at twelve for roll call, then back to work at two.
Bell lay down on his bunk. He had nothing to read, nothing to do and no one to talk too apart from Bradshaw, but any conversation with him was limited and normally resulted in him turning into a rage.
‘The screws don’t run this place, the fucking prisoners do,’ Bradshaw shouts at the top of his voice from his bunk.
While John Bell surveyed his new plum tracksuit, Jennifer surveyed her kitchen.
A curdled mixture of grease and tomato sauce was congealed on the single plate on the draining board. An oily, red intermittent line ran down the door of the cupboard below where an un-mopped spill had dribbled over the edge.
A milk carton, left all night out of the fridge, stood on the working surface beside an empty can of baked beans, next to a packet of cigarettes.
Jennifer had no doubts about which of her lodgers were responsible for the mess.
She made herself a pot of tea, intending to drag Sarah out of bed and stand over her until the mess was cleared away. By the time her cup of tea was empty though, she had decided not to waste time supervising a task that she would have to repeat herself if her exacting standards were to be maintained. Sarah was incorrigible, she would have to go.
She poured herself another cup of tea before setting to work cleaning all the kitchen surfaces and mopping the floor.
Sarah walked into the kitchen and picked up her packet of cigarettes, taking one out of the packet and lighting up.
‘I want you out of this house by the end of the week,’ Jennifer said sternly.
‘Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to be around for much longer anyway,’ Sarah replied, running back upstairs to avoid any further confrontation.
It wasn’t long before Jennifer heard the thud of a bin liner being thrown down the stairs, followed by Sarah squeezing between the suitcase and the banister.
‘I’m going to stay with Darren,’ she said, as she threw her hags out of the door, slamming it shut as she left.
Sarah stood on the pavement, surrounded by bags until an old blue Ford Cortina with a darker blue passenger door pulled up, presumably Darren.
He remained in the car as she threw her bags into the back seat. She glared at Jennifer standing in the window as they drove off at high speed.
She had left her bedroom in a disgusting state. An ashtray was brimming over with cigarette butts; she obviously refused to obey the smoking policy of the house. Jennifer closed the door on it, leaving it until she had the time.
Beryl Parker had talked Jennifer into taking in a couple of lodgers and thought the extra income would come in useful and the companionship would be good for her.
Beryl had a small block of flats on Warley Road in Blackpool and knew of two people who were looking for accommodation in a shared house until they found a suitable flat or bed-sit.
Sarah Wallington had been in John’s old room for the past three weeks.
Billy Gilby had taken the other bedroom at the back of the house overlooking the garden. He had come over from Liverpool to work the summer season at the amusement arcade on Fleetwood promenade. He was out all day and most of the night which suited Jennifer. They could use the kitchen and the washing machine, but not the lounge or dining room.
Jennifer soon realised she was not the landlady type, being particular with exacting standards and her obsession of cleaning. She was also a very private woman who enjoyed her own company. Although the money was helpful, she would not be accommodating anyone else after Billy moved out.
She heard the catch on the gate. It was old Ted, the church gardener who attended to Jennifer’s garden Monday and Friday mornings for a couple of hours a week.
She had found it difficult to keep up, so for a few quid a week he was only too pleased to supplement his pension.
Jennifer stood at the dining room window, giving him a slight wave as he looked up and walked to the end of the garden to sort out that serviceable little shed at the end.
He was an energetic soul, weaving in and out of the bushes, increasing his appetite for his bacon and egg sandwich he would receive for his labours.
Bill Gilby had come downstairs and was in the kitchen making himself a cup of tea. He was washed, dressed and out of the door before his cup was cold. He wouldn’t be seen for a further twelve hours and then only briefly when he returned to get changed to go out for the night. It suited Jennifer and he paid his rent on the dot every week.
Molly had struggled down the garden to talk to Ted over the garden fence. She and Jennifer hadn’t exchanged a word since John had been arrested. Previously they had chatted generally when Jennifer called in to see her on a daily basis.
Jennifer looked at the reflection in the window of her well-preserved face, contemplating the clear out of Sarah’s room now she had been dismissed.
The bedroom smelt of stale tobacco and cheap perfume, a couple of towels were thrown on the floor and she got annoyed on discovering a cigarette burn in one of her best frilled-edged pillow cases, she drew a deep breath and continued to clean.
She left Ted pottering in the garden as she drove to Victoria Hospital to visit Grace from the bible class, who had fallen at home while cleaning her windows.
She had left a casserole in the oven for when she returned later in the day after her two hour afternoon shift in the local charity shop. She had volunteered to cover Grace while she was in hospital. She worked there three afternoons a week and enjoyed it immensely. She was in her element, meeting the different types of customers where she chatted freely to them as they browsed around the old books and ornaments.
