Inseparable Bond (24 page)

He stomped
around the back garden until his temperament returned to a more
balanced level as he walked back to the house.

His head
pounded with pain as he sat in the lounge, his head pushed back on
the high upholstered chair, wiping the perspiration off his
forehead with a handkerchief.

Two hours had
passed and she had not returned. He grabbed his black bomber jacket
and left the house. He walked briskly up the avenue towards the
chapel, looking over at the vicarage opposite. Through the branches
of the oak tree in the garden he noticed the silver roof of a small
car parked in the drive alongside the house.

He crossed the
road, keeping clear of the front of the house as he approached from
the side; the car was the vicar’s silver Toyota, and Jennifer was
probably inside the house with him, John thought to himself.

He felt
enraged as he stomped briskly back home, approaching pedestrians
stepped aside as he unceremoniously bushed through them on the
narrow pavement.

He entered the
house and stormed into the kitchen. He was surprised and relieved
to see Jennifer sitting at the kitchen table having turned out the
contents of her handbag, a powder compact, hair brush, money purse
and Polo mints mixed with a few coins, littered the table top as
she wiped the inside of her bag with the wet dishcloth.

‘Your back
then?’ he said, taking off his coat and throwing it over the back
of the chair.

‘Yes, just
now,’ she answered, ‘the vicar dropped me off but he couldn’t come
in as he’s expecting the chapel organist to call, where did you get
to dear?’

‘I just went
to the corner shop for cigarettes,’ he replied.

‘Well you must
have just passed each other, do you want some tea dear?’ she asked
him, getting up to fill the kettle.

The doctor
hadn’t found anything seriously wrong with Jennifer, other than
being a little underweight and high blood pressure; her recent
falls went undiagnosed other than the need for her to rest at
regular intervals.

John offered
to do the weekly shopping as she rested on the sofa in the sitting
room. He walked back to the shops, looking over at the vicarage as
he passed, noticing the vicar talking to an old man as he was
leaving the house. That must be the organist he thought to himself
as he entered the chemist shop to get Jennifer’s prescription. The
supermarket was next door. He pulled a trolley out, pushing a young
boy out of the way as he entered. The shop was busy, kids running
around unsupervised by their parents who casually chattered in
groups.

He walked down
the aisle, getting more annoyed by all the prams and pushchairs
blocking his route. His shopping list fell to the ground. It got
stuck to the wheel of a passing pram as it disappeared out of the
door.

He had
remembered milk, potatoes, butter and bananas. He definitely had to
get bananas; Jennifer would not eat cereal without them. He put the
bananas in his basket; he took four oranges from a mountain of
fruit and put them in a bag. He was having difficulty tying the
knot when a man in the queue took it off him, returning it tightly
sealed.

‘They’re a
bugger to do up,’ the man said.

They chatted
in the queue and walked together along the avenue, weighed down by
their bags.

The man lived
in a one bedroom flat further up the avenue, a house as large as
Jennifer’s, which had recently been converted into five
apartments.

He refused the
invitation of going inside for a cup of coffee, and continued his
walk past the few houses until he reached home.

Good smells
were coming through the hall from the kitchen. Jennifer was sitting
at the kitchen table, tears rolling down her face. She was peeling
onions, dropping them into the casserole on the table.

John went for
a long soak in his deep bath, then changed into a white shirt and
black trousers. After an appetising lamb casserole, he walked down
to the Great Euston Hotel leaving Jennifer by the fire, her head in
a new book she had purchased.

The Great
Euston was a large crescent shaped building overlooking the public
gardens in the town centre. Not many guests ever stayed overnight,
but the restaurant had a good reputation, the public bar was modern
and also popular.

He walked
through the revolving doors into the vast lobby. The highly
polished bar counter was huge, its clean brass fixtures shining. A
stiff, white shirted barman asked him formally what he would like
to drink. He pushed past two fat men in suits and sank into a plush
velvet booth.

