Evil Relations (37 page)

Maureen often accompanied him; the three boys remained at home with Jack, who had moved from Underwood Court with them. Drinking and dancing in Moss Side was the only time David and Maureen spent together comfortably as a couple; it became a brief respite from their troubles. ‘We’d leave the shebeen in the early hours, drunk and stoned out of our minds, and totter home, where everything was just as miserable as before,’ David recalls. ‘I was living for our shebeen nights, totally uninterested in anything else. Dad hated it – he wasn’t impressed with the company we kept. He was “old school”. As a kid, I saw how that worked. Where I was brought up in Ardwick – that was separated from Moss Side by Stockport Road. Jesus, the drubbing a white girl would get for walking down the street with a black man – it was unbelievable. The women, especially, would be spitting and screaming at her. That’s how it was back then. So for Maureen and me to then become part of that a few years later . . . let’s just say Dad found it a struggle.’

The shebeen lifestyle that brought David and Maureen superficially closer eventually destroyed what was left of their marriage. ‘We’d put a sticking plaster over a broken limb’ is how David describes it. ‘We were falling apart in every sense. We had physical fights – something I’m not proud of, but it’s the truth. I was violent towards Dad as well, but Maureen . . . it was a bad time, the worst time of our marriage. The world around us ground her down, and because I was in a bad way myself, I took it out on her too. I suppose there was a part of me that blamed her –
wrongly
, I realise that now – for everything that had happened. Just because she was a Hindley. The public abuse we faced was relentless. Things had been going wrong for a while but all at once we crumbled. Separately as well, she was going downhill fast and I began to crack. Somebody was going to get hurt, it was just a matter of time.’

* * *

Joyce is Jamaican, very tall with a wide mouth and sunshine smile. We meet in Underwood Court Social Club. When we’re slow dancing together, she teases me, ‘You’re not black, you know.’

She often repeats this in the months ahead and I love it because I want to be black. I just wish I was the tallest, broadest, in-your-face ‘nigger’ there’s ever been. We share ‘The Ballad of John and Yoko’ and that line about being crucified rings so true it hurts.

We get stoned in Moss Side cellars, dancing to ‘Miss Jamaica’. Life is suddenly great,
screw the white trash out there who hate us all, pass the ganja, big as you can roll it, seeds popping like fireworks, put on Dylan, Lennon and Otis again . . . Jesus Christ, I’m freefalling, in the shebeen, stoned out of my box.
Wasted, I’m losing it for good, hurtling out of control.

I eat goat with the happy-boys in the back kitchen, eating off paper plates. The smiling mama of the house ladles it out of two massive steel pans, one full of curried goat and the other containing rice and kidney beans. The kitchen is the heart of the shebeen; women sit on chairs and various settees pushed back against the walls, their gossip and non-stop laughter almost deafening. I’m blissfully happy. When the boys douse their food with Jamaican chilli sauce, I grab the bottle and do the same. Rows and rows of perfect white teeth smile at me approvingly, and it blows my mind to feel that I belong somewhere at last. Talk is heady and incessant, usually political: Malcolm X, Martin Luther King and the bastards who shot Kennedy. In the opinion of my new friends, everyone is either a ‘motherfucker’ or a ‘blood clot’, while the White Pigs of the Law are to blame for everything.

I’m high and getting higher, blasted out of my brain.

I go downstairs to the cellar and it’s beautiful, it’s where I’m home. The thunderous sounds of Max Romeo and the hot smell of dancing bodies and dope is heaven. If the kitchen is the heart of the house, then the cellar is the soul.

I buy two beers from the cases stacked along one wall from floor to ceiling and search out Maureen. She’s in good form, stoned, smiling and swaying to the music. I roll the ganja and it’s blowback strong, seeds popping as we smoke. Through half-closed eyes, I watch our friend Lloyd grooving on his own, doing the moves. I dance with Maureen, smooching close, as we share the second can of beer. My mind is opening to the possibility of lasting happiness: this is where we belong, with our own kind.

I look around for Joyce, my Miss Jamaica; she’s chatting with the girls. I bide my time, waiting for the right music. It has to be Otis: the man, the voice. I lead Joyce onto the floor, where we dance slowly and I fix her beautiful brown eyes, deep pools of forever, with mine. I refuse to blink, wanting to hold that look, pressing myself against her because I can’t get close enough. She knows and smiles at me. The smoke, the drink, the music and the woman – I’m high and more content than I’ve ever been in my life.

