Inseparable Bond (9 page)

He regularly
visited the prison doctor to be assessed, with emphasis placed on
his mental condition, which had been the authority’s main concern
at his parole hearing.

Bell did have
his own medical advisor, two cells down in the same block, Danny
Frost.

Danny was
known throughout the block as Doctor Frost. He wasn’t really a
qualified doctor, but he had an amazing knowledge of medical
matters. A lot of inmates would visit him with various problems,
mainly sexual where much activity was known to have gone on. The
screws turned a blind eye to it, except a couple that also visited
him to satisfy their sexual fetish.

Many other
inmates were also articulate and intelligent, despite what people
on the outside might think. They were not savages; they were
personalities in their own right.

When Bell was
in need of isolation and privacy, he would climb the outside fire
escape to the prison roof where he had planted an array of
flowerpots along the walls. He would stand for hours looking at the
spectacular view of the beautiful Buckinghamshire countryside
irrespective of the weather conditions, yet even at that height,
his movements were monitored from the control room.

Peter Holland
was another good friend of Bell’s; He had been a chef on the
outside and remained in that trade throughout his sentence in the
prison kitchens. He had an extremely high sex drive and often made
excessive sexual demands on other inmates.

He would
arrange orgies in his cell which were attended by a few, and
occasionally Bell. The screws were aware of this and got their
pleasure by watching the group of naked men through the spyglass in
the door until they became bored and entered the cell after an hour
or so, to break-up the party.

Holland was a
large strong man, the black giant, as he was known inside. He had a
hatred for dogs and on attacking a young boy in a wooded area near
Leeds, he bit the throat out of the dog and sexually molested the
young boy as he tied him to a tree.

The police had
been notified by a passer by and when they arrived, he stabbed the
two policemen in the buttocks during the struggle, and then turned
his knife on his naked victim. He was given a hard time by the
screws for the attack on the police officers.

And a harder
time by the cons for his crime against the young boy.

Bell had seen
some terrible cases since his arrival, with many of the inmates
being so badly disturbed in their minds that they never recover.
Inmates didn’t gang-up on each other as they did in Strangeways
because they know that other inmates cannot help the things they
have done or still do.

Bell was a
sympathetic listener as he thought they deserved pity and
understanding, not condemnation.

While Bell
enjoyed his work in the prison gardens, the others went to the
workshops, where they are taught a trade – not just the rudiments,
but also one in which their skills are honed to perfection. They
are also given education classes on a daily basis. The skills they
learn are then put to use on projects to help the community.

The regime of
learning and discipline goes well into the evening, when they are
returned to clean their cells and those who fall short are denied
the very few privileges available. One is to reduce all leisure
times apart from physical activities.

The arrival of
a young and attractive 23-year-old had caused much attraction from
some of the other cons. He was a muscle-packed blond and over
confident on arrival.

Cons did not
like over confidence but liked muscle packed young blond guys.

As he was
walked to his cell on ‘C’ block, the others were chanting, ‘You’re
gonna get your little tight arse fucked in here, mate,’ where he
responded by hurling back confident abuse.

He didn’t have
to wait long for his fate, the first night in the showers,
purposely unsupervised by the screws, resulted in him being gang
raped by five of the most well-endowed inmates, one being Peter
Holland who was well-known to have the one flaw in his perfect
appearance, an oversized penis, which resulted in the lads
injuries, He spent his first night in the hospital wing to
recover.

He returned to
his cell the following morning a far quieter and less confident
con.

His name was
Brian Ripley, sentenced to twelve years for the murder of his
parents in Bristol.

Ripley had
served three of his twelve years sentence in Broadmoor prison, but
had been transferred after being raped in his cell by four
prisoners. He had made a small crude knife and stabbed one of the
rapists and was given a further two-year sentence for the attack on
an inmate, which he deemed as self defence.

Ripley’s first
crime was at the age of 18 when he was decorating a house in
Castleford. When the owner’s wife left the house, her husband tied
him up, tortured him with hot candle wax and raped him over the
trestle table. The wallpaper paste had been used for lubrication
but did little to alleviate the pain he suffered.

When he
released himself, he stabbed his attacker with a Stanley knife.

He stole the
man’s car and went on the run to Scotland before returning to his
home in Bristol, stabbing his parents to death.

He was
naturally apprehensive in socialising with the other inmates, but
would further frustrate them by masturbating naked in his cell as
he flicked the pages of pornographic magazines with his door wide
open, attracting an audience of older cons.

He would
further encourage these guys by bending over in the showers, slowly
soaping his rectum with one hand and simulating masturbation with
his other.

He soon got a
reputation as a ‘prick teaser’, yet some of the inmates with a high
sex drive, being sexually deprived and many being sexually
perverted, found him hard to resist and he gained many rewards in
return for a quick grope.

Bell was
fascinated by this young flamboyant stud, and although invited, he
did not engage in any sexual encounter with him as he was
determined to continue his clean record for the pending parole
tribunal.

The young stud
was often taken from his cell to the confines of the officers room
where it was rumoured he would relieve them of their sexual
frustrations in one way or another.

The amount of
protection he received from the screws made the rumours well
founded and he soon became alienated from the others.

John Bell had
only six months to go before his second attempt for parole. He was
visited regularly by his social worker and probation officer who
both appeared optimistic into this release, but Bell had already
been turned down once by the parole board and remained pessimistic
to avoid his hopes being dashed so cruelly.

Should he be
successful, he was aware that he would remain under the supervision
of his probation officer until his sentence expired, if he gets
into trouble or fails to report he may be recalled back to prison
at any time throughout parole.