The bar was
busy. There were men dressed immaculately and some women laughing
at jokes. On the stage a few men wearing women’s clothes and wigs
prepared for a show. Cabaret music blared around the bar – tinny
sounds straining the old speakers.

He noticed a
guy sitting at the bar, when the guy turned around he realised it
was the bloke he had invited into his car at the sex shelter a few
nights previously, identified by his rugged face. John quickly
drank his beer and left before the guy recognised him.

He walked back
home through the town centre, briefly looking at the window
displays. The streets were quiet, a couple staggered out of the
workingmen’s club. A group of youngsters came out of the burger
bar. An empty tram rattled past on its way to the depot. As he came
to the chapel on the square, he looked over at the vicarage. The
house was in darkness apart from a light which shone from a side
window, looked like a bathroom; the vicars Toyota was parked in the
drive.

He stared at
the house for a while before continuing his walk. A cold, black
drizzle fell as he made his way down the road. He was cold all the
way through; his jacket was very thin and more suitable for summer
nights.

His slow walk
increased as the house came into sight. It was late so he quietly
opened the door and crept upstairs, not wanting to disturb
Jennifer.

It was
Saturday, Jennifer’s flower arranging day at the chapel. She was
already dressed when John came down, a wide brim fur hat, her best
coat and best shoes. Rather overdressed for sticking a few flowers
in a vase, John thought. Her perfume was overpowering, the vicar
would probably be further encouraged.

It was just
after eleven when she left. John had woken with a headache and his
mouth tasted foul from the previous night’s beer.

He walked into
town and caught a tram to Blackpool. It was crowded with mothers
and misbehaved children. He hung onto the leather strap with both
hands, all the seats were full as it rattled and twisted along the
tracks.

The weather
was unseasonably warm. John had worn an old grey tracksuit and
trainers, feeling conspicuous amongst the other passengers in their
winter hats and coats. He sat at the first available seat when the
traveller got off at the north shore stop, the seat still warm from
the fat woman’s arse. He disembarked from the tram two stops
earlier to escape the oppressive heat.

He looked
along the shelf containing pornographic videos, selecting a couple
and flicking through the pages of magazines on the way to the
counter, a pathetically thin man with thick lenses and dirty long
fingernails put John’s videos in a brown paper bag.

He always felt
uncomfortable in Blackpool, probably due to his sordid murderous
past. He got the first available tram back, sitting on the front
seat watching the large hands of the lesbian driver operating the
heavy antiquated controls.

Jennifer was
still at the chapel; he went straight up to his bedroom and
inserted one of his videos into his recorder. He removed his
trousers and pants, lay on the bed and fondled himself as the film
progressed.

It was only
ten minutes later; Jennifer returned calling up the stairs

‘John, are you
back?’ He didn’t answer.

He switched
off his video and placed the tape amongst his collection.

Jennifer was
sitting at the kitchen table, browsing a glossy travel brochure as
John walked in.

‘Sit down
dear, I have something to tell you,’ she said, excitingly.

‘What’s that
you’ve got?’ he enquired.

‘Well, that’s
what I want to tell you,’ she said, as she frantically skipped over
the pages, occasionally picking up her cup of tea. ‘It’s a brochure
of Norway dear, you sleep on the ferry which goes from Hull to
Stockholm, you then travel to Norway by luxury coach where you stay
in this hotel for two nights,’ she said, placing the brochure in
front of him, pointing at a hotel situated on a lakeside.

‘How much is
all that going to cost?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know
really, a couple of hundred pounds I think, Norman’s going to
arrange it all,’ she said, lowering her face to the page.

‘Who’s
Norman?’ he asked.

‘Norman, the
vicar,’ she replied sharply.

John sat back
in his seat, he didn’t answer for a few moments digesting what she
had just said.

‘How many are
going on this trip?’ he asked,

‘Well, it’s
just the two of us, but it wouldn’t be over the weekend, it will be
Monday to Thursday,’ she replied.

