Evil Relations (16 page)

Ian sits sipping his whisky on the car bonnet, watching the street corner. I notice the forlorn shapes of Joan and Amos Reade – Pauline’s parents – coming towards us on their way home from the Steelworks Tavern. I stand away from the wall, a little unsteady, not wanting to appear yobbish.

‘Evening, Mrs Reade.’ I speak as clearly as I can, hating the embarrassment of being wobbly-drunk.

‘Hello, David.’ She gives me the faintest of smiles. Mr Reade nods in greeting.

Even through the fuddled haze of red wine and whisky, I feel uncomfortable with the raucous music pouring from the open door, but Mrs Reade is not the kind of lady to complain about anything. Her husband gives me another silent nod in goodnight and they disappear into their private silence behind the door.

I lean back against the wall again with a sigh.

Ian sips his whisky thoughtfully. ‘Them the parents of that missing girl?’

‘Yeah.’

He gazes at the railway sleepers and takes a long drag on his cigarette. ‘So, what’s the story behind that? What do you think happened to her?’

I tell him about the rumours Pauline fell for a lad from the fairground and ran off with him to a new life, perhaps abroad. Ian pulls down the corners of his mouth and draws on his cigarette again. I add that the police came to our house, asking questions.

A flicker of interest passes across his face. ‘What kind of questions?’

I shrug. ‘Just what you’d expect: what sort of girl was she and was she the sort to up and leave.’ I pause. ‘She wasn’t.’

‘No?’

I think of Pauline, bringing me tea and jam sandwiches on the doorstep in the rain when we were both kids. ‘No. She was quiet. Nice. Not that sort of girl at all.’ I scrape one heel down the bricks. ‘Fuck knows what happened to her.’

Ian sits swinging his legs to and fro on the bonnet of the white Morris, downing the rest of his drink in one.

I go back indoors to join the girls. After a while, Ian returns and fills up his empty glass. He wears a scowl and moves slowly across to the stack of discs that I’ve fanned out on the floor to play. He fumbles on the table for one of the records he’s brought and removes the song playing on the Dansette, replacing it with his own before clumsily dropping the needle. I sit on the floor, gloomy in the knowledge of what’s coming: the bloody Goons and that nutter Spike Milligan. The whisky aggravates my mood and I wish I had the sense to avoid it because it never fails to screw with my head. I sit closer to Maureen for comfort, pushing away my glass, talking to her in an effort to clear the fog from my brain. Ian and Myra join in with the Goons, hysterical with laughter and mimicking the voices on the record. It’s not my sort of humour; I just don’t get it.

Finally, the pantomime put on by our guests ends. I clamber into my chair as Ian tops up my glass with more whisky, ignoring my slurred protests. He stumbles back to the Dansette and puts on his other record. When he turns the volume dial, the small, inadequate speaker vibrates with the pounding rhythm of thousands of stomping jackboots. A crescendo of ‘
Sieg Heil, Sieg Heil, Sieg Heil
’ fills the sitting room. Hitler’s voice opens out into the space left behind by the chanting and Ian’s face is animated at last.

I’ve lost the ability to move: the drink has gone to my legs, so I sit pinned to my chair, listening to a language I don’t understand and wonder glumly what happened to ‘C’mon Everybody’
.
The night has lost its way. Everything is getting loud, distorted and too hot. Maureen’s gone into the kitchen for something and I wish she’d hurry up and come back. The room shrinks to Myra and Ian talking in short bursts of German. Ian frequently stabs at his knee with a bony finger to emphasise parts of the Führer’s rhetoric. Sometimes he speaks to me as if he’s a paid interpreter: ‘He’s saying this now, Dave’ . . . ‘He means that now, Dave.’ He asks me if I get it. Do I? No, I flaming well do
not
– it takes me all my time to decipher Ian’s own glutinous Glaswegian, never mind Hitler in full rant.

I stare at Ian’s mouth, trying to focus on his narrow lips, but they move like a puppet’s useless maw. I listen hard but can’t hear anything he’s telling me and close one eye in a vain attempt to control my swirling double-vision. Maureen is in the room again at least and I’m glad of that, even though she’s sitting next to Myra on the floor and talking to her while Ian carries on excitedly picking out bits of Hitler’s speech for me.

Despite being almost catatonic with booze, I’m the only one who hears the sound of a key scrabbling at the door.