The months
passed quickly, a lot of hope had been concentrated on his parole
application. The parole authorities found that Bell could be
released but on strict conditions and only in the confinement of an
ex-offenders hostel where he could find work, save some money and
generally accustom himself to life outside.

He was
released two weeks after the hearing.

The hostel was
a large converted vicarage on the outskirts of Wakefield, in close
proximity to the notorious Victorian prison, feared by the hardest
of criminals.

The hostel was
sparsely furnished, a few odd chairs surrounded the walls of the
entrance hall, the remainder scattered around in disarray in the
television room.

A few
newspapers and magazines were piled on a centre table. The dining
room was bright and cheerful with twelve paper-clothed tables
against the walls, with two large un-curtained windows looking onto
a large, well-kept gardens with two sheds at the end.

The wide and
red-paved drive contained a twelve-seat minibus; a silver Jaguar
and a white rusted Honda Civic.

John’s room
was on the top floor, comfortably furnished yet basic, with a small
window overlooking the rooftops of the city with the church steeple
dominating the skyline.

The bathroom
and toilet was at the end of the corridor, shared by the four other
rooms on the top floor.

He lay on his
bed looking around his room, noticing a damp patch in the corner of
the wall between the two pictures of Winston Churchill and the
Pope.

There was an
old fashioned wardrobe, which only closed shut by pinning a sock in
the door. The curtains were thin and would render useless in even
blocking out the moon.

A small
stained washbasin was equipped with a striped towel and a bar of
soap.

Compared to
his previous accommodation, he could not complain as he went about
unpacking his small case.

He went down
to the dining room at 5pm as instructed, and sat at the first
available table with three other vacant chairs.

A large girl
came out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of soup which she put down
in front of John. ‘You just arrived?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I have,’
he answered. ‘Am I alright to sit here?’

‘Oh yes,
love,’ she answered. ‘The others will be in soon, they’ll show you
around,’ she said in a kind and motherly way.

As he started
to eat his soup, a middle-aged woman joined him at his table. ‘Hi,
I’m Dorothy, who are you?’

‘I’m John
Bell’ he answered.

‘Oh, so you’re
John Bell, Elizabeth said you were coming, you’re from the open
place in Buckinghamshire aren’t you?’ she asked as she dipped her
finger in the sugar bowl.

‘Yes, that’s
right, got here today,’ he replied, ‘and who’s Elizabeth?’ he
asked.

‘She works
here, she brought you the soup,’ she said, as she turned her head
around the dining room.

Dorothy had
been in the hostel for three months after her release from Style
prison near Manchester airport after serving a two year sentence
for child abuse.

She was a
portly woman with a kind looking face and obviously confident with
her surroundings.

Harold Brown,
a tall, thin guy with big, long, bony hands soon joined them. He
had spent five years in Strangeways also for killing his mother as
they argued as to what programme to watch on television. He had a
night job cleaning buses at the town’s depot. ‘This is John,’
Dorothy said to Harold.

‘Hi, John, are
you just out then?’ he asked.

‘Yes, came
today,’ he answered.

‘This place is
all right if you keep yourself tidy,’ Harold said to John as he
peered over his half rimmed glasses held together with
Elastoplasts. ‘Have they got you a job yet?’ asked Harold.

‘No, not yet,
I’m to see my probation officer and social worker in the morning, I
think they’ve got something lined-up for me,’ he answered.

The dining
room became noisier as the others came in for their evening meal,
the sounds were now familiar to what John had been used to at meal
times and he found comfort and a sense of security with this.

They all
glanced over but showed no hostility towards their new house guest
although he could hear muttering at tables and assumed he was the
centre of their topic.

Elizabeth
approached the table, undignified with her shuffling trainers and
smokers cough, she took the soup plates away as she placed a small
plate of three un-buttered slices of white bread in the centre of
the table.

Dorothy
continued to dip her wet finger in the sugar bowl and lick it off
as she constantly scratched the back of her head where her black
greasy hair was tied-back with an elastic band.

‘What’s your
number, John?’ Harold asked.

‘37109,’ he
replied,

‘No you
dickhead, your room number?’ he replied as he smiled at
Dorothy.

‘Sorry, its
number 4 on the top,’ he replied with a smile.

‘There’s no
numbers in here mate, how long were you in?’ Harold asked.

‘Fourteen
years in all, twelve in closed and two in an open in
Buckinghamshire,’ John answered.

‘Phew, that’s
some sentence mate, it’s going to take you time to adjust to the
outside, so much has changed in fourteen years,’ he said, as he
shook his head.

The
conversation is broken by the bang on the kitchen door as Elizabeth
hits the door with a trolley piled high with plated meals, each
covered with a tin plate ring. She loudly placed a pile on each
table un-ceremonially as she continued to cough over the trolley as
she pushed her way though to our table. She delivered the meals and
left, wheeling her empty trolley back to the kitchen.

The meal was
mince, cabbage and mashed potato, not dissimilar to that of prison
food, along with the similar surrounding noises, the only
difference being the occasional laughter of a female voice.

As Harold
scooped up his meal with a dessert spoon, Dorothy circled her mince
uninterestingly with her fork and continued dipping her finger in
the sugar bowl, which she seemed to prefer.

Another bang
on the kitchen door revealed Elizabeth again with bowls of rice
pudding and pots of tea, which she placed at each table as they
crudely ate their mince and mash.

‘Fancy a game
of snooker later, mate?’ Harold asked John.

‘O.K. that’s
fine with me, I’m not going anywhere else,’ he replied. Dorothy
left the table and went to the kitchen.

‘Why has she
gone in there?’ John asked.

‘It’s on the
roster, have you seen it, it’s in the kitchen, you’ll be on it by
now, wash-up and kitchen cleaning, we all get a stint.’

‘I’ll have a
look when I finish,’ he said.