by David Smith
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 . . .
Chapter 15
‘The unfortunate affair with the newspaper . . . [Smith] at that time was pretty desperate for money, and he has been promised £1,000 for his story . . . it is the sort of temptation to which he should never have been exposed for a moment.’
– Mr Justice Fenton Atkinson, Moors trial at Chester Assizes, April 1966
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 pu
shed 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.
‘People hated Brady and Hindley,’ David muses, ‘but at the same time they chose to believe their lies about me. As the horror of it all came out, my life and Maureen’s became very difficult. We’d go to the pub and people would fall silent and stare, then start whispering and calling us names. That would lead to lots of “accidental” pushes and shoves, then proper physical aggression. I tried to stay away from pub toilets because in any closed environment I’d be followed and beaten up. The New Inn on the estate was out of bounds. Even if I went into Hyde . . . eventually it would descend into violence, whether it was before I’d got inside the pub, at the bar, in the toilets or as I was leaving. It usually started verbally but always led to a good hiding. No one – not one person – ever tried to intervene or told me I’d done the right thing by going to the police. No one would have a drink with me either, apart from Maureen and Dad. He had to get rounds in because no one would serve me. Standing at the bar was too risky anyway – if I wasn’t careful, someone would approach me from behind, grab me by the neck or hair and hold me down until there was a whole crowd involved, kicking and punching the crap out of me.’
Maureen was equally targeted. ‘She couldn’t go down to the shops without being attacked,’ David recalls. ‘Women especially would call her names, spit at her, pull her hair, shove her in the back, and lash out at her every day. She started retreating into her shell, not wanting to go out. I reacted differently – the abuse made me defiant. I wasn’t going to sit at home cowering. If I wanted a drink, then I’d go out for one and if I wanted a walk to the shops, then so be it. No one was going to beat me into submission. Maureen wasn’t as frightened if she was with me – we’d often go to a social club on Underwood Court, even though we knew we’d come home with black eyes and busted lips. Together we stood our ground. I never ran from anything, because I had nothing to run from, and it was as simple as that.’
Nonetheless, in March 1966 matters came to a head. David’s temper snapped when a crowd gathered below the balcony where he was standing and began shouting abuse. One youth yelled, ‘You’re no bleeding good without that axe, Smith!’ David picked up the dog’s lead, rushed downstairs and charged into the crowd.
‘I really went for them,’ he admits. ‘I struck out at them all – lads my age, mostly – but they pinned me down and kicked the shit out of me. Afterwards, the police knocked on our door for a “quiet word”. It didn’t go any further because they knew what we were up against. In fact, after that we had a copper on our door as protection. By then, it was no longer just a matter of having to be careful when we went out – the abuse had reached our front door. Some of the neighbours would let in troublemakers, and the whole place was soon covered in foul graffiti. We’d get visitors at all hours of the day and night, trying to kick the door in, banging on it, screaming and swearing. They’d come into the communal corridor and piss up the door. In the morning, there would be a thick pool on the floor. It was pretty grim.’
When the door entry buzzer rang one evening shortly before the trial, David didn’t answer it. The caller was so persistent that in the end David’s dad got up and pressed the intercom button. He returned looking troubled, but explained that he hadn’t liked to turn away their caller, and by then it was too late anyway: Lesley Ann Downey’s mother was standing at the door.
* * *
From David Smith’s memoir:
I don’t know what to expect when Dad tells me that Mrs Downey wants to see us. I’m sitting in the flat with Maureen, staring at the telly, without a clue what’s on. I don’t answer the buzzer because it’s never anyone I want to see, and when Dad comes in with the news that Mrs Downey is here, I think it’s a wind-up and almost explode. How could he be so stupid? Any minute now we’ll have rent-a-mob at our door, yelling and kicking, and leaving their ‘calling card’ – a trail of yellow piss that still stinks a week later, no matter how hard we scrub it away.
But when the knock comes, it’s polite and fairly quiet – not the hammering we hear daily. Our caller waits, without shouting or screaming through the door.
Dad looks at me. ‘Have I to let them in?’
