Bolt-hole (10 page)

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Cautious, verging on paranoid
, for the next few days I confine myself to the bolt-hole.  Though desperate for fresh air and escape from my interminable darkness, I dare not expose myself and risk detection by the police if they are searching the area, or recognition from a passing hiker while my face is still in the papers.  Inside the bolt-hole it continues to be tolerable if not comfortable; the rocky floor covered by my bivvy bag, camping mat and sleeping bag provides a bed of sorts to sit and to sleep.  The digital thermometer on my watch rarely measures more that fourteen
degrees C, and my favoured place is snuggled down in the sleeping bag trying to keep warm.  Much of the time, both day and night, I sleep, never deeply, but with my consciousness sufficiently depressed for the hours not to drag too unbearably. 

It often feels like I’m living some kind of parallel existence; all alone and self-sufficient (pre-packed camping meals not withstanding) in a wild environment, like some sort of feral creature.  As a kid I’d always fantasised about living such a life and surviving against all the odds while on the run from the evil authorities.  Despite the fact that I’m a total conformist, I’ve never grown out of such a notion and the concept of living alone and isolated has always held great appeal.  I've long had a fascination and admiration for adventurers who travel the globe and experience the myriad of emotions that come with waking up in a different place each day.  Some men leave their wives and families for the thrill of another woman, but I’ve always known I would never do such a thing.  But in the farthest reaches of my imagination, perhaps in a weakened state, when life became too much, I could envisage leaving my responsibilities behind and living out of a backpack.  Increasingly in the last few years I’ve often thought that my life has got too complicated.  Every time I looked at my bank statement the point was reinforced: numerous payments for a multitude of things, most of which we didn't need, but we were cemented and trapped in modern living.  I always thought I’d never had the guts break free, but now, as I look around my new home, I wonder if maybe I was doing myself a disservice and I’m capable of more than I ever thought.

In my sedentary state I have no great appetite, but preparing and eating meals becomes a focus for the day and uses up the minutes I’m eager to dispatch.  Other rituals of normal daily life, usually considered small chores, have taken on new significance.  I’ve never been the most diligent of tooth brushers: no more than a minute and that would be enough, and my school-mistress-like dental hygienist would often reprimand me.  But now I almost look forward to this activity and can spend a good ten minutes scrubbing away, no doubt wearing the enamel thin.  The act of shaving has also taken on new meaning.  Never have I been so clean-shaven, despite the fact that there’s no one here to see me.  With a small cup of cold water, a few drops of shaving oil and my disposable razor, I go to work, gingerly steering around the neck wound, until my face is like the proverbial baby’s bottom.  As before in the Graves Park bolt-hole, I use one of the two-litre bottles to collect piss, and perhaps the least palatable aspect of my incarceration is the need to use a nappy bag and baby-wipes for a crap.  In fact the prospect of being able to dig a small latrine and “go” in the open air is more appealing than I could ever have imagined.

Other than the radio I have no external stimuli and I regret not packing my Kindle e-book or even a crossword to help pass the time.  In my planning I fleetingly considered such items, but ultimately thought it prudent to carry only what was absolutely necessary.  And I suppose in my original thinking, my contingency plan had only ever been such, and I always doubted that I would be holed up alone for six months.  My pocket diary is arguably my only luxury of sorts, and in the tiny space under each day, to pass the time, I write down a few key words to describe my feelings.  These normally range from
safe
to
darkness, empty,
or
hollow
.  After a day or so, the scientist in me kicks in and I have the strange need to somehow quantify my emotions.  I rate my mood on a score of one to ten. 
Ten
equates to ecstatic, though I mock myself with the concept, knowing that the chances of experiencing such an emotion are slim in the extreme.  In contrast,
one
is the worst pain imaginable, which I liken to when I held in my arms William’s crumpled lifeless body.  The first few days I spend probably a good thirty minutes assigning a mood score, three times a day: first thing in the morning, midday and then evening.  The scores hover between
three
and
five
but as the days pass by there is a gradual decline, though I never reach
one
.  I assign an arbitrary rule that if I score
one
on three consecutive mornings, I’ll head to the edge of the Kinder Scout plateau, to the massive ridge of Ringing Roger, and take the small step off the edge to the stream five hundred metres below.  

