Текст книги "Bolt-hole"

Автор книги: A. J. Oates

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

 

 

 

 

 

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.

The train doors open and I join the mass of humanity boarding.  It’s standing room only and I lean against the window and turn to face the outside to obscure my identity from my fellow travellers. Within thirty minutes we arrive at the airport.  I wait for half the carriage to empty, and then, keeping my head down, I join the middle of the pack.  As I step off the train, the crowd of people in front of me parts, and when I look up I find myself faced by two policemen with automatic weapons strapped to their chest.  I slow my step – have they come for me?  As I work out my next move I get nudged in the back by an impatient passenger, and I reluctantly walk towards the police as they stare straight at me.  I hold my breath, waiting for some sort of response, but amazingly they seem totally unaware and simply turn away.  Barely reassured, I walk past them, my knees almost buckling as I follow the signs for Terminal 2.

Passing via an overhead glass-walled walkway, I reach the terminal within five minutes and head straight for the privacy of the toilets.  As I walk through the door of the Gents, I view my reflection in the full-length mirror.  Again I’m satisfied: hair neatly trimmed, clean-shaven, smart clothes with not too many creases, my skin is a little pale after the weeks of subterranean living but not to the degree that would attract attention.  I wash my hands, rinse my face in the basin, and lock myself in the end cubical.  I sit on the toilet lid and open the top of the rucksack, removing the rolled up fabric hand-luggage.  After again checking the contents, I put the two envelopes of cash in my trouser pockets, leaving just the passport and plane ticket in the small bag, and then head back to the main check-in area.

Still three hours before the flight, the check-in desk has yet to open but already there’s a queue of ten or so people.  I join the back of the line and take slow deep breaths, ever conscious of the numerous CCTV cameras in the rafters of the huge building.  Within a few minutes the desk opens, and then shortly after I’m ushered to the front by an officious woman coordinating matters.  I place the rucksack on the conveyor belt and give my ticket and passport to the young man behind the desk.  He carefully studies the ticket and passport but barely acknowledges me.  Normally his indifference would irritate me, but today I’m more than a little grateful.  After the usual questions – “Did you pack the bag yourself?” et cetera – he gives me two boarding passes: Manchester-Heathrow and Heathrow-Rio de Janeiro.

With boarding passes in hand I’m on my way.  I follow the arrows for the departure lounge, which first takes me via the security checkpoint.  Walking past two more armed policemen, my gait feels unnatural and awkward, almost as if I’m concentrating too hard to appear normal.  In front of me are four parallel rows of metal detectors and X-ray machines, and then, immediately beyond them, two small stands with security officers checking passports.  There are no other passengers waiting, and I feel the eyes of the numerous security officers fixed on me.  With my hand shaking, I place my wallet, watch and bag in the black tray on the rollers of the X-ray machine and then walk towards the metal detector.  I say a silent prayer that the buzzer stays quiet.  I know I don’t have anything that can be construed as a weapon, but I can’t help worrying that if something innocuous, even a zip or a metal button, triggers the alarm they’ll want to search me.  Then they’ll almost certainly find the $25,000 stuffed in my trousers, which will doubtless lead to unwanted questions and scrutiny.  My heart is pounding and I feel light headed as my anxiety begins to escalate. Jesus … Julian, calm down, calm down, I urge.  I slowly step through the detector, all the time waiting for the buzzer to sound, but miraculously all remains quiet.  Stunned that I’ve made it through to the promised land, I pause for a split second before a bored-looking security woman gestures with her hand-held metal detector for me to collect my stuff from the tray that had been spewed out of the X-ray machine.

I head for Passport Control and an unsmiling security man perched behind a small podium.  The man acknowledges me with a nod and takes my passport before staring intently at me and then at the photograph.  More beads of sweat form on my brow and quickly begin to drip off the end of my nose and chin.  “That’s fine, sir, have a good flight.”  I try to respond, knowing a simple thank you will be sufficient, but I suspect that if I open my mouth I’ll be sick.  Instead I just nod and turn to follow the directions to the flight gates.  I cover no more than a few steps, when from behind me, a voice punctuates the silence. “Sir, sir, wait, please.”

