Looking back, I’d always felt I had a sixth sense and the gift of being able to read people’s emotions by looking into their eyes. This, I am sure, had kept me from potential harm as a vulnerable seven-year old roaming the streets of Manchester. So it had come as a complete and unnerving shock for me to look up at the television screen one day and suddenly see the images of the man and woman I’d once encountered on the streets of Hulme, and discover they’d been found guilty of murdering three children!
At the time I’d been playing cards with Collins and Barnes in the recreation room, while Donkey sat watching us. He couldn’t play cards to save his life, no matter how much we had tried to teach him. But he was happy enough just to sit and deal the cards out to us, though he even mucked that up at times. But when it came to playing snap, he certainly had the edge, always catching us off guard and causing us to jump with fright when he spotted a matching card, slamming his hand down and almost breaking the table as he screamed “Snap!”
Glancing up at the TV, I recall my heart almost jumping into my mouth as I instantly recognised the man and woman on the screen as the couple who had taken me home in 1963 for a slice of bread and jam. They were being identified as Myra Hindley and Ian Brady. I especially remembered the woman, Myra Hindley, and how she had enticed me with her kind eyes to follow her home. How will I ever forget that moment when I had looked up into her eyes and saw the kindness drain out of them?
Looking back, the two of them had not seemed out of the ordinary and certainly no different from any of the other people we usually came across when begging on the streets of Manchester. There were those who would tell us to “piss off home to yer mam and get her to feed yah”, and others who found it necessary to punch, kick or spit at us. But there were also those compassionate people who would give us a few pennies, or take us to a nearby café, ordering up a meal and paying for it on their way out as they’d left us to get on with it. And there were others who would invite us into their homes for a bite to eat, and we’d willingly tag along, chatting away to them, without any fear or thoughts for our own safety. To us, this was nothing compared to the everyday dangers we were already facing in our young lives.
I just knew something wasn’t right when I’d sat at the table in the blonde woman’s house and my eyes had briefly fixed on hers as she’d plonked down the plate with the thick slice of bread and jam on it, almost snapping at me to hurry up and get it down me. “So we can get you home,” she’d said. But I had already noticed the sparkle she’d had in those eyes, when she’d first spoken to me in the park and invited me back to her house, was no longer there.
I was hungry. I remember my stomach letting out a rumble and my mouth watering at the sight of it. And yet, my first thought was to notice that there wasn’t any margarine on the bread! How absurd and selfish that seemed.
Usually, when people had rustled up a snack for us to eat, they’d sit down and talk with us, interested in knowing at least something about what was going on in our lives. But Hindley and Brady didn’t do that. I remember her swigging from a glass tumbler full of sherry. I knew it was sherry because I knew the smell of it very well and hated it. My parents, both being alcoholics, lived off the disgusting stuff. And I think it was around this point that I had suddenly decided I didn’t like her much.
I am still haunted by seeing the television expose of those two evil child killers, Myra Hindley and Ian Brady, and of realising how close I had come to being another of their victims. I am still haunted by the guilt I felt at the time, the coldness, the panic, the fear deep down inside me, while inner voices were screaming at me to get out. I didn’t understand all those goings-on in my head, I knew only that I shouldn’t have been there and I had to escape.
Why didn’t I tell them I wanted to leave? Why didn’t I make a run for the door instead of leaving through the window? What was I so frightened of? Not for one second did I imagine they were deliberately going to harm me. They were just ordinary people, she was like any other ordinary young woman. A sister, a mother! And yet I’d had this instinct that made me fear the worst in them.
“Fucking wait!” I’d heard Ian Brady say those words as I had made my escape. “Fucking wait!” I know I will never forget those words. Nor can I ever forget that heart-stopping moment when the sash window I was attempting to force open had momentarily stuck, before I’d managed to open it all the way and scramble out, as Hindley grabbed at my ankle.
Now here they were on the TV! It was the first time I had seen their faces since that day back in 1963. I was now able to put a name to those faces and, for the first time, know them for the evil murderers they were. And I will be forever scarred by that knowledge. It is very difficult to comprehend that, in those moments when I’d been following the seemingly kind woman to her home, I had been walking to my potential death. By luck or some innate sense of self-preservation, I was still alive, nothing had happened to me. But my thoughts are, and always will be, for the children murdered by those two evil bastards.
“I went back to their house for a jam butty, sir,” I heard myself tell Mr Sweet, who was on duty at the time.
“And they sent you off home with a lucky bag, did they?”
“No sir, I climbed out the window and ran away.”
“Well, run away now, Rhattigan,” sighed Sweet.
Not Caring or Sharing
My twelfth birthday had been and gone. It was the usual affair, everyone singing Happy Birthday and not meaning one word of it, the same homemade Victoria sponge with the one candle on it. When I say the same Victoria sponge cake, I don’t mean it was the exact same Victoria sponge used for everyone’s birthday, though it might as well have been, judging by the state of some of them. And, of course, they couldn’t divide one small Victoria sponge cake into 48 pieces, unless it was shared out in crumbs, so we had to pick no more than five friends to share it with. The frustrating thing about this was that we couldn’t pick fewer than five friends, in the hope of getting a bigger slice.
