Inseparable Bond (36 page)

Connie Parker
worked with her; she was an inquisitive and gossiping woman with a
large mole with hairs growing out of it on the side of her mouth.
She treated Jennifer like a backward child, as she did with most of
the customers.

Jennifer had
an admirer who would call in the shop every afternoon, peering
through the window to see if she was there before he entered.

He was a tall,
bright-eyed man with a shiny pink face and hair flattened down
against his skull. He always wore the same black jacket, a
waistcoat full of ancient pens, pinstripe trousers and a tie which
looked like he had worn it at a public school, always held in place
with an attractive and expensive looking jewelled pin. He would
never purchase anything but hover around the cash desk, offering a
seductive smile to Jennifer.

The
possibility of Grace returning looked bleak, as she would need
plenty of home rest after she had been discharged from
hospital.

It would be
good for Jennifer, meeting people and getting out of the house
three afternoons a week. She secretly hoped that Grace would not be
well enough to continue.

John Bell was
also on the move, pushing his linen trolley along the hospital wing
of the prison where most of the so-called ‘bad cases’ are kept.

On the ground
floor are the old patients in the last stages of their lives. They
are wrapped in blankets, just sitting looking out of the wire mesh
covered windows. For them, there is no hope and death would be a
blessing.

Bell delivered
his sheets to the waiting nurses and continued through to the next
ward. The patients here are considered to be dangerous, few other
inmates ever see the inside of these wards, but it’s part of Bell’s
rounds.

He pushes his
trolley through the large swing door, knocked back by the strong
smell of human excrement.

Some of the
patients refuse to eat and have to be tube fed. Others are in such
a state of hopelessness that they become limp and sit there like
rag dolls.

He dropped his
linen in the storeroom and wheeled his empty trolley out of the
ward and along the exercise yard and back to the laundry.

He walked back
to his cell, passed the new intake that was leaning on the railings
looking down at the suicide net.

He was a
middle-aged asylum seeker from Eastern Europe, had stabbed an
immigration officer in his Bradford flat as they searched for
heroin and found two thousand pounds in cash behind a skirting
board, as well as the heroin.

If he’d kept
his nerve, the worst that would have happened would have been
deportation, but the silly sod panicked and he landed himself a
five-year sentence.

The wing was
quiet as the inmates were either at work or in the exercise yard.
It didn’t last long as they returned in their droves and the bedlam
began – music blaring, arguments, raucous laughter and the odd
scuffle.

Bell lay on
his bunk, waiting for the food hall to open. He closed his cell
door to muffle the sound of televisions and stereos playing. The
nights were worse, as he would hear the constant crying or
screaming, constantly reminding him that another one hundred and
fifty were locked up on the wing.

The silence
was broken when Nick Bradshaw kicked the door open and walked in,
forking spaghetti into his mouth, rested his tray on the toilet,
dropped his trousers, lowered himself onto the pan and rested his
metal tray on his knees while he ate and farted at the same
time.

Bell went down
to the food hall and waited in line with the others, holding their
metal trays, pushing and punching their way through to the
hotplate.

Jackson was
standing behind him, knocking his tray against Bell’s arse. He
ignored it as he ignored most things.

Jackson was a
nasty bastard, always throwing his weight around. He had been a
drug dealer on the outside, supposed to have millions stashed away.
He was always found hanging around the showers when the young
skinheads were marched through. It was said he was paying
handsomely to the screws that gave him what he wanted on the
inside, regularly bringing Jackson a vulnerable young inmate he
could viciously and sexually violate while the screw turned a blind
eye.

Nobody went
near Jackson voluntarily, unless you were unfortunate enough to
appeal to his oversexed appetite.

A guard came
along the corridor, checking cells. Doors were clanging shut all
along the landing. Two prison officers dashed along the corridor
with a stretcher.

The young
black guy who arrived yesterday, had hung himself by tying his bed
sheet into a knot and fastened it to the latch on the window.

