—It makes sense.
—And I think something happened with Haris – something with Haris and those kids that he’s not told anyone about. There are things – little things – that upset him, that could have traumatised him – things that probably didn’t come out back then…
Haris’ cousin has a point; in fact, she has several. First of all, Haris is classed as a vulnerable adult, and under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act (1984), police custody sergeants must secure an appropriate adult to safeguard the rights of vulnerable people detained by police. This was put in place to stop vulnerable people like Haris admitting to crimes they did not commit. An appropriate adult was never acquired for Haris when he was questioned. The police pushed Haris hard in the interviews, but, credit to them, did not attempt to make him confess.
The newspapers were far more vicious in the way they attempted to demonise Haris. The Daily Mail claimed that he had access to a ‘network of tunnels’ beneath Scarclaw Fell, when, in reality, the great majority of the mining veins have collapsed. There is no known way of getting from one side of the fell to the other using the mineshafts. That didn’t matter though. A wild-looking, bearded loner who lived with his mother in a ramshackle cottage was good copy.
Haris did not spend his time in and out of the old mining tunnels either. He knew of one or two that had not been fenced off, where he would go to watch birds and other animals, and there was his ‘secret place’ – the entrance to the tunnel near his house where the bats roosted. Haris had dragged branches and old material over the entrances to these caves not, as the papers made out, to conceal what he was doing from people, but so as not to scare the animals he loved to watch so much.
When Haris comes back from the toilet, and both he and his cousin are happy with us continuing, I ask my last few questions.
—Did you never tell Father Brown, your mum – anyone – about the orphans?
—I didn’t.
—Why? Why keep them a secret?
—I … I … I thought they were a dream.
I don’t want to press Haris much further as I can see he is near the end of his tether, talking about that time. However, there is one other thing that came out in the inquest that I need to ask him about.
—Do you think the orphans ever went to your secret place – the cave with the bats? Might they have gone there when you weren’t with them that winter, perhaps?
—Yes. Yes I think they did because they wanted to see the animals and people like animals.
—Did you know that they went there?
—Yes, I knew. I think they went there in the night when I was asleep, maybe to see the night animals you can see from there, like the owls. Sometimes you see deer, if you’re still.
—How did you know they had been there?
—Well, I went there to see the bats in the morning, to see if they were OK, because they hibernate right up in the ceiling, all together. And I saw something on the ground; I saw lots of things on the ground and I thought the orphans were still there.
—What things on the ground?
—There were little orange cigarette ends and little white cigarette ends and a funny smell. There were empty bottles, too – plastic ones all chopped in half with plastic bags sellotaped onto them. I thought the orphans must have been there, but then they must have gone again.
—Why?
—Because of the beast. The beast must have scared them away.
—Why do you think the beast scared them away?
—I … because I had a dream … a bad dream, a terrible dream, a dream about the beast.
—Would you mind telling me what happened in your dream?
—No, I wouldn’t mind telling you. It’s OK because it was just a dream. In my dream I woke up early, went down to the secret place to check on the bats, to make sure they were OK. I went there when it was still dark and there was a smell, a funny smell, a bit like cigarettes, and it was the smell of the beast. I heard the beast in the mine tunnel then, at the back, where it’s dark. I heard it coming out of there roaring and gnashing its teeth. It came out of the dark with its big eyes and I screamed and it was chasing me and I ran as fast as I could and I ran back home and got back into bed.
This all happened in the winter of 1995, during Tom Jeffries’ first excursion with the Rangers. It is clear from what Haris says that there was definitely a significant change in the behaviour of the group with the arrival of Jeffries. While the snowballs incident leaves a sour taste in the mouth, it smacks of horse-play – behaviour that just went a bit too far. During the inquest, all the teenagers were vague about what happened with Haris, but all maintained that it was Tom Jeffries who instigated the incident with the snowballs and gave him the piece of cannabis to eat.
In August 1996, Haris Novak met the ‘orphans’ once more. A single time, on the 23rd.
—Are you OK, Haris, to tell me about that day in the summer?
—Yes. But I’m getting tired of telling you about them now.
—I know. I’m sorry. It’ll be brief, just what you can remember.
What came out at the inquest was that the teenagers had walked into Belkeld in the late afternoon of the 23rd August 1996: Tom Jeffries, Charlie Armstrong, Anyu Kekkonen, Eva Bickers and Brian Mings. They had hung about for a bit, bought some food supplies and attempted to buy alcohol in the corner shop (they failed), before setting out across the fell, back to the Woodlands Centre. They encountered Haris Novak during this walk back.
—It was just nearly teatime and I was watching out for deer. There’s a family of roe deer that live in the wood and I was watching out for them in my hide with my binoculars.
—Is that when you saw the orphans crossing the fell?
—Yes, and I went to say hello to them. I went to see if they were OK because it had been a long time and I thought the beast had scared them away. I had forgotten that they were real and not just a dream. I told them that I had found their things in the cave and I had kept them safe for them in my house. The new boy, he said, ‘Well done, Haris; good thinking!’ He told me that anytime they leave those things in the secret place for me, that I must keep them secret, that they would put them in a bag for me and I couldn’t tell anyone. If I did, the beast, it would get me, it would get me if I told. I never told, I never did. I kept the orphans’ bags in the coal scuttle. We don’t have a coal fire anymore; we have British Gas. So I kept their heavy bag there when they were gone.
