Evil Relations (29 page)

The large hands of a copper seize my shoulders and swivel me back to where I was before. We’re manhandled into the car; the doors slam shut and fists pound on the windows in another unforgettable symphony of hatred. The driver presses his boot down on the accelerator and the cacophony fades as Underwood Court disappears from view, leaving only a ringing silence.

The air inside the police car feels like cotton wool; it’s stifling with the windows shut and the heater on full blast. I sit back in my seat, sick and claustrophobic, trying not to think of what lies ahead. Then I look at Maureen. ‘All right, girl? How are you?’

‘Scared.’ She stares straight ahead. Her face, beneath the heavy make-up, is pale and drawn. I squeeze her hand and turn away.

When we stop at a red light, two carloads of press pull up right next to us, with more behind, their cameras trained on our windows. The policeman in the front passenger seat swears and the driver, equally irate, over-revs the engine, his eyes fixed on the traffic lights, waiting impatiently for red to turn to amber. He speeds away the instant it changes, leaving our pursuers far behind. Then the radio crackles, alerting our escorts to ‘a substantial gathering’ around Hyde Magistrates’ Court. The policeman in the passenger seat glances at us in the mirror: ‘Prepare yourselves for a bumpy ride.’ Then he adds, ‘There’s a blanket back there if you want it for cover.’

My shoulders drop. I think to myself: why should we hide when we’ve done nothing wrong? What the hell is all that about? No way am I crawling under a blanket like a fucking criminal, no fucking way.

‘Get ready for it,’ the driver warns in a loud voice. The indicator blinks loudly, as he turns the car into a street heaving with people. A barrage of flashbulbs bursts like shellfire, turning the inside of the car into a photographic negative, making it impossible to see. The driver curses, as he attempts to nudge the car into the yard behind the police station and is forced to stop. The fists are back again, pounding and banging, and huge black lenses poke through the sea of hands like bruised eyes. Our driver and his colleague start to panic; the copper in the passenger seat urges, ‘Drive, for Christ’s sake, push them back, get to the yard, keep going or we’ve had it, keep going.’

Maureen clutches my arm and leans against me. She’s terrified, and more so because of her pregnancy. From behind the sunglasses, I look out at the frenzy surrounding us and for a moment the sight is so surreal that I view it like an outsider. The strange fusion of anger and desperation contorts people’s faces as they press up against the window. Further back, the crowd melts into one screaming mouth. We inch forwards towards the safety of the station yard and yet the swarm of bodies keeps closing in, almost lifting us from the concrete. Flashbulbs burst on all sides and the banging fists on the car form a hollow, painful rhythm, making the vehicle rock like a boat. The figures lurch back and forth and I think to myself: a plague of deranged zombies, that’s what they are, just creatures from a B-movie, not real at all.

Suddenly the car jumps forward, into the yard of Hyde station, and the heavy metal doors close behind us with a resounding clang.

Although I’m not aware of it, across the street the person who will prove to be my salvation years from now is watching the madness, too.

Hyde Town Hall is a multi-purpose building: apart from the usual municipal business, it serves as a police station and Magistrates’ Court. Directly opposite is Greenfield Street Primary, and on this particular cold December morning in 1965 a nine-year-old girl stands with her friends in the schoolyard. Long brown hair tightly plaited by her father that morning, she clings to the railings in excited curiosity, ignoring the teachers’ instructions to go indoors.

All the commotion – what is it for? Strangers in dark glasses, cameras, journalists, noisy crowds . . . perhaps, she thinks, it’s a film. She presses her face closer to the railings, feeling the cold iron against her skin. She’s never seen anything like it but is disappointed when she doesn’t recognise the couple in sunglasses. They’re not even off the telly, so why all the fuss?

The teachers wade in, remonstrating crossly, finally managing to convince the children to come away. The sudden downpour of rain helps. Still chattering about the goings-on at the courthouse, the children file in through the main doors, parting like a sea to find their classrooms.

Mary Flaherty is the last to be prised away from the railings. She waits until the couple in dark glasses disappear and the flashbulbs stop popping. Then she walks across the schoolyard, thoughtfully chewing one of her too-tight plaits.

