Six Stories

by Matt Wesolowski

  —I know, I know. It’s just, I’ve noticed a theme in a lot of your podcasts is, well, bullying. They’re often about people who’ve been treated badly – like that lad from Devon who killed those people from his school; or that guy who was put away for that bomb at his work.

  —Bullying is a sensitive issue for you?

  —Yes. I mean, I wasn’t really bullied as such, but I knew people who were.

  —Your friends were bullied?

  —Some were. I know Charlie used to get a lot of stick in his school for how he dressed; his hair, the music he liked. Anyu, too, a little bit, when we were younger: ‘Are you Chinese?’, ‘Did you used to live in an igloo?’ – that sort of crap.

  —We were talking about Brian Mings before we had a break.

  —Oh yeah, that’s right.

  —Your dad described Brian as a ‘follower’, a bit of an outsider. Would you say that was accurate?

  —We were all outsiders. Not just him.

  —So, from what I understand about the group, Brian would have felt safe with you all; he would have been accepted?

  —Yes. Yes he was accepted. He was accepted … just like everyone else.

  —And were there any … problems?

  —Problems? Like what?

  —With Brian? Any problems with him and the others?

  —What do you mean by ‘problems’?

  —Well … you tell me.

  —OK, OK, I know what you’re getting at. Brian liked Anyu. He really liked her; it was obvious. To all of us. But, you know, no one mentioned it; no one shamed him about it. We all just, well, we kind of just accepted it. Even Anyu.

  —How did Anyu feel about it? You know, when it was just the two of you.

  — She was sort of flattered. But Brian, he was just … he wasn’t her type. She just wasn’t into him.

  —To me it sounds like you want to say something else, but you won’t. For Brian’s sake, I mean.

  — It’s just, it was a funny situation because, no matter how much he liked her, it just wasn’t going to happen, you know? It just wasn’t. Anyu didn’t go for people like Brian.

  —People like Brian?

  —Yeah … he was just too … what’s the word? … He was just too weak for her or something. It’s weird; when you’re a teenage girl, the nice guys – the sweet guys – they just don’t cut it. Maybe it’s something to do with evolution or whatever, but when you’re a teenager, you go for the arseholes, the dickheads, the alpha males. Then you grow up and wonder, what was I even doing?

  —So was there someone that Anyu liked? Presumably you two talked about these things?

  —Yeah, I think so. Yeah, I imagine there was.

  —OK…

  —Well … I don’t remember. It was a long time ago, and, well, you know, it doesn’t matter in the scheme of things, does it?

  —I suppose not.

  —I spent a lot of my time trying to keep Brian away from Anyu, if I’m honest.

  —Really? Was he really that persistent?

  —No … look, I think I’m making him out all wrong here. Brian liked Anyu and she didn’t like him back. It was that simple. But Brian seemed unable to accept it. Maybe it’s a boy thing; maybe he just thought if he was persistent, one day she’d finally crack or something. Let me make something clear, though: he never got weird about it. He never got all stalkerish with her, and they were still friends. I guess that was one of the nice things about it.

  —That must have been slightly odd – to have this unrequited desire hanging over them the whole time. Did stuff not get a bit … strained?

  —It just became sort of accepted. Brian liked Anyu. Anyu liked … well, that was all, really. It was never going to happen. They went through funny little stages; like, he would really try with her for, like, a week; and then the next few months he would just let it go. Then he would try again. But, you know, this whole Brian and Anyu thing, it didn’t really have much to do with what happened to Tom.

  —I think I’m just trying to really get a good picture of the group dynamic. These sorts of things can get overlooked, and it was never properly reported what exactly was going on.

  —There was nothing ‘going on’. We were just kids.

  Eva, like the others, was fifteen at the time of Tom Jeffries’ disappearance, and therefore, there are complex legal issues surrounding her interviews with the police. Long story short: I cannot play them; I don’t even have access to them.

