Inseparable Bond

by David Poulter

  His sleep is interrupted by Bell’s sudden sneezing fit. He rolls over to face him. He must only be 18, with handsome features in a smooth face. He smiled and stroked his crotch as he smiled at Bell. He smiled back and went next door to his cell.

  Bradshaw had calmed down as he entered the cell. Bell lay in his bunk, his head firmly embedded in a library book he had taken from his small stash on the shelf.

  Bradshaw wasn’t a stupid bloke, just a nutter and always on any drug he can get his hands on. He could read, comprehend, and concentrate when given incentives like chocolate, drugs or Simon Coxston.

  Bell adjusted the cheeks of his arse as he lowered himself down onto the cold steel toilet bowl, his hands over his eyes to drown the sound of inmates shouting and screaming as they had been forced off the exercise yard as a brawl had developed.

  They yell, threaten, push and pull, slapping each other and were generally pissed off, having their recreation time reduced, as the guards march them into their cells, banging the doors behind them.

  He sat there, dreaming of an early release through some legal miracle, a new trial, a petition or just a pardon, but his fantasy would remain as a fantasy for many years.

  Lock-up was called and the cell doors were shut and locked. Bell drifted in and out of sleep. He could hear a television down the corridor, so he wasn’t the only prisoner not sleeping. He lost track of time. He could put the television on but that would disturb the animal snoring above him, but there was little point as he had no schedule to keep and he certainly wasn’t going anywhere.

  On the sound of the cells being opened the next morning. Bell and Bradshaw raced down the corridor in the hope of being at the front of the line of hungry inmates.

  Over fifty had got there before them. Bradshaw took his tray and walked to the front of the queue. No one protested as he shoved his tray out to the server. The screws were watching but didn’t seem interested. ‘I want two sausages, you mean bastard,’ Bradshaw shouted at the server, who quickly answered. ‘And I want to share a cell with Selina Scott… Now fuck off.’

  MEETING MR FORESTER

  Jennifer was fully occupied with her cold chicken salad that had been put before her. A very generous portion, which would take some getting through particularly now the waiter had served a hot baked potato heaped with sour scream and garnished with small pieces of crispy bacon.

  George topped her glass with the chilled Chablis as he looked over at her from the top of his gold-rimmed glasses.

  George Forester looked at her quizzically as she inspected the mountainous meal. He sat well back as his sizzling sirloin steak was served from a silver platter and onto his plate. Jennifer waited patiently until his vegetables and jacket potato were served before picking up her knife and fork.

  ‘Off we go,’ George said, as they both heartily tucked into the meal.

  ‘I have always admired that lovely tie pin that you always wear,’ Jennifer said.

  ‘Thank you, my dear, my wife presented it to me on our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary while we were on a cruise around Alaska, she purchased it from the jewellers onboard the ship,’ he replied.

  ‘I noticed that when you first came into the charity shop,’ she said, sipping her wine.

  ‘I always wear it, I promised her I would and I have kept to my promise,’ he replied.

  The setting was lovely. The late summer sun was setting over the horizon, sending a stream of bright golden light over the calm sea. The waiter considerately closed the curtains to shade Jennifer’s eyes from the glare.

  George had requested the window table in the restaurant of the Imperial Hotel in Blackpool, which the restaurant manager had been only too pleased to oblige due to him being a regular and valued customer.

  Jennifer had sat on the lounge reading good quality magazines, Harpers and Queen, Country Life, Lancashire Life and the Daily Telegraph supplement, while George spent his regular afternoon session in the hotels gym in the basement.

  ‘It now explains why you have such a firm body for a man of your age,’ Jennifer said, as she prodded a radish which had rolled off her plate and escaped.

  ‘I like to keep fit, I try and go every day,’ he replied, cutting into his steak.

  Jennifer toyed with his packet of Silk Cut cigarettes and a gold Dunhill lighter, as if trying to resist temptation, watching him as he chewed on a large piece of steak.