When Otis stops singing, I move away from Joyce and sit by myself with another beer. Lloyd is still grooving alone and both Maureen and Joyce have disappeared. I’ve got no worries: everything comes down to the music, the dealer handing out pleasure, dancers bumping and grinding, alcohol flowing in the right direction. Everything makes sense.

I look for Joyce again when I start coming down from the ganja. I’m feeling mellow, but it’s getting late.
Where’s Maureen
, I ask and Joyce replies
upstairs in the toilet
, but the ordinariness of her words sits all wrong with the nervous flicker in her voice. She makes meaningless small talk for a while until I tell her I’m leaving and head down the hallway. It’s tight with people and I get the usual ‘Yo, brother’ as I pass, and ‘How’s the man?’

When I turn up the stairs, it’s right in my fucking face.

Six or more couples are kissing and stroking each other and there, right at the top, against the wall, letting some bloke feel her up while she wraps her arms around his neck, is Maureen.

The anger and pain hits me like a fucking juggernaut.

I yell her name and take the stairs three at a time, pushing people left and right, ignoring the shouts of motherfucker this and motherfucker that.
Get out of my fucking way, you bastards.
I want to stop, to walk away and forget the pain – I don’t want to feel that thing. But I reach Maureen the moment she screams his name, ‘
Tom!
’, and then my hand is on her throat, slamming her head against the wall.

I feel my grip on her neck as if it belongs to someone else. Her hands frantically try to pull my wrist away, but the fingers that aren’t mine squeeze tighter. I slide my eyes towards Tom and say just one word,
don’t
, before pushing, throwing and hitting Maureen down the stairs. Lumps of her hair are wrapped around my fingers.

People move quickly aside, but someone opens the door for us and I fling her like an unwanted toy out into the street, where it’s just getting light.

Fucking white trash cunt
, I scream,
you fucking dirty Hindley bastard
. The pain in my head explodes. When it turns cold, I hit her. Even though I’m thinking
make it stop, walk away, she’s your wife
, I hit her again.

The cellar crowd have gathered outside the house: the happy-boys, the kitchen mama and the chattering girls, as well as Lloyd, Joyce and Tom. They do and say nothing, silently watching the white trash destroy each other on the pavement.

We get the bus home, Maureen and me, sitting without speaking for most of the journey. I can’t see her swollen face because I don’t look at her, but she’s bruised and broken, sobbing softly to herself.

As we reach Hattersley, she slides her hand across the seat to me and mumbles, ‘I’m sorry, so sorry, is everything all right, Dave, is everything all right?’

I close my fingers around hers, ‘Yes, girl, don’t worry, everything is all right.’

We walk home from our stop pressed close together, holding hands and why not, we’re two lost souls in this world. When she looks at me, I still don’t see the bruises, I only see her smile.

I call round at Joyce’s house, not far from where we live on the estate, one evening after the shebeen bust-up. Her kids are playing out on the street in the afternoon sun. The neighbour’s kids are there too, their laughter floating in from the open window. I look out at them, black kids running and jumping with white kids, and remember the demented glint in Brady’s eyes and the whisky spittle forming at the corner of his mouth:
they’re all morons and maggots, Dave, I tell ye, Hitler had the right fucking idea . . .

I bend my head.

I don’t know who I am; I’m losing sight of the person I used to be and can’t remember the good times any more because the nightmare has swallowed them up and spewed them out in sticky bits. My days seem to stretch into one long session on the floor by the record player, listening to Dylan, stoned and numb, head filled with Ian fucking Brady and Myra fucking Hindley. Life means nothing. I’ve lost Maureen; we’ve drawn so far apart from each other that she’s become the enemy. Arguments always lead to violence and the same repulsions drip from my lips:
fucking bitch, it’s you they want, it’s you and your family they hate, it’s your name they spray across every fucking wall and bus stop in Hattersley, Maureen fucking Hindley, that’s who you are, a fucking Hindley, Hindley, Hindley, think what your sister’s done, your name is shit, Maureen Hindley
. Parenthood feels like a trap, the kids are neglected and Dad can’t cope with any of us, but the worst thing is that no one even gives a fuck, leaving us to tear each other apart like the poor, crazy animals trapped in Belle Vue.