Dad crashes in blind drunk, arse over heels, hanging onto the key in the lock. I feel myself tense up; Dad’s crossed swords with Ian before and despises him. His entrance on this particular evening will live with me for ever: he hits the floor on all fours, dropping his precious soggy parcel from the chipper. Struggling to his feet, he gathers up the wrapped fare and stands unsteadily with a crooked smile that vanishes as he takes in the situation. Hitler’s voice seems to roar from every wall as Dad slams his parcel down on the table and glares furiously at Ian.

I think to myself, ‘Fuck, Ian’s sat in Dad’s chair.’

Then, to make matters worse, Ian announces in a drawling
Dixon of Dock Green
voice that drips sarcasm, ‘Evening, all.’

I edge forward on my seat, waiting for the explosion.

Dad spits at Ian, ‘What the
fuck
are you doing in
my
fucking house?’

Ian answers slowly and deliberately, gleefully aware that he only has to breathe to inflame the older man: ‘Well, I do believe,
Mr Smith
, we have been invited.’

I watch Dad intently. I know his moods inside out and feel it when his rage breaks over us like a colossal, fiery wave.

‘I’m not having that fucking
shit
played in my house! Get it off and get your fucking self out after it.’

Ian leans back in Dad’s chair, taps the tailing ash from his cigarette onto the hearth and casually crosses his legs. ‘It’s a free country, Mr Smith, it’s a free country.’ He blows a chain of perfect smoke rings into the air. In the background, Hitler’s screams seem to implode within the speaker, spilling out into every corner of the room.

Dad stands and sways, his hands on the table as if to support himself, but I know he’s inching closer to get a good run at Ian. ‘Fucking free country!’ he bellows. ‘Fucking free country! What do
you
know about it, you fucking shit-stirring, German-loving
bastard
! You know fuck all about anything!’

A smile spreads across Ian’s face. He goes for the jugular. ‘Don’t forget Dresden . . . You call your laddies heroes, Mr Smith, but what about the massacre of innocents at Dresden? Answer me that.’

From her position on the floor, legs tucked sideways beneath her, Myra slyly glances at her boyfriend, cranking up Dad’s mood. ‘Come on, Ian, leave it, love. Can’t you see the man’s drunk? He doesn’t know what he’s saying, does he?’

I see the volcano erupt in Dad’s eyes and leap up out of my chair to grab him as he flies at Ian. I hate this. I know only too well what it takes to control Dad, especially when he’s got the drink on him; he has to be injured to put a stop to it all. I stand my ground with some difficulty, shoving him to a standstill with my hands planted flat against his chest.

‘Get the
fuck
out of my house!’ he screams at Ian, and Myra. I feel the spray of his temper splatter on my face. Locking eyes with him, I tell him through gritted teeth to get himself off to bed, that this thing isn’t between me and him but if I have to stop him, I will, even though it’s the last thing I want. He sweats with anger and pushes against my hands, but when I shove back and ask him to please just sod off to bed, he relents.

Glowering across my shoulder at Ian, he mutters, ‘Just get that bastard out of my chair.’ Relief trickles through me as he suddenly turns, slamming and banging his way into the kitchen and upstairs.

I sink into my own chair, letting out my breath slowly. Ian hasn’t moved an inch; he sits cross-legged, smiling calmly and nipping the end of his cigarette. I realise Hitler has stopped ranting and let my head droop. But then comes the clatter of heavy boots on the stairs and Dad storms back in. I rise in apprehension, but he’s only there to grab his parcel from the table. At the kitchen door, he twists round awkwardly, his eyes burning: ‘I told you to get
him
out of my fucking chair.’ Then he swivels his gaze round to Myra, who’s laughing quietly. ‘Fucking bitch,’ Dad spits.

Maureen lowers her head, upset and embarrassed. I wait to see what’s going to happen, but Dad isn’t in the mood for a fight any more and exits loudly. Ian calls cheerfully after his retreating back, ‘Goodnight, Mr Smith. Sleep well, now.’

Silence falls on us for a while. Ian and Myra exchange triumphant glances, then Ian lights up another cigarette and launches into a diatribe, addressing no one in particular: ‘So-called fucking Tommy war heroes can’t handle the
facts
. . . it’s all
propaganda
, that’s what it is, fucking propaganda . . . the truth has been suppressed for too fucking long, this is
reality
, the whole planet is in the grip of stinking Jews, that’s what’s behind everything . . . fucking Kennedy clan are nothing but a tribe of
cunts
. . .’

Eventually the drink overwhelms him. In a sullen hush, he rests back in the chair with his eyes closed, cigarette spent. Myra begins gathering their belongings to leave. She folds Ian’s coat neatly and drapes it over one arm, waiting until he’s hauled himself out of the chair. I get to my feet. Ian throws an arm around my shoulder, squeezing me tightly before brushing a clenched fist playfully across my chin: ‘Good party, eh?’