‘Fucking
shit,’ shouted Nick Bradshaw, throwing his spaghetti against the
wall.

‘What?’ asked
Bell.

‘They’ll keep
us banged up until whatever it is gets sorted. No association, no
fucking exercise, sweet fuck all, just because some stupid wanker
decides to top himself,’ he shouts, banging his clenched fist on
the bunk.

Bell put his
tray on his bunk. He had lost his appetite.

Bradshaw had
been right. The cells remained locked all night.

In the
morning, Bell was due to shower so he was up as soon as he heard
the cells being unlocked along the corridor. He stood at the door
with his towel as Bradshaw climbed down from the top bunk in his
prison-issue sweatpants and a T-shirt. He started to shave at the
washbasin, pissing in it at the same time.

The spyglass
clicked open and the cell door was unlocked. Bell rushed off down
the landing to the shower block.

The extended
lock-in had caused tension, which was now being released by a mass
brawl in the shower block. Twenty to thirty naked bodies were piled
up like a team of rugby players, punching the shit out of each
other. Bell stood watching the brawl as guards desperately tried to
pull the bodies apart to disperse the group.

He went to the
lower corridor to see if the atmosphere was less tense in their
shower block. A young guy walked out of the shower room, his hair
still wet.

There were two
guys in the showers, a stocky white guy with a tattoo of the union
flag on one shoulder; the other guy was a thick set black guy. Bell
leaned on the wall where two towels were hanging.

The white guy
glanced over at him and gestured with his thumb for Bell to join
them both. They were stood under the cascade of water while wanking
each other. The water stopped running, the black guy pressed the
button to continue the flow as Bell walked over, his feet slapping
on the wet tiled floor.

‘Fancy a bit
of black?’ the white guy asked Bell.

Bell didn’t
answer. The white guy was pushed against the wall as the black
bloke opened his legs with his knee. Pinning his head against the
wall with the back of his arm, he inserted his erect penis sharply
up his rectum.

The white guy
groaned as it entered.

‘It’s true
what they say about you black guys then?’ the guy muffled as his
head knocked against the wall.

‘I don’t get
no complaints,’ the black guy said, pounding against his body.

Bell
masturbated as the showers cascaded over their head, relieving him
of the sexual frustration which had been building up over the past
few days. After it was over, he grabbed his towel and went back to
his cell to shave in the washbasin after washing out Bradshaw’s
piss and residue.

Bell went down
to the gym and waited until the fat bloke had finished on the
treadmill.

Bradshaw was
on the bike, peddling for all he was worth.

Barry Newton,
a young fit skinhead was on the other treadmill, his breathing
regular and even, his towel draped round his neck and his bottle of
water in his right hand. Big Bear was on the machine next to him;
he was obese, with a thick moustache that was bathed in sweat even
though he could barely manage a long walk around the exercise yard
with Bell. As soon as Big Bear finished, Bell went over to take his
place.

Lester the
molester was less energetic as he lay on a plastic mat in the
corner working on a series of leg stretches.

Bell started
the machine slowly, giving his muscles a chance to get used to
working. Barry Newton increased the speed of his machine but he was
barely breaking sweat.

Bell stared
straight ahead as he ran, imagining running through open green
fields and not a blank white wall. Bell increased the pace. It had
been over a week since he’d last been on a run and his muscles were
starting to burn. His trainers thumped down on the machines rubber
tread and he increased the pace again.

He glanced
over at the controls of Newton’s panel and noticed he was running
at almost twice the speed of him, and Bell was running on the
level.

The adrenaline
kicked in and Newton increased his speed even faster. Newton now
started breathing heavily, his mouth open and his arms pumping as
he ran. He knew he could outlast Bell, with his youth and stamina.
Sweat ran down Bell’s face, his vest was soaked as he faked a
stumble. He reached over and slowed down the machine, panting
heavily as he stepped off. Newton smiled over his shoulder, ran for
a further ten minutes then slowed to a steady jog.

