Bolt-hole (19 page)

With the bag repacked, from my discreet perch at the bedsit window I looked out towards Musgrove’s flat.  For several minutes the street outside remained quiet, with even the dawn chorus seemingly subdued.  It was almost 5:30 a.m. before there were any signs of activity: a man on a bike appearing at the end of the road away to my right.  I watched as he peddled along, but then, bizarrely, as he reached Musgrove’s flat, he swerved dramatically, almost falling off his bike before regaining his balance and taking a wide detour to the far side of the road.  It was only when I looked more carefully into the shadows of the early morning that I could see his path had been blocked by a pool of water filling the gutter and spilling onto the pavement.  As I watched over the next few minutes the dirty pool, presumably from a burst water main, accumulated in a natural dip, eventually covering almost half the road in front of Musgrove’s driveway.  My thoughts went into hyper-drive as I tried to envisage how this would affect my plan.  But in the end I reassured myself that, even if I had to paddle through the water, I’d still be able to get access to his flat.  Not exactly ideal, but by no means a fatal blow to my plan.

Musgrove roused himself from his filthy bed a little after 8:00 a.m.  But unlike the other days that I’d watched him, he didn’t leave the flat, and just wandered impatiently round his living room, presumably awaiting my arrival with the money.  Still a couple of hours before the meeting, I knew I had to get out of my flat.  The last thing I wanted was Musgrove watching from his window, waiting for me to arrive and then to see me leaving 17b – it certainly wouldn’t be an easy thing to explain.  My opportunity eventually came when he went to the toilet, and with his back to me as he used the facility I grabbed my rucksack and headed out of the door.  I hurried down the road and passed the pool of dirty water.  Thankfully it didn’t seem to be getting any bigger and there was still access to Musgrove’s driveway.  At the end of the street I turned right and headed for a small café.  It was a greasy spoon sort of affair that was a popular hangout with the local taxi drivers.  I ordered a coffee and then sat at the back, well away from the window, as I counted down the minutes before my rendezvous.  As I sipped at the strong coffee I regretted my choice of beverage.  I was already jumpy at the prospect of the next few hours and the caffeine boost certainly wasn’t required or helpful. 

Over the next hour I obsessively dissected my plan and tried to identify any potential weakness.  But I was confident in my preparations, including the bolt-hole contingencies, and felt I’d done all I could to ensure a satisfactory outcome.  At 10:30 a.m., and with much of my coffee untouched, it was time to leave.  I put on the black leather gloves from the front pocket of the rucksack and made my way into the street.  I felt sick with anxiety and prayed that I could go through with it. 
I can do it … I can do it
; I said the words over and over as I walked along, staring at the ground in front of me.  I was now at most sixty seconds from his flat and I knew that my whole life would change, depending on what happened in the next few minutes.  I turned the corner on the Stanley Road, my head still down, trying to eliminate any distractions and focus solely on Musgrove.  I felt strong. 
Yes, I can and I will do it.
  With renewed belief, now just twenty metres from his flat, I lifted my head; but as I faced the scene in front of me I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. 

Parked directly outside my flat was a police car with blue lights flashing.  My first fear, of course, was that somehow the police had discovered my plan, but as I looked more closely I felt a slight sense of relief: two policemen stood directing traffic beyond the pool of water as a workman was setting up temporary traffic lights and another started bombarding the tarmac with a pneumatic drill.  My head was spinning,
what the hell was I going to do
?

In a daze, I turned around and headed back to the café.  I sat at the same table, slumped in the chair, as if all my energy had suddenly deserted me.  The waitress came over and though I wasn’t hungry I felt obliged to put some money in the till, and asked for the all-day breakfast.  A few minutes later the greasy mass arrived. At first I just picked absent-mindedly at the occasional mushroom, but I soon discovered that I was actually hungry, and as the food began to fill my stomach my anxieties settled a little.