I sink into the chair again, leaving Maureen to see them out. I’m angry with Ian, Dad and myself, too – what a waste of time and effort everything is. I slug back the last of the whisky, clenching my empty fist. A clammy head-sweat swamps me. The heat of the roaring fire, the whisky, the jugged wine, and boiled ribs and cabbage knot my innards before springing open like a burst valve.

I dive through the kitchen and hit the fresh air of the backyard, bumping and scraping against the wall to the outhouse. Brutally ramming two fingers down my throat, I bring up a waterfall of hot, evil-smelling liquid. Gasping, I stand in the yard for a while and everything helicopters in front of my face. I stumble indoors, seeing double as I follow a trail of yellow chips up the stairs, using my hands as an extra pair of feet. I stand outside Dad’s bedroom door and listen to him snoring for England, then stumble into the other room.

On the bed I share with Maureen, I sit gazing at Angela’s cot, ashamed of how the evening disintegrated. Hearing her snuffles, I feel a semblance of normality return and undress with quivering fingers. The Image lies on the floor in an untidy jumble as I fall back onto the mattress, thinking dizzily ‘Where the fuck is Dresden anyway?’ before slipping into blessed unconsciousness.

I rise late the next day, feeling dog-rough, poisoned and rotten. I’m half-dressed as I clamber down the stairs, thinking
I can’t be arsed with the Image today
. Maureen silently hands me the pot of tea, nodding towards the living room. I take the pot from her, clutching my cigarettes, and join Dad in our chairs by the fire. We sit quietly for a few minutes, and I eye the sad figure as he begins sorting out what’s left of his pay packet.

‘Bad night at the cards, was it?’ I ask softly, hoping to break the tension.

Dad takes a deep breath. ‘Got fuck all to do with cards. It was a bad night all round.’

I read his mood less by his words and more by his calm, empty speech. He’s not angry, but I know it’s wiser to leave him alone and return to the kitchen. While I’m talking to Maureen, the front door opens, then slams shut.

I spend the weekend sobering up, happy to stroll with Maureen through Sunnybrow Park pushing the pram, throwing sticks for the dogs and talking about nothing in particular. Dad has hit the Hyde Road Hotel and is drinking heavily again, but it’s his way of sorting things out in his head. At night I lie in bed listening to him fumbling his way up the stairs and trying to be as quiet as he can. In the morning, his chair is empty.

On Monday, everything is back to normal.

* * *

‘Have You Seen 10 Year Old Lesley? Big Search for Lost Girl’, asked the
Gorton & Openshaw Reporter
on New Year’s Day, 1965. The article highlighted the vanishing of Lesley Ann Downey, who had not been seen since visiting Silcock’s Wonder Fair near her home in Ancoats on Boxing Day evening. Mention was also made of Pauline Reade, John Kilbride and Keith Bennett. Lesley’s mother and stepfather appealed for information, stressing how much her three brothers were missing their shy sister, and her best friend appeared on the Granada kids’ television programme
The Headliners
to discuss in a halting voice how Lesley had suddenly left their small group to run back alone to the alluring lights of the fair. Six thousand posters bearing Lesley’s image were printed, five thousand flyers distributed and more than six thousand people interviewed, but despite alleged sightings of the little girl in Blackpool, Belgium and any number of places in between, Lesley remained missing.

Ten months later, however, Maureen Smith would tell a hushed courtroom of an incident that occurred in February that year, when she and her sister were retiring for the night after an evening’s socialising: ‘Mrs Downey [
had
] offer[
ed
] a reward of £100 to anybody who could give any information as to where her daughter, Lesley, was. I said to Myra: “Her mother must think a lot of the child.”’

Prompted by the barrister as to her sister’s response, Maureen said quietly, ‘She laughed.’

Saddleworth Moor. What is it about this place and the dark?

We’ve been up here before, the four of us, during the daytime, and it held no more interest for me then. There are few trees and no birdsong. It’s always cold – the wind cuts through everything – and difficult to walk any distance. I trudge about in my Cuban-heeled cowboy boots, feeling the ground give as we follow wherever Ian decides we should go. He strides 20, 30, 40 yards in front of Myra, Maureen and me. He walks with a sense of purpose, smiling, hands in pockets, as he negotiates the land without a care. I glance at him, wondering if you need to be a bloody Scotsman to enjoy this kind of bleak, barren landscape. But Myra loves it here, too; it’s
their
place. And, as far as I’m concerned, they’re welcome to it.