Evil Relations Read Online Free
Author: David Smith with Carol Ann Lee
trust in me.
Prologue
‘If anyone were making a journey from Underwood Court to Wardle Brook Avenue after 11.30 p.m., the road on which they would travel would, generally speaking, be in darkness.’
– Leslie Wright, assistant street lighting superintendent for Hyde Corporation, evidence read at the Moors trial, April 1966
When the door clicks shut, he has to force himself not to run, moving steadily down the path and past the window where the light burns behind drawn floral curtains. Walking away from the house is the most terrifying thing he’s ever done; the impulse to keep looking over his shoulder is almost unbearable. One foot slowly in front of the other, again and again, until he reaches the cut-through. The street lights are out, plunging the housing estate into blackness as he breaks into the fastest sprint of his life, accompanied by the eternal static hum of the pylons towering over Hattersley.
The cut-through brings him out on the road where he lives. Underwood Court is one of seven blocks of high-rise flats in the neighbourhood; tonight the thirteen floors of its starkly lit stairwell are as welcome as a lighthouse beam. Gasping from the 300-yard run, he holds his index finger on the intercom button, listening acutely for the buzzer. The snap of the door release seems deafening in the still night air.
Inside the entrance hall, his breathing begins to regulate as he glances at Flat Number 1, occupied by Mr Page, the jobsworth caretaker. He waits for a moment, half-expecting the middle-aged man to haul open the door with another threat of eviction, but silence echoes about the building.
The lift is to his right. Ignoring the stink of urine and takeaways that plagues the steel cubicle around the clock, he steps in, pressing his back to the wall, and drags trembling hands through his hair. A cold sweat begins to permeate his skin. On the third floor he gets out, glancing down the corridor. There are four flats, and the door to his, with its tarnished ‘18’ above the spyhole, is slightly ajar.
The normality of the living room, where the collie stands wagging its tail, and the homely sound of his wife filling the kettle with water in the kitchen, confuses him. The reality of what he’s witnessed and escaped from suddenly hits home. Calling, ‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ he dives into the bathroom and vomits until there is nothing left.
His wife appears at his side, kneeling in her nightdress, putting a concerned hand on his shoulders as he hunches over the toilet, spitting out long trails of bitter saliva. He hears her ask if he is all right, if he’s been drinking.
‘I haven’t had
any
drink.’
He turns his head and in the stark light of the bathroom the look in her eyes agitates him afresh; it’s as if she doesn’t recognise him. He staggers to his feet and turns on the blue-spotted tap, letting the water run ice-cold through his fingers before splashing it up into his face. His wife stands apprehensively behind him. When he paces through to the sitting room, she follows.
‘Sit down,’ he tells her and they sit, knee to knee, on the settee. He puts out a chilled hand to the dog, who hunkers down at his feet. The cold sweat that began in the lift returns, but this time it pours from him like water.
Shivering uncontrollably, he blurts out in fits and starts what he’s seen.
Afterwards, he looks at his wife and realises that she hasn’t grasped any of it as he’d intended. She only keeps asking about her sister, wanting to know if she’s all right.
‘She’s all right, but
she
’s part of it. Didn’t you hear me, girl? Myra’s
part of it
.’
But it’s clear that she still doesn’t understand. Frustrated, he gets up to splash more water on his face, then sits heavily in the chair by the electric fire. When the heating is on, the fire smells of burning wool and gives off a sound like a muted version of the pylons over Hattersley. Now it’s lifeless, the bars grey.
Prologue
‘If anyone were making a journey from Underwood Court to Wardle Brook Avenue after 11.30 p.m., the road on which they would travel would, generally speaking, be in darkness.’
– Leslie Wright, assistant street lighting superintendent for Hyde Corporation, evidence read at the Moors trial, April 1966
When the door clicks shut, he has to force himself not to run, moving steadily down the path and past the window where the light burns behind drawn floral curtains. Walking away from the house is the most terrifying thing he’s ever done; the impulse to keep looking over his shoulder is almost unbearable. One foot slowly in front of the other, again and again, until he reaches the cut-through. The street lights are out, plunging the housing estate into blackness as he breaks into the fastest sprint of his life, accompanied by the eternal static hum of the pylons towering over Hattersley.
The cut-through brings him out on the road where he lives. Underwood Court is one of seven blocks of high-rise flats in the neighbourhood; tonight the thirteen floors of its starkly lit stairwell are as welcome as a lighthouse beam. Gasping from the 300-yard run, he holds his index finger on the intercom button, listening acutely for the buzzer. The snap of the door release seems deafening in the still night air.
Inside the entrance hall, his breathing begins to regulate as he glances at Flat Number 1, occupied by Mr Page, the jobsworth caretaker. He waits for a moment, half-expecting the middle-aged man to haul open the door with another threat of eviction, but silence echoes about the building.
The lift is to his right. Ignoring the stink of urine and takeaways that plagues the steel cubicle around the clock, he steps in, pressing his back to the wall, and drags trembling hands through his hair. A cold sweat begins to permeate his skin. On the third floor he gets out, glancing down the corridor. There are four flats, and the door to his, with its tarnished ‘18’ above the spyhole, is slightly ajar.
The normality of the living room, where the collie stands wagging its tail, and the homely sound of his wife filling the kettle with water in the kitchen, confuses him. The reality of what he’s witnessed and escaped from suddenly hits home. Calling, ‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ he dives into the bathroom and vomits until there is nothing left.
His wife appears at his side, kneeling in her nightdress, putting a concerned hand on his shoulders as he hunches over the toilet, spitting out long trails of bitter saliva. He hears her ask if he is all right, if he’s been drinking.
‘I haven’t had
any
drink.’
He turns his head and in the stark light of the bathroom the look in her eyes agitates him afresh; it’s as if she doesn’t recognise him. He staggers to his feet and turns on the blue-spotted tap, letting the water run ice-cold through his fingers before splashing it up into his face. His wife stands apprehensively behind him. When he paces through to the sitting room, she follows.
‘Sit down,’ he tells her and they sit, knee to knee, on the settee. He puts out a chilled hand to the dog, who hunkers down at his feet. The cold sweat that began in the lift returns, but this time it pours from him like water.
Shivering uncontrollably, he blurts out in fits and starts what he’s seen.
Afterwards, he looks at his wife and realises that she hasn’t grasped any of it as he’d intended. She only keeps asking about her sister, wanting to know if she’s all right.
‘She’s all right, but
she
’s part of it. Didn’t you hear me, girl? Myra’s
part of it
.’
But it’s clear that she still doesn’t understand. Frustrated, he gets up to splash more water on his face, then sits heavily in the chair by the electric fire. When the heating is on, the fire smells of burning wool and gives off a sound like a muted version of the pylons over Hattersley. Now it’s lifeless, the bars grey.
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