Bolt-hole (14 page)

I took a large swig of the harsh whiskey and immediately regretted it.  For a second I thought it wasn’t going to stay down, but with a few deep breaths the gag reflex abated.  After composing myself and then rinsing my mouth with lager, I responded. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” 

Musgrove gestured for the whiskey bottle. “Try me.” 

I wasn’t sure where to begin.  I suspected that to an outsider many of my woes would appear trivial, but to my surprise, talking to a stranger and someone I probably – hopefully – wouldn’t see again, was easier than I would have imagined.  “I suppose I’d just had enough of everything, a mid-life crisis you might call it, given that I’m still only thirty-seven.  I’ve been having a few setbacks at work and things haven’t been going well with Helen, my wife.” I looked at Musgrove, half expecting him to have fallen asleep, but he was sitting forward in his chair appearing genuinely interested.  I continued to struggle to find words as the whiskey took effect. “Well, things came to a head today.  This afternoon I had a meeting with my boss.  He told me I that could have a shit technician’s job but they wouldn’t renew my contract as a laboratory head unless I got some research grants … After all I’ve done for them – those bastards, they treat me like this.”  I pictured myself in Bob’s office earlier in the day, and with the wound still red raw I took several gulps of whiskey before continuing: “But do you know what … do you know what … my day got that little bit fucking worse.  I made an idiot of myself in front of him, pretty much had a mental breakdown, and then I went for a walk to clear my head and who should I bump into but my dear little wife going into some sleazy bed and breakfast with a bloke she used to work with.” 

Musgrove sat upright in his chair, clearly surprised by the development.  “So you reckon there’s something going on between them?” 

I laughed ironically. “He was virtually ripping her clothes off in the street, and she wasn’t exactly complaining.” 

There was silence for a few seconds. “The funny thing is ... I thought something had been going on for a while.  I’d phone her when she said she’d be at home or at a friend’s, and she’d not be there and then she’d give some stupid excuse, and then she’d get text messages at all times of the day and night.  Sometimes, you know … no, pretty much all the time, I wish I’d never met her.  You know, sometimes I wish that bitch was dead.  I’d get the house, a nice inheritance and have the kids to myself.”  I was shocked by the ferocity of my outburst and the sudden release of pent-up frustration and anger.  But Musgrove appeared unfazed and just nodded in agreement. 

For several minutes we sat in silence passing the whiskey back and forth.  The room was beginning to spin, perhaps only the intensity of my anger providing a focus to my thinking and keeping me awake.  Musgrove eventually broke the silence. “I could help you out if you like … I’ll take care of it … if you like.”  He said it cautiously and quietly, as if testing the water. 

I was confused. “What do you mean take care of it?” I mumbled.  He took a long drag on his cigarette, his scrawny fingers and long nails stained with nicotine.  “I’ll take care of your wife … I’ll kill her for you … You said you wished she was dead ... I could even make it look like an accident, it’ll solve all your problems.” 

I took another gulp of whiskey.  My thoughts were running on slow time as my consciousness began to ebb.  “What do you mean?” I said, slurring noticeably as I struggled to get the words out. 

Musgrove responded matter-of-factly and seemingly growing in confidence. “I mean for a small fee, let’s say £5,000, I’ll kill your wife and you get rid of her, you get to keep the money and your kids – the perfect solution.” 

I stared blankly back at him, still unsure whether he was being serious.  I drained the last half inch of whiskey in a single gulp and the bottle slipped through my fingers and hit the floor.  I was past caring.  After everything I’d been through in the last few months as well as that afternoon, I just didn’t give a shit anymore.  I looked into his cold empty eyes and I said the words – the last thing that I remembered from the evening: “Go for it,” as my consciousness finally deserted me.

At the time, of course, little did I realise that in those three words I’d set in place an uncontrollable chain of events that I would bitterly regret for the remainder of what would ultimately prove to be the final year of my life.

----

I woke a few hours later slumped in the armchair as brilliant shafts of sunlight streamed through the rips in the curtains and illuminated the dust-filled air.  As I lifted my chin off my chest, there was a burning ache in my neck from the unnatural sleeping position, but this discomfort was immediately surpassed by the intense waves of nausea that followed.  I rested my forehead on the arm of the chair and closed my eyes, but the nausea persisted.  Then the smell hit me, and looking down at my crotch and the large damp patch, I realised I’d pissed myself. 

I lifted my head again and scanned the room, but didn’t immediately recognise my surroundings.  It took several seconds before fragments of memory fell into place and my thoughts turned to Musgrove, but he was gone and I was alone in the small flat.  I felt in my pockets for my house keys, mobile and wallet, but they were all missing.  I quickly scanned around the floor and found my wallet, partially obscured by an old pizza box.  My university ID and organ donor card were next to it, but the debit card I’d used at the petrol station cash point, along with the £300 withdrawal, were missing. 

