Inseparable Bond

by David Poulter

  ‘How dare you speak to me in that way, you have shown nothing but discontent and arrogance since you were released from prison, you are the most ungrateful person I have ever met,’ she said, her hands shaking with anger.

  ‘Grateful for what? You have done fuck all for me, I should have gone to stay with Tommy Hayes in Bradford,’ he shouted.

  Who is Tommy Hayes?’ she asked.

  ‘He got released the same day as I did. He’s a great guy and good fun, not like you, in your fancy house with your fancy man,’ he shouted loudly, his eyes wide with rage as he banged his fist heavily on the kitchen table.

  ‘Why are you treating me this way? What has happened to you? You would never have spoken to me this way, what did they do to you in that prison?’ she asked, tears rolling down her face, and her tiny hands shaking with fear and anger. Jennifer slowly stood up from her chair and grabbed her handbag from the table as she made her way to the kitchen door.

  John Bell leaped at her, treading brutally and deliberately on her tiny feet, then his hand swept round, hitting her so hard across the head that she fell to the floor. He dragged her to her knees and put both hands under her armpits, propping her against the table as though she were a rag doll, and hit her again, across the face this time, first on the right cheek and then on the left. Jennifer fell to the floor, her teeth rattled in her head as she screamed and tried desperately to fight back.

  She felt another punishing blow, this time in the stomach, and she folded up, groaning. She managed to crawl to the door at the end of the hall. He followed her, breathing heavily. She managed to get herself to her feet and opened the door. She whimpered, but he grabbed her by her thinning hair and slammed her viciously on the back of her head as he pushed her out onto the landing and slammed the door behind her.

  She struggled down the main stairs, desperate to get away from the flat and hurried to the large front door of the house until she entered the street. She ran hysterically down the high street towards the harbour. People moved out of her way as she hastily pushed past them, tears rolling down her face.

  She reached the harbour, sitting on the first bench she found, bending her head down to her knees as her tiny hands covered her ears. She was shaking hysterically, clutching her stomach when he had violently kicked her. She sat there for a few minutes trying to console herself after the unprovoked attack. Her face was sickly pale, almost green as she hugged her torn blouse around her.

  She made her way back along the promenade, up the steep hill hanging onto the handrail as she dragged her aching body to the house.

  Fortunately, George had gone to the Bowling Club Christmas luncheon at the Grand Hotel and wouldn’t be back before six. Molly wasn’t due in today, which avoided her giving anyone the embarrassing explanation of how she looked.

  Jennifer went to her bedroom and quickly undressed as her hands and body still shook after her ordeal. She looked down at herself. Her arms were already turning purple and her tiny feet were black where he had stepped on them. She looked in the mirror and noticed one eye was half closed and her lip felt like a throbbing cushion. She noticed a small cut on her forehead and blood trickled from it down her cheek.

  Two buttons had been ripped off her blouse and her skirt was crumpled and dirty. Her whole body ached as though she had been thrown down a large flight of stairs, landing heavily at the bottom.

  She walked naked over the landing and into the bathroom, filling the bath with hot water and pouring a bottle of lavender oil into the full tub. She carefully climbed into the bath and lowered her aching body beneath the water. She sobbed hysterically, like she had never sobbed before.

  Jennifer had done her best to be brave and sensible as she heard George pull up the drive in his car.

  She had stopped visibly shaking from the outside of her body, but not from the inside.

  The thoughts of her doing her duty by providing so generously for her brother comforted her, but now she had suddenly realised that she had been betrayed by a wicked, cruel and very dangerous man, where she could no longer look upon him as her brother.

  She croaked through the tears that wanted so badly to be shed as she looked at her reflection in the mirror at her bruised and battered face. Her body ached and her head felt like it was fit to burst as she walked slowly down the stairs and into the lounge. George was pouring himself a glass of whisky from the cabinet as she entered.

  He looked up at her as his smile rapidly turned to a look of sheer disbelief and horror as his glass fell from his hand and onto the floor. He raced over to her as she fell into his arms, crying uncontrollably as she clung onto him in desperation.

  ‘What the hell had happened to you?’ he said, pushing her shaking body away from his grasp enabling him to look at her bruised face.

  ‘It looks worse that it feels,’ she said, trying to keep her head lowered.

  ‘Oh, my poor darling, how did this happen?’ he said, wiping his hands softly over the wounds of her face.

  ‘I just had a little fall down the steps leading to the outdoor music hall,’ she said plausibly.

  ‘This doesn’t look like a little fall to me, just look at the state of you, I’ll phone the doctor straight away,’ he said, pulling her closely to him with his arms tightly around her shoulders.

  ‘No, no, I don’t want to see any doctor, it’s nothing. I’ve had a hot bath and feel much better now. The bruises will have disappeared by tomorrow,’ she said confidently.

  ‘Well, you just sit there and I’ll make you a hot cup of tea and brandy,’ he said, carefully walking her towards the armchair by the fire.

  He placed the tea beside her as he wiped a warm cloth with disinfectant gently over her eye and the cut on her forehead. He wrapped a cashmere blanket around her shoulders and lifted her feet onto a cushioned footstool as she lay back in the chair, wiping tears from her eyes. Her body started to shake once again as she re-lived her frightening ordeal at the hands of her psychopathic brother.