  He lifted the bottle of wine from the ice bucket and poured the remainder of the wine into Jennifer’s glass.

  ‘I can’t have anymore, George, it will go straight to my head,’ she said, looking into the clear wine with a childish smile.

  He chatted about his past job, his home, his wife and his seven grandchildren until the waiter returned to clear the plates, offering dessert menus to both of them.

  ‘You’re a good listener, you listen but show no curiosity,’ George said as he studied the menu.

  ‘I don’t find anything curious about you, George, and I find you most interesting,’ she replied.

  He persuaded Jennifer to have a desert, chocolate cheesecake and cream. They declined coffee and decided to drive back to his house before it got too dark.

  George Forester’s house was only a five minute drive from the Imperial. A large imposing residence on the North Promenade.

  The house was not dissimilar to Jennifer’s old house; the difference being it was immaculately maintained and beautifully furnished.

  He parked his dark blue BMW in the garage next to a small red MG sports car.

  The house was elevated to afford splendid sea views from all the front windows.

  ‘What a beautiful view from here,’ Jennifer said, as she stood in the bay window.

  ‘It’s all right now, but when they put up those bloody illuminations next week, they are bloody irritating, flashing all night, but it’s only for ten weeks,’ he replied.

  They drank coffee by an imitation log fire, but of the best quality and only for effect, as the house was centrally heated.

  ‘It’s your time to tell me about you now, you listened to me for long enough,’ he said, pouring more coffee.

  Jennifer told him about her childhood, her marriage and her parents, but didn’t mention she had a brother and fortunately, he didn’t ask.

  He didn’t want to drive any further as they had demolished a full bottle of port while chatting. He ordered Jennifer a taxi and walked down the garden steps, tightly holding her arm as she got into the car. He paid the driver before the taxi departed. Jennifer waved to him from the rear window; he waved back until the taxi disappeared around the corner.

  The sun shone brightly the next morning, but Jennifer didn’t need any rays of the sun to energize her. She had thoroughly enjoyed her evening out, although she was feeling rather worse for wear after the wine and port. She had never been a big drinker, so it had affected her more than most.

  She steadied herself by gripping the handrail as she walked down the stairs and into the kitchen. A strong fix of caffeine helped to staunch the headache as she sat in the bay window, recalling the events of the previous evening.

  George Forester had been a solicitor in Preston, being the lead partner of Forester, Maynard and Bentley. His son had taken over from him when his father retired eight years earlier. His son, Andrew, was living happily in Portsmouth with his wife and two young children, but although he had a good job with a law firm in the city, he felt obliged to take over the partnership on his father’s retirement.

  He had lived in Blackpool for most of his life; his wife had been born there, and died there three years earlier.

  He had plucked up the courage to ask Jennifer for dinner last week while she worked her short three hour shift in the charity shop.

  Grace Battersby was out of hospital but not well enough to work, which suited Jennifer as she enjoyed covering for her in the shop and it had given her the opportunity to meet George.

  She watched the heavy dark clouds swirl over the sea. The summer was co
ming to an abrupt end; the leaves were turning a golden brown as they started to fall from the trees.

  She smiled as she remembered the day’s outing in the lakes with John last autumn.

  John Bell and Big Bear walked the wide circle of the exercise yard, shielding their faces from whirlwind which had got trapped within the high walls, kicked up dust and grime which had accumulated from the recent hot and dry summer.

  Bell looked over at the entrance to the yard. A screw was giving an inmate a body search before allowing him onto the yard. The screw seemed to be taking extra care searching him.

  ‘What’s his story?’ Bell asked Big Bear.

  ‘He escaped from Brixton a few years back, managed to get over the wall with a home-made ladder he made in the workshop,’ Big Bear told him.

  ‘Where did they catch him?’ Bell asked,

  ‘On the Eurostar going to France last month,’ Big Bear replied.

