Inseparable Bond (27 page)

The heat of
the early summer brought out an unpleasant odour of stagnant water
from an old drum which he had found hidden under a pile of
branches.

John took
advantage of the skip, clearing out the garage so the car could be
parked there over the winter, if it lasted that long. He was
pleased with his day’s work. He looked at the front garden,
stretching his aching back as he headed back to the house. He took
his wellington boots off and left them by the back door, looking
briefly at the back garden. This was going to be a challenge, he
thought.

He was greeted
with a good smell of steak and kidney pie as he walked into the
kitchen, pulling off his sweater.

The last rays
of the day’s sunlight forced their way through the dirty kitchen
windows.

Jennifer was
watching television in the sitting room. The windows looked large
with the curtains open. Dust danced in the patches of light
outlining on the floor.

‘Have you
finished for the day, dear?’ she asked.

‘Yes, that’s
it until tomorrow,’ John said, sitting down on the sofa.

‘I’ll see how
the supper’s doing, you must he hungry,’ Jennifer said, as she left
the room.

After his
meal, he went outside before it got too dark, looking at his day’s
work, he walked around smoking his cigarette. The sun was just
setting over the horizon and a cool breeze came off the sea. Two
fat women passed the house, paused briefly to peer over the wall at
the transformation of the garden.

The rain
lashed John’s bedroom window waking him early. The weather forecast
had said occasional showers under grey skies. This was not an
occasional shower and looked well set in for the day as he looked
up at the threatening sky.

The weather is
what one normally associates with a funeral.

Jennifer was
already dressed as he walked down the stairs, brushing her black
overcoat on the back of the chair in the hall. She wore a plain
suit, laced-up shoes, and large brim fur hat, all in black, except
for the pink blouse showing over her collar. The plain black
material made her look smaller and thinner, rather severe.

Patricia Vane
was in the sitting room, her nose touching a tapestry on the wall
as she investigated it for flaws. She had offered to drive Jennifer
to the chapel for the service. They were both members of the bible
class.

John didn’t go
through to the sitting room; he emptied the last of the cereal into
a bowl and poured himself a cup of tea.

‘See you
later,’ she shouted, as they left the house.

John didn’t
leave the house all day, spending most of it in his bedroom.

The
consciousness of being hunted, snared and tracked down had begun to
dominate him. When he closed his eyes he would see the vicar’s
face, his fearful eyes, his shaking body and trembling hands.

Clearing the
garden had erased it briefly from his mind. He prowled around each
room like a hunted animal. The strong wind whistled around the
house, kicking up dead leaves that were blown against the leaded
panes and seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and wild
regrets at the lack of achievements and wasted opportunities.

It was after
four when Jennifer arrived back. Patricia had dropped her at the
gate. She sat at the kitchen table, occasionally wiping a tear from
her red and swollen eyes. She carefully removed her hat, brushing
the brim with her handkerchief as she placed it on the kitchen
table. She ran her small fingers through her hair, flattened by the
large hat, and then unscrewed the pearl earrings, placing them
neatly by her handbag.

‘It was a
lovely service, they did him proud,’ she said, standing up to take
her coat off. John helped her release her arms from the sleeves.
‘Thank you, dear,’ she said, taking the coat off him, folding it
over the chair.

‘I met the new
minister, he’s a charming man,’ she said.

‘Will you
still be doing the flower arrangements on Saturdays?’ John
asked.

‘Sadly no,
he’s married and his wife will be doing it from now on,’ she
replied.

John looked
straight at her and fell silent. His eyes had an apologetic look,
as if he was embarrassed about what he had actually done.

‘Patricia had
heard the police had not found any fingerprints or footprints or
marks of any kind to link the person to the crime,’ she said, with
a puzzled expression.

‘Did she say
how he died?’ John asked, standing up to clear the table.

‘No, nobody
seems to know,’ she said, watching John walk to the sink, her face
resting in her hands.

