Evil Relations (21 page)

* * *

2 October 1965, Wardle Brook Avenue, long after midnight.

Away from Myra, Ian is changing. He’s becoming intense, and conversations are always long and involved. Something is eating away inside him, compelling him to talk. Gone are the half-baked plans for robbery; now, he’s opening up his world to me: a world where people are worthless, maggots and morons, where human life is less important than swatting a fly. He’s obsessed with the idea that I doubt him and it makes him excited, overwrought.

Away from Myra, he’s heading for an experience unlike any other, searching for the ultimate kick, and is keyed up by the need to take us all with him, to the floor of his abyss.

He thinks he has me. In
his
mind, when I agreed to stake out the bank and talked about wanting an old acquaintance wiped out, that was a commitment to him. He might have had his reservations about me, but they’re gone now. He trusts me.

In a voice whisky-thick and wired with energy, he talks about religion as lobotomy, and the genius of de Sade. Then he asks, banging his fist down on his knee, ‘What’s wrong with killing somebody if you’re prepared to accept responsibility for your actions?’

The whisky makes his accent stronger, the r’s rolling, like the mist across the moor, and he emphasises certain words, clenching and unclenching that fist. ‘The victim’s
family
has the
right
to kill you. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Let the murderer face the family of the one that he’s killed. That’s de Sade’s philosophy for you in a
nutshell
. He was right . . .’

I don’t answer, but I nod, almost involuntarily, aware of the stink from the ashtray, where red wine has been spilled into the pile of spent cigarettes.

After a pause, he starts again, leaning forward across the table, his eyes unnaturally bright as always during a tirade.

‘Think about it. No, no, think about
God
. Where was
he
when Angela died? If there is a God, he had no
right
to let that happen, did he?
Bastard
. What life did she have? Six months is
fuck all
. God murdered your child. But there
is
no God, God is
nothing
. God killed your fucking daughter, who the
fuck
is God?’

I don’t say a word. I keep the whisky in my mouth and listen, head bowed, stoned out of my brain on booze.

His fist is on the coffee table as he rages at me: ‘Your
dad
had no right to kill Peggy. It should have been your fucking
dad
who got the jab. You get fuck all from people, dogs are better, they give you devotion, they give their
lives
for you. You see them two dogs there, Lassie and Puppet, stretched out by the telly? They mean and
give
more to you than any two-legged arsehole. Fuck parents, lovers and kids. They all do what
they
want in the end . . .’

The whisky shoots through my skull, filling every corner of my brain with its blistering fog. My forehead is almost resting against the edge of the coffee table. I feel something building in the room, a moment that’s been a long time in coming.

His voice is calm when he says it. One short, sharp breath and out it comes: ‘
Listen
to me.
I’ve killed
. I’ve done it. I know what it’s like.’

I don’t believe him.

‘You think I’m lying, don’t you? You think I’m a lying cunt, but it’s been done,
I’ve killed
, more than once. Ach, but you don’t believe me. Maggots, they’re all fucking maggots . . .’

I don’t believe him. Through the fever in my head, I’m thinking:
like fuck, you haven’t killed anyone.
I raise an eyebrow sceptically and it ignites something in him, bringing his words down on my head: ‘I’ve got photographic
proof
, and you’ve sat on one of the
graves
. Get the bastards over 16, that’s the easiest way, they’re nothing to the police then, just some sad missing kid, runaways who’ve fucked off to
London
and the bright lights, file and forget. Jews, winos, queers – who gives a shit about
them
? They’re fucking
germs
and worth fuck all, even the police see them as numbers and know the world’s well rid. Who’s gonna give a
fuck
about some dirty little shirt-lifter? Hitler had the right idea, that’s just my point, he had the right fucking
idea
. . .’

Shut up
, I’m thinking.
Let me lie down and sleep. Talking a load of drunken shite again. Bank job, here we come. Tony Latham, here we come. I am a murderer, here we fucking come. Shut your fucking mouth and let me rest.

But the momentum spins; Ian’s pale eyes start out of his head: ‘Listen, there are two ways to do it, I’m fucking telling you,
two
ways, not just one. First method: get the car and yourself ready, prepare the
lot
, clean the car, cover the inside with polythene, count
all
the buttons on what you’re wearing and note
everything
, mustn’t leave anything behind – do you fucking
understand
, are you
listening
? Right, so you get out of the car, find the maggots – Central Station, Union Hotel, Rembrandt bar, queers – just
get
them, splatter them away. But that’s not the best way to do it, there’s too many
risks
, you have to clean your clothes and everything else afterwards. Not enough
control
in the situation. Second method, this one is
better
: get them and do them in a place where you have
full
control, even over the fucking
body
, you can’t get caught then, ’cause the police are thick fuckers, give them fuck all and they
do
fuck all. Plan ahead, and if you’re questioned, give them the old spiel about not remembering anything more than ten days ago, that’s
normal
. . .’

He sits back suddenly, spent, breathless.

I look at him and his eyes narrow.

‘It will be done again.’ He nods slowly. ‘But this one won’t count. I’m not due another yet, but it
will
be done.’ His lips curl in a sly smile and I feel unnaturally tired.

He’s speaking again, but my brain scarcely registers his soft, insistent voice: ‘You know what I get from it?
Control
. You’re in control and that’s the biggest fucking high you’ll ever have, you’re in
control
. You can even control death, do you fucking understand me, it’s all a matter of
control
. . .’

* * *

‘He’d been building up to that moment for some time,’ David explains, running his thumbnail along a deeply scored groove in the kitchen table. ‘It went back to the day of Angela’s funeral, when he’d sat in the car without acknowledging my grief. His attitude that day had a purpose – he was already thinking ahead to how he would use it, twisting it into his philosophy about there being no God and life worth so little. He waited until he felt he had me in his grasp. The books, the note-taking, the soft porn and the stronger stuff, the bank robbery and Tony Latham – all of that was “grooming”. Then he sprang the trap: “I’ve killed.”’

After a long silence, David clarifies Myra’s perception of how things stood between them: ‘She definitely wasn’t pleased about his desire to bring me into their little secret. She would have been aware of what he was after long before it ever occurred to me, because she was able to recognise the pattern and what it had led to between the two of them. When we were discussing the bank job, she knew about it and wasn’t tidy with it at all.
She
didn’t want me on board – that came from him. I’m sure they would have talked about what was happening with me and agreed on a strategy – kill me if anything went wrong. She could tell that he was overstretching their boundaries and there was no need for it. And I’m positive – because I could see it in her whole attitude – that she wasn’t happy with any of it, especially given that he was on this insane, downward spiral where he was
losing
control.’

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:

When David showed the note to Maureen, she scribbled on the back of it:

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.

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.’