Despite my best attempts to fill my time with such trivial activities, after the initial relief of reaching the bolt-hole my mood progressively darkens.  I struggle to focus my thoughts on the future, knowing that to dwell on what might have been will not help me.  Musgrove is dead of course, but it gives me none of the pleasure or even the satisfaction that it did in the first few days.  I certainly don’t regret what I’ve done, but all the days of reflection have not brought back my beautiful boys.  I also have the realisation, and one that I’d not previously considered, that if I’m able to avoid capture and make it out of Britain I doubt that I will ever be able to return.  I’ve never considered myself to be a full-blown patriot, but the thought of never being able to return to the country of my birth is surprisingly painful and it’s almost as if Musgrove has stolen my nationality, a part of my identity, as well as taking away my family.

By the evening of the sixth full day of incarceration I’m desperate to leave the bolt-hole, to experience natural light and feel the warmth of the sun.  I feel like a novice swimmer with my head underwater, holding my breath, frantic to reach the surface and to fill my lungs with oxygen.  I promise myself that tomorrow, with my drinking water supply almost exhausted, I’ll permit myself out of necessity the luxury of a venture to the outside.  But even with this goal my spirits barely lift, and for the first time since the inception of my plan I begin to cry as the worthlessness of my life suddenly overwhelms me.  Almost immediately, I’m angry at myself for being so pathetic and letting down Helen and the boys.  Aggressively wiping away the tears and attempting to re-establish focus, I reach back into the rucksack and pull out a transparent A4-size zip-lock plastic bag containing an airline ticket and two passports.  I open the first of the passports and flick to the last page.  There’s a photograph of myself, probably taken a good five years ago. “Dr Julian Scott” is the name underneath, though I’m not sure who that person is anymore.  The second passport falls open with the airline ticket inside: “British Airways … Manchester to Rio de Janeiro … 13
th
April … Mr James Bosworth.”  I study the second passport photo; taken just a few weeks ago, the picture is unmistakably of me, but the name and the other details are obviously not mine. 

Chapter 11

On the seventh morning of my incarceration in the Kinder Scout bolt-hole I break cover for the first time.  Despite the draw of the outside and the hours I’ve longed for it, leaving my underground retreat fills me with anxiety, obsessively conscious
as I am that I’m risking recognition and potential capture.  Like an agoraphobic attempting self-reassurance, I rationalise that at 6:00 a.m. the chances of discovery are slim: it’s far too early for even the keenest of hikers, and surely by now the police have given up on any search of the area. 

With a small rucksack on my back I slowly remove the rocks that block the entrance of the bolt-hole.  I stop every few seconds to listen to the sounds of the outside world, half expecting to hear the drone of a helicopter or the barking of police dogs; but all is quiet bar the rustle of the gentle breeze through the heather.  Removing the last few rocks, I hold my breath as I peer out into the gloom of the early morning, with the sun barely above the horizon and cloud swirling all around.  After a few minutes of waiting, and confident that I’m alone, on my hands and knees I negotiate the narrow entrance.  Reaching the outside, I cautiously stand and survey the Kinder Scout plateau, which is bathed in thick fog.  With no sign of any ramblers or the police, I make my way the hundred metres or so to the rocky outcrop at the edge of the plateau and then turn to face in the direction of Ashop Moor.  Visibility is limited to barely ten metres as the dense cloud swirls in vortices, and although it isn’t raining, in the dampness of the air my jacket is covered in tiny droplets of water. 

I sit on a large boulder taking slow deep breaths of crisp morning air.  Almost perceptively, with each breath I take, my anxiety gradually dissipates.  After all the pain and turmoil of the previous months I begin to feel at ease and can almost forget that just a few days earlier I took a man’s life.  I feel confident that with the solitude of the bolt-hole and the beauty of Kinder Scout I’ll have the time and the space to take stock of my life and plan for a time when I can finally stop running. 

As I enjoy the simple pleasures of fresh air and sunlight, almost symbolically, as if reflecting the change in my spirits, a tiny chink in the cloud appears in front of me and then gradually enlarges.  I feel a sense of exhilaration as the fabulous view of the beauty of Ashop Moor opens up as the cloud cover burns away. 

