Evil Relations (30 page)

‘People hated Brady and Hindley,’ David muses, ‘but at the same time they chose to believe their lies about me. As the horror of it all came out, my life and Maureen’s became very difficult. We’d go to the pub and people would fall silent and stare, then start whispering and calling us names. That would lead to lots of “accidental” pushes and shoves, then proper physical aggression. I tried to stay away from pub toilets because in any closed environment I’d be followed and beaten up. The New Inn on the estate was out of bounds. Even if I went into Hyde . . . eventually it would descend into violence, whether it was before I’d got inside the pub, at the bar, in the toilets or as I was leaving. It usually started verbally but always led to a good hiding. No one – not
one
person – ever tried to intervene or told me I’d done the right thing by going to the police. No one would have a drink with me either, apart from Maureen and Dad. He had to get rounds in because no one would serve me. Standing at the bar was too risky anyway – if I wasn’t careful, someone would approach me from behind, grab me by the neck or hair and hold me down until there was a whole crowd involved, kicking and punching the crap out of me.’

Maureen was equally targeted. ‘She couldn’t go down to the shops without being attacked,’ David recalls. ‘Women especially would call her names, spit at her, pull her hair, shove her in the back, and lash out at her every day. She started retreating into her shell, not wanting to go out. I reacted differently – the abuse made me defiant. I wasn’t going to sit at home cowering. If I wanted a drink, then I’d go out for one and if I wanted a walk to the shops, then so be it. No one was going to beat me into submission. Maureen wasn’t as frightened if she was with me – we’d often go to a social club on Underwood Court, even though we knew we’d come home with black eyes and busted lips. Together we stood our ground. I never ran from anything, because I had nothing to run from, and it was as simple as that.’

Nonetheless, in March 1966 matters came to a head. David’s temper snapped when a crowd gathered below the balcony where he was standing and began shouting abuse. One youth yelled, ‘You’re no bleeding good without that axe, Smith!’ David picked up the dog’s lead, rushed downstairs and charged into the crowd.

‘I really went for them,’ he admits. ‘I struck out at them all – lads my age, mostly – but they pinned me down and kicked the shit out of me. Afterwards, the police knocked on our door for a “quiet word”. It didn’t go any further because they knew what we were up against. In fact, after that we had a copper on our door as protection. By then, it was no longer just a matter of having to be careful when we went out – the abuse had reached our front door. Some of the neighbours would let in troublemakers, and the whole place was soon covered in foul graffiti. We’d get visitors at all hours of the day and night, trying to kick the door in, banging on it, screaming and swearing. They’d come into the communal corridor and piss up the door. In the morning, there would be a thick pool on the floor. It was pretty grim.’

When the door entry buzzer rang one evening shortly before the trial, David didn’t answer it. The caller was so persistent that in the end David’s dad got up and pressed the intercom button. He returned looking troubled, but explained that he hadn’t liked to turn away their caller, and by then it was too late anyway: Lesley Ann Downey’s mother was standing at the door.

* * *

I don’t know what to expect when Dad tells me that Mrs Downey wants to see us. I’m sitting in the flat with Maureen, staring at the telly, without a clue what’s on. I don’t answer the buzzer because it’s never anyone I want to see, and when Dad comes in with the news that Mrs Downey is here, I think it’s a wind-up and almost explode. How could he be so stupid? Any minute now we’ll have rent-a-mob at our door, yelling and kicking, and leaving their ‘calling card’ – a trail of yellow piss that still stinks a week later, no matter how hard we scrub it away.

But when the knock comes, it’s polite and fairly quiet – not the hammering we hear daily. Our caller waits, without shouting or screaming through the door.

Dad looks at me. ‘Have I to let them in?’

I catch Maureen’s eye. She gets up awkwardly from the sofa, pushing Bob’s front paws off her knee; he can’t sprawl across her lap any more, not now she’s eight months pregnant. I raise my eyebrows and Maureen shrugs slowly, leaving it up to me.

I nod at Dad, still unconvinced about our visitor.

‘What do you think she wants, Dave?’ Maureen whispers, as Dad goes through to the corridor.

I reach for my fags and lighter from the top of the electric fire. ‘Haven’t a clue,’ I answer, hoping the tight knot in my stomach isn’t a bad omen.