  However, I have been able to talk to Eva Bickers’ old form teacher from her high school. Dorothy Whetworth knew Eva from year seven, all the way up to year eleven, and remembers her well. I speak to Dorothy on the phone.

  —So, Eva Bickers…

  —Yes, yes, oh yes. It was such a shame about what happened. She was only young. She didn’t come back in after … after what happened, which you can understand. I always thought there was a big Eva-shaped hole at leavers’ assembly. Such a shame.

  —I guess you knew her quite well…

  —You see them grow up … you do. They come to you in year seven, all pigtails and smiles, and you watch them turn into adults before your eyes. It’s amazing really.

  —What sort of a person was Eva? What was the side of her that you saw, anyway?

  —You know, Eva was … I almost don’t want to say because it sounds trite … but you could say Eva, for most of her school life, was run-of-the-mill. She never got in trouble, she rarely got detention. She was polite and respectful all the time. We had a good relationship, she and I. We were never especially close, but we had a mutual affection for each other, I think.

  —So nothing to write home about then?

  —Well, no, not really. I talked to her father quite a lot at parents’ evenings. He was a lovely man. You could see Eva was well brought up. I think that’s what made what happened with her all the more shocking.

  —I guess you don’t see it coming with girls like Eva?

  —No, that’s right. You see it with certain others: there are patterns of behaviour, and then years later, when you see they’ve been put in prison for stealing or mugging old ladies, you think, ‘Yep, we all saw that coming.’ It’s horrid really, but it’s the way it is sometimes. There was none of that with Eva. Well, perhaps one thing. There was … I mean, it was probably nothing…

  —Go on…

  —I mean, you don’t tell your teacher things do you? But I had the feeling Eva wanted to tell me something a few times, but the opportunity was lost. You know how it is – classes, other kids, people coming in and out…

  —What do you think it might have been?

  —They’re funny creatures, teenage girls – all tough on the outside, but really they’re still traipsing round in Mam’s high heels, wanting desperately to be grown-ups. They don’t give much away, to be fair to them. But … I mean, I have two of my own, and you can tell when something’s gone wrong.

  —So you think something went wrong for Eva?

  —I couldn’t say for sure, but I’ll tell you what I thought at the time. Throughout year ten, Eva had really started to find herself. She was experimenting with her own style – dyed hair, too much eyeliner, that sort of thing. I knew she was smoking as well. They always think you don’t know, but she reeked of it. I wanted to say something, but that would have pushed her away. There’s other things you pick up as a teacher as well. It’s like the smoking thing: children think you can’t hear them, but it’s amazing what you do hear; you know all the gossip!

  So … how do I say this with some decorum … Eva was becoming, um, popular with some of the boys. She wasn’t sleeping with them, I hasten to add! At least I’m ninety-nine per cent sure she wasn’t But she was … she was developing physically, and … well … you know what teenage boys are like.

  —Was Eva aware of this, do you think?

  —Oh, I think so. Some of the nastier ones would shout things at her. Remember, she was smoking as well, so often would spend time in the smokers’ corners that th
ey all think we don’t know about. And of course that’s where a lot of the rum ’uns would congregate.

  —But, from what I know about Eva, she wasn’t a bad girl; she wasn’t in trouble.

  —That’s correct, she wasn’t. She was a conundrum, our Eva.

  —So why then did this well-behaved, pleasant girl, with a secure background, start smoking in school? With the bad ’uns? It seems, from what you’ve said, out of character.

  —Yes and no. I had the feeling, with Eva, that there were things outside her school life that were starting to creep in.

  —Did you know about Rangers?

  —Not until what happened in ’96. I had no idea. I think Eva kept it safe, you know. A precious little box that only she could look into as she pleased. I understand Anyu was part of that group, too. But I didn’t know her; I didn’t teach her.

  —Eva had a firm little core of friends in Rangers; friends outside school.

  —Yes and it makes more sense now I know about that.

  —What does?