You bastard, Musgrove,
I hissed, but I suppose I was more angry with myself for being so stupid and going back to his flat in the first place.  I checked for my watch, a present from my parents, thankfully still on my wrist and indicating 8:30 a.m.  I slowly got to my feet with the room spinning and a cold sweat forming on my brow.  As soon as I was fully upright the retching started, producing yellow frothy vomit that left a sour taste in my mouth and only added to my nausea. 

The air in the dingy cramped flat was oppressive and I desperately needed to get out.  I wiped the vomit from my chin using the tatty curtains, and then made my way to the front door.  After a few seconds of concentration I managed to open the Yale lock and step out into the street.  At first the crisp cold air had a sobering and refreshing effect, but as I walked down the driveway the spinning and nausea quickly returned.  Turning into the road, I tucked in my beer- and vomit-stained shirt, a half-hearted attempt to look vaguely presentable, and then fumbled through my pockets, emptying the contents into my cupped hand.  £2.23, not enough for a taxi but just enough for the bus fare home – that’s if I could first make it to the city centre bus terminus.  I certainly didn’t relish the prospect of walking the four miles, but what choice did I have; given the state I was in I couldn’t exactly ask Helen to come and get me.

As I walked, my unsteadiness and dishevelled appearance attracted the attention of some of the early-morning shoppers.  Many moved to the opposite side of the pavement to avoid me, but one sweet old lady, shuffling along in carpet slippers and two walking sticks, appeared concerned, and to my surprise asked me if I needed any help.  I would have laughed at the irony if I hadn’t felt so god-awful. 

After ninety minutes of walking, and still feeling like death warmed up, I finally reached the bus station.  The bus was waiting and I climbed aboard hoping that I wouldn’t recognise anybody.  But it wasn’t to be, as I immediately spotted the teaching assistant from William’s reception class sitting in the front seat.  It was obvious that she recognised me, her face bearing shock and then something close to disgust as she quickly looked away.  I could almost read her thoughts: “Those poor boys with a drunk for a father.” 

I reached home at 10:30 a.m., and without my house keys I was relieved to see the reflection of the TV through the living room window: Helen was at home to let me in.  She opened the door with Oliver asleep in her arms, and although initially stunned by my dishevelled appearance, her disposition soon turned to anger. “Julian, where the hell have you been?  I’ve been worried sick.  Why didn’t you answer your mobile? ... I was about to phone the police.” 

The last thing I needed was a lecture, and I brushed past her. “Sorry.  Sorry.  I just need to lie down.”  I headed upstairs to the spare bedroom, removed my shoes and filthy clothes and crawled into bed, pulling the sweet-smelling, freshly laundered sheets over my head.  As I offered a silent prayer of thanks that I’d made it home, I was totally oblivious of the horrific series of events I’d set in motion.

Chapter 14

As the weeks slowly pass in the Kinder Scout bolt-hole, I begin to find a certain peace with myself.  I’m sure there are numerous research articles in which academics have studied the effects of solitary confinement on an individual’s mental state.  I can imagine that some would struggle, but for me the experience, while not exactly pleasurable, is acceptable and provides largely uninterrupted time to order my thoughts. 

My experience is a dichotomy: I have the confinement and darkness of my tiny bolt-hole, which contrasts sharply with the beautiful expanse of the vast Kinder Scout plateau, where the horizons feel limitless. Over the months I’ve begun to feel more than a little protective of my slice of the Peak District, and I get irrationally incensed when I find the occasional discarded Coke can or crisp packet left by a careless walker. 

Despite my increasingly positive attitude I often wake in the darkness of the bolt-hole and, in my semi-consciousness state, imagine that the events of the last few months have all been a horrific nightmare.  I picture myself at home, lying in bed with Helen by my side and hearing the excited chatter of William and Oliver.  Subconsciously I tense my stomach muscles as I wait for them to jump on me as they did most mornings.  But all too quickly the illusion is shattered and the starkness of my bolt-hole surroundings becomes apparent.  But even with reality re-established, I find it difficult to believe, almost incomprehensible, that me,
Dr Julian Scott, B.Sc, Ph.D
, a university academic, is on the run from the police having committed murder.  I’d always thought that the well-educated were, at least partially, insulated from the unpredictable aspects of life, but in the last year everything has changed.  Most of my thoughts centre on the past but occasionally I think to the future and the time after I leave the bolt-hole.  But invariably I struggle to imagine any sort of normality, and if anything, the last year has taught me that life is unpredictable; who knows what’s going to happen.