‘I hope it’ll be all right.’ Maureen speaks under her breath, more to herself than to me.

Dad comes back into the sitting room, and with him are three people: a blonde-haired, not unattractive woman in her early 30s, a slightly older tattooed man, and another thick-set bloke. I tense immediately: our visitors have been drinking. I can smell it on them and see it in their eyes.

But it’s fine at first. I notice Mrs Downey staring at Maureen, but she calmly introduces herself and the two men. The wiry, tattooed chap is her partner; the other is her former brother-in-law or her own brother – my nerves are on edge and I can’t take everything in. But I notice again how her eyes follow Maureen, as she goes through to the kitchen to make a pot of tea.

The rest of us sit down. Mrs Downey gives the room a sweeping glance before edging forward on her chair and speaking in a measured, urgent voice. She asks me to help her by going to court and telling the judge and jury everything I know; she doesn’t want anyone left in doubt about what ‘those two’ did to her daughter. I promise to do everything I can, agreeing that Brady and Hindley deserve to go down until death.

The men who came with her are silent. She repeats what she has already said, then after a pause and still speaking in a restrained voice, asks me what ‘they’ were like. I don’t know what to tell her. I mumble something about them seeming normal ‘but obviously . . . they weren’t’.

Mrs Downey nods, frowning, hands clasped on her knees, rocking slightly. Then she asks, ‘Why? Why did they do it?’

Slowly, helplessly, I shrug my shoulders. I mumble again, mentioning the word ‘evil’ and ‘sick’ several times. She nods along as I talk, but doesn’t seem to be listening any more; Maureen has brought in the tea tray and sets it down on the small table. Suddenly, Mrs Downey asks if she might have a word with me on my own. I nod and indicate for her to go through to the kitchen.

We stand together silently in the narrow space. I stare at a patch of steam on the wall where the kettle has just boiled. Then Mrs Downey starts to cry, spluttering through great, rocking sobs that I
must
see to it that those two go down, that what they really deserved was to be hanged, and how she just wishes that she could get her hands on them. She is deeply upset but has her emotions under control, and eventually stops crying to make me promise again that I will do my best when the time comes.

I tell her I’ll do whatever I can.

We head back into the living room. Mrs Downey is slightly ahead of me, walking normally, when it comes without warning: she dashes forward at speed, hurling herself at Maureen. I’m so surprised that it takes me a moment to grasp what’s happening, but Maureen’s reactions are quicker: she screams and throws her arms around her stomach, bending forward on the settee, trying to defend herself, lifting her hands to her head. Mrs Downey’s rage is focused entirely on Maureen; she flies at her again and again, pulling Maureen’s black hair out by its roots – long strands of it sail through the air. The rest of us are still too stunned to move, as the sound of Mrs Downey’s slaps raining on Maureen’s arms and face rings out. She suddenly hauls Maureen up from the settee and slams her up against the wall, spitting thickly in her face while Maureen crumples, desperately trying to protect her stomach.

I snap to life at last, leaping across a chair arm to reach Mrs Downey. In that instant, it doesn’t matter to me who she is – all I want is to get her off Maureen. But as I grab her roughly and yank her backwards, I feel an arm go around my throat, pulling me to the floor. There’s a shout of fury from Dad, who instantly pitches in to help me while I’m lying on my back with Mrs Downey’s partner hitting me about the face. Then Dad, too, is tugged off his feet by the thick-set man and ends up beside me on the floor, inches away from the sharp corners of the electric fire.

A vicious rough-and-tumble around the flat ensues until Bob the dog springs into action, barking frantically and circling us all. Our visitors freeze in fear at the large collie snapping his teeth, and Dad and I seize our chance, managing to shove, punch and kick the three of them into the narrow corridor. We end up in a heap in the middle, still fighting. It takes a while, but somehow we reach the door and heave our guests into the hallway.

Tumbling arse-over-heels like a troupe of wayward circus performers, we reach the lift. I find myself sprawled over the thick-set bloke, who struggles to free one of his hands in order to punch me full in the face. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy the milk bottles left out by our neighbours and grab one, holding it in the air, ready to bring it down. For a horrible moment, I’m tempted to let him have it, but then I come to my senses and drop the bottle. It rolls noisily into a corner and I let my companion scramble to his feet.

