Filthy
Savages
We
were still children then.
Innocent as newborn lambs,
wild with mischief and giddy as the day is long. Our days spent roaming the
secret hinterlands of childhood. Catching a glance of sunburn on our backs, as if
we might flare up in moments. Such delicate, flimsy creatures and ripe for the
picking like the scorched red berries of autumn.
Our youth so fleeting,
it hurt.
By the end of summer we were gone in a blaze of
fury and ephemeral colour.
Back then, was a time of tall tales and high spirits.
We were drunk on thin
air – shrill as skylarks soaring above the skies; spinning in a flurry of heady
excitement. Newly liberated by the school vacations, we stripped bare to the
waist, exposing our pale, unblemished bodies to the sun. Wandering over scar and
dale - thrashing through the tinder-dry cotton grass and knots of wild heather.
We were masters of our
own fate; rambling far and wide without a care in the world. It was 1976: the
middle of the longest summer heatwave Britain had ever known. Temperatures
soared to around 35˚ C. On those listless
sultry days we plunged into the ice-blue depths of the quarry-pit; immersing
ourselves up to our necks and bursting with a rush of blood to the head. We
thought nothing of the risks we took. We were invincible and oblivious to our naïve,
youthful frailty.
Until that is, the girl
with the blood-spattered dress stumbled into town.
She startled us all with
her presence. Her jagged mouth cut in a silent scream; her face streaked with
terror. We held our breath as she passed between us down the cobbled-stone
streets, between the rows of terraced houses and derelict mills. Trying to
pretend she didn’t exist.
But the rest of the
world moved on. Children went dashing in and out of the burst standpipes in
slow motion, as the sun loomed overhead, blinding us with its stark light.
Water penumbras obscured our vision under a spray of multi-coloured rainbows. For
awhile, no one dared move. Until some kid bowled into her, screaming blue murder.
Finally she let rip with
a shriek. Something cracked inside her – opening up a long and plaintive wail -
shattering the silence like glass shards. And in a blip, those halcyon days of
summer were obliterated forever.
There would be no more peace
in our rural idyll. No façade of childlike innocence, betrayed. Only the fleeting
memory of her gliding through a wake of screaming children; dressed in her
white linen smock. Her fine fleece of hair in disarray, her crisp blue eyes and
pale bruised lips.
Most folk only saw the
blood and simply stood there staring, mouth agape, as she slipped over the brim
of Ribbelsthwaite Hill and out of sight. We averted our gaze from her
diaphanous shape, as if she were an apparition shimmering out of the heat haze.
Not long after her
arrival we heard the sirens wailing; as an ambulance snaked its way through Viper’s
Pass, tracing its trajectory all the way from Leeds. The South Yorkshire Police
had been called in on suspicion of a violent sexual assault against a minor.
Days later, the traumatised girl was released
from hospital into the care of Elsie Branning the old spinster who lived at the
No. 9A, over the dressmaker’s shop near Gartside’s Mill. And by strange coincidence,
it was reported the girl was Elsie’s long lost niece. She had been heading in
her direction, in a vain attempt to escape the clutches of a man who had pursued
her. It seemed her estranged aunt was her only hope of finding sanctuary: after
she had been abandoned her to fate after the death of her parents.
At first sight she had set
tongues aflame in the village and soon attracted a whirlwind of notoriety among
the Press Corps descending from the industrial cities of Northern England. Their
antics stirred up a frenzy of salacious gossip. And without a hint of social embarrassment,
the entire population of the town marched down to Elsie Branning’s, hands and
faces pressed hard against the window. We lingered with baited breath, half-expecting
a stage entrance by the girl, but she was nowhere to be seen. We simply stood there
purveying the odd collection of dressmaker’s dolls and the naked oriental mannequins
– each one winking with an eerie glint to its eye that chilled me to the bone.
It
didn’t stop us returning next day. I recall long afternoons crowded into the hidden
recesses of the shop, hordes of children, hoping for a rare glimpse of the waxen-faced
doll who had disrupted all our daily routines. And then there was Elsie
Branning herself – a rare oddity of middle-class spinsterhood, regally attired in
her ornate turban and silk kimono; made all the more exotic, by her eccentric
mannerisms and brooding charm.. She looked the part and dressed for the
occasion – inviting in the neighbours for a cup of tea, but insisting on a
policy of strictly no contact, pointing out the necessity of maintaining firm
boundaries if the girl was to recover from her ordeal. Old Elsie Branning and
her guest were thick as thieves.
And she revelled in it.
Quite the doting mother she became. On several occasions the girl was allowed out
behind the house, shuffling around the yard with her puppy-dog eyes and head
down. On days when business was slow, Elsie invited privileged guests around, but
she was inclined to leave the door ajar so her visitors could take a furtive glance
in the girl’s room to quell their curiosity.
Then one hot and muggy midsummer’s day the child
went missing. Vanishing into the ether like vapour. Some say she’d had enough
of being gawped at and returned from whence she came. It was good riddance to a
bad penny. Others claimed they witnessed her abduction, by a bearded intruder who
sped off in a shiny black Cortina.