  The attack on her had been terrifyingly severe, but she now finally acknowledged that he was a dangerous man, and she had been extremely lucky to have not sustained more serious injuries, or worse.

  She was in a great deal of pain and discomfort, which she suffered in silence to avoid George seeking medical assistance, which could easily expose her double life.

  She had slept through the night, but woke to realise her body ached from head to toe. Images of her previous day’s attack swirled through her mind the moment she opened her eyes which she covered with her hand as George drew back the bedroom curtains to let in the bright winter sun, which directed at her like a searchlight.

  A cup of tea sat on the bedside table as George sat alongside her, his eyes full of concern and compassion as he gently lifted a tuft of hair from her forehead to inspect the wound on her forehead.

  She climbed out of bed as the bruises and abrasions stiffened and ached.

  George helped her downstairs and sat her at the kitchen table. He knew her well enough to guess from her expression that she was in pain and discomfort as she slowly lowered her body onto the chair.

  The early morning sun was shining across the rear garden and seagulls swooped and soared in the blue sky overhead.

  George opened the kitchen door to let Walter out into the garden. Jennifer suddenly shivered with the intensity of the bitterly cold wind as it circulated around the kitchen.

  George bathed her forehead as she stared incredulously into his concerned face.

  She lifted her cup of tea and had difficulty just raising it to her lips. Her hands shook and when she began to drink, her throat ached with every swallow, where after drinking only half of the tea the ache in her throat defeated her thirst.

  Her head ached and her throat was sore, but no longer with the angry violence, which had filled her nightmare-ridden sleep.

  ‘I think you’re on the road to recovery now,’ George said sympathetically, as he soothed her wound with a cloth of warm water and disinfectan
t.

  As the day progressed, so did she. By eleven she was dressed and washing the breakfast dishes despite George’s objections.

  A bank of heavy snow clouds had now covered the bright morning sun as she sat by the fire in exhaustion, warming her toes by the flames of the fire. George walked into the lounge with another cup of tea for her, placing it by the small table alongside her as he reached for another log from the basket, and then laid it on the glowing embers.

  He quickly left the room to answer the telephone which rang in the hall, returning slowly, showing an angry and anxious expression as he looked down at Jennifer.

  ‘It’s your brother, phoning you from the prison, what do I tell him? ‘he asked.

  ‘Oh, I’ll speak to him, just help me up, dear,’ she said, as she slowly lifted her aching body from the chair.

  George assisted her to the telephone and stood beside her as she spoke.

  ‘Hello, dear, how are you?’ she asked, keeping her back towards George and looking down at the floor as she spoke.

  ‘I just phoned to apologise for yesterday, I didn’t mean it but you got me angry, asking so many questions, and I had a bad headache, do you forgive me?’ he asked.

  Jennifer looked up at George’s concerned expression before she answered. ‘Of course, dear, you know I do. You take care of yourself surrounded by all those cruel men and have a lovely Christmas dear, goodbye for now,’ she said, placing the receiver slowly back on the cradle.

  George held her by the arm as he settled her back into her chair.

  ‘What did he want?’ he asked Jennifer sternly.

  ‘Oh, he only wanted to wish me a happy Christmas and told me to take care of myself, he couldn’t speak for long as other men were waiting to use the telephone,’ she said plausibly, her eyes staring at the flames in the fire as she trembled with useless anger, her cheeks hot with it, her hands shaking.

  George didn’t comment further on the telephone call, learning through past experience that it would be to no avail and probably lead to a disagreement.

  Rather to her own surprise, she felt remarkably better by 5 o’clock as George placed a tray on her knee. She heartily tucked into her gammon and pineapple as George sat in concerned attendance in the chair opposite.

  She went to bed shortly after clearing the plate. George helped her upstairs, returning to watch television and reading his library book at the same times.

  Jennifer climbed into the sheets, which felt like ice. She gasped as her aching body lay on the mattress and pulled the covers up to her chin, quickly falling in to a deep sleep.

  George had slept in the guest room to avoid disturbing her through the night.

  The following morning was dull and grey. Walter ran around excitingly in the back garden, rolling around in the light fall of overnight snow. George raked out last night’s ashes from the fire and cleaned the grate and surround. He laid the new fire, lit it, and tended it through its first infantile cracking until it flickered into life.

  He took a cup of tea up to Jennifer, who was already out of bed and washing in the bathroom.

  ‘I’ll take your tea back downstairs, I’ve just lit the fire for you, so go through to the lounge and I’ll bring your breakfast to you on a tray,’ he shouted through the door.

  Jennifer’s wounds had healed remarkably quickly and the bruises on her arms were slowly fading, but the pain in her heart remained.

  She was greeted by George at the bottom of the stairs, who smiled at her with a sweet expression as she grabbed the banister rail to steady her walk.

  She had suggested taking a short walk in to town, but George had strongly disapproved in view of the slippery condition of the pavements and not feeling she was yet strong enough to walk unaccompanied.