“Pick me, Tommy!” “I’m your mate, Ratty!” “I’ll be your friend!” “It wasn’t me who stole yer footie cards!” “I’ll kick your head in if yah don’t pick me!” This lot would have sold their grandmothers to the devil, if they’d not done so already.
I would never forget the first birthday I’d had at St Vincent’s. I’d never celebrated a birthday before as such, and so couldn’t believe all that lovely Victoria sponge cake was mine. And it wasn’t! I’d only discovered this after blowing out the candle, when I picked the whole lot up in my hands, ready to greedily devour it.
“What are yea doin’ with that?” bawled Sister Ignatius.
“I’m eatin’ it Sister.” What did she think I was going to do with it?
“Not all ta yerself yer not.” She’d ordered me to put it back on the plate. “Yea can pick five friends to share it with.”
“I don’t have one friend, let alone five.”
“Then choose anyone.”
“I don’t want ta choose anyone.”
“Then I’ll choose for yea.”
“I’ll choose, I’ll choose,” I pleaded, eyeing up the cake, as her shovel-size hand hovered over the top of it.
“Er – ah…”
“Hurry it up,” she bawled. “We haven’t the whole day.”
“Him!” I blurted out, pointing in the direction of the table across from me, but not to anyone in particular.
“Barlow?”
“No. The boy next ta him.”
“Murphy?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Murphy. Bring yer plate over here an’ get yerself a slice of this cake.”
Got it! I wasn’t sharing it with any false friends! And with her attention diverted away from me and the cake, I’d managed to grab the whole lot up off the plate as she was giving Murphy the surprise news.
“What in heaven’s name?” scr
eamed Sister Ignatius, when I attempted to stuff the whole cake into my gob. Her big, gobstopper eyes were almost popping out of their sockets and I had visions of them knocking her glasses off her nose. “Yah greedy, inconsiderate pig yah!”
She made a grab for the cake, which was all over my face, before she suddenly upped with her fist and boxed me one straight in the mouth, knocking me senseless and causing me to almost die choking as I’d swallowed the mouthful of cake already in my mouth (about half of it) and it had stuck in my throat.
I remember feeling giddy with the sense of panic rushing through me as I became lightheaded, and the dining room began spinning. By this point Sister Margaret had joined in and was banging her fists on my back. I wasn’t sure whether she was attempting to save my worthless life, or if she’d just decided to join in the assault and battery on my person. But whatever her intentions, it did the trick and I was able to cough up the cake blocking my throat.
Having been frogmarched off to the office by the witch herself, I was taken aback when she said she wasn’t going to cane me, because it was my birthday. And like an eejit, I’d thanked her.
“There’s no need ta be tanking me,” she said. “Yea can get back here tomorrow mornin’ and be havin’ yer punishment then.”
Lesson learned, from then on I always shared my birthday cake with Donkey, Collins, Barnes, Butler and McGinley, just as they all chose me. But even so, I did teasingly point at other lads, seeing the excitement on their faces suddenly turn to scowls when I then called out Barnes, Collins and the others in turn.
The good thing about having reached the age of 12 was that I finally got to wear long trousers. This set me apart from the younger boys, with Miss Peggy having to triple check my inside leg measurement for my new kecks. I don’t know why she had to check it so many times (probably forgetful), but she’d seemed happy enough to do so, with her big watery blue eyes smiling at me.
I was chuffed to have been picked to play on the right wing in the upcoming game of football on Saturday. Playing against a team from a posh public school in Crosby, who called themselves the “Taylors Boys”.
It had been more than two years since we’d been allowed to play against an outside football team. Mr Lilly said this match, arranged by the Catholic Diocese, was a very important game for St Vincent’s, giving us the opportunity of showing humility and civility towards our Fellow Man. I took this to mean the organisers were telling us we were to roll over and play dead. But that was very unlikely.
We were all looking forward to the game, especially since we’d been told the posh school had only ever played rugby, cricket and hockey. So not only were we excited about the idea of playing against a team that didn’t know much about football – this was our opportunity to win back some pride. The last match saw us getting thrashed 16-0 by another local school, with 14 of those goals being penalties and the other two scored by our own cowardly fullback.
That had been the first and only football match we’d ever played against an outside team, following the mass brawl at the final whistle. We had gathered around the referee (their referee) and told him he was a cheating bastard, along with every other vile name we could muster at the time. In the tussle that followed, he’d dropped his whistle and had bent over to retrieve it – which, under the circumstances, was entirely the wrong move on his part. And though he’d probably dropped his whistle on many occasions and retrieved it without mishap, I’m sure he wouldn’t have expected the toe end of Johnny Hills’ football boot to have caught him straight up the backside!
The incident had only lasted for a minute or two, with the opposition team doing all the pushing and shoving and then backing off immediately like big girl’s blouses when we started throwing punches and the odd bite. As was always the case when we were involved in things that went wrong, we were the ones to blame. Father Patrick from the Catholic diocese had called us mental retards in his letter to the school. But even if he did have a point, that still didn’t give the referee the right to cheat.