I began to think with greater clarity.  I doubted that the police would be there for long.  Presumably once the temporary traffic lights were up and running they would be on their way.  But I suspected the workmen would be there for some time, probably most of the day, if not longer.  To reach Musgrove’s flat I would practically have to climb over their tools and the mountain of tarmac and earth they were busy creating.  It just wouldn’t work.  I couldn’t risk them giving a description to the police once the body was discovered. 
Shit, shit, shit
, I said under my breath.  Today had to be the day, no question: my flight was in less than twenty-four hours. 

I finished the rest of the breakfast and started on a big mug of industrial-strength tea.  It fleetingly crossed my mind that I should forget all about it and head to Brazil for an extended holiday and try to put Musgrove behind me.  But within seconds I knew it wasn’t a viable option.  There would always be the threat that he’d go to the police, and maybe even more importantly, and quite simply, I wanted revenge.  

As I pondered my next step and drained the last of the tea, my mobile rang.  I knew who it was even before looking at the number. “Where the fuck are you, where’s my fucking money”, Musgrove yelled down the phone. 

Sensing his displeasure, for the first time that day I managed a smile at his obvious discomfort.  “My train was delayed. I’m still stuck in London at my friends’ house.  I’ll be up tomorrow.” 

There was silence on the other end and I could imagine Musgrove pacing round his flat, presumably withdrawing and desperately needing his pharmaceutical crutch. “You’d better not be messing with me, Julian, if I don’t get my fucking money I’ll be going to Patel ... You better fucking believe me.” 

I suspected he was telling the truth.  “Look, I’m sorry, there was nothing I could do about it, you’ll have your money tomorrow morning … by eleven, okay?”  The phone went dead.

For the next few minutes I sat at the table with my gaze fixed on the phone in my hand, as if it was going to provide guidance as to my next move.  Interrupting my thoughts, the waitress came over and removed the dirty plate and I gave her a couple of quid in tips; maybe the generosity would do something for my Karma.  I had less than twenty-three hours to kill Musgrove and get to the airport for my flight. 
What the hell was I going to do?
  Then it came to me in a flash of inspiration. Looking at the discarded morning paper on a neighbouring table, I realised it was Thursday, and Thursday, of course, for Musgrove, meant pub night.  If I could intercept him outside the Earl of Arundel pub and get him in the dark alley opposite, it could work.  It wasn’t perfect, not as discreet as his flat, but it would have to do.
What other choice did I have?
 

Staring out of the window from the back of the café, I watched as the distinctive figure of Musgrove appeared from the end of Stanley Road and made his way to the bus stop.  Presumably he was on his way to see his dealer and no doubt cursing the fact that I hadn’t turned up with his money.  I waited a few minutes until his bus departed, and then made my way back to 17b.  More workmen had arrived, along with a JCB digger; clearly this was no small job.  The temporary traffic lights were now functioning, and the police, thankfully, had already left, as I headed down the driveway and let myself into the bedsit. 

For the rest of the afternoon I paced the small room, struggling to sit still for more than a few minutes.  Musgrove arrived back home at little after 2:00 p.m. and I watched as he comically scaled the piled-up tarmac at the end of his drive.  Once inside the flat he went through his usual ritual of heroin followed by sleep.  I sat back in the chair and closed my eyes, trying to get some rest, but within seconds I was back up again and prowling the room. 

----

As the darkness slowly enveloped the flat, I watched as Musgrove woke from his drug-in
duced slumber.  I watched as he heated up baked beans and ate them straight from the pan.  I watched as he relieved himself, as always leaving his bathroom door open.  I watched as, early evening, he left the flat, climbed over the rubble at the bottom of his driveway and headed for the bus stop.  My hours of watching were almost over.   

----

The next couple of hours dragged slowly by.  I spent much of the time unnecessarily checking the contents of my rucksack.  At 9:20 p.m. I did a final inspection of the bedsit and wiped down the surfaces with gloved hands to remove any fingerprints.  Within thirty minutes I would be standing in the dark alley opposite the Earl of Arundel public house with a machete in my hand.  A further sixty minutes later Musgrove would be dead and I would be desperately running for my freedom, pursued through the streets by the police and thanking God that I’d had the foresight to make a contingency plan.

