Inseparable Bond (22 page)

John watched
helplessly as tears fell from her eyes and she fished around in her
sleeve for her hanky. The incident had clearly upset and frightened
her.

He made her a
cup of tea; she was asleep when he returned. He left the cup by her
bed.

He stayed home
that evening, realising their would be little activity in the late
night shelter, the majority of oversexed men, transvestites and
voyeurs would be celebrating Christmas night with their wives and
children.

It was after
midnight when he went to bed. He peered into Jennifer’s room, she
was sleeping, and he watched his pornographic video before falling
asleep.

He was woken
by a strip of sunlight squeezing its way in through the gap in the
large velvet curtains. He lay still for a long time, listening. The
neighbourhood was quiet, being Boxing Day. His alarm clock had said
ten minutes past nine.

It was only
when he went to the bathroom that he remembered Jennifer. He looked
at the windowsill, no cup of tea. He tiptoed down the landing and
peered around the door of her room. She was sleeping on her back
with her mouth open, but there was no noise. The blanket had
slipped half off to reveal her small thigh.

As he
approached, she grunted with a short snort. She turned over in her
sleep to find a new position. The blanket fell to the floor. He
picked it up and quietly replaced it over her.

He went into
the kitchen and made breakfast, laying a tray of tea and toast to
take up to Jennifer, he heard the water pipes clatter.

He heard her
footsteps coming down the stairs and watched her enter the kitchen.
There was fresh colour in her cheeks, she didn’t look ill at all
and certainly not tired.

John went over
to her as she stood by the open door, giving her a gentle kiss on
the cheek. Her skin felt dry and cold. She sat at the kitchen table
breathing heavily, John poured he some tea as he began to eat his
breakfast.

‘How do you
fee this morning?’ he asked.

‘I feel much
better, thank you,’ she replied reassuringly.

The dry
weather gave him the opportunity to replace the tiles on the roof;
they had dislodged causing leakage through one of the top bedrooms.
He needed to get on the roof. Some rungs were missing from the old
ladder lying at the side of the house, but it got him there after
he finally managed to get the ladder in place.

It took only
twenty minutes to repair. He precariously lowered himself to the
ground as Jennifer held tightly at the base of ladders.

‘Thank you,’
she said, flinging her small arms around him, squeezing him
tightly.

She had never
responded as affectionately before. He gave her a gentle squeeze
back and walked her back into the kitchen, his arm around her small
shoulder.

Jennifer had
barely enough money to cover more than the basic maintenance. John
did most of it himself, as plumbers and electricians cost money.
The previous week he had put in a new water pipe when the old one
burst and there was a list of repairs which needed to be done.
Jennifer didn’t want to sell the house, although the estate agents
pestered her with reasonably high offers for the property,
realising the value of the land in which it stood was of higher
value than the house.

Any buyer
would probably pull the whole lot down. It was the location also
that was attractive. She regularly sent the estate agent packing,
telling him to spare himself any more visits. He was notoriously
known for pressuring old ladies in the town.

John lit the
fire in the lounge, spending the rest of the morning watching
religious programmes which he had put on for Jennifer’s benefit,
she lay on the sofa under a thick woollen blanket, her head resting
on a pillow John had got from her room.

For reasons he
didn’t understand, his thoughts that day were of the showman,
falsely imprisoned for the murder of the gypsy fortune-teller last
summer. He wondered why he should be reminded of this after six
months.

He made an
omelette for Jennifer, putting it on a tray and taking it through
to her in the lounge. She ate only half but drank the glass of
milk.

She slept for
the rest of the afternoon, going to bed early at 7 o’clock.

John spent the
evening watching television, wrapped in his blanket. He had let the
fire go out for the little use it had been. He continued watching
television in his bedroom, the end of the pornographic video.

Jennifer
constantly used the bathroom throughout the early hours, giving
John a restless night.