With the early morning sun warming my stiff and aching body after a week of immobility and confinement, the prospect of returning to the darkness of the bolt-hole is far from appealing.  But I know self-discipline is key, and with the time approaching 8:00 a.m. I daren’t risk recognition by any of the ramblers who’ll no doubt be appearing before long.  I remove the empty bottles of drinking water from my bag and refill them in one of the numerous underground streams that break through the surface of the peat ground.  I brush my teeth in the freezing water, my mouth almost numb with cold by the time I’ve finished.  I empty the two bottles of stagnant, stinking urine that I’ve accumulated over the previous week, and rinse them in the stream, ready for use again.  Then, using my trowel, I quickly dig a small latrine in a bare patch of earth, no more than twenty centimetres deep, and take care of business before dumping my waste bags from the camping meals, refilling the hole with soil, and dragging a small flat rock on top to hide my digging.  Finally, with the essentials taken care of, I head back to the bolt-hole and negotiate my way back inside before repositioning the stones behind me to secure the entrance. 

My brief taste of freedom has reawakened the senses that have lain dormant during the previous week’s confinement, and I am desperate for more.  After the brilliant sunshine and magnificent views, the dark, damp bolt-hole has an immediate deflating effect.  Despite my best efforts, my thoughts drift back to unhappy times, the weeks after the funeral when I attempted the slow process of rebuilding my shattered life.  From an early stage, I’d largely dispensed with any realistic expectation that the police would charge the person responsible.  I knew that it was futile to rely on such a conclusion to bring about any sort of personal closure; only my own actions could bring about a tolerable end to this chapter in my life. 

At first my only comfort came from the long walks in the Peak District, and every day, irrespective of the weather, I drove the ten miles to the isolated moors and for a few hours walked the hills.  It seemed that only with the time and space the open countryside provided was I able to think with sufficient clarity to make the decisions that I knew, for better or worse, would define my future. 

My first pivotal decision was to resign from my job at the university.  The department head, Bob Andrews, had been more than reasonable and had made it clear that I could take as much compassionate leave as I needed.  But as the days passed by I knew that I could never return.  I’d spent fifteen years in that place and it was simply time to move on.  The decision was made far easier with the news from my parents’ solicitor, acting in his capacity of executor of their will, that I was the sole beneficiary.  This came as no great surprise and I’d often joked with my parents about bumping them off for the inheritance, but I was shocked by how much they’d managed to squirrel away over the years.  With insurance policies and savings, there was close to £75,000 in cash, and the value of their modest house, my family home as a child, was almost £200,000.  I briefly considered holding onto it as an investment, but I knew it would only make it more difficult to move on with my life, and after a few days mulling it over I arranged for estate agents to come round to value the property and, in the interests of a quick sale, to accept any offer close to £190,000. 

Within a few days of the
For Sale
sign going up I got a call from the estate agent explaining that they’d received an offer for the full asking price.  I immediately began to get cold feet, but as I returned to my parents home to sort through their belongings, a raft of old memories and emotions resurfaced and I knew I had to break some of the links with my past, however painful it might be.

I spent close to two weeks at my parents’ house, sorting their stuff, and was surprised at how much they’d accumulated in a three-bedroom house.  My mum had always been a hoarder: paintings, old school reports and photographs, anything to do with me, and more recently the boys, she couldn’t bear to part with.  I’d always thought that I’d inherited the obsessive aspect of my personality from her, and the experience only reinforced my thinking.  As I began packing it became clear that much of the stuff I would have to get rid of.  There was simply too much to fit in my house whether I wanted to keep it or not.  Despite the pangs of guilt, I found a house-clearing service on the internet and arranged for them to take the larger items of furniture. 

It was during the middle of the second week of emptying the house that I had an unexpected visitor.  I was on the front drive lifting boxes of ornaments and a tea service into the boot of my car, and as I bent over there was a tap on my shoulder.  Startled, I stood and turned.  I was looking into the beaming face of a balding overweight man, bearing what I could only describe as an inane grin.  It took me a few moments before recognition dawned.  James Bosworth, or Bozzy, as he was known at school, had changed much from the spotty, lanky youth of twenty years earlier. 

“Hello, Julian,” he said excitedly. “You remember me, don’t you?”  I offered my hand, which he shook enthusiastically, and for a second I thought I was in line for a hug. 

“Yeah, yeah, course I remember you, Bozzy, how are you?” 

“I’m great, just great, a bit balder than the last time you saw me, eh?” he responded, running his hand through his short-cropped and receding hair. “You seem to have aged pretty well though, Julian.” 