Chapter 18

At 6:00 a.m. exactly I scramble out of the Kinder Scout bolt-hole for the last time.  With my belongings stacked outside, I do a final check to make sure that I’ve not left anything behind and then carefully block the entrance with rocks as I say my farewells to my sanctuary of the last six months.  Despite the apprehension for whatever lies ahead, there is the relief that the months of waiting are over and my journey has finally started. 

The sun is just beginning to rise above the horizon, and under the indigo sky I carefully negotiate the numerous rocks and ruts that litter the paths that will lead me off the plateau.  The early morning air is crisp and the cold breeze brings tears to my eyes as I press forward, struggling across the rough terrain with the two heavy rucksacks.  The heavier of the bags is on my back, the second I carry in my hand, and I swap periodically between each side when my hand and arm begin to ache.  After just a few minutes of walking, I’m out of breath and beads of sweat are forming on my brow.  I stop briefly to remove my jacket, tie it around my waist and put the now superfluous woollen hat in my trouser pocket. 

After a mile of hard walking I reach the first significant milestone of my journey: Mermaid’s Pool, a solitary deep-water pond which supposedly has a mythical connection to the Atlantic Ocean which renders it poisonous to the wildlife and sheep that graze the area. Seeming almost to confirm the legend, the carcass of a dead sheep can be seen at the far edge of the pond, with its partially decomposed head gently bobbing up and down as the wind ripples the water’s surface. Folklore has it that staring into the water grants a vision of the future ... but nope, as hard as I try, it’s not working for me.

My hand is aching and the skin reddened with numerous indentations caused by the rough straps of the rucksack digging into my flesh.  I drop the bag on the ground and rub my palm to get the blood flowing again.  After checking that I’m still alone, I climb on top of a waist-high rock at the edge of the perfectly still and eerily dark water.  I remove the rucksack from my back, and after taking a moment to get my balance I spin on the spot and, not unlike a shot putter, hurl it into the water, letting out a steroid-infused grunt any Russian athlete would be proud of.  The bag floats for a few seconds and then disappears, satisfyingly accompanied by air bubbles rising to the surface.  After a minute or so the bubbles cease and I jump off the boulder and move closer.  With the toes of my boots getting splashed with water, I see nothing of the bag in the darkly peat-stained abyss. 

With less weight to carry, my stride lengthens and I continue with renewed purpose.  In the far distance I can just make out the first of the day’s hikers, a man and a woman, their brightly coloured jackets contrasting with the subtle browns and greens of the moorland.  They’re heading away to the east and I can’t help but feel a sense of reprieve that our paths won’t cross, even though I know I’ll meet hundreds of people during the course of the day, everyone of them having the potential to recognise me from my earlier notoriety in the media.  Perhaps strangely, despite the huge risks that I’m taking, I feel calmer than I’d expected.  I suppose my philosophy, if you can call it that, is that I’ve done all I can to achieve success and now I just have to hope for a desirable outcome.

I pass the first rambler a little before 8:00 a.m.  We acknowledge each other with a nod and a brief smile.  The man is of retiring age and uncomfortably reminds me of David Stead.  He slows his pace, presumably expecting me to stop and chat about the beautiful spring weather, but I put my head down and carry on walking.  Within a few minutes, I pass a second and a third rambler, and then a fourth, and before long I lose count.  Nobody gives me a second glance and I feel reassured that my whereabouts do not appear to be at the fore of the rest of the world’s consciousness.  Feeling more confident, at the next stile and while waiting momentarily for an elderly couple to pass through, I utter my first words to a living soul for months: “Good morning.”  Hardly profound, but it feels good to reconnect with society, albeit in a small way.