  She compromised by walking around the rear garden with Walter, who sniffed in and out of the bushes as he scampered around in the thin layer of snow, George looked attentively through the French doors, exhaling plumes of cigar smoke through his nose.

  She smiled back at George, but her relaxed expression hid a nervous disposition, she could not rid herself from the thoughts of her attack from her violent brother. She walked back to the house, suggesting to George that they took a short drive along the coast road, a suggestion that he heartily endorsed.

  REVENGE

  With Walter frantically jumping up at the back window of the car, they drove along the North Bay and out towards the coast road leading to Whitby and Hull.

  They parked in Robin Hoods Bay and visited the small gift shop and sauntered along the rows of fisherman’s cottages before warming from the outside cold in a small restaurant where they had a typical steak and ale pie smothered in onion gravy.

  The small town was surprisingly busy with walkers and tourists, normally associated with warmer months, when the popular village would be packed with day-trippers from the many coaches which visited the idyllic place.

  After the hearty lunch, they stood by the railings and watched the heaving grey ocean crash against the sea wall. She glared out to the horizon, realising that the attack on her had left an imprint on her soul as anger raged inside her tiny body.

  Seagulls searched for scraps of food around her feet until a running child caused the flock to rise into the air, their large white wings flashed in the afternoon sunshine as the child clapped his hands at the sudden flurry.

  As they strolled back towards the car, her attention was drawn to a painting which rested on an easel in the small window of the artists shop.

  ‘Look, George, it’s painting of the south cliff in Scarborough, and there’s our house,’ she said, pointing to the picture excitingly.

  ‘Yes, you’re right, it is our home and it seems to dominate the entire picture,’ he said.

  As they reached the car, Jennifer settled into the passenger seat as George went in search of a public toilet to relieve himself after numerous cups of tea. He soon returned carrying a large parcel under his arm and discreetly placed it on the back seat of the car.

  They drove back to Scarborough slowly, affording Jennifer the time to view the affluent houses which lined the route, set well back from the normally busy road.

  They arrived back at the house as the recently heavy clouds disposed a further downfall of snow.

  Once inside the house, George presented her with the carefully wrapped parcel.

  Her face lit up with joy as she discovered the painting of the south cliff with their house prominently perched in the centre. It was framed in antique gold, the colours so vibrant and realistic. She quickly went through to the lounge removing an old print of Salisbury Cathedral, replacing it with the new purchase. She stood back in admiration as George stood behind her, his hands rubbing her tiny shoulders as he gently kissed the back of her head.

  Jennifer prepared the vegetables for the casserole as George read the last chapter of his library book. The kitchen cupboards were full of food in readiness for the arrival of Roger and his wife and children who were driving over from Blackpool the next day for their annual three-day Christmas visit.

  It was the morning before Christmas Day. Jennifer drew back the curtains in expectation of another dreary wet and dull day. Her eyes shone with delight as she looked down on the snow-covered roofs of the houses which lined the beach up to the harbour lighthouse. The front garden looked splendid, covered in white snow which had settled heavily on the leafless branches. The sea was grey and still, tiny waves lapped at the white sand as seagulls swooped low in the chilling cold air. It was a beautiful sight; quiet, still and undisturbed by human hand.

  George was already downstairs clearing the cinders from last night’s fire as Walter stood motionless in the rear garden, his short legs immersed in the deep snow.

  Jennifer quickly set about preparing the breakfast, mixing ingredients for the sage and onion stuffing which would be inserted into the rectum of the large turkey, which sat on the work surface, protected by silver foil.

  Barbara had phoned earlier info
rming George of their intended departure and to expect them in four hour’s time.

  Jennifer looked up at the kitchen clock on the wall.

  ‘They’ll be here by 1 o’clock George, will they stop for lunch on the way?’ she asked him, an expression of concern crossing her face.

  ‘I don’t know, they may stop off in York en-route for some last minute Christmas shopping, they did last year, if you remember,’ he replied, sitting down at the table.

  ‘I’ll make them something anyway, the children will be famished,’ she said, as she searched through the kitchen cupboards.

  ‘How are you feeling today, dear? You’re looking much better,’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes, much better now. How silly of me to fall like that, I must have just lost my footing,’ she said, as she un-wrapped a leg of lamb from the refrigerator.

  She carefully placed fruit in the silver bowl, precariously resting a bunch of grapes on top of the tangerines as she carefully carried it through to the lounge.

  Beautifully wrapped presents had been displayed at the base of the large Christmas tree which dominated the room; she nervously looked through the bay window, half expecting to see her brother loitering on the pavement, but smiled to herself at the relief of seeing only two young children throwing snowballs at each other.

  She was determined to visit John before the family arrived, as she would be unable to leave the house throughout their visit and her normal excuse to go into town would only cause suspicion as all the shops would be closed for the next two days. She carefully planned her excuse as she walked through to the kitchen. George was eating his breakfast with his head low over the plate. She opened the cupboard, taking out three packs of butter and buried them deep inside the kitchen waste bin.

  George continued to eat his breakfast, reading his daily paper at the same time, unaware of her deceitful action.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she shrieked, ‘I’d forgotten to buy the butter when I was last in town,’