The grey
morning light sneaked through the gap in the curtain. His bedroom
was colder than normal; quickly putting on his dressing gown he
opened the curtains, the glare blinding him for a second.

Overnight
there had been a heavy fall of snow, followed by a severe frost.
The avenue looked as if it had been made of silver. Long icicles
like crystal daggers hung down the eaves of the houses.

The strong
fluorescent light from the open kitchen door lit the polished
parquet floor.

She was
mopping the floor as John walked in, the draining board was full of
detergent bottles and cleaning utensils, her wrap-around apron was
a sign to John that she intended spending most of the day cleaning
through the house.

‘Should you be
doing that?’ he asked.

‘Oh I feel
fine now dear, you go out for the day,’ she replied, frantically
mopping the floor.

She had made
him some breakfast, plated on the Aga next to a bubbling
casserole.

Jennifer
mopped around his feet, the smell of disinfectant clinging to the
back of his throat each time he fed something in to his mouth.

Wearing his
hooded duffle coat he stepped onto the freshly laid snow, crunching
under his feet. The fall of snow had brought a natural stillness,
broken only by the distant bark of a dog and the rattling of milk
bottles from the approaching milk float.

The promenade
was eerily quiet. The shops and stalls remained closed, many with
their metal shutters lowered. He peered over the net curtains of
the corner café; a couple of old men were drinking tea, reading
newspapers as they munched buttered toast.

The sea was
motionless; its grey colour blending with the grey sky on the
horizon, a few small waves lapped the shore. A lonely figure stood
by the waters edge, throwing a stick for his dog that braved the
icy water to retrieve it.

The snow
crunched underfoot as he passed a few fishermen, well insulated in
their heavy coats, hoods covering their heads while they stared
into the ocean, holding their rods patiently waiting for a
bite.

He came across
the sex shelter, not realising he had walked so far along.

The daylight
revealed the remnants of used condoms, cigarette butts and a pair
of black lace panties discarded under the bench indicating the
previous night’s activities, the stench of urine becoming stronger
as he approached.

An elderly man
and woman were sitting drinking tea from their vacuum flask in the
warmth of their car parked next to the shelter, innocently unaware
of the sexual theatre which would be performed in the shadow of
darkness.

The sun was
shining through the broken clouds, turning the light layer of white
snow to a slushy grey as John made his way back to Fleetwood.

The sun had
attracted a few brave souls out of hibernation as they strolled the
promenade in the still icy air.

Jennifer was
nowhere to be seen when he arrived home. He sat on a kitchen chair,
exhausted after his long walk back. The kitchen had a strong odour
of disinfectant, the cooker still caked with burnt grease.

He looked
around the kitchen at the once white paintwork which had turned
yellow. She had done her best to clean the kitchen but it needed
attention, handles on the units were loose, so were some of the
slate floor tiles. These inside jobs could be done while the
weather was so bad, the first sign of dry warm weather he would
sort out the garden, starting with the front.

He went into
the garage in search of the toolbox Jennifer had tidied away. The
garage contained all sorts of junk. He found the small toolbox in
the drawer of an old Welsh dresser, returning to the kitchen to
fasten the handles tight.

He heard the
front door open. ‘It’s only me,’ Jennifer called. She struggled
into the kitchen, weighed down by the bulging shopping bags she
carried.

Reaching her
arms she placed them heavily on the table, one carrier bag tipping
over, sending the contents on the table and across the clean
kitchen floor.

‘Why didn’t
you take the car, Jennifer?’ he asked, scrambling around the floor
to retrieve an orange which was heading for the back door.

‘I don’t like
to drive in this weather, the roads are very icy, so I caught the
bus,’ she replied, as she unpacked the upright bag.

She pulled
open the cutlery drawer for the scissors she needed to break the
string bag containing tangerines. ‘Oh, that’s better,’ she said,
with a broad smile across her face, ‘you are a good boy, I’ve been
meaning to mend that handle for some time,’ she said, peering
inside the drawer, feeling the new screws with her tiny cold
fingers. ‘Did you have a nice walk, dear?’ she asked.