I press on, and even with the heavy rucksack I practically break into a jog and cover the route far quicker than I’d anticipated.  By 10:15 a.m. I reach the small village of Edale nestled at the bottom of Kinder Scout.  The village marks the start of the Pennine Way, a 240-mile walk that dissects much of northern England.  As always there are numerous tourists and hikers milling about as I pass the handful of quaint cottages, a couple of pubs and a convenience shop.  Within five minutes I arrive at the two-track train station, and with no ticket office or barrier I head straight for Platform 2, following the rusty and weather-beaten sign: “Trains to Manchester.”  I pass through a damp and poorly lit underground walkway, which takes me below the tracks, before climbing the steps to Platform 2.  Opposite me on Platform 1, a throng of people are already waiting as a train is just pulling in, heading for Sheffield away to the south east.  With the train boarding, I turn my back on the passengers just ten metres away, always conscious that I might be recognised, and focus my gaze away into the distance.  After a minute or so, the train departs and I’m left alone on the platform.  I move over to the small corrugated metal waiting area that looks like a Second World War air-raid shelter.  The structure is open at the front and contains wooden benches arranged in a U shape, sufficient for around ten people to take refuge from the elements.  On the back wall of the shelter, a timetable is attached to a notice board with drawing pins, and I scan through to find the next departure to Manchester.  From my research of six months earlier, I know that at this time of day trains run almost hourly, and although I’ve plenty of time before my flight, I’m relieved to find that I’ve only forty minutes to wait.  Taking a seat on the bench, I begin to feel the chill in the air as my sweaty shirt clings to my skin, and I put my jacket and the woolly hat back on.

Despite feeling more relaxed than I have in days, with my obsessive disposition I can’t resist re-checking the contents of what will be my hand luggage when I get to the airport.  I take out the small black canvas bag that I shoved in the top of the rucksack, and look inside; unsurprisingly my passport, or rather the passport of Mr James Andrew Bosworth, the envelope of US dollars and plane ticket are exactly as I’d left them a couple of hours earlier.  I verify the details on the passport, though I committed them to memory months ago. 
James Andrew Bosworth, date of birth 14/10/1969
.
I silently repeat the details several times, attempting to sound convincing as I put the bag back in the rucksack.

Over the next thirty minutes, passengers begin to accumulate on the platform.  Many are weekend shoppers, predominantly teenage girls huddled in groups, plus a few football supporters wearing United shirts, all heading for the metropolis of Manchester.  Several people join me in the shelter, though nobody speaks.  After my weeks of solitude, I’m aware that I’ve developed the habit of vocalising my thoughts, probably a means to abate any feelings of loneliness.  But now in the company of others, I find myself repeatedly and rather bizarrely interrogating facial expressions, attempting to confirm that my “thoughts” are not overheard. 
Hey baldy
, I silently scream; to my relief, the follicley-challenged gentleman opposite is oblivious.

Five minutes before the train is due, a middle-aged woman with a yappy Jack Russell terrier takes a seat opposite me.  She feeds her dog a titbit and then takes a copy of the
Daily Telegraph
from her large over-the-shoulder bag.  With the dog irritatingly buzzing round her ankles, she spends a few minutes reading the front page before turning her attention to the glossy weekend supplement.  On the front is a photograph of a scantily clad young woman with microphone in hand, above it written: “The world’s most famous pop diva?”  I’ve no idea who she is, and have the feeling that the world has moved on in my six months of isolation. With the realisation of my ignorance, I try to reacquaint myself with society and begin to read the first line of the article: “US chart sensation visiting UK …” but with the effort required to read upside down I quickly lose interest.  In any case, even if I hadn’t been buried in a hole for God knows how long, I doubt that I’d have recognised her.  Helen had always been into pop culture, but not me. The woman skips through the rest of the magazine but is interrupted by the dog as it yaps at the sound of barking coming from further down the platform.  “Quiet, Sniffy, Quiet.”  As the dog ignores her pleas and continues its tirade she puts the magazine on the empty seat next to her and tries to calm her companion.  The wind catches the pages of the magazine and it drops to the floor, falling open in the middle.  I absent-mindedly glance at the pages, upside down from my perspective, and almost instantaneously, like being injected with a syringe of adrenaline, I feel a pounding in my chest. The photograph is taken from my university ID, and next to it the headline: “Still Running?”  My new-found confidence deserts me in a second, and I close my eyes in that childlike way of making oneself invisible, and pray that I’m not recognised. 

