Inseparable Bond (35 page)

There was no
work on Sunday but Bell had to clean the floors of the corridor and
around the shower block. The gym was full and the exercise yard
packed.

Bell was only
allowed one hour a day in the gym, but some inmates were there all
day and everyday.

After Bell had
finished cleaning duties, he hung around on the corridor, leaning
over the railings watching the prisoners lining up, being searched
by the screws before they went into the exercise yard. He pushed
himself off the railings and ambled slowly along, several inmates
nodded to him as he passed, as they knew who he was and what he had
done, as he knew of them. There were no secrets in here, everyone
knew everything about everybody.

He walked out
to the exercise yard, passing half a dozen of the older inmates
sitting at a table playing dominos and four Jamaicans playing pool.
Big Bear was with them, his hand squeezing one of the lad’s
buttocks.

He walked into
the gym; there were more than two dozen in there. Most of the West
Indians had gathered at the weights area where Nick Bradshaw was
holding court. A screw watched them from the balcony with a look of
disdain. They approached a new young intake that was jogging on the
treadmill and switched off the machine, which threw him to the
ground. They dragged the young lad into the shower block, and
ripped off his prison issue shorts. Two West Indians bent him over
opening the cheeks of his white arse as Bradshaw violently fucked
the lad to the chanting of the West Indians.

The screams of
the young intake were heard through the gym, where the others
appeared oblivious to the attack. The supervising prison office
leaned over the rails and continued picking the dirt from under his
nails, looking in the opposite direction.

Bell didn’t
spend much time in the gym, and when he did his routine never
varied. He did thirty minutes running on the treadmill, ten minutes
on the bike, and whatever time was left, he’d spent it doing
press-ups. The only variation came when he worked on his arms and
legs. He never went near the weights area and he rarely spoke to
anyone in the gym.

Nick Bradshaw
was an out and out bully. He would never have to ask to use a piece
of equipment, as the others would just move away as he approached,
watching him race at the highest speed and highest incline on the
treadmill. His deep-set black crows eyes fixed firmly on the wall
as he concentrated on maintaining his rhythm. He gained respect
from the others. He had a knack of intimidation to the prisoners
and charm to the officers and could get anything he wanted from gym
equipment, better food, smokes, drugs, to sex from anyone he
fancied, normally the young vulnerable skinheads who had just
arrived on the wing and hadn’t had the time to find a suitable gang
or a lone protector.

He would jerk
off incessantly on his bunk above Bell on the rare occasion he
didn’t have someone to do it for him.

When Bell was
on his own, normally in the exercise yard, his mind would whirl
through memories of Jennifer, the way she would sit in the bay
window, sleeping with her handkerchief hanging from the corner of
her mouth as she watched the passing traffic on the esplanade and
moving around the kitchen, shuffling her small feet as she prepared
the meals and the look of grateful pride when he was in the
garden.

Apart from
Jennifer, he had come to hate the world and everyone in it.

He would watch
Bradshaw as he slept, thinking of the ways he could kill him. A
quick kick from his heel to break his nose, sending the bone up to
his brain, as he had done to the vicar. A finger strike into his
eyes. A chop to the Adam’s apple or a fist to the throbbing vein in
his temple. Bell knew what it was like to kill and knew that he
could take Bradshaw’s life without a moment’s regret or guilt.

Bell knew it
wasn’t worth it. If he killed Bradshaw out of jealousy, he would be
killed by his band of admirers and supporters within twenty-four
hours or spend the rest of his life behind bars. No man was worth
that, he thought.

Bradshaw would
lay on his bed, sulking like a spoilt child, then express his rage.
He’d lash out verbally and physically, making someone pay for what
he was going through in the prison. He would bang his clenched
fists on the wall, screaming,

‘I don’t want
the fucking shit food, I don’t want to watch fucking television, I
don’t want to clean floors or weave fucking baskets, I just want
peace and quiet.’

Bell would lay
on his bunk with his hands over his ears.

He had
repeatedly asked for a transfer, but it was always denied.

The exercise
yard was Bell’s escape from Bradshaw’s violent tempers, where he
could mingle in relative safety with the others. His blue prison
issue baggy trousers, several sizes too big for him, the hem
scuffed the floor as he walked around the yard like a trapped
tiger. He had requested a new fitted uniform as the shirt was as
baggy as trousers, but his request was refused due to the
overcrowding.

It had been
light outside for a couple of hours before the cell door was
unlocked.

Bradshaw was
standing at the ready by the door. As soon as it opened he rushed
out and hared along the corridor. Bell heard the pounding of feet
as other prisoners rushed to the showers. He felt dirty, but seeing
Bradshaw had nicked his towel and he didn’t have clean clothes to
change into, he didn’t see the point of showering.

He rolled off
his bunk and stared at his reflection in the mirror tiles above the
sink. There were dark patches under his eyes and his hair was lank
and greasy. He bared his yellowing teeth. He looked as if he had
been sleeping rough for a week.

He took the
shaving soap and brush, lathered his face, and then shaved with the
plastic razor. He cleaned his teeth with the foul-tasting
toothpaste. Plastic bristles came off the brush and he spat them
out. As he was rinsing his mouth, the cell door opened. It was Big
Bear, carrying a dark green towel and a plum coloured prison-issue
tracksuit.

Big Bear’s
cellmate was in solitary confinement for fighting in the food hall
along with a dozen others, and had left the garments in the
cell.

John thanked
him as he dried his face on the towel.

‘You know you
can get pants and socks sent in from the outside,’ he said, to
Bell.

‘Yes, I know,
but there’s no one I can call,’ Bell replied.

‘Well, I can
get a change of clothes every week, and I’m working on getting
underwear also,’ Big Bear said.

‘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.