With Dad’s help, I push our three visitors into the lift and hit the button for the ground floor, drawing back swiftly as the door closes. Screams reach us from the lift shaft: ‘
Bastards! You’re no different to those two! Fucking bastards! You should be hung, the lot of you!
’

Dad and I droop with our exertions and head back to the flat. Maureen weeps inconsolably on the floor, a thin rag doll with wild black hair. Bob the dog sits pressed to her side, whining as if in sympathy. I sink to my knees and cradle Maureen in my arms. Her sobs only grow louder.

The police visit us a few days later. I don’t know who called them but suspect it was a neighbour. The copper in charge tells me quietly that this won’t go any further, provided nothing like it ever happens again. I assure him it won’t.

When the police have gone, I sit by the electric fire, looking across at Maureen; in the time it took for me to show the coppers to the door, she’s fallen fast asleep. I rack my brain, trying to think what could have sparked the fight off, but can’t think of anything. In the end, I begin to wonder if Mrs Downey saw Myra every time she looked at Maureen that night and this makes enough skewed sense for me to put the matter aside. I just hope that Maureen won’t come to the same conclusion.

Today, David reflects: ‘I know Ann West – Mrs Downey, as she was then – told a very different story of that night in her book. I heard that she said I’d turned up at her house, told some favourite joke of Ian Brady’s and then passed a remark about the resemblance between Lesley Ann and one of her brothers. But I
never
went to Ann West’s house – I didn’t even know where she lived. Why in God’s name would I have put myself, or her, in that position? At that time I was trying to ward people off, not goad them into thumping me. I would
never
have said anything along the lines of Lesley looking like her brother because I didn’t know them. As for that sick joke I’m supposed to have told her was Brady’s favourite . . . no way.
No way
. I’m sorry, but no. Not true, it didn’t happen. I’ve no idea why she told it as she did, but it
wasn’t
like that. Not at all.’ There is one line in Ann West’s account which tallies with David’s memories of that night, however; she writes: ‘I beat Maureen Smith’s head against the wall and screamed incoherently at her. I tore at her and for a moment it was as if I had her foul sister in my hands . . .’

Shortly after the confrontation, the
News of the World
offered to send David and Maureen on an all-expenses-paid trip to France. The couple leapt at the chance to get away for a while; neither of them had ever been abroad and they set off in excitement on what felt like the holiday of a lifetime. With a grin, David remembers: ‘We travelled by ferry, but as soon as we set foot in France, we didn’t know what to do with ourselves. The hotel in Paris was nice enough, but it was just a place to lay our heads. We weren’t ones for sightseeing, so doing the old tourist trail didn’t appeal either. Menus stumped us because we couldn’t speak the lingo, though we were both very taken by the little cafe bars – they seemed sophisticated in just the right way. But after a couple of days we were proper fed up. We didn’t know what to do, so we went to a cinema.
Mary Poppins
, which neither of us had seen, was showing. We settled ourselves happily in our red plush seats for the matinee and waited for the film to start.’

He laughs, shaking his head. ‘It was
Mary Poppins
all right, but dubbed into French. There weren’t even any subtitles. I could have lived with that, I suppose, but hearing Dick van Dyke speak French . . . well. He still managed to sound more cockney than he did in the English version, mind you. But it was bloody terrible. We came out of the film feeling even worse, two right fishes out of water. Then we had another idea: around the time of the committal, a French company had filmed the two of us in Belle Vue, just walking round, as part of their footage of the case. It was shot for French television, though we weren’t even interviewed, just filmed wandering around the zoo. They gave us some cash, bought us dinner and drinks, and that was that. A bit weird, but we weren’t going to say no. And in return for their generosity, we went and had a little chat with the elephants for French telly. Afterwards, the film crew said that if we were ever in France we should look them up. Of course, they were just being polite and never expected us to show our faces again. But because we were at such a loose end, that’s exactly what we did. Maureen remembered that their offices were on the rue Saint Augustin. We found it and knocked on their door. They were very welcoming, as it happens, and even asked if we wanted to see how they’d edited our little film.’