In the corridor, I sit with Maureen, holding her hand. I keep my head bowed and shoulders hunched. The corridor seems endless, a trench dug out of hell. The wooden bench is hard and cold as steel. Somewhere there is a clock ticking, yet the minutes take hours to pass. Occasionally, I hear a whisper from the policewoman sitting on Maureen’s other side, kindly offering reassurance. I hope Maureen is comforted by her words; she might as well be talking Chinese, as far as I’m concerned. Between my feet is a steadily growing pile of cigarette butts. I clear my throat, but it’s rank with nicotine and, like the ashtray it too often resembles, could do with a wipe with a damp cloth.

I look down the corridor. At the very end is a black-robed usher, waiting by the courtroom door, his face blank with boredom. I try to remember what the police said: committal proceedings aren’t ‘as bad’ as trials, it’s just a matter of the prosecution presenting their case, no cross-examining by defence lawyers. But still I don’t feel comforted.

The policewoman leans forward and asks if I’m all right. I nod, knowing that I’m not. My eyes keep being drawn back to the courtroom door. It’s what lies on the other side that disturbs me most. I light another cigarette and lean back against the wall.

I haven’t been this close to Ian and Myra since we sat together after the killing of Edward Evans in Wardle Brook Avenue. Images from that night flitter through my head, a stream of bloodied tickertape. I try to fight the memories, but the effort causes cold sweat to trickle under my hairline and bead my top lip. I close my eyes and see another corridor from which there’s no escape: the one in my mind. A thin foam of bile rises inside my mouth. Eight weeks have passed since that night, but it’s nothing, less than the blink of a woman’s eye after she’s held the gaze of a young man in his last ten seconds of life.

The courtroom door creaks open and a head appears in the narrow gap, whispering. The usher turns, a crow-like gesture as his black robes billow slightly, and calls out my name.

I stand up and stub out my cigarette. The bile has sunk back into my gut, leaving my mouth sticky but dry. I find it impossible to swallow. The walk down the corridor is long and lonely, just the sound of my own footsteps on the parquet floor.

Someone is speaking to me. I blink rapidly and realise I’m in the witness box, watched by scores of curious eyes. The whispering begins and I start to tremble, not knowing how I got here. I need to find some sort of inner strength, the same cold instinct that ensured my survival just two months ago. That thought brings everything into pinprick focus: I look down for two faces among the multitude and when I find them, I hear a whooshing noise in my head, like the sound of the traffic during that very first journey to Hyde station.

Ian and Myra sit together in the dock, so near that I’m convinced I can smell them: her hair lacquer and his aftershave. Their physical presence goes through me like an electrical volt. Ian wears his grey trousers and jacket, with the waistcoat beneath; Myra is in a speckled suit, with a yellow blouse that should soften her face but doesn’t. Her hair is white blonde, a candyfloss ball, while Ian is as immaculately groomed as ever. His head is bent, as he speaks softly to Myra and she listens, nodding slowly. Then she turns and her eyes lock on mine.

They are the eyes I remember from our last encounter: sloe-black and unblinking. Her expression may seem blank to those who don’t know her, but the hard set of her jaw reveals the depth of her hatred for me, and for what I’ve done to them.

Then all at once it hits me: they can’t hurt anyone now. Myra’s gaze might remind me of a shark – that dead and yet venomous look – but if that’s what she resembles, she’s no more than an animal in captivity. That knowledge alone gives me the strength I need. Myra and Ian will still be an unassailable unit, playing their private games, whispering and giggling, sharing secrets only they will ever truly know, but they are captured and caged, left with their evil memories but without a future.

I look at Ian. He acknowledges me with the slightest nod and a barely there, ironic smile. Myra continues to fix me with her glare across the airless courtroom. But I stare them down: I am the witness.

I take a deep breath and begin . . .

David’s nerves weren’t completely banished in the witness box; he stuttered frequently and spoke so softly that microphones were brought in. But he got through it, and today recalls: ‘I was just glad when it was over. Having those two – Brady and Hindley – staring at me all the time wasn’t easy. They were far too close for my liking. At the proper trial in Chester, the dock was surrounded by thick glass, which thankfully made them seem even further away. But at least the committal was a gentle process. I had to answer a few queries, but not many and not in depth.’