I smiled, unsure what to say but keen to mirror his enthusiasm. “Yeah, you look well too, what have you been up to all these years?” 

I didn’t give him chance to respond.  Bored of packing, I was ready for a break from my exertions. “Look, I was just about to put the kettle on, do you want to come in and join me?” 

He looked ecstatic at my suggestion and again I thought I might be in line for a hug. “Yeah, that sounds great, though I’d prefer something a little bit stronger if you’ve got it,” he said, smiling and eyeing up the beer left over from Christmas that my dad had stacked at the back of the garage.  We headed inside, picking up a four-pack of beer on the way. 

We spent the next couple of hours reminiscing about old school days and the mutual acquaintances and teachers we’d known.  The memories came flooding back and were made particularly vivid by Bosworth’s hilarious impressions.  I was grateful for a breather from the packing, as well as the guilt at getting rid of so much of my parents’ prize possessions, and it was probably the first time in a couple of months that I’d been able to laugh about anything.  The beer continued to flow, and soon I went back outside to the garage to get more supplies.  When I returned, Bosworth’s demeanour had changed. His expression was serious and, for the first time, unsmiling. 

“I read about what happened to your family, Julian.  It was a real shame.  I went to the funeral as well. I just had to pay my respects.”  With the distraction of Bosworth’s musings, oddly, the hit-and-run had not been at the fore of my thinking, but now it abruptly came back.  I couldn’t immediately think of what to say, and turned to look out of the window into the garden.  In the silence Bosworth appeared to sense my discomfort.

“I’m sorry to bring it up, Julian, it’s just … it’s just that I know how you’re feeling. You see, my mum died on the same day your family died.  I know it’s not quite the same but she was the only family I had.” 

I felt the anger well up inside me –
How can you compare losing an elderly relative, however close, to losing your entire family!
I was about to respond in such a manner, but as I turned to face him I was shocked to see tears streaming down his face.  My anger dissipated instantly as he sobbed while trying to get his words out.

“She was the only one I had.”

Except for his intermittent sobbing, we sat in silence for the next few minutes as he struggled to compose himself.  I sipped my beer and, unsure what to say, I excused myself and headed for the upstairs toilet.  When I returned, Bosworth had seemingly recovered and the smile had returned to his face.

“I’m sorry about that, Julian, it’s just that I’d been looking after her, pretty much doing everything for her since she had a stroke almost twenty years ago.  My dad buggered off when I was a kid and it’s just been the two of us.” 

I nodded and offered a sympathetic smile; although it definitely wasn’t the same, both our lives had been turned upside down in recent weeks.  I handed him another beer. “Are you still living at your mum’s old house?” I asked.  He took a large gulp, obviously no stranger to beer.

“Yeah, I was born in that house and will probably die there.  I suppose I’m a bit of a home bird.  I’ve hardly been out of Sheffield and I’ve never been abroad,” he said almost proudly, “unless you count Wales – I had an aunt that lived in Cardiff.  I do have a passport though,” he added, “but I’ve never used it in the fifteen years I’ve had it.”  He began laughing again, apparently fully recovered from his earlier breakdown. 

Although we hadn’t seen each other for twenty years, the conversation flowed surprisingly freely and I suspect we both found the experience therapeutic as the next few hours sped by.  Bosworth had been a bit of an oddball at school, and we’d never been particularly close friends, but I clearly remember that we’d started taking the same A-level subjects and then, after a few months, abruptly and inexplicably, he had stopped coming to lessons.  At the time no one knew why, and numerous weird and wonderful adolescent explanations were offered for his absence: joining the army and having a sex change, to name just a couple.  But as he explained, again close to tears, the reason became apparent.

“Yeah, I had to leave school in the lower 6
th
after my mum got ill, and in between working part-time in a record shop I pretty much had to do everything for her.  I was pretty gutted about dropping out of school, but what could I do?” 

As I listened I felt a new-found sympathy and, I suppose, a sort of respect for Bosworth.  At school he’d always been very studious, and probably as a consequence always a good source for a piss-take.  Invariably he would come top of the class in most subjects, with me usually demoted to second, to my long-standing frustration.  I suspected that if he’d had the chance to finish his A-levels, he’d have gone onto university, and from there who knows where his life would have ended up.  I doubted that he would still be working in a record shop.