Evil Relations (22 page)

Maureen said nothing to her sister about her appearance, but she was puzzled by her sudden arrival at their door. She explained in court: ‘[
Myra
] said she wanted to give me a message for my mother. To tell her she would see her at the weekend, and she could not get up there before . . . I asked her why she’d come round so late and she said it was because she’d forgotten earlier on and she had just remembered. I asked her why she had not got the car, and she said because she had locked it up . . . She asked David would he walk her round to 16 Wardle Brook Avenue because all the lights were out . . . David said he would, and he got ready. Then he said he would not be two minutes, and then they both left.’

David carried his ‘dog-stick’: a walking stick he had made for himself, which had string tightly wound around one end to form a grip. Myra asked him what he was bringing it for, and when he said that he always took it out with him at night, she eyed him and said, ‘You’re in the frame, you are.’

In his official statement to the police, David described what happened next:

*

At half-past ten that night, Ian Brady and Myra Hindley had picked up 17-year-old Edward Evans from Manchester’s Central Station. Tall and slim, with light-brown hair and an engaging smile, Edward lived with his parents, Edith and John, and brother and sister at 55 Addison Street in Ardwick. Born the same month and year as David Smith, Edward had grown up almost around the corner from David’s childhood home. His father worked as a lift attendant. Edward had found himself a job with prospects and better pay as a junior machine operator at Associated Electrical Industries Limited on Trafford Park industrial estate. He worked hard and liked to relax at night in the city bars with friends or at football – he supported Manchester United and was a regular face in the stands at Old Trafford. That night Edward had gone to meet a friend at a pub in town, expecting to watch the match between his team and Helsinki. But because Edward hadn’t confirmed a time, the bar was empty when he arrived and his friend remained at home.

After spending the night hanging about town, some time between ten and half-past, Edward made his way to the buffet bar in Central Station. Finding it closed, he walked across to a milk-vending machine. It was there that he encountered Ian Brady, who invited him back to the house in Hattersley, which he shared with his ‘sister’ Myra, for a drink.

* * *

Forgive me, Father (and that eternal fucking mother thing). It’s been too many years since my last confession.

I am forever a Catholic, an illegitimate stink off the cobbled streets of Manchester, brought up correctly by a deformed old woman whom I adored. As a child, I was happy with my religion, saying my prayers just like good boys do, thanking You for everything – good and bad – and I really did believe that life itself was governed by Your will.

And then You turned away.

Years ago, I found this story:
‘One night a man had a dream. He was walking along the beach with the Lord while scenes from his life flashed across the sky. In the sand, for every scene, there were two sets of footprints: one belonging to him and the other to the Lord. When the last scene had taken place, he looked back at the sand again and noticed that occasionally there was only one set of footprints, and that this occurred during the lowest and saddest times in his life. He questioned the Lord about it, asking: “Lord, you said that once I decided to follow you, you’d walk with me all the way. But I’ve noticed that in my darkest hours there is only one set of footprints. Why did you leave me when I needed you most?” And the Lord answered, “My child, my precious child, I love you and I would never leave you. During those times of trial and suffering, when you could see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.”’

It’s a nice little story, isn’t it, Father? But where were Your footsteps when
I
needed them? Instead of walking next to me, or carrying me, You turned away. Couldn’t You face my questions? Couldn’t You face Your answers? All the crap I was brought up on – when I needed my faith, You took it away and disappeared. You left me with nothing. I was surrounded by blood, shit and spilt brains, and what did You do?

You left me to choke on it.

Inside I was screaming. Why couldn’t You hear my silence? Why couldn’t You see that I was falling apart? You left me hanging off the end of a fucking rosary instead.

Fucking cunt, dirty bastard . . .
In a nice, normal overspill living room Ian is killing a lad with an axe, repeating those same words over and over again. The lad is lying with his head and shoulders on the settee, his legs sprawled on the floor, facing upwards. Ian stands over him, legs on either side of the screaming lad. The television is the only light in the room.

The lad falls onto the floor, onto his stomach, still screaming. Ian keeps hitting him; even when the lad falls beneath the table, Ian goes after him, drags him out and hits him again. He swings the axe and it grazes the top of Myra’s head. There is blood everywhere. Then he stops and shouts:
get the fucking dogs away from the blood, get the fucking things out of it . . .

The lad is lying on his face, feet near the door. Ian kneels down and strangles him, pulling something tight around his throat. The lad’s head is destroyed already; he rattles and gurgles, a thick, wet sound, a low sound. Then lower: more effort from Ian, and lower, and lower, then nothing but silence, everlasting silence.

Ian stands, breathing heavily, but casually looking at his hands, drenched in blood. His voice is blunt as he speaks to Myra:
that’s it, the messiest one yet . . .

Oh Mother of Jesus, Christ Almighty, I’m out of here, through the door, through the window, through the fucking ceiling, if need be.

But I’m rooted to the spot.

Ian passes me the axe.
Feel the fucking weight of that – how did he take it?

Fuck me,
I answer and smile at him.
I don’t know.

He smiles back.

Jesus Christ, the axe is covered in blood. It’s all over my hands now, where I held it. This isn’t real: the lad’s brains are on the floor and we’re standing face to face, smiling at each other. I’m thinking:
he’s not doing that to me, I’m not fighting my way out of this house and being smashed to bits like that lad.
At the same time, I know that this
is
real: Ian is looking at me with a crazed light in his eyes and his clothes are saturated with the lad’s blood, yet he’s as friendly and normal as if we’re out in the street.