The atmosphere in town turned on a pinhead.
It was already buckling under
the simmering heat.
The authorities were summoned once again. And
back came the Press with a flotilla of national TV crews in tow. Now with the town
thrust back into the limelight there was a spontaneous outburst of raw emotion.
First shock, then anger rippled through town, before anyone could mobilise into
action. Photographs of the missing child were circulated among the local
community. Prayers were said by the parish priest in church and candles lit to
mark the vigil. Folk may have been reticent at first, but they soon rallied
together in a crisis. Small bands of vigilante youths hunted the streets by
torchlight. And police were drafted in halfway across the county with a DCI from
Leeds heading up the investigation. Very soon they conducted house-to-house searches
and scoured the entire swathe of Scardale Moor.
Yet despite their best efforts,
not a single trace of the girl was found. The days passed by in foetid blur with
the sun belting down on the constables’ in their tall helmets and dark uniforms.
Some were taken down with heatstroke. Eventually, a torn dress was discovered floating
on the surface of the pool at the quarry. The police and press conferred with
knowing nods and whispers; confirming long-held suspicions that she had been
ravaged and left to drown.
Later a blue ribbon from
her hair was discovered in the possession of Brian Hattersley – the local
retard. And it was Elsie who verified the ribbon had been given as a gift to
the girl. By nightfall, a seething crowd had gathered outside his mother’s
house, demanding the wheels of justice be set in motion. They were out to
gratify their lust for blood and wanted retribution.
He stood there vainly protesting
his innocence in the moonlight; shaking his head hysterically and twitching at
the corners of his mouth. He stood there sweating, as the steam poured off him,
amid a growing wave of hysteria and vitriol. Yet, the case against him was pretty
thin and couldn’t have been proved in court. They hadn’t even found a body yet.
An arrest was made. Police
tried to quell the crowd. But the wounds refused to heal overnight.
I recall next day
outside the police station, in the glaring heat of the midday sun as Brian was
released on bail. The crowd fell eerily silent as the police sergeant ordered
them to go home. Some men paced up-and-down, tightening their fists and reddening
around the gills. Others shouted obscene slogans or made death threats against
the suspect. Moments later Brian was taken back into protective custody.
There was a short lull as
the shock waves rippled outward. Word got round that the case against him had
been dropped due to a legal technicality. But it was an ugly, baseless rumour,
designed to bring out the worst in people. Those with axes to grind incited the
crowd to violence, and someone let out a blood-curdling cry.
Even as a child, I recall
a sickening sense of foreboding wrenching at my gut. I could smell the reek of
hatred among them.
An angry mob jeered outside
for hours, rattling the confidence of the authorities. Someone threw a stone at
a glass window and one man broke the police cordon as they called for
reinforcements. Intense passions had been aroused and there was an undercurrent
of hostility toward the police. By now it was an unsettling scene, as mob-rule broke
out among the angry crowd. Most of them had a taste for vengeance in their
throats. They were poised to riot.
Suddenly, things turned sour
as if our tight little community was about to ignite and go on the rampage.
That same afternoon the assembled
news crews arrived en masse, milling around in their short-sleeved shirts and
sandals. Their faces ruddy with sunburn; perspiration running down their necks
and staining the backs of their shirts. At first, they kept a respectful
distance, but patience soon ran out. As people turned away, a group of
paparazzi charged through the dispersing crowd with cameras held aloft loaded; high-speed
film and flashbulbs at the ready. They hunted us down in packs, thudding through
the streets and kicking up the swirls of dust in the heat-haze. All routes via
town were blocked: choked by a sudden influx of traffic and thrill-seekers compelled
by a morbid fascination for unspeakable things.
Tabloid headlines didn’t
help much: not with their lurid speculation that Brian Hattersley was the
notorious Midsummer Creeper!
Looking back, I never really believed the rumours
–they were mindless cant – sinister examples of small-town bigotry and hatred. Making
a mockery of our tight-knit community: the collective Yorkshire spirit had been
defiled, torn wide-open by a tissue of lies and deception.
There was something compelling and inevitable
about the rise in tension and calls for vigilantism. The atmosphere on the
street was highly charged. Men sat around in huddles letting off steam in cafés
and pubs. You could sense the rage reach fever-pitch under the stench of
alcohol, coffee and cigarettes. This was the way it happened: adults concocting
the truth like spiteful children, whetting their appetites for retribution under
the spell of collective delusion.
Brian never had a chance: poor soul. He was a sacrificial
lamb from the start.
I was no more than nine
or ten then.
A youthful lad with copper-coloured
hair and green eyes; freckles peppered down my face. I was a wilful child, even
then, and prone to preternatural urges. It didn’t take me long for my
inquisitive instincts to kick in and prevail over reason. And like any boy my
age, I went tearing off down country lanes and muddy tracks; chasing after the
mob, determined to cause mischief wherever we went. I couldn’t resist the urge to
catch an eyeful of the man accused of murder.
Though I didn’t know it
then the girl was still alive.