We left Underwood Court because it was too small for us; in their bureaucratic wisdom the council allocated us a house at the end of Underwood Road, less than five minutes from our old flat. It’s made us much more accessible to the human wolves wandering the estate. Now, we have to call the council on an almost weekly basis to ask them to replace the windows shattered by mysteriously flying bricks. I watch in silence as Dad knocks out the jagged edges of glass from the frame and Maureen sweeps up the mess. It’s always the same council worker who arrives, bedding in the putty and fixing the glass without speaking to any of us. He wipes the windows clean, puts his tools away in his little wooden box and disappears until the following week.

I try to stop thinking about it all, leaving Joyce’s house to go home, but not for long. Maureen is closeted in the boys’ room and Dad is sprawled in a chair downstairs, staring at a wall. I change my clothes, putting on the old Image, still clinging to it for dear life; it’s more of a shield than ever. I put on the thick sunglasses I’ve worn ever since the trial as a sign of defiance. Then I leave the house without saying goodbye and head down to the Sheriff, a pub on the corner of Underwood Road.

The short walk takes me past the Social Club. I hutch up my shoulders defensively, remembering a recent night out there with Maureen. We had been sitting at the bar when a bloke began giving out the warning signals we’ve come to recognise all too clearly: first the muttering, then the ‘accidental’ shove or two before breaking into a venomous ‘Murdering bastard!’ Anaesthetised with beer, I made the mistake of bestowing a sarcastic smile on him and didn’t see the punch he threw as I turned away. It caught me enough to knock me backwards into other people, and sent glasses skittering off the bar. The wolves attacked; punches and jabs and kicks rained down on me, then a group of them hauled me outside. The men fell back and let the womenfolk do their worst. I couldn’t ward off the endless kicks and clawing at my face – the last thing I heard was Maureen screaming. When I came round and staggered to my feet, bleeding profusely and in so much pain it made me vomit onto the now empty road, I saw Maureen sitting on the kerbside. Blood poured from her nose, she had a split lip, a busted eye and her clothes had been ripped to shreds. I lurched towards her and together we stumbled home, Maureen sobbing all the way. That night I couldn’t sleep. Somewhere outside and not very far away, I could sense a blue mist rolling in . . .

I walk quickly past the Social Club and on to the Sheriff. At the bar I order a pint of bitter, then take my glass to a table in the corner, sitting with my back to the wall. I gaze round at the soulless pub; newly built, it has thick carpets, smells of paint and has a never-ending carousel of piped music. Behind my dark glasses, I gaze at the customers, feeling like an extra in
Coronation Street
: two old ladies sit with their equally elderly husbands, the women balancing handbags on their knees and the men in flat cloth caps drinking from knobbly pint glasses. The foursome look as if they’ve been friends for years. Near the door sits a young couple in serious conversation and at the end of the bar are three lads not much older than me, an impressive collection of empty pint pots before them. I recognise one of them as a bruiser who’s had a go at me before, but then most people in Hattersley have done that.

I glance about for a jukebox, but there isn’t one, just Julie Andrews warbling ‘The Sound of Music’ from some unseen source. Disgusted at my surroundings, I take myself off to answer a call of nature.

I’m standing facing the wall when I hear the Gents door slam and know instantly that the company I’m about to keep isn’t the two old chaps in flat caps. One of the likely lads from the bar appears to my right and another to my left. Behind me, I can feel the bruiser’s breath on my neck. I stare hard at the cold tiles that are inches away from my face, working out if there is any chance of escaping the inevitable hammering. But the bruiser pokes his fingers into my back and shoulders, pinning me forward while the other two spit thick globules into my face. I hear the bruiser mutter viciously, ‘Fucking shithouse, murdering bastard,’ and then I feel a warm wetness soaking through the back of my jeans as he pisses up my legs. Then, without a word, the three of them leave, letting the door slam shut again.

I make a pathetic, trembling attempt to clean myself with small squares of toilet paper, then head outside. Walking down Underwood Road, I feel a dark, smouldering anger in my belly and then a sorrow so deep I could drown in it. I’ve been called a child-killer so often in the past few days, carrying Brady’s curse around with me like a weight that will never lift.