Connie Parker worked with her; she was an inquisitive and gossiping woman with a large mole with hairs growing out of it on the side of her mouth. She treated Jennifer like a backward child, as she did with most of the customers.
Jennifer had an admirer who would call in the shop every afternoon, peering through the window to see if she was there before he entered.
He was a tall, bright-eyed man with a shiny pink face and hair flattened down against his skull. He always wore the same black jacket, a waistcoat full of ancient pens, pinstripe trousers and a tie which looked like he had worn it at a public school, always held in place with an attractive and expensive looking jewelled pin. He would never purchase anything but hover around the cash desk, offering a seductive smile to Jennifer.
The possibility of Grace returning looked bleak, as she would need plenty of home rest after she had been discharged from hospital.
It would be good for Jennifer, meeting people and getting out of the house three afternoons a week. She secretly hoped that Grace would not be well enough to continu
e.
John Bell was also on the move, pushing his linen trolley along the hospital wing of the prison where most of the so-called ‘bad cases’ are kept.
On the ground floor are the old patients in the last stages of their lives. They are wrapped in blankets, just sitting looking out of the wire mesh covered windows. For them, there is no hope and death would be a blessing.
Bell delivered his sheets to the waiting nurses and continued through to the next ward. The patients here are considered to be dangerous, few other inmates ever see the inside of these wards, but it’s part of Bell’s rounds.
He pushes his trolley through the large swing door, knocked back by the strong smell of human excrement.
Some of the patients refuse to eat and have to be tube fed. Others are in such a state of hopelessness that they become limp and sit there like rag dolls.
He dropped his linen in the storeroom and wheeled his empty trolley out of the ward and along the exercise yard and back to the laundry.
He walked back to his cell, passed the new intake that was leaning on the railings looking down at the suicide net.
He was a middle-aged asylum seeker from Eastern Europe, had stabbed an immigration officer in his Bradford flat as they searched for heroin and found two thousand pounds in cash behind a skirting board, as well as the heroin.
If he’d kept his nerve, the worst that would have happened would have been deportation, but the silly sod panicked and he landed himself a five-year sentence.
The wing was quiet as the inmates were either at work or in the exercise yard. It didn’t last long as they returned in their droves and the bedlam began – music blaring, arguments, raucous laughter and the odd scuffle.
Bell lay on his bunk, waiting for the food hall to open. He closed his cell door to muffle the sound of televisions and stereos playing. The nights were worse, as he would hear the constant crying or screaming, constantly reminding him that another one hundred and fifty were locked up on the wing.
The silence was broken when Nick Bradshaw kicked the door open and walked in, forking spaghetti into his mouth, rested his tray on the toilet, dropped his trousers, lowered himself onto the pan and rested his metal tray on his knees while he ate and farted at the same time.
Bell went down to the food hall and waited in line with the others, holding their metal trays, pushing and punching their way through to the hotplate.
Jackson was standing behind him, knocking his tray against Bell’s arse. He ignored it as he ignored most things.
Jackson was a nasty bastard, always throwing his weight around. He had been a drug dealer on the outside, supposed to have millions stashed away. He was always found hanging around the showers when the young skinheads were marched through. It was said he was paying handsomely to the screws that gave him what he wanted on the inside, regularly bringing Jackson a vulnerable young inmate he could viciously and sexually violate while the screw turned a blind eye.
Nobody went near Jackson voluntarily, unless you were unfortunate enough to appeal to his oversexed appetite.
A guard came along the corridor, checking cells. Doors were clanging shut all along the landing. Two prison officers dashed along the corridor with a stretcher.
The young black guy who arrived yesterday, had hung himself by tying his bed sheet into a knot and fastened it to the latch on the window.
‘Fucking shit,’ shouted Nick Bradshaw, throwing his spaghetti against the wall.
‘What?’ asked Bell.
‘They’ll keep us banged up until whatever it is gets sorted. No association, no fucking exercise, sweet fuck all, just because some stupid wanker decides to top himself,’ he shouts, banging his clenched fist on the bunk.
Bell put his tray on his bunk. He had lost his appetite.
Bradshaw had been right. The cells remained locked all night.
In the morning, Bell was due to shower so he was up as soon as he heard the cells being unlocked along the corridor. He stood at the door with his towel as Bradshaw climbed down from the top bunk in his prison-issue sweatpants and a T-shirt. He started to shave at the washbasin, pissing in it at the same time.
The spyglass clicked open and the cell door was unlocked. Bell rushed off down the landing to the shower block.
The extended lock-in had caused tension, which was now being released by a mass brawl in the shower block. Twenty to thirty naked bodies were piled up like a team of rugby players, punching the shit out of each other. Bell stood watching the brawl as guards desperately tried to pull the bodies apart to disperse the group.
He went to the lower corridor to see if the atmosphere was less tense in their shower block. A young guy walked out of the shower room, his hair still wet.