—You kept their bag? Why?
—Because they gave it to me. It was a kind thing to do.
—Then what did you do?
—He kept shouting, ‘Quick, quick!’ And so I started running, I was running back home to put those things in the coal scuttle and I was running and I could hear him shouting, ‘Quick! Quick!’ and that’s when I fell.
To cut a long story short here: Haris Novak twisted his ankle running home from the fell. He managed to limp back to his mother’s house and that’s where he stayed for the rest of the evening and night. His mother testified to this at the time.
The place where Tom Jeffries’ body was found was pretty much the opposite side of the fell – deep in the fenced-off, restricted area. Haris, despite his knowledge of the area, would have had a job getting there, even without his twisted ankle. While Haris has ventured beyond the fences to watch wildlife, he is anxious about breaking rules. Knowing him even for the short time I have, it is difficult to imagine him being in any way involved in the disappearance of Tom Jeffries.
Because no one has ever been charged with the murder of Tom Jeffries, the media were free to speculate on what happened. One of the theories is that Haris Novak held a deep-seated resentment of the teenagers after the incident in 1995 with the snowballs. He allowed this resentment to build over time and, using his ‘network of tunnels’ beneath the fell, somehow managed to lure Jeffries out on his own and kill him.
Oh yeah, and the twisted ankle was an elaborate lie that Haris constructed in order to create a
n alibi.
So what conclusions can we draw from my interview with Haris Novak? Haris was known by the teenagers – specifically those five and none of the others. I imagine that none of them let on about him because … well … what reason would they have to tell any of the leaders? Remember, during the encounters with Haris Novak, the teenagers were trying to buy alcohol or were smoking – both tobacco and cannabis. I don’t doubt that the remaining Rangers are sorry for what happened with Haris. In fact, during the inquest, both Eva, Anyu and Brian made a point of extending their apologies to Haris and his family.
It is interesting that Haris’ cousin maintains that there is something that happened between him and the five teenagers that has not come out. That same feeling struck me during my chat with Haris Novak.
I believe Haris’ cousin when she says that Haris has almost created a ‘buffer’ in his mind – behind which the trauma of 1996 cannot touch him. And I don’t want to try and push or pull him over it. Instead, in the following episodes of Six Stories, I’m going to talk to the people who definitely will know what happened.
The other teenagers who were there.
In the next episode, we will gain a clearer picture of what happened at Scarclaw Fell on that summer night in 1996.
This has been Six Stories, with me, Scott King.
This has been our second story.
Until next time…
Scarclaw Fell 2017
I don’t stay long. There’s nothing to see here anymore, no rustic elegy; just a silent, black blight on the side of the fell. An empty question. I sometimes wonder if the bats are still there, roosting beneath the rock; whether the removal of the vegetation and the erecting of the new fences has driven them away. Maybe they’ve flourished? If I had the courage to come out here at night, I might find out.
That’s not going to happen.
I keep going – leaving the canopy of trees and crossing the more exposed part of the fell. This is the track to Belkeld, curved like a scar. It feels almost sacrilegious, following the Rangers’ footsteps like this. Scarclaw bends its head over me and scowls.
No one comes out here anymore. I worry sometimes what would happen if I met someone. Would I tell them to get off my father’s land; my land? Would I smile, nod, comment on the weather and cast my gaze down the side of the fell, following the fists of gorse and flecks of scree?
Above me, the pale wall of cloud betrays the rising sun. It is light now, yet it still cannot penetrate Scarclaw’s shadow.
Not far now.
For a while I thought Haris Novak’s ‘secret place’ might become a bit of a … what’s the word? I don’t want to say ‘shrine’. A talking point? A place of interest? Something like that. I’d thought that I’d sometimes have to come up here and chase away ghouls. But there’s just nothing, not even the rusty voices of the crows; just the perpetual fug of not-quite-rain, not-quite-mist. Cleared of all vegetation, this hole in the side of the fell is an ugly wound. It bleeds its darkness across this land.
My land.
I’ve asked Dad a few times about knocking the fences down, filling it in. But if the bats are still here then we’ve no chance. Imagine the headlines if we touched anything up here. So all we do instead is raise the fences higher.
I move on, leaving the Secret Place behind. Even the name is a misnomer now.
I can’t help the internal speculation, the questions pulling at me. What would have happened if all these fences, this purge of the land, had been done quicker? Imagine if those kids had never come to Scarclaw.
Shoulda woulda coulda, as they say. What’s done is done.
But we didn’t want to do that; we didn’t want to come marching onto these lands and just take them from under everyone’s noses like they all thought we would. I remember the meeting over in Belkeld, when Dad’s purchase of the land was more or less complete. A grim afternoon, much like this one. A draughty church hall; bad tea and stale biscuits. Rural officials in suits and wellingtons. Muddy Range Rovers in the car park. There was a bloke there who said he represented the users of the Woodlands Centre. Scruffy beard and shorts; hairy cyclists’ calves and midge bites on his ankles. He smelled of old sandwiches and BO. Nearly thirty years ago now and I still remember that.