After a minute or so Sniffy settles and the woman picks up the magazine and closes it.  She puts it back in her bag, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she’s sitting opposite a fugitive.  But it does nothing to alleviate my anxiety.  Clearly my story is not out of the pubic eye, and although the dog-lady didn’t recognise me, others might.  Sniffy begins to take an unwanted interest in my left boot, and in my paranoid state it flickers across my mind that he’s recognised me.  I quickly dispense with the idea and reprimand myself for such stupidity as I urge myself to stay calm. 

In the distance, probably a couple of miles down the long straight section of track, I can just make out the train as it exits the tunnel that cuts through Dore Hill.  I use it as a cue to leave the shelter and head for the front of the platform.  It takes another two or three minutes before it finally pulls into the station, and I board the first of the two carriages and move as far away from the woman and Sniffy as possible.  The carriage is at most half full, and I find an empty seat and immediately turn my head towards the window, my gaze concentrated on the plateau of Kinder Scout.  As I look towards the site of my home of the last six months, my thoughts are still obsessing over the magazine article, and I know that my hope of an uneventful journey could be sorely over-optimistic. 

The train leaves Edale station at the scheduled departure time of 10:37 a.m., due to arrive in Manchester Piccadilly Station at 11:02 a.m.  After a few minutes the conductor moves down the centre of the train collecting fares and checking pre-booked tickets.  I find his dark uniform unnerving; it represents an authority figure of sorts, an unpleasant reminder of the police and security I’ll face at the airport.  I pay for the ticket, the conductor giving no indication of recognition, his only comment: “Change at Manchester Piccadilly, Platform 3,” as he moves on down the train.  With my rucksack held tight on my lap, I close my eyes and lean my head against the window, finding the gentle vibration soothing. 

I open my eyes with a start as the brakes of the train squeal shrilly as it pulls into the Manchester Piccadilly.  With many of the passengers already queuing at the doors, I’m amazed that I’ve been able to sleep in my wired state. Nevertheless, I feel all the better for it.  I exit the train and follow the signs for Platform 3, at the far side of the station.  En route I pass a newsagent’s stand and pick up a copy of the
Telegraph
.  With another twenty minutes to wait for the connecting train, I move to the end of the platform and lean against one of the massive concrete structures supporting the roof.  Out of the gaze of the numerous CCTV cameras and the police patrols, I turn to the middle pages of the supplement and begin studying the article. I’m relieved to find that there’s nothing new of substance and that it’s largely a rehash of what had been in the media months ago.  As far as I can tell, the only relevance of the timing of the article is that it is approaching the one-year anniversary of the deaths of Helen and the boys.  I carefully reread the article and smile to myself at the last paragraph, which discusses several suspected sightings of “the fugitive”, mostly in Spain and North Africa. Also interesting, the reporter suggests that I may have committed suicide.  I’m pleased, of course, that the description of my demise is somewhat exaggerated, but would have much preferred not to have my picture plastered over the media at the time when I’m making my bid for freedom.

After fifteen minutes an empty train pulls in, but the doors remain closed while cleaners with mops and black bin-bags do their work.  The train is a direct service to the airport, and the platform quickly fills with holiday-makers with their hotchpotch of non-matching luggage, student backpackers, and the occasional businessman.  I study my reflection in the window of the carriage; with rucksack and walking gear I look as if I’ve just completed a long-distance hike.  My appearance is fine for now but not the ideal look to blend in with the other travellers at the airport.  In an attempt to make myself more congruous, I take off my mud-spattered gaiters, the waterproof sleeves protecting the bottom of my trousers, remove my thick Berghaus jacket and woolly hat, and run my fingers through my hair.  I re-check my appearance and feel satisfied: clean boots, jeans and short-sleeved shirt; reasonably smart and, more importantly, nondescript – eminently forgettable.