I catch Maureen’s eye. She gets up awkwardly from the sofa, pushing Bob’s front paws off her knee; he can’t sprawl across her lap any more, not now she’s eight months pregnant. I raise my eyebrows and Maureen shrugs slowly, leaving it up to me.
I nod at Dad, still unconvinced about our visitor.
‘What do you think she wants, Dave?’ Maureen whispers, as Dad goes through to the corridor.
I reach for my fags and lighter from the top of the electric fire. ‘Haven’t a clue,’ I answer, hoping the tight knot in my stomach isn’t a bad omen.
‘I hope it’ll be all right.’ Maureen speaks under her breath, more to herself than to me.
Dad comes back into the sitting room, and with him are three people: a blonde-haired, not unattractive woman in her early 30s, a slightly older tattooed man, and another thick-set bloke. I tense immediately: our visitors have been drinking. I can smell it on them and see it in their eyes.
But it’s fine at first. I notice Mrs Downey staring at Maureen, but she calmly introduces herself and the two men. The wiry, tattooed chap is her partner; the other is her former brother-in-law or her own brother – my nerves are on edge and I can’t take everything in. But I notice again how her eyes follow Maureen, as she goes through to the kitchen to make a pot of tea.
The rest of us sit down. Mrs Downey gives the room a sweeping glance before edging forward on her chair and speaking in a measured, urgent voice. She asks me to help her by going to court and telling the judge and jury everything I know; she doesn’t want anyone left in doubt about what ‘those two’ did to her daughter. I promise to do everything I can, agreeing that Brady and Hindley deserve to go down until death.
The men who came with her are silent. She repeats what she has already said, then after a pause and still speaking in a restrained voice, asks me what ‘they’ were like. I don’t know what to tell her. I mumble something about them seeming normal ‘but obviously . . . they weren’t’.
Mrs Downey nods, frowning, hands clasped on her knees, rocking slightly. Then she asks, ‘Why? Why did they do it?’
Slowly, helplessly, I shrug my shoulders. I mumble again, mentioning the word ‘evil’ and ‘sick’ several times. She nods along as I talk, but doesn’t seem to be li
stening any more; Maureen has brought in the tea tray and sets it down on the small table. Suddenly, Mrs Downey asks if she might have a word with me on my own. I nod and indicate for her to go through to the kitchen.
We stand together silently in the narrow space. I stare at a patch of steam on the wall where the kettle has just boiled. Then Mrs Downey starts to cry, spluttering through great, rocking sobs that I must see to it that those two go down, that what they really deserved was to be hanged, and how she just wishes that she could get her hands on them. She is deeply upset but has her emotions under control, and eventually stops crying to make me promise again that I will do my best when the time comes.
I tell her I’ll do whatever I can.
We head back into the living room. Mrs Downey is slightly ahead of me, walking normally, when it comes without warning: she dashes forward at speed, hurling herself at Maureen. I’m so surprised that it takes me a moment to grasp what’s happening, but Maureen’s reactions are quicker: she screams and throws her arms around her stomach, bending forward on the settee, trying to defend herself, lifting her hands to her head. Mrs Downey’s rage is focused entirely on Maureen; she flies at her again and again, pulling Maureen’s black hair out by its roots – long strands of it sail through the air. The rest of us are still too stunned to move, as the sound of Mrs Downey’s slaps raining on Maureen’s arms and face rings out. She suddenly hauls Maureen up from the settee and slams her up against the wall, spitting thickly in her face while Maureen crumples, desperately trying to protect her stomach.
I snap to life at last, leaping across a chair arm to reach Mrs Downey. In that instant, it doesn’t matter to me who she is – all I want is to get her off Maureen. But as I grab her roughly and yank her backwards, I feel an arm go around my throat, pulling me to the floor. There’s a shout of fury from Dad, who instantly pitches in to help me while I’m lying on my back with Mrs Downey’s partner hitting me about the face. Then Dad, too, is tugged off his feet by the thick-set man and ends up beside me on the floor, inches away from the sharp corners of the electric fire.