  An officer idled over to Bell and Big Bear as they sat on one of the metal tables having a cigarette. ‘Bell, look lively, you’ve got a visitor,’ the officer shouted.

  The officer marched him through to the visitor’s wing, where he was searched far more thoroughly than going in to the exercise yard. Every inch of his sides, back and front was patted down, and he had to open his mouth and stick out his tongue and flick his ears to see he didn’t have anything concealed behind them. The officer made him run his fingers through his hair, then handed him a bight orange sash.

  He was used to this procedure when he received visits from his solicitor regarding his case, appeal, transfer and parole possibilities.

  The unsmiling officer nodded at Bell to go through. The visiting room was smaller than on the other wing, the size of a tennis court. There was a balcony above the door where an officer with a bored expression looked down on the rows of chairs and tables. There were already about fifty visitors, some standing, some sitting, waiting for their loved ones. Most of the women had small children with them.

  The tables were lined up in rows, each with four plastic chairs around them. The chairs could be moved but the tables were fastened to the floor.

  A young redheaded woman with a baby strapped to her chest was jumping up and down and waving as Barry Newton, the treadmill runner, walked into the room.

  Most of the kids’ fathers were just teenage kids, like Newton.

  Security cameras were positioned in each corner of the room, three prison officers also stood around the walls, watching silently as they focused on the individual tables as husbands and wives embraced each other. Fathers cuddled small children and kissed their babies.

  Barry Newton was crying unashamedly as he clutched his small baby in his arms.

  If an embrace lasted too long, an officer walked over and tapped them on the shoulder, telling them to sit down.

  The prisoners had to sit on the right side of the table, the visitor on the left.

  In the far corner were vending machines offering sweets and cold drinks, next to a play area for young children.

  Spider was marched into the room. ‘Daddy, Daddy,’ a young child screamed, as she ran over to him.

  A small frail woman walked into the room, her head was lowered as she looked around the room. John recognised the coat before he recognised who was wearing it.

  Jennifer looked impassive as she spotted John sitting at the table. She walked over to him, looking around at the sobbing and shouting of other visitors and inmates.

  She had been the last person Bell had expected. It had been over a year with no contact from her, not even a reply from his letter when he had been in custody.

  Bell stood up as she approached him, he held his arms out to her, she smiles but he could see how tense she was.

  He held her as she slipped her hands around his waist.

  ‘God, I’ve missed you, Jennifer, I’m so pleased you finally came to see me,’ he said.

  ‘It’s your choice, being here,’ she said, and he heard resentment in her voice.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Jennifer,’ he said.

  They both sat at the table, holding hands, being watch intensively by the officer.

  ‘Can you ever forgive me, Jennifer,’ he said, looking sadly into her eyes.

  ‘I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t,’ she replied, squeezing his hands tightly.

  ‘Do you have a cell on your own?’ Jennifer asked.

  Bell smiled. ‘I wish, but I do have a television.’

  ‘Well, that’s nice for you, I know you like your television programmes,’ she said. ‘Do they have fights and things,’ she asked, looking around the room at the inmates.

  Bell smiles at her. ‘There are a few scuffles, but mainly in the yard, I never get involved, and they leave me alone,’ he said.

  Jennifer frowned as she forced a sympathetic smile, reaching over to ruffle his hair.

  Bell could see she was close to tears. A prison visiting room is not the ideal place for a discussion. Jennifer looked over at the vending machines in the corner.

  ‘Do you want a drink or a biscuit or something?’ she asked, looking around the room.

  ‘I’m not allowed, but you can,’ he relied.

  Bell could see that she felt uncomfortable in the surroundings.

  Jennifer reached over and stroked his cheek and said, ‘You’re looking thin dear, you should be home with me, it’s very lonely without you.’

  Bell looked at her sad eyes and stroked the back of her small, shaking hand.