When I think back to the drinking session at the Earl of Arundel and then Musgrove’s filthy flat, I know I could never have imagined how the path of my life and those around me would be changed.  After leaving his flat and finally making it home I headed straight for bed, the prospect of going to work unthinkable.  My only hope was that the day would pass quickly and that the next day, a Saturday, I’d begin to feel better.  Around noon Helen brought me tea but offered little else in the way of sympathy. “You’ve brought it on yourself, you’re not a kid anymore you know,” her only comment before reminding me that she was taking the boys away for the weekend on a long-arranged visit to an old school friend.  It crossed my mind that the “school friend” might be Kentish, but I quickly dismissed the idea, confident that she would never use the boys in such a subterfuge.  In any case, it was a relief to know that they wouldn’t be returning until late Sunday, giving me the chance to recuperate in peace.

I went back to sleep, only to be disturbed in the middle of the afternoon by the front door slamming shut and the key turning in the lock.  I sat upright in bed and peeked through the partially drawn curtains to see Helen and Oliver leaving with their weekend bag to collect William from school before heading off.  I still felt like hell; my brain was relentlessly pounding in my skull and my tongue was thick and furred, and I had the lingering taste of vomit.  I took a sip of the now cold tea that Helen had brought me earlier, but it did little to alleviate my dehydration, and if anything only added to the nausea.  I turned the pillow over and laid my head on the cool cotton fabric, providing temporary relief while quietly willing the hours to pass by, knowing that time was the only remedy for my particular illness.

I stayed in bed for the rest of the afternoon and it was only when the streetlamps outside the bedroom window had come on that I finally made it downstairs.  With my head spinning, I headed to the kitchen for a glass of water and then rummaged in the cupboard to find a flyer for a local pizza takeaway.  Although not particularly hungry, I ordered a large pepperoni pizza and bottle of Coke, a hangover antidote I’d discovered during my student days, and very much a kill-or-cure approach. 

As I waited for the food to be delivered, I phoned the bank theft hotline and cancelled my debit card.  After negotiating the irritating computerised answering system, I learned that a cash withdrawal totalling £300, the daily-limit, had been taken from the account, though fortunately the card had not been used for any other purchases.  I suspected that the money was long since spent and the product of the purchase already injected into Musgrove’s veins or poured down his throat.  I cursed my stupidity for going back to his flat.  What in God’s name was I thinking!  I fleetingly considered reporting the theft to the police, but although I was furious with Musgrove I had no desire to dredge up the events of the previous day.  I took some consolation in the fact that I would never see him again.  Mercifully, we didn’t exactly move in the same social circles. 

As I chewed the greasy pizza, I mulled over the events of the previous night.  My recollections were at best hazy, particularly after leaving the pub.  Concentrating hard, I gradually pieced together some of the fragments of disjointed memory; I cringed when I remembered telling Musgrove about my problems at work and Helen’s affair with Kentish, and even more embarrassingly my half-arsed suicide attempt.  I shuddered when I thought back to the incident with the cement lorry.  Maybe some time in the future I’d be able to laugh at my stupidity – but certainly not yet.  Amidst all the fogginess of the evening, I also vaguely remembered Musgrove’s bizarre offer to kill Helen; the man was totally deluded.

Over the next few hours I ate three-quarters of the pizza washed down with a two-litre bottle of Coke.  A couple of times I thought I was going to be sick, but fortunately a couple of good belches did the trick.  I watched an hour or so of TV, sprawling on the settee, but the instant I tried to sit up the room-spinning resumed.  At 9.00 p.m. I headed for bed, slowly making my way upstairs, my head bowed, controlling my breathing to stave off the nausea.  I crawled under the duvet and hoped sleep would come quickly.

I woke the next morning to the sound of the letterbox rattling with the early post.  It was no small relief to feel slightly less close to death than the previous day, though I was by no means in rude health.  The headache persisted and I had an edgy, post-alcohol paranoia.  I hated the feeling; it was as if I’d something important to take care of but couldn’t quite remember what. I had tea and toast for breakfast while watching Saturday morning kids TV, but within a few hours the nausea returned and the headache worsened despite a cocktail of painkillers – paracetamol, codeine and ibuprofen.  I’d planned to phone Helen, not necessarily to speak to her but more to check on the boys, and, I suppose, in the back of my mind, to reassure myself that she wasn’t with Kentish.  But as the afternoon went on I was in no mood for chat and instead headed back to bed and slept the rest of the day. 