It had been
difficult to find a parking place. The supermarket car park was
normally busy, especially on Friday morning, but this was pure
chaos. Mothers clutched their children tightly by the hand and
youngsters were strapped to their pushchairs, weaving in and out of
the parked cars.

John looked
over his newspaper, watching the chaos as he sat in the car.
SUSPICIOUS DEATH was written on the right side column of the
paper.

Jennifer was
in the supermarket doing a big shop, the fridge was empty and the
cupboards bare as she didn’t shop the week before.

She had slept
badly after the funeral and woke in a bad mood, pushing her way
through the trolleys and pushchairs, as people stood around in
groups talking about the vicar’s death.

The sun was
searching for a gap through the clouds. A mild south-westerly wind
had brought the temperature back up.

It was twenty
to twelve when Jennifer finally came out of the supermarket. She
had been in there for over an hour.

John climbed
out of the car and opened the boot as she approached; her trolley
was full to the top with bulging plastic carrier bags.

‘There’s so
many people in there,’ she said, wiping the sweat from her brow as
she threw the bags into the back of the car.

‘If the
weather keeps dry, I’ll do some more in the garden,’ John said,
looking up.

‘Yes, dear,
best to continue now that you’ve started,’ she replied, as she
closed the boot.

He slowly
manoeuvred his way through the shoppers pushing their laden
trolleys to their cars as he reached the safety of the exit
gate.

He drove along
the promenade and noticed a parking space outside Jennifer’s
favourite café.

‘Shall we have
some coffee here before we go home?’ he turned to ask her.

‘Yes, that
would be nice, dear, I feel exhausted after fighting through the
crowds,’ she replied, as John reversed into the parking bay.

They sat by
the window looking out to sea. A large container ship was slowly
making its way to the open ocean from its mooring in the
harbour.

The well
dressed waitress poured the coffee into beautiful porcelain cups,
nearly transparent. The coffee was pretty thin too.

Jennifer
chattered about the previous day’s funeral, who was there, what
they had said, how they looked and where they had travelled. John
listened, saying very little.

He reversed
the car into the drive, making it easier to offload the mountain of
shopping bags.

Jennifer had
fresh colour in her cheeks. She didn’t look as tired as she had
earlier and was in a better frame of mind now the shopping
expedition was out of the way.

John unpacked
the shopping as Jennifer sat at the table with the magazine she had
purchased from the supermarket. She reached into her handbag for
her small gold-rimmed glasses and slowly polished the left glass
with the corner of her skirt.

There was
little sign that it was nearly midsummer. John was desperate to
finish his garden project but had found it difficult by a summer of
torrential rain and sudden, sweltering days. Some of the trees in
the back garden were still bare. A few eager plants showed their
roots and the few flowers stretched up on long stems, Otherwise it
could have been October and not the beginning of June.

The front
garden was looking respectable with its herbaceous borders; the
large rear garden would not be completed this summer after the
years of neglect.

John walked
down the beleaguered garden path to the ramshackle hut at the end,
keeping his eye on the sky as he went. He searched around in the
smell of dust and creeping rot for a large saw to fell the trees in
the rear garden.

Jennifer was
hanging washing on the line in the hope of a dry day.

He discovered
the rusty old saw hidden under an old car wheel, having belonged to
his father. It would not cut through a loaf of bread, let alone
tree branches. He emerged from the hut brushing the dust off his
shirt and shaking the dirt from his hair. He looked up at the tree,
his hands on his hips as he felt rain in the wind. He quickly
un-pegged the washing and ran into the kitchen.

Jennifer was
slicing vegetables on the table.

‘Oh, thank
you, dear,’ she said, coming over to pick up the garments he had
dropped on the way. The light rain soon turned to a heavy downpour,
the temperature suddenly plummeted, and Jennifer shivered and
vigorously rubbed her arms as she closed the kitchen door. The
telephone rang in the hall; she rushed through to answer it.