There were two guys in the showers, a stocky white guy with a tattoo of the union flag on one shoulder; the other guy was a thick set black guy. Bell leaned on the wall where two towels were hanging.
The white guy glanced over at him and gestured with his thumb for Bell to join them both. They were stood under the cascade of water while wanking each other. The water stopped running, the black guy pressed the button to continue the flow as Bell walked over, his feet slapping on the wet tiled floor.
‘Fancy a bit of black?’ the white guy asked Bell.
Bell didn’t answer. The white guy was pushed against the wall as the black bloke opened his legs with his knee. Pinning his head against the wall with the back of his arm, he inserted his erect penis sharply up his rectum.
The white guy groaned as it entered.
‘It’s true what they say about you black guys then?’ the guy muffled as his head knocked against the wall.
‘I don’t get no complaints,’ the black guy said, pounding against his body.
Bell masturbated as the showers cascaded over their head, relieving him of the sexual frustration which had been building up over the past few days. After it was over, he grabbed his towel and went back to his cell to shave in the washbasin after washing out Bradshaw’s piss and residue.
Bell went down to the gym and waited until the fat bloke had finished on the treadmill.
Bradshaw was on the bike, peddling for all he was worth.
Barry Newton, a young fit skinhead was on the other treadmill, his breathing regular and even, his towel draped round his neck and his bottle of water in his right hand. Big Bear was on the machine next to him; he was obese, with a thick moustache that was bathed in sweat even though he could barely manage a long walk around the exercise yard with Bell. As soon as Big Bear finished, Bell went over to take his place.
Lester the molester was less energetic as he lay on a plastic mat in the corner working on a series of leg stretches.
Bell started the machine slowly, giving his muscles a chance to get used to working. Barry Newton increased the speed of his machine but he was barely breaking sweat.
Bell stared straight ahead as he ran, imagining running through open green fields and not a blank white wall. Bell increased the pace. It had been over a week since he’d last been on a run and his muscles were starting to burn. His trainers thumped down on the machines rubber tread and he increased the pace again.
He glanced over at the controls of Newton’s panel and noticed he was running at almost twice the speed of him, and Bell was running on the level.
The adrenaline kicked in and Newton increased his speed even faster. Newton now started breathing heavily, his mouth open and his arms pumping as he ran. He knew he could outlast Bell, with his youth and stamina. Sweat ran down Bell’s face, his vest was soaked as he faked a stumble. He reached over and slowed down the machine, panting heavily as he stepped off. Newton smiled over his shoulder, ran for a further ten minutes then slowed to a steady jog.
Big Bear had been standing on the weight machine watching the marathon, keeping an amused smile on his face. Bell wiped the sweat from his face, knowing that Barry Newton was weighing him up.
Once Bell had cooled down, he went over to a bike and climbed on. As he star
ted to peddle, Barry Newton turned off his treadmill and climbed onto the one next to him. They peddled in silence for a while. Newton wanted to show his interest in Bell without appearing over eager. Big Bear remain watching from the weights. Bell put his hands on the handlebars and concentrated on peddling. Both men cycled in unison, but this time there was no competition.
Due to regular fights, only twelve prisoners were allowed in the gym at any one time, unless you paid the screws for extra time.
After a refreshing shower, Bell and Big Bear walked through the exercise yard to the entrance of the prison chapel where the service was to be held. The prisoners were given a thorough pat down, as religious services were the main opportunity they had for moving contraband between blocks so the guards had to be extra vigilant.
They took a seat at the back of the room, in front of a hundred or so others. A small wooden lectern stood at the end of the room, with a guy sat at a small electronic organ.
An overweight bloke who was constantly blowing his nose with a handkerchief was pushing Bell off his seat.
The service took an hour where Bell and Big Bear walked around the exercise yard before going back to their cells.
Barry Newton was leaning against the wall; his eyes followed Bell as he walked in a wide circle around the edge of the wall.
Bell walked to his cell to see Bradshaw walking up and down the corridor, ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he shouted, kicking the railings as he walked, tilts his head back, does that disgusting thing with his thumb over his nostril, and expels a line of snot which clears the railings and lands on the suicide net.
As Bell passes him, his eyes bulge like they are going to burst and he breaks out into a violent giggling attack, his face turning purple.
Bell though he was better placed on the asylum wing, wrapped in a blanket looking out of a wire-mesh window.
‘I’ve fucking tried, but I can’t get the entire cock down my throat, which is still sore for sucking Butler’s last night,’ he heard, passing Lester the molester’s cell. He was entertaining young Simon Coxston, a very apt name for one of the many prostitutes on the wing.
He looks into Big Bears cell in case he got back before him as he lost him in the packed exercise yard. His cellmate is asleep on the top lower bunk, his face pressed against the graffiti covered wall. His young beautiful shaven head is visible.
Inseparable Bond Page 26