A shout from upstairs: Granny Maybury wants to know what’s happened.

Myra coolly moves into the hallway to reassure her:
it’s all right, Gran, I dropped something on my foot, just go back to sleep.
She comes back into the room, stepping over the lad as if he’s not even there, concerned for Ian, who’s hurt his ankle:
are you all right, love?

Yes, it’s fine, I must have caught it, but I’m OK. Can you bring in the cleaning stuff?

Then he turns to me, his eyes still demented:
there’s a hole in the wall next to the fireplace, put your finger in that. I felt the fucking thing bounce off his fucking head, that’s when it swung back into the wall . . .

This is a Godless house and always has been. God is not on my side either – I am alone and all He does is watch as I feel the survival instinct seeping through me. I’m calmer than Ian, calmer than Myra – calmer than the two of them together. I will not die here, not tonight, not like that lad there, on the floor with his brains bashed in. I’m getting out of this Godless house alive.

Ian bends to his knees, rooting through the lad’s clothes. I notice with that same appalling sense of calm that the lad’s top button and zip on his jeans are undone. The smell coming away from him is pure filth, something rotten.

Are You listening, Father? Can You hear me after all these years have passed? It’s a smell you can talk about but never imagine, a smell from this world that belongs to another, a smell that comes back to me even now in a field of bright flowers. Father, I can look straight into Your eyes and that smell will be pouring out of my brain and nostrils. Why am I telling You this when You turned away from me and hid behind Your all-forgiving cross?

Ian slides his fingers through the lad’s wallet. He pulls out a green identity card.
Edward Evans. Apprentice at Associated Electrical Industries Limited, Trafford Park. The fucker’s name was Edward Evans. Eddie. Did you know him, Dave? He’s the same age as you and from Ardwick as well, did you know him?

I look down at the oozing mess on the floor. The lad has gone, but now he has a name and suddenly he’s real to me again. Fifteen minutes ago, he was alive and still warm. Edward Evans. I didn’t know him, but I was here when he took his last breath, screaming for his mother. They say death is a long sleep, but this wasn’t a peaceful closing of the eyes. God didn’t care about Edward Evans, either.

I don’t know him. Who is he?

Forget it, it’s nothing. Small fucking world, though, eh?

Ian grins at me and I grin straight back, a rictus smile stretching my mouth ear to ear.

Myra comes in from the kitchen:
God, look at the mess. No wonder Joey is going mental in his cage. Look . . .

Ian frowns:
cover the fucking budgie up, then.

Things begin to slow down. An insane normality envelops me, as we stand in silence, all three of us, listening for any sounds from the Braithwaites next door, holding our breath.
Fucking niggers, always knew they had coconuts stuck in their ears
, Ian grins. We all nod and smile, and then Ian is on the floor next to the body of Edward Evans, covering his ruined head while Myra brings in polythene and a blanket for the next stage.

Outside, the world has stopped; the only living things are in this room – it’s just me, and him, and her. I accept this matter-of-factly. It makes sense to me in this moment to know that no one else is alive, only we three.

Fucking rope, we haven’t got
any fucking rope.

Myra looks blankly at Ian as he repeats,
we’ve no fucking rope, how can we do him up without fucking rope?

My hands reach for my dog-stick that’s fallen on the floor; around one end is a tightly wound piece of string. I pass it to Ian:
Is this any good, will this do?

The sheets are laid down.

Get the bastard’s shoulders
, Ian tells me.
Get him over here.

I put my hands on Edward. His blood is very thick and slippy, and it’s everywhere. Ian holds his feet and dumps him on the sheets on his back, head covered, trousers undone. Ian uses my string to tie him roughly, using a lot of force, pressing down on him with his knee and pulling the string as taut as possible:
get the bastard’s legs and push them
back.
I grab one leg and the other drops sideways out of my hands. Ian stands above me:
use your weight, I need them right back.
I hold Edward’s knees together and bend his legs, pushing them against his chest.
Fucking hell.
I turn my head away; the smell is full in my face and putrid. But we go on. I keep the pressure on Edward’s legs and Ian uses the string to truss him up until he’s in the shape of a ball, head forward to meet his knees. We wrap him in the blanket and then it’s time for a break.

We both sit on the settee, with the bundle that was Edward Evans to one side of us. Through the serving hatch, I can see Myra in the kitchen, organising bowls and cloths for the clean-up. I pass Ian a cigarette, casual and normal. He smiles broadly, his eyes glittering. He’s relaxed. We sit there, smoking together, with our shoulders almost touching.

How are the dogs, Hessy?

Myra replies through the hatch:
fine, a bit quiet.

The fuckers could smell the blood, couldn’t they, eh? I was worried they would get too excited.
He turns to me:
we’ll finish up in here and then get a cup of tea down us. How does that sound?

Fine, just the job
, I answer.

He stands up and walks to the back of the settee, facing the serving hatch.
Myra, I was just saying to Dave, we’ll get this thing out and finish up in here.

Myra calls through to say that she’s going upstairs to check on Gran.

All the time I’m thinking,
what the fuck is he doing behind me, he’s gone behind the settee, I need to see him, I need to know where he is, don’t turn around, don’t look, he’ll see it in your eyes, act normal, say something, any sort of shit to make it seem as if you’re OK
.

Jesus, it’ll take us all night to clean this lot up
, I tell him. I pull hard on my cigarette and keep myself still. I blow the smoke up into the air, noisily.

Jesus has fuck all to do with this
, he replies.