She was
laughing with whoever had called her. John was relieved to hear her
laugh after the past couple of weeks silence and tension. Jennifer
was shaking her head as she came back into the kitchen.

‘That was
Sylvia Flintoff on the telephone,’ she said, looking over at John
with a glazed expression as she continued, ‘She had just been told
the police have taken the chapel organist for further questioning
at the police station, Oh, that poor man, he couldn’t do such a
thing,’ she said, frantically drying the already dry plates in the
rack.

‘Do they think
he murdered the vicar, Jennifer?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,
dear, why else would they take him to the police station?’ she
replied.

‘But I thought
it was the organist who had found him,’ John replied.

‘Well it was,
but he couldn’t,’ she paused, as she gazed out of the window.

‘But I heard
you laughing on the telephone,’ he said.

‘I was
laughing at the stupidity of it. They were good friends, more than
just friends,’ she said, her eyes fixed on John’s.

‘How do you
mean, more than friends,’ he asked.

‘Well, I
suppose I can say now, but the vicar and Ronald Belington the
organist, were a couple and had started a relationship shortly
after his wife had died,’ she said.

John stared at
Jennifer in disbelief. ‘You mean the vicar was gay?’ he asked.

‘Yes, dear,
but he didn’t want anyone in the parish to know, he only told me,’
she said.

Not only had
John Bell murdered another innocent victim, he had murdered his
sister’s best friend, who had posed no threat to their
relationship.

He went to his
bedroom and sat on the end of his bed with his head lowered,
supported by his murderous hands. He rummaged through his wardrobe,
looking for a shirt, jeans and a coat, not giving a conscious
thought to the choice. He slipped on his threadbare jacket and
glanced out of the window. The sun had lowered and the rain was a
silver torrent through the rays.

Jennifer was
at the bottom of the stairs as he walked down.

‘Where are you
going, dear?’ she asked.

‘Just for a
drive along the promenade,’ he replied, grabbing the car keys off
the hall table and opening the front door, closing it behind
him.

He drove along
the promenade and onto the M55 motorway.

After an hour
of driving, the effects of little sleep and the subsequent news he
had been given began to catch up with him. The road in front of him
blurred. He turned off at the Charnock Richard service station on
the M6 and went in search of a caffeine fix.

The cafeteria
was thronged with customers, which he was thankful for. Amongst so
many people, he was insignificant. He bought coffee from the
vending machine, chocolate and biscuits from the shop and went back
to the car. As he unwrapped his biscuit, his thoughts of the
heartache he had needlessly caused Jennifer and the killing of an
innocent man who he considered a threat to their relationship
became too much to bear.

He thought to
himself. If the vicar had been more open about his sexuality, he
would still be alive and his lover would not be interrogated in the
police station.

There was a
period of confusion while he worked out where he was. He constantly
banged his head against the small headrest of the seat. He was
alarmed by a man knocking on the car window, ‘Are you alright,
mate?’ the man shouted through the glass.

John looked
towards him with wide eyes, turned on the ignition and drove away.
He stopped before he reached the motorway, quickly opened his door
and vomited on the concrete surface. He wiped his mouth with the
back of his hand and drove off.

It was dark by
the time he turned off the M6 to the M55. The headlights shining
through the back window, reflecting in his rear view mirror gave
him a blinding headache. Drowsiness overtook him again. He opened
his window where the cold air revived him; he sat up and breathed
deeply, letting the chill slap him to wakefulness.

He was
relieved to see the lights of Blackpool Tower in the distance as
the motorway delivered him back to the promenade.

The engine of
the small car laboured as he pulled into the drive. He held onto
the car door for a while before approaching the front door of the
house.

The flickering
light of the television came through the open door and into the
hall, lighting his way as he climbed the stairs. He noticed
Jennifer sleeping in the wing chair. He lay on his bed, cupping his
hands over his eyes.

The morning
was dull and damp after the overnight rain. John was determined to
get to grips with the garden despite the unpredictable weather.