‘Hasn’t Lord Ramsay got enough ivory backscratchers without buying up all the proles’ land as well?’ he said in that self-satisfied way that those working-class imposter types have. ‘Scarclaw Fell is for everyone, not just the super-rich.’
‘And what would you know about the proles?’ I wanted to say. ‘You’ve more in common with the rich, you smug prick.’ But Dad gripped my arm, pretending the cold air that whirled around our ankles was making his hip ache.
That was Dad’s way. Quiet. Dignified.
I reach my destination; a mile from Belkeld. It’s possible to pass by and miss it these days. That’s good.
I often wonder if we’ll get some of those beards and shorts types popping up around here. Will they take selfies at the old Novak Place? Lament the loss of this land? I’ve never seen any so far. Anything that was worth looking at was taken for evidence; the doors and windows boarded up. There’s not even any graffiti. Scarclaw Fell seems to be wanting the old Novak place back; slowly drawing the cottage back into the soil. Weeds and brambles clog the little back garden and you’d need a machete to find the empty shell of the coal scuttle. The grates on the doors and windows are steel.
Coming here is more sad than anything else. I picture what it must have been like, living out here on this lonely slope. I imagine myself behind those walls; the metallic reek of rain, stewed meat; maybe a grinding whistle from an old radio in the corner, the shipping forecast as night falls over the fell. I think of what that must have felt like for a boy growing up here: sleepless nights staring from the window at that endless blackness.
There are times I have wondered if it were possible to see the Woodlands Centre from here. I stand as close as it’s possible to get without touching the crumbling bricks of the Novak house and stare back the way I have come. The woods and the curve of the fell obscure the horizon in daylight, but I wonder if, at night, the lights shining out from the windowless curtains might have caught an eye, planted a seed? We’ll never know.
‘Father’s out back, dear, counting the sheep,
Hush now my love and go straight back to sleep.
Father’s out back, dear, locking the barn,
Making sure that the animals come to no harm.’
Jus and I looked at each other and started to laugh. Tomo stopped, long breaths replacing the rhyme. He held up the crude painting before us: intertwining green-and-brown snakes behind a black stick-figure in the foreground. He shook it, as if he had just proved something.
‘What in blazing hell are you going on about?’ Jus said, his laugh loud.
Tomo didn’t smile back. He just let the picture fall from his hands. Outside, the rain began a sustained assault against the windows. The Woodland Centre roof reverberated with its tattoo.
Darkness was coming.
‘You two are a pair of cunts, you know that?’ Tomo said, his cheeks reddening.
The word hit me like a fist. But it only seemed to make Jus laugh harder.
‘You’re fucking priceless, Tomo, mate!’
A whisky bottle appeared in Tomo’s fist. He took a nip, winced and stared down at the painting, which had fallen, face-up at his feet. I didn’t like the look on his face; it had slackened, as if all the fight had left him. Yet something else was there; something hard I’d never seen before.
I strode over to the doorway and flicked on the light. The gloom in the Woodlands Centre was alleviated and I felt my spirits lift a little. But that lift swiftly became replaced with a knot of unease. There were no curtains, nor blinds on the windows of The Woodlands Centre and in this rain-lashed dark, I realised the lights made us suddenly very visible.
Tomo took another long swig of the whisky and held the bottle tight to his chest as Jus reac
hed for it.
‘Piss off.’ Tomo’s face was still red with irritation. ‘You two think you know everything.’ He was beginning to sound like a little kid.
Jus looked at me but I was intrigued.
‘Come on mate,’ I said. I hadn’t laughed at him, not yet. ‘What were you saying before?’
‘Dun’t matter.’
But it did. With the lights on, the room seemed bigger and we seemed smaller. It mattered here, with the stark walls, grimy windows and grubby lino floor.
It took a few more moments of gentle cajoling and a few good glugs of the whisky before Tomo would speak again.
‘When I told my dad I was coming out here, to Scarclaw,’ he said, rubbing the toe of his brogue with his thumb – despite the booze, he sounded horribly sober – ‘he told me to watch out for the…’ He stopped, puffing out a little gasp where a word should have been. ‘He said there was something out here … on the fell.’
I gave Jus a look, stopped his laughter with my stare.
‘What do you mean, “something”?’ I asked. I felt out of breath, like my lungs had deflated.
The wind had picked up outside and the spindly thrashing of the trees behind the windows kept catching my eye.
‘Don’t fear the dark, dear, swift is the night,
For nothing will harm you, wrapped up here, tight.
That’s just a shadow, dear, don’t fear a sprite
Don’t pay your mind to the tricks of the light.’
Tomo’s voice seemed to echo. All I wanted was to be wrapped up in my sleeping bag in one of those bunk beds. It would feel safer in there; I would let the alcohol hang heavy on my eyes and my mind, let it pull me down into sleep. And in the morning, as soon as light came, we could get the fuck out of here and back to London.
Six Stories Page 8