That said, it was well worth the condemnation from the old priest, just to watch the hunched referee walk slowly and purposefully off the pitch, as if walking over burning coals, with a painful expression written across his face.
Mr Sweet had woken me up again the previous night, as he did every time he was on sleepover duty. Besides there being the night watchman, there was always a member of staff sleeping over at the school, in case of emergencies. He would usually nudge me awake, never saying anything to me, before leaving the dormitory. I slipped out from my bed and followed him along the side corridor to the staff bedroom, only a short walk away. I hated being suddenly woken from my deep sleeps: usually it took me a while to come to my senses. But luckily, I was so used to being woken in this way, I was automatically able to find my way to the staff bedroom without putting too much of an effort into fully waking up. Once inside the room, I would undo my pyjamas and drop them around my ankles for him to decide what he wanted to do to me.
Sometimes he would sit me down on the bed and make me suck him before making me kneel up on the bed and pushing himself inside me. He’d stopped playing with me a long while back as he used to do in those first few months when I’d accepted his attention and would show my eagerness to please him. But not any more. I was aware that he was now just using me for his own pleasure. There was an expectation from him that I would do whatever I had always done, without him having to coerce me, or do anything for me in return. He expected me to do whatever he wanted, at his command.
I was maturing and knew how my body worked. So, whenever I wanted to, I could pleasure myself senseless without the need for his attention, even if it was at the risk of going blind! But I still did what he asked of me because I didn’t know how to say no. I didn’t want him. I didn’t enjoy what he was doing. But if I refused, I knew, as he also knew only too well, how easily he could make my life a misery all over again.
This was his last night on duty for the next few weeks, and when I’d entered the bedroom, his pyjama bottoms were already off and he was ready for me. “Kneel up on the bed,” he whispered. I climbed up on the bed, as I had done many times, onto my hands and knees. I felt him on the outside of me, expecting the usual gentle push, but he rammed himself into me with force, causing me to fall forwards, face down with him on top of me. I was unable to breathe properly with all his weight bearing down on me and I was panicking, trying to push my hands behind me and up on him in my futile attempt to ease the pressure on me, too afraid to call out to him to stop. Seconds later, he got off me, telling me to go back to my bed.
Fridays were fish days, as all practising Catholics should know. Not that Daddy ever gave us any fish on a Friday, or any other day for that matter. The nearest we ever came to eating fish was buying battered potato scallops, which were fried in the same oil as the fish. We bought this ourselves from the fish and chip shop from the money we’d earned from begging.
“Abstaining from eating meat every Friday and sticking to fish instead is a small sacrifice for the sacrifices given by Jesus when he was crucified on the cross,” said Father Tierney. Well, I wouldn’t have minded furthering my sacrifice and having fish for dinner every day of the week, excluding Saturdays, which was sausage and mash day. And Sunday’s roast. The rest I could live without if I could have fish instead.
Reflecting on the previous night, I think Mr Sweet might have been in a bad mood about something or other. He’d already smacked a few lads around their heads that morning, just for being too loud, which caused them to be even louder with all their whingeing. I’d given up trying to make sense of anything that happened in that dump. And I’d also given up on my attempts to rob the petty-cash tin from the office. I’d broken three fingernails trying to force another brick out of the feckin’ wall, only to come up against the iron girder. Seven months of my life down the drain, with 10 and a half bricks and a thick lump of iron to show for it. Whoever built this p
lace had certainly wanted to keep the loonies in.
I was not usually one for giving up easily, but I was giving up on that. By the time I got through into the office, I’d probably have worn my fingers to the bone, grown a five-foot grey beard, and died of old age. It wasn’t as if I was desperate for the money. I didn’t need it, considering that I could get most of the things I needed without having to pay for it. I suppose it was just the idea of being able to do it (which I obviously couldn’t) and to put something aside in case of everyday emergencies, just as me auld Granny used to do, putting any of her spare pennies into the small tin she’d kept up on her shelf in her kitchen. She’d told me at the time, “It’s for a rainy day”, which had baffled me. She hardly ever went out of the house on a nice dry day, let alone when it was teeming down with rain! And even then it was only if she was heading for the pub.
Friday was also library day. There were only around 20 or so boys aged 10 and over who had joined the local library. I didn’t understand why there weren’t more of us, considering we could go there every Friday unsupervised. Some of the boys weren’t even interested in reading books, but joined anyway, just for the opportunity to get away from St Vincent’s for a short while. We were allowed out for one hour maximum, which gave us plenty of time to make the 15-to-20-minute journey there and back on foot, and to search out a couple of good books to read.
We were sent out in small groups of four at various times of the day. I usually made the journey on my own, simply because I wasn’t (and didn’t particularly want to be) friends with anyone. By this point I had distanced myself from my gang of misfits. I couldn’t imagine myself ever being true friends with anyone there, if there was even such a thing as true friends. To my mind, friendships were all about keeping secrets, trusting one another and being honest with one another. Not this lot. They couldn’t even be honest with themselves, let alone with others. Anyway. I felt I was better without them.
Boy Number 26 Page 19