  —Well, I don’t want to sound like an old lady here – even though I am – but you can sometimes see when there’s, you know, boy trouble.

  —Again, that seems a little out of character for Eva.

  —She pretty much had the pick of the boys, you know. I don’t think she knew it herself; or if she did, she didn’t care. It always seemed to me, though, that she was saving her heart for … someone else…

  —What made you think that?

  —As I say, you hear things. You see them every day; you notice subtle changes. But there was a definite moment that I remember. One spring, when Eva was in year ten – I’ll never forget it – she told me she had been away in the half-term for a couple of days…

  This, if Dorothy is remembering correctly, was May 1995, when the group went to Scarclaw Fell and met Haris Novak for the first time. Tom Jeffries was not with them.

  —And Eva was just radiant. It was as if she had swallowed a bit of sunshine and it was streaming out of her. I think I asked – I must have done – I said, ‘Eva, you seem happy,’ something like that; and she just smiled. I’ll never forget it, that smile; it was utter bliss, contentment. ‘I just had a really good time, miss,’ she said. And that was it. But I knew – I don’t know; a woman’s intuition perhaps? – that there was a boy involved. I left it at that, but I was happy for her.

  During my next Skype chat with Eva, I ask her to recall that trip to Scarclaw Fell in 1995.

  —Oh, I don’t know. We used to go there a lot.

  —That spring half-term was the first time you met Haris – you, Charlie, Anyu and Brian. What can you remember?

  —Not a lot, really. It was a long time ago and it was just a trip. Nothing special happened. Not really.

  —Are you sure?

  —Is this about Haris? Look, I still sometimes beat myself up about it. Of course I do. Haris Novak was … I mean, we should have just left him alone. None of us knew; none of us understood about his … his … conditions. We just … we were bored teenagers and he gave us all that money…

  —And he showed you that bit of the mine, didn’t he?

  —Yes, he did. It was amazing, it really was; just this little pocket of darkness hidden in the fell. It became our ‘place’. We just used to hang about in there, smoke. Charlie used to tell us stories.

  —So, you’d go there a lot?

  —Yeah, we did. We were fourteen; it was a cool place, a hole in the ground. No one could find us there. I mean, c’mon…

  —I get it. Was Haris there with you?

  —No, not much. He was at first, but only for a bit, in and out. He used to bring us all this stuff, like crusts of bread and cold beans in a little Tupperware. It was sweet really. But then he’d go away again. Looking back now it seems really weird, but then we were just … we were teenagers!

  —Why did you never tell your dad, or Sally, or anyone about Haris?

  —I … I just … There was no reason to. I mean, there was no conscious decision to keep him hidden. It was just, why would we need to tell someone? It’s not like he was a paedophile or a nutter or something. He was just like the local … er … He was just like a funny little man, you know?

  God, my dad, he went spare after he found out; after Tom disappeared. He thought Haris was like … well, I suppose you’d call it ‘grooming’ these days.

  —And was he?

  —NO! Of course not! He wasn’t like that. We were like … like little pets to him. I can see how weird it would have seemed to anyone looking in, but we just sort of got on with it.

  —Going back to that trip to Scarclaw in the spring. Was there anything else that happened? Anything significant?

  —What are you trying to say?

  —I’m not, I’m just … it was the first time you met Haris; the first time you found that ‘place’. It was a big time, was it not?

  —I wouldn’t call it ‘big’. We used to go up there quite a bit, during the day, I mean. It was just a thing to do, you know, to get away from the adults and the little ones. We didn’t actually do anything in there, not back then. Not really. Just a few fags and stuff.

  —You said Charlie used to tell stories.

  —Yeah. He was always really good at that sort of thing. He would nick candles from the centre and we stuck them in the walls, and he would tell us … god, it gives me the shivers just thinking about it now: he would tell us about Nanna Wrack.

  —Who’s that?

