Evil Relations by David Smith with Carol Ann Lee Page B

Steelie is enough for me.
    We arrive at Eaton Street. The front door opens straight into the living room, just like my home in Wiles Street. A well-oiled Bob sits hunched and morose in his chair by the fireplace. Maureen goes through to her mother in the kitchen.
    I take a seat opposite Bob, lowering myself into Nellie’s chair. ‘How’s it going then, Bob?’
    He lifts a half-filled glass of whisky above his head in acknowledgement. ‘Sound, you fucker, fucking sound.’
    Bob is still fighting the war – this time out of a bottle.
    Insistent female voices reach us from the kitchen, raised not in temper but pleading. Nellie appears carrying two covered plates for Myra and Granny Maybury, as is her daily ritual. I’m familiar with the routine, but the sight of her face startles me. She makes no effort to hide the battered mess: one eye is completely closed and swollen, bulging blackly from its socket, and her top lip is engorged, the bloated flesh almost touching the tip of her nose.
    She struggles to speak as she stands there, determined to show that she’s still a proud woman despite everything. The words come out in an injured lisp: ‘Fuck you, Bob Hindley, fuck you to hell and back!’
    I sense real misery behind the anger, even though she obviously means every muffled syllable.
    Bob erupts, shouting at his wife and to the rest of the world: ‘Fuck off!’ I flinch as he hurls his glass across the room. It doesn’t break, but rolls noisily across the floorboards into a corner. ‘Just
fuck off
!’
    Nellie goes out, still carrying the covered plates, and I sit silently, tapping my fingertips on the chair arm, bracing myself for more trouble.
    It’s not long in coming.
    The front door flies open with a resounding bang and Myra strides into the room, cursing Bob to the heavens. She stands quivering with fury before him as he struggles up from the chair.
    ‘Come on, you bastard!’ she screams. ‘Get up, fucking stand up, you fucking useless piece of shit!’
    But Bob can’t. He’s too drunk, and unsteady on his feet at the best of times. His fists are clenched, though, waiting for the fight, but he’s no longer any match for Myra; she hammers into him, punching fast and full in the face. Bob is too slow to protect himself from the onslaught. Blood spurts from his nose and mouth, scattering down his shirt.
    ‘Fucking bastard, fucking
big man
!’ she screams. ‘Come on, fucking come
on
!’
    With both hands, she grabs Bob by the hair, lifting him clean out of the chair. He makes a clumsy attempt to grab her throat, but Myra is quick and strong; she throws him to the floor like a rag, smashing the coffee table.
    Then she snatches up his walking stick from the side of his chair.
    I turn my face away, having learned a long time ago that no one thanks you for intervening in a Hindley brawl. Head averted, I listen unwillingly as Myra brings the walking stick down on her father’s spine, again and again, whack after sickening whack.
    Then Nellie arrives home. She doesn’t interfere either, but stands by the door with her arms folded, watching.
    When it’s over, Bob makes no effort to lift himself up. His damaged mouth moves against the floorboards: ‘Fuck off, all of you, just fuck off.’
    Myra throws the walking stick down and crosses the room, enveloping her mother in a bear hug. ‘Mam, you tell me if this piece of shit even
looks
at you the wrong way again.’
    Maureen stares big-eyed at the scene from the kitchen, her arms tightly folded. Myra then dispenses a hug to her, adding firmly, ‘Mobee, we have to look after our mam, she doesn’t have to put up with this. How can we look out for each other if you don’t come to me?’
    Maureen clings to her sister.
    I lean forward, elbows on knees, and turn sideways to peer at Bob heaving himself back into his chair. His long face is blotchy with blood and rage.
    Myra disentangles herself from Maureen’s hold to point a rigid finger at him: ‘And you, not