Big Bear had
been standing on the weight machine watching the marathon, keeping
an amused smile on his face. Bell wiped the sweat from his face,
knowing that Barry Newton was weighing him up.

Once Bell had
cooled down, he went over to a bike and climbed on. As he started
to peddle, Barry Newton turned off his treadmill and climbed onto
the one next to him. They peddled in silence for a while. Newton
wanted to show his interest in Bell without appearing over eager.
Big Bear remain watching from the weights. Bell put his hands on
the handlebars and concentrated on peddling. Both men cycled in
unison, but this time there was no competition.

Due to regular
fights, only twelve prisoners were allowed in the gym at any one
time, unless you paid the screws for extra time.

After a
refreshing shower, Bell and Big Bear walked through the exercise
yard to the entrance of the prison chapel where the service was to
be held. The prisoners were given a thorough pat down, as religious
services were the main opportunity they had for moving contraband
between blocks so the guards had to be extra vigilant.

They took a
seat at the back of the room, in front of a hundred or so others. A
small wooden lectern stood at the end of the room, with a guy sat
at a small electronic organ.

An overweight
bloke who was constantly blowing his nose with a handkerchief was
pushing Bell off his seat.

The service
took an hour where Bell and Big Bear walked around the exercise
yard before going back to their cells.

Barry Newton
was leaning against the wall; his eyes followed Bell as he walked
in a wide circle around the edge of the wall.

Bell walked to
his cell to see Bradshaw walking up and down the corridor, ‘Fuck,
fuck, fuck,’ he shouted, kicking the railings as he walked, tilts
his head back, does that disgusting thing with his thumb over his
nostril, and expels a line of snot which clears the railings and
lands on the suicide net.

As Bell passes
him, his eyes bulge like they are going to burst and he breaks out
into a violent giggling attack, his face turning purple.

Bell though he
was better placed on the asylum wing, wrapped in a blanket looking
out of a wire-mesh window.

‘I’ve fucking
tried, but I can’t get the entire cock down my throat, which is
still sore for sucking Butler’s last night,’ he heard, passing
Lester the molester’s cell. He was entertaining young Simon
Coxston, a very apt name for one of the many prostitutes on the
wing.

He looks into
Big Bears cell in case he got back before him as he lost him in the
packed exercise yard. His cellmate is asleep on the top lower bunk,
his face pressed against the graffiti covered wall. His young
beautiful shaven head is visible.

His sleep is
interrupted by Bell’s sudden sneezing fit. He rolls over to face
him. He must only be 18, with handsome features in a smooth face.
He smiled and stroked his crotch as he smiled at Bell. He smiled
back and went next door to his cell.

Bradshaw had
calmed down as he entered the cell. Bell lay in his bunk, his head
firmly embedded in a library book he had taken from his small stash
on the shelf.

Bradshaw
wasn’t a stupid bloke, just a nutter and always on any drug he can
get his hands on. He could read, comprehend, and concentrate when
given incentives like chocolate, drugs or Simon Coxston.

Bell adjusted
the cheeks of his arse as he lowered himself down onto the cold
steel toilet bowl, his hands over his eyes to drown the sound of
inmates shouting and screaming as they had been forced off the
exercise yard as a brawl had developed.

They yell,
threaten, push and pull, slapping each other and were generally
pissed off, having their recreation time reduced, as the guards
march them into their cells, banging the doors behind them.

He sat there,
dreaming of an early release through some legal miracle, a new
trial, a petition or just a pardon, but his fantasy would remain as
a fantasy for many years.

Lock-up was
called and the cell doors were shut and locked. Bell drifted in and
out of sleep. He could hear a television down the corridor, so he
wasn’t the only prisoner not sleeping. He lost track of time. He
could put the television on but that would disturb the animal
snoring above him, but there was little point as he had no schedule
to keep and he certainly wasn’t going anywhere.

On the sound
of the cells being opened the next morning. Bell and Bradshaw raced
down the corridor in the hope of being at the front of the line of
hungry inmates.