  —I don’t know if he made it up, or if it was a story from the area, a folk tale or something? He probably made it up, if I’m honest. Ugh, it was horrible…

  —Can you remember it?

  —Oh, I can’t do it like Charlie did, but he used to make us go all quiet, and then speak in this really low voice, just above a whisper. He used to tell us how Nanna Wrack was the ‘Marsh Hag’, that she made the mines fall in, that, if you got lost on the fell, she would rise up out of the marshes – her teeth all black and her hair all stringy and filled with mud – and Charlie, he would be speaking so quietly, then he’d suddenly do this … this scream, and I swear to god I’ve never been so scared. I reckon I’ll still have nightmares, thinking about it again.

  —That’s pretty intense…

  —Yeah, but it became our ‘thing’. We would always ask him to tell it, every time. And he would add stuff to it, like, he’d make the premise longer and longer – draw it out for ages until we were just waiting for this scream. It was brilliant! Nanna Wrack became this sort of bogeyman … a bogeywoman … that we’d created. If you heard the wind whistling, you’d say, ‘That’s Nanna Wrack.’

  —What do you know about the Beast of Belkeld?

  —The what? I’ve not heard of that. Maybe it’s where Charlie got it from, all that Nanna Wrack stuff. He used to tell the little ones at Rangers not to go walking on the fell on their own because Nanna Wrack would reach up with her long fingers and pull you into the marsh. It was a pretty good deterrent, to be honest. I think my dad approved.

  —Was this story Charlie’s ‘thing’ then? I mean, was he known for this story?

  —He only told it when it was just us lot – the four of us in that mineshaft. It was funny: Brian used to try and snuggle up to Anyu, put his arm round her in case she was scared. Bless him. I think he was more scared than her! He used to try and tell the story, if Charlie wasn’t there. But it wasn’t the same…

  —What about Tom Jeffries?

  —Oh, no. He wasn’t there then. Not the first time Charlie started telling it.

  I want to pause here to reiterate something. The marshlands of Scarclaw Fell are around the far side from Belkeld and the mine. If you’re looking out from the Woodlands Centre, they’re up on the left and quite a trek to get to. As far as I know, there was no reason for any of the teenagers to go there.

  The marshlands are where the body of Tom Jeffries was found by Harry Saint Clement-Ramsay in 1997. I asked Harry about both the Nanna Wrack story and the Beast
of Belkeld during our interview for episode one.

  —I think I’ve heard something about it. I’m not sure. There’s loads of that stuff: boggarts and witches. Something about stone circles. St Augustine built churches all over the old pagan sites in Northumberland. Got rid of all that crap…

  —Why were you and your friends out in the marshlands, anyway – the night you found Tom Jeffries’ body, I mean?

  —As I say, it was just a recce; a jolly. We were just looking about.

  —In the middle of the night, with lamps?

  —As I’ve said, we’d had a few drinks…

  More forthcoming than Harry is another teacher from Eva Bickers’ school. I have been given his name by Dorothy Whetworth. He asked me not to identify him and his voice has been altered digitally. He tells me something that I’ve edited in after the interview with Eva, which corroborates the fascination that the teenagers had with Scarclaw Fell.

  —You taught both Eva Bickers and Anyu Kekkonen?

  —Yes, they were in the same group. GCSE art.

  —And you told Mrs Whetworth about something that bothered you in 1996; something about both of them?

  —You see, people often ascribe traits to students. For example, if a teenager writes a story in English class about a murderer, or in art draws people being decapitated, it suggests that they’re disturbed, somehow; or that they’ll actually go and kill someone. I don’t buy it, though. What these people fail to point out is that ALL teenagers are morbid. All of them. Sex and death – that’s at the forefront of their minds pretty much the whole time!

  —But there was something about Eva and Anyu’s work that you noticed, right?

  —I wish I still had these pieces. They’re really good, but they’re … they deviate from the girls’ usual work, their usual style.

  —Can you remember what these pieces were of?