It was only when I woke up the following morning that I started to feel anywhere close to human.  It was a cold fresh early spring day and the sky was a perfect blue colour with just the occasional cloud.  I sat in the back garden eating my breakfast wearing a thick jacket, with the reassuring sound of distant church bells hailing the start of Sunday Service.  All alone, I had time to think and take stock of my life.  I realised, of course, that my marriage was not in a healthy state, but I definitely didn’t think it was beyond repair.  I knew that Helen had been frustrated with my preoccupation with work, the long hours at the lab; and then even when I was at home I would often lock myself in the study for hours on end.  I certainly couldn’t forget or forgive Helen’s deceit and her involvement with Kentish, but I had no doubt my obsession with work was a contributing factor.  Kentish was a smarmy fool and I was sure that if I could get my act together I could convince Helen that we had a future and that we could rebuild our marriage.  To this end, my most pressing issue was the job offer from Bob Andrews, and with just a few hours of reflection I knew that accepting it was the right thing to do.  Although by no means the perfect solution, it would provide a regular and decent income that was not dependent on obtaining grant funding and did not bring with it the huge pressures and time commitment that came with that.  Without the stress, I felt sure I’d be able to spend more time with Helen and the boys and build a better relationship with them.  Despite, and probably even because of, the events of the previous few days, I realised how much I still loved her, and I suspected that she felt the same way. 

With the decision made, I began to feel a little more optimistic, and rather than wait until work the next day I decided to phone Bob Andrews with the news.  Although a Sunday morning, I suspected Bob would almost certainly be in his office at the lab, and sure enough, on the fourth ring he answered with his usual gruff tone. “Bob Andrews.” 

“Hi, Bob, it’s Julian – I hope I’m not disturbing you?” 

He was clearly surprised to hear from me, and I suspect more than a little uncomfortable, bearing in mind my near breakdown in his office just a few days earlier.  “Erm, no problem Julian … Erm … I was going to call you actually, just to check you were okay.  You were obviously pretty upset with …” 

I had no desire to go over the events, and with acute embarrassment setting in I forcefully interrupted, “YES, YES, sorry about that, Bob, I was having a bad day.  Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I’ve thought about what you said and I will be accepting the job offer.” 

There was a momentary silence at the other end as he took in the unexpected news. “Erm … that’s great, Julian, erm … why don’t we get together tomorrow and discuss it some more.  As you know, I can’t say for definite that you’ll get it.  We’ve got to go through the usual university bollocks and advertise the post externally, but I honestly can’t imagine there’ll be a problem.”  I could hear him rummaging on his desk. “I’ll just check my diary … how about 9:30?” 

“Fine, no problem, see you then.”  I had a palpable sense of relief as I put the phone down. I know it’s a cliché, but it was as if a large weight had been lifted from my shoulders.  I desperately hoped that my new job would be the start of a happier chapter in my life and would play some part in salvaging my marriage. 

With several hours before Helen and the boys were due to return, I spent the afternoon tidying the house, vacuuming, putting a load of washing in, even ironing, a job I despised at the best of times and invariably left to Helen.  With the housework finished I hung a print on the wall that we’d been given as a wedding anniversary present a few months earlier.  Helen had been asking me to put it up for weeks but I’d never quite had the time and it felt good to finally get it done.  This was the new me for whom family and home life came first.

I’d just sat down with a coffee when I heard the sound of Helen’s car pulling onto the drive.  I went to the front door and opened it, surprised at the intensity of my pleasure at seeing the three of them again.  I immediately kissed her on the forehead and held her close before she pulled away; clearly I’d not been forgiven for my drinking escapade.  “What’s got into you?”, she said frostily. “I must have come to the wrong house.”  I hugged the boys and carried their bags in from the car. 

While Helen unpacked the suitcase and sorted out William’s uniform and bag ready for school, I spent the next hour or so listening to the excited chatter of the boys as they told me what they’d been up to over the weekend.  After hearing about the fairground, the dodgem cars and various other rides, it was soon time for their bed and they reluctantly headed upstairs for pyjamas and a story.  I offered to read to them and was slightly taken aback when William informed me that
I
didn’t read to them, “It’s Mummy’s job.”  I made a mental note that in future, now that I’d be home from work at a reasonable time, it would be my job as well. 

Helen came downstairs half an hour later and for the first time we were on our own.  I switched off the TV, desperately wanting to talk and clear the air, but she picked up a magazine from the coffee table and immediately appeared engrossed.  Clearly she wasn’t going to make this easy for me, and I attempted to break the ice with an apology. “Sorry about last Thursday – I mean, not telling you I’d be out all night.  I just had too much to drink and ended up sleeping on the floor of one the technicians’ flats, but don’t ask me how I got there.” 

She didn’t seem particularly impressed by my act of contrition, and responded frostily with her eyes fixed on her reading matter. “I’ve got no problem with you staying out all night if that’s what you want, just have the courtesy to tell me, that’s all I ask.” 

I nodded. “I doubt very much it’ll happen again.”

I went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.  While the tea was mashing, I returned to the living room and again tried to reopen communication channels. “Actually there was something else I wanted to talk to you about. I had a chat with Bob Andrews last week and he’s offered me Gill Taggart’s old job – you know she’s retiring.”