‘That will be
nice for you, Jennifer, the break will do you good,’ John replied,
his eyes were serious now, but he smiled lightly.

She put two
spoonfuls of sugar in her precious china cup and continued flicking
through the pages.

John took his
coat off the hook behind the door, ‘I’ll be back soon, Jennifer,’
he said, leaving the house by the kitchen door. She was engrossed
in her brochure and didn’t reply.

He walked to
his usual café on the sea front overlooking the harbour. It was a
hive of activity; a coach had just delivered its load of
passengers. He pushed through the crowd and went further along the
promenade to the small hut, which served as a café that was not
busy.

He sat on a
white plastic chair at a greasy table, lit a cigarette and ordered
a cup of coffee. A large bearded man in a reefer coat and cloth
cap, a greasy scarf knotted at his neck sat on the other table,
smoking a cigarette, a large cup of coffee in front of him.

John was deep
in thought. Naturally he was not in favour of Jennifer’s intended
trip to Norway, he showed no outward anger other than his hands
shaking with inner rage.

A young guy
entered the café. He wore a corduroy jacket and tight denim jeans.
The guy looked around and came over to John’s table.

‘Got a spare
fag, mate?’ he asked, looking down at John from his tall build.
John slowly raised his head; his eyes were wide and wild looking as
he glared back at the dishevelled looking guy.

‘Fuck off,’ he
shouted loudly. The bearded man turned around, the fat woman walked
to John’s table from behind her counter, her husband’s head
appeared around the kitchen door. As the fat woman approached, the
guy fled to the door. ‘He’s a fucking nutter,’ he shouted as he
left.

John’s hands
started to shake violently, his coffee spilling out of the mug onto
the plastic tablecloth, the fat woman returned with a wet
cloth.

He sat back in
his chair, hiding his shaking hands in his jacket pocket. ‘I’m
sorry,’ he said, to the woman as she wiped the table.

‘Oh, don’t
worry about that love, we get all sorts in here,’ she said,
sympathetically.

‘It’s the
youth of today, they’ve no respect,’ the bearded man said, turning
around in desperation to engage in a conversation.

John left his
coffee on the table and went out onto the promenade. He watched the
young guy walking towards town, kicking a discarded can of beer he
had come across. John walked behind him keeping a lengthy distance,
holding back his desire of a further confrontation.

The guy jumped
the sea wall, running down to the waters edge.

John watched
as he stripped to his underpants and ran out through the shallows,
plunging through the waves. It wasn’t even a nice morning; the sky
the colour of slate grey and there was rain on the wind. He watched
him battle through the waves. John shook his head in disbelief as
he crossed the road to make his way home.

The whining
sound of the vacuum cleaner greeted him as he opened the front
door. He passed Jennifer on the stairs, scraping the carpet with
the hose attachment of the machine.

‘I’m going to
lay down,’ he shouted over the deafening noise.

‘Alright dear,
I’ll be finished soon so you won’t be disturbed,’ she shouted
back.

Once inside
his bedroom he locked the door and went to the small window on the
side. He opened the bedroom window; it was smaller than the front
window but wide enough to climb out. Underneath was the flat roof
of the outhouse which stored wood for the Aga. The street was
quiet; it was midday and the weather dull. Looking back to his
room, he crept though the small opening, perched himself on the
windowsill and jumped the short distance onto the roof of the
outhouse.

He quickly
jumped off the roof, falling sideways as his feet touched the soggy
grass. He jumped the small stonewall surrounding the garden, walked
briskly up the avenue, looking behind him as he brushed the mud
from his jacket.

He approached
the vicarage, the vicar was removing shopping bags from the open
boot of his car as John casually walked across the road towards the
house and watched him as he straightened his shoulders, his
clerical collar showing above the collar of his tweed jacket. He
carried his bags into the kitchen through the rear door, pausing
briefly looking up at the dark threatening clouds in the sky.

John raised
the hood from his jacket as he approached the open kitchen door.
The vicar was unpacking shopping baskets and stacking them
methodically on the shelves.