Dead And Buried

Early that morning, a retired firefighter from Glossop called Roger Kitson arrived at Brecks Farm, near Peak Forest, along with hundreds of other people. He followed the directions of a steward as he drove his car through a gateway and into a field where vehicles were already lined up, many of them muddy Land Rovers and other four-wheel drives.

Roger was there for one of the biggest events of the year in the stretch of country around Oxlow Moor — the annual sheepdog trials. Every year, the trials were held in fields behind Brecks Farm, going on all day from seven thirty in the morning to around six in the evening. As well as the feats of the sheepdogs themselves, there was a children’s play area, side stalls, and plenty of food and drink to make the day.

But one of the real highlights of the event was a four-and-a-half-mile fell race, and that was why Roger Kitson was at Brecks Farm.

Roger was sixty-two years old, but he was a runner — a member of a club based near Stockport. Fell running was a gruelling sport, but it was more about stamina than strength. Last year, a couple of members from Dark Peak Fell Runners had finished the Oxlow Moor course in less than thirty minutes, with the advantage of good conditions. They would face competition this year, though, as Roger saw there were teams entered from the Goyt Valley Striders, the Hallamshire Harriers and even the Hathersage Fat Boys.

Before the start of the race, he strolled round the field to see what was going on. He could tell that the trials had already begun, from the distinctive whistles and shouts of the shepherd piercing the morning air. A collie would be hard at work already, chivvying a reluctant bunch of sheep into a pen.

On a table near the secretary’s tent stood the gleaming NatWest Trophy, ready to be presented to the owner of the winning sheepdog, along with smaller trophies for Best Driving Dog and Best Young Handler. One local farmer was raising money for the Border Collie Trust by growing half a beard, and he was attracting a lot of interest from photographers.

Roger joined a mass of runners in shorts and colourful vests waiting to set off on the opening climb, all with their identifying bib numbers tied to their singlets. He recognised the DPFR in their brown vests with yellow and purple hoops, and knew he would probably be a long way behind them. As a spectator, he’d seen the leading runners coming in one by one, each checking a watch as they approached the finishing line. He didn’t mind what time he clocked up, as long as he completed the course. There was a trophy for the first veteran to finish, but he didn’t expect to come close to that.

Today, the runners seemed to be all ages, shapes and sizes, but Roger kept reminding himself that stamina was the key to fell running. He overheard runners discussing the relative merits of their Walshes, the performance of a pair of Racers against Elite Extremes. He was wearing Walsh running shoes himself — they were hard-wearing enough to cope with both rocks and the wet peat they would be running over when they were up on the moor.

And then the race got under way. Within minutes of the start, the back markers were already struggling on the steep, rocky ascent, and Roger was among them. He made slow progress in the first few hundred yards, manoeuvring for the best route over the uneven rocky ground, sometimes being obliged to use his hands to keep his balance.

Slowly he approached the top of the ascent. Up ahead, something seemed to be happening. The leading runners were on the moor and pounding over the heather. But just before the first descent, there was chaos, with runners milling around aimlessly as if they’d lost sight of the route.

‘What’s going on?’ Roger asked the runner in front of him.

‘I don’t know,’ he gasped.

They kept going, losing sight of the lead runners. As they crested the hill, Roger could see smoke in the distance, drifting towards the runners, a clump of dry heather bursting into flame.

‘Oh God. It’s another fire,’ he said.

‘No, they’ve found something.’

He heard exclamations, someone calling for a phone, another voice insisting they should call the emergency services.

‘Is somebody hurt?’ he said.

As a firefighter, Roger had first-aid training. He pushed his way through the cluster of runners to see what the problem was. When he got near, people automatically stood back to let him through, as if happy to let someone else take over.

Roger found himself teetering on the edge of a hole exposed in the earth. Breathing hard, he looked down, expecting to see someone lying injured. But at first he couldn’t figure out what he was looking at. He wiped the sweat from his forehead as his eyes started to adjust to the darkness in the hole.

‘Oh, shit.’

He took a step backwards and bumped into the runners crowding behind him. He panicked, terrified of losing his footing and stumbling into the hole to join whatever lay down there.

Because Roger had just seen … but what exactly had he seen?