Maureen took the stand after her husband, refusing an offer to be seated. She spoke quietly but with surprising self-assurance and kept her composure. Immediately afterwards, Myra Hindley wrote to her mother: ‘Did you read the lies Maureen told in court, about me hating babies and children? She wouldn’t look at me in the dock, Mam. She couldn’t. She kept her face turned away. I noticed she was wearing a new coat and boots, and that Smith had a new watch on and a new overcoat and suit. I suppose he’s had an advance on his dirt money.’

Myra was referring to David and Maureen’s deal with the
News of the World
, an arrangement that caused serious concern at the subsequent trial. David’s dad and Uncle Bert set the whole thing up between them, seeing no reason to ignore the potentially hefty sums on offer for his story. David hadn’t worked since informing the police of Edward Evans’s murder and was unable to secure a job because of his ‘association’ with the two most reviled people in the country.

‘I was hated for selling out to the
News of the World
,’ he muses, ‘but I didn’t set up the deal, though admittedly I went along with it. Dad and Uncle Bert threw me to the lions – until they climbed aboard the publicity bandwagon, I had nothing to do with the press. I ignored the cards pushed through our letterbox and despised the reporters who shoved their cameras and microphones in our faces whenever we left the flat. But the two Jack the Lads in the family saw it as a golden opportunity. They kept saying, “You’ve been through hell, the public hate you, you’re crippled with debt, you’ve no chance of a job while this is hanging over you, and there’s Maureen and the baby to consider . . . why shouldn’t you make some money out of telling your story?” Put like that, it didn’t seem such a bad thing to do. So I let them get on with it.’

Two newspapers put in sizeable bids: the
News of the World
, who offered £1,000, and
The People
, offering £6,000. ‘Dad and Uncle Bert were clueless,’ David recalls with an exasperated smile. ‘The
News of the World
talked to them about the thousands we might earn through syndication, serial rights and all that malarkey. They convinced Dad and Uncle Bert to think long-term gain rather than short-term solution. Then they asked to meet Maureen and me – just us two – and arranged a rendezvous in the cafeteria of John Lewis, in town. We were both scared stiff, so out came the dark glasses again, to hide behind. We must have stuck out like a right couple of sore thumbs, huddled behind the buffet in these big sunglasses, waiting for the journalists to turn up.’

Reporter George Mackintosh and sports writer Jack Knot arrived to discuss the deal. ‘They asked very broad questions,’ David remembers, ‘and were pretty easy to get on with, really. The meeting lasted about an hour. Before we left they made it very clear that they wanted to go ahead – they pushed us £20 apiece. Believe me, £40 back then was a lot of money to people like us. I suppose today’s equivalent would be around £400, and these were just notes they’d peeled off a roll in their back pockets. They asked us to meet them again a couple of days later, with their editor Jack Taylor, and Dad and Uncle Bert, in a members-only club where hacks hung out. Everything was paid for – drinks and a slap-up meal. Jack Taylor delivered his patter about syndication, selling serial rights to Germany and so on. It didn’t mean a lot to me, but just before he was due to return to the office he pulled out a contract, which he “happened” to have on him. We signed there and then.’

Under the terms of the contract, David and Maureen were paid £15 per week until the trial. Upon Brady and Hindley’s conviction, the
News of the World
would run a series of articles about the couple from David’s perspective, and he and Maureen would receive a lump sum of £1,000.

In the meantime, committal proceedings were drawing to a close as Christmas approached. The most harrowing moments in court came after David had given his evidence. During her appearance in the witness box, Lesley Ann Downey’s mother broke down and screamed at Myra: ‘I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!’ A quick-thinking policeman grabbed the water carafe provided for witnesses before she could hurl it across the court. The tape of Lesley Ann was played the following day; although press and public were barred from court for those few minutes, rumours about the recording stoked public anger anew against the two accused, who had pleaded not guilty to all charges. David and Maureen bore the brunt of that aggression, despite their position as witnesses for the prosecution.