‘It was very
cold, but I walked further than I usually do,’ he replied. He
watched her scuttle around the kitchen, storing the abundance of
food she had purchased. The cupboards contained an amazing display
of food of every description; tinned beans and soups regimentally
lined up, labels always facing forward.

She washed the
oranges which had scattered around the floor before placing them in
the glass fruit bowl with apples, tangerines, grapes and
bananas.

She sat down
with a heavy sigh, her head back, gazing at the ceiling. ‘Well
that’s all out of the way,’ she said, reaching for her mug of tea.
‘I had another little fall in the supermarket, a kind couple helped
me to my feet and stayed with me until I felt a bit better,’ she
said.

‘I think you
should see Doctor Walker, this is the second time now,’ John said,
sternly.

‘Well if you
think so dear, but he’ll still be on his Christmas holiday with his
family, I’ll wait until next week when everybody’s back at work,’
she replied.

‘I’ve made a
casserole for supper, John, can you smell it?’ she asked.

‘Yes, it
smells good, can’t wait,’ he replied, as he turned his head towards
the cooker.

The odour of
disinfectant still hovered in the air, disguising the remotest
aroma of the food.

John left
Jennifer in the kitchen cleaning down the work surfaces, having
regained her strength and obsession to clean.

The snow had
almost gone by the time the afternoon sun had set. The road was wet
and slushy, the garden revealed back to its untidy condition.

John walked to
the end of the drive; leaning against the wall he smoked a
cigarette cupped in his hands to keep warm, remembering the many
nights he would do the same back at the hostel in Wakefield.

After the
casserole supper, they watched Coronation Street on television
before Jennifer went to bed, clutching a hot water bottle as she
gave John his nightly kiss on his cheek.

He watched
television for another couple of hours, zipped up his black hooded
winter coat, loosely fitting jeans and black trainers, picking up
the car keys on his way out.

The car had
not been used for the past three days, the interior was freezing
cold and the heater would not be effective until he had reached the
sex shelter on the promenade.

The headlights
picked out the dark figures of unaccompanied men ambling their way
along the sea wall, a hooded stroller walked his dog as they
approached the shelter, probably with the intention of calling in
as a reciprocate or a mere voyeur.

Another dog
was jumping up at his owner as he held his ball in his hand high
above his head, another possible voyeur.

John parked
his car behind a white motor home, turning his car lights off
before the car had come to a halt.

The curtains
on the side of the motor home were slightly open, revealing the
small fat man inside, laid naked on a fold-down settee watching a
portable television.

Only two men
were in the shelter, but it was a bitterly cold night. A few others
slowly walked along the pavement, peering through the window of the
motor home and continuing to walk on after seeing the repulsive
little man inside.

John hadn’t
noticed the guy leaning against the wall of the shelter, stroking
his crotch, staring at him sitting in his car behind the motor
home.

He was a thin
guy with broad shoulders wearing tight denim jeans, black bomber
jacket, white trainers and a black baseball cap pulled low over his
ruggedly handsome face. He gave the occasional glance at the
passing cars, which slowed down then accelerated off again due to
the lack of activity, returning his attention to John.

He idled over
to the car, stroking his crotch and bending his tall body to look
through the closed window. John lowered the window and turned to
him. ‘Fancy some company?’ he asked John.

‘Well, it’s
warmer in here than out there,’ he replied, as he reached over to
unlock the passenger door.

The guy walked
in front of the car and climbed in. The interior light illuminated
as the door opened, giving John a clear view of his handsome face.
He reached for John’s leg and ran his hand up to his crotch. John
reciprocated, and the guy reached his arm backwards and fumbled in
the darkness for the lever positioned on the side.

With the back
of his seat reclined, he unfastened his belt and raised his
buttocks off the seat as he lowered his jeans over his knees.