  ‘How’s my garden looking?’ he asked, to lighten the mood.

  ‘Oh, its looking fine. Some ladies from the bible class have helped me with it, but now the church gardener comes around twice a week to keep it tidy,’ she replied.

  Bell released his hands for hers and sat back in his chair.

  ‘How’s the food, are you eating plenty?’ she said, frowning as she studied his face.

  ‘Oh, yes, the foods fine. I get extra as I’ve been working in the kitchen, but now I’m on cleaning duties, which is easier and cleaner,’ he replied.

  ‘Ask them to put you in the garden, dear, then they’ll see how good you are,’ she said.

  He returned the smile, reaching over to grasp her tiny hands again, as he said, ‘There aren’t any gardens here, just concrete like the city on the other side of the walls. It’s not like the other place in Buckinghamshire. I hope they send me there.’

  ‘That would be nice for you, but it’s a long way for me to visit,’ she said.

  ‘Do you have to wear that yellow jacket all the time dear?’ Jennifer asked.

  ‘No, only in the visiting room, it’s so I don’t walk out with you,’ he said smiling.

  At the next table, a West Indian prisoner was cuddling his baby, smothering it with kisses. His right hand slipped inside the child’s nappy. A couple of seconds later he coughed and he used the same hand to cover his mouth. The officers didn’t see him transfer the drugs from nappy to mouth. The baby started to cry; he passed it back to its mother.

  Jennifer was startled and turned around to see what was happening. A commotion in the far corner of the room where a young blonde woman with a child had thrown her chair over, shouting, ‘I hate you, I hate you, you can rot in here for all I care,’ and stormed out of the visiting room, dragging the child after her.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Jennifer.

  ‘He’s a new guy,’ said Bell. ‘He’s in for armed robbery. That was his wife just walked out on him. She wants a divorce.’

  There was still five minutes left before visiting time was over. Jennifer had relaxed and talked freely about the church, the bible class, the charity shop and the new family who had recently moved in two doors down, but she didn’t mention George Forster or her occasional outings with him.

  Eventually over the speakers, a disembodied voice announced that all visitors had to leave. Bell stood up and embraced Jennifer, giving her a slight kiss on her cheek.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ he whispered in her ear.
/>   Jennifer looked him in the eyes and said, ‘It’s been good seeing you dear, I’ll come over again shortly, make sure you look after yourself,’ she said, picking up her bag.

  She walked quickly to the exit and gave a wave as she walked out of the room.

  Officers moved around the tables telling the visitors they had to go. Children were crying and several of the young prisoners were crying too, clinging to their wives and children as they left the room.

  Bell went over to the line of prisoners waiting in line to be searched. The search on the way out was more thorough than it had been on the way in.

  The young West Indian who had taken the drugs from his child’s nappy was taken away, protesting loudly. Bell reached the front of the queue and the officer patted down his arms and legs and sent him along the yard and back onto the wing.

  Bradshaw was in the cell with a young prostitute. He was just pulling up his trousers as Bell walked in. The young guy left the cell and closed the door behind him. Jennifer’s visit had spared him the embarrassing ordeal.

  Bell left the cell and leaned over the guardrail and looked down through the suicide mesh to the ground floor where prisoners were milling around.

  He could tolerate the bad food, the smell from his toilet and the constant music from the other cells, but having to socialise with men he despised was more than he could bear, particularly Bradshaw who spent most of his day sitting in the cell watching television or listening to his Walkman.

  Bell changed into his shorts and T-shirt and walked down the corridor and onto the lower floor towards the gym. Big Bear, his best friend, was pumping iron.

  ‘Who was it, your solicitor?’ he asked him.

  ‘No, my sister Jennifer,’ Bell replied, as he climbed onto the treadmill.

  Net curtains fluttered at the sitting room of the house next door. Molly, the 80-year-old spinster and resident busybody, looked to see who was visiting Jennifer as George parked his BMW outside her house.