by David Smith
He frowns. ‘I can’t emphasise this enough – how Brady changed within the space of the year that we became friends. It was a colossal transformation from the Mr Nice Guy who invited me and Maureen round on our wedding night to his confession at Wardle Brook Avenue. But the fact is that he wasn’t the man who took us on that freebie trip to the Lakes – that was the pretence. He didn’t turn into something – he reverted back to what he really was. My first glimpse of the real Ian Brady was on the day of my daughter’s funeral. Six months later, he’d gone into freefall. But Myra hadn’t. She had far more control than him, and it must have given her a few sleepless nights knowing he was preparing for the final spilling of the secret, all that build-up to driving the nail in. Everything that came before that night was his way of introducing the hammer to the nail. But that “I’ve killed” – that was the impact happening.’
Spurious plans were in place for another robbery, this time an Electricity Board showroom. A date had been mooted to carry out the crime: 8 October. ‘I didn’t really believe in that, to be honest,’ David states firmly, shaking his head. ‘It was just stupid. What could we have nicked? People only went in there to pay their bills, it wasn’t big money. But I went along with it. Beforehand, Brady asked me to bring round what he called “incriminating material”. I didn’t know what he was going to do with it, or why it would have any bearing on the robbery if we were caught. Because these things I had to bring, they had nothing to do with any theft, as far as I could see. What did I take round? Books mainly, and my starter pistol, I think. It was early evening when I called at their place.’
Myra answered the door. Ian was upstairs; Granny Maybury was at a neighbour’s house. Myra took the brown paper parcel David handed over and placed it on the coffee table in the sitting room. Inside the package were books that included Mein Kampf, Tropic of Cancer, The Kiss of the Whip, The Life and Ideals of the Marquis de Sade, Justine, Orgies of Torture and Brutality, and The Perfumed Garden. Ian appeared, said a quick hello and took the parcel back upstairs. He returned a short while later carrying two large suitcases, one brown, one blue. Their contents strained the fabric of the cases.
Ian and Myra went out to the front garden, with David following in the last of the evening sunlight. The Morris Traveller was in its usual parking spot, directly below the wall that ran the length of the short terrace. David vaulted the white picket fence and stood below the wall, ready to pass the suitcases from Ian to Myra, who was standing beside the car. As Ian angled the second suitcase over the fence to David, he said unsmilingly, ‘Don’t drop it or it’ll blow us all up.’
Five minutes later, with both suitcases safely placed away, Ian joined Myra in the car. They drove off, leaving David to head back to Underwood Court alone, wondering where they’d gone, and why.
Wednesday, 6 October 1965 was a beautiful, crisp autumn day. David mooched about the flat all morning and managed to sneak Bob out for a walk. At some point, the rent man called at Underwood Court and pushed a note under the door of Flat 18. It read:
Mr Smith, I want £14 12s 6d at the Town Hall on Saturday or I shall take legal proceedings. Mr Page is doing his job and if that dog is not out of the building by tonight I shall have you evicted. If there are any more complaints of Teddy boys and noise I shall take further action.
When David showed the note to Maureen, she scribbled on the back of it:
Dear Sir,
My husband and I are at work, and because we are not on the best of terms with Mr Page, I shall personally deliver the rent to the Town Hall on Saturday.
Mrs Smith.
The two of them decided to ask David’s dad for a loan, although the matter of what to do with Bob the dog was unresolved.
Gloomy about the way his day had gone, that evening David called round at Wardle Brook Avenue. Myra was in the process of shooing Granny Maybury up to bed with strong sleeping pills and a cup of tea. David was struck by Myra’s and Ian’s appearance. She wore an animal print tight-fitting frock and high heels, hair coiffed to perfection and make-up dramatic. Ian had on his grey suit, waistcoat, white shirt and tie. David told him about the note from the rent man; Ian adjusted his cufflinks and shrugged, ‘There’s nothing you can do about it.’ He suggested getting rid of the dog, if David and Maureen didn’t want to lose their tenancy at Underwood Court, then told David that he would have to leave, as he and Myra were ready to go out.
David walked down to the Morris Traveller with them, still talking to Ian as Myra started the ignition. When she put her foot down on the accelerator, David watched the small white car as it sped away, in the rapidly dwindling light, towards the city. He loped home and spent the rest of the evening watching telly with Maureen, moodily dwelling on the note and Mr Page’s part in it. The young couple decided to have an early night and were already asleep when the entry phone to their flat buzzed.
It was not quite 11.30 p.m. Maureen slipped out of bed and picked up the receiver from its cradle on the wall.
‘It’s Myra,’ said the caller.
Chapter 10
‘Edward went out between 6.15 and 6.30 p.m. I didn’t see him alive again.’
– Edith Evans, mother of murdered Edward Evans, quoted in The Reporter, 17 December 1965
David pulled on his jeans and padded out into the hallway. When Maureen opened the door to Myra, he was immediately struck by his sister-in-law’s unkempt appearance.
‘Earlier that evening, at Wardle Brook Avenue, she was ultra dressed up,’ he recalls. ‘Full war paint, tight dress, hair sprayed into a stiff beehive – far beyond the smart secretary look she normally wore. But when she turned up at our flat she had on an old skirt with the hem hanging down, a cardigan and scruffy pumps. The lacquer had gone from her hair and her make-up was smudged. Something had happened before she came to us. She looked a proper mess. It wasn’t even that she’d got changed out of her evening gear into something more comfy – she looked a right state. Were they her killing clothes? I don’t know. But the expression on her face was . . . well, she wasn’t smiling, put it like that. She was edgy, very edgy.’
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:
As we approached the front door, Myra stopped walking and she said: ‘Wait over the road, watch for the landing light to flick twice.’ I didn’t think this was unusual because I’ve had to do this before whilst she, Myra, went in to see if Ian would have me in. He’s a very temperamental sort of fellow. I waited across the road as Myra told me to, and then the landing light flicked twice, so I walked up and knocked on the front door. Ian opened the front door and he said in a very loud voice for him, he normally speaks soft: ‘Do you want those miniatures?’ I nodded my head to show ‘yes’ and he led me into the kitchen, which is directly opposite the front door, and he gave me three miniature bottles of wine and said: ‘Do you want the rest?’
When I first walked into the house, the door to the living room – which was on my right, standing at the front door – was closed. After he put the three bottles down i
n the kitchen, Ian went into the living room and I waited in the kitchen. I waited about a minute or two, then suddenly I heard a hell of a scream; it sounded like a woman, really high-pitched. Then the screams carried on, one after another, really loud. Then I heard Myra shout, ‘Dave, help him.’
*
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.
* * *
From David Smith’s memoir:
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.