Unsure what to do, I continue walking.  Again the voice, now louder and more forceful, “Sir … sir … wait.”  Panic begins to set in as I feel the other passengers staring in my direction.  For better or worse my brain says to run, but I just stop, frozen to the spot.  Again from behind me, and louder still: “SIR, SIR … wait … wait … your passport, you’ve left your passport.”

Slowly I turn to face him and force a smile of sorts, raising my eyebrows as if to acknowledge my stupidity. “Sorry, sorry, I’m distracted, a bit nervous of flying.”  He nods back at me. “No problem.”  As I extend my hand to take the passport I spot a collection of photographs pinned to the back of the high desk behind him.  Normally obscured from the view of passengers as they pass through, my eyes are immediately drawn to the picture top right.  Stunned, it takes a second for me to take in what’s in front of me … taken from my university ID badge, my now ubiquitous photograph seems to be everywhere.  I attempt another smile, take the passport from his outstretched hand, and turn away.  I hurriedly leave the security area and head for nearest toilet and the first empty cubicle, where I’m promptly sick into the bowl.

I sit on the closed toilet lid wondering how much longer I can keep going.  It crosses my mind to give up, hand myself in, anything to put an end to my suffering.  But the second I picture Musgrove’s face, I dismiss the idea.  Even from the grave and presumably his hell, there’s no way I can give him the satisfaction of my failure.

After thirty minutes, and feeling more composed, I leave the cubicle and head over to the washbasin.  My face is flushed with anxiety and exhaustion, but at least it gives some colour to my otherwise sallow complexion.  I splash my face with water, icy cold against my hot skin, dry myself off with a paper towel, and then reluctantly leave to face the world again.

 

 

 

–

 

 

 

My flight to Heathrow boards on time.  As I enter the plane my heart skips more than a few beats as I see a stack of complementary Daily Telegraphs in the arms of the attendant in the doorway.  I take a copy, a futile act, but at least there’s one less in the hands of a potential whistleblower.  Almost as soon as we’re airborne the plane levels off, and shortly after we begin the descent into Heathrow.  I don’t want to leave the plane.  Somehow I feel safer in the air as I remember all those days on Kinder Scout looking skyward, watching as the planes flew overhead and imagining their destinations.  The plane lands and I make the journey between terminals on a cramped shuttle bus.  I have a little over an hour to kill and spend the time hidden away in a toilet cubicle, only exiting when a tannoy announces the boarding of my flight.  I follow a moving walkway and then come to another security check.  I hand over my passport and boarding pass, but the officer barely glances at the photograph before handing it back.

I can now see the gate, fifty metres or so in the distance.  There’s already a large group of people waiting, almost blocking the entire concourse.  Getting closer, my heart begins to pound and the nausea quickly returns as I see at least a handful of figures wearing yellow fluorescent jackets within the mass of passengers.  As they turn, the word “Security” emblazoned across their backs yells out at me.  I continue walking, but slow my pace as they turn to face me and begin to approach.  Now closer still, amongst the crowd I can see a heavy police presence, probably at least five or six, many of them armed.  I glance over my shoulder as my world begins to fall apart; just twenty metres or so behind, more police and security are converging on me in a huge pack.  I turn around to find an escape route, but other than jumping the barrier of a gate and taking my chances running across the tarmac, there is no obvious place to run.  I’m surrounded.

“Passenger Mr James Bosworth … Mr James Andrew Bosworth … Please approach the desk at Gate 47,” the public address system blasts out.  After six months of waiting, and close to a year of preparation, my plan is falling apart.  I smile to myself, and then laugh out loud.  Accepting the inevitable, my anxiety dissipates.  There’s nothing more I can do.  Of course, I’m not happy, but I suppose my principle emotion is a kind of satisfaction and pride that I’ve come so far. I haven’t let myself down, and more importantly I haven’t let Helen and the boys down.

I wait for a command from the police to stop, but instead I feel a vicious blow in the middle of my back as a uniformed officer hits me hard with his shoulder.  The breath taken from me, I stumble forward, only just managing to stay upright.  Waiting for the next blow, I tense my muscles, knowing that to run is futile, and I turn halfway to face my pursuers in a final act of defiance.  “I’m sorry, sir,” the officer responds, almost meekly, stunning me by his reaction, before screaming “Back off!” to the photographer next to him and roughly pushing him to one side.

Still struggling for breath, I stand aside and let the mass of police, security and accompanying photographers pass through.  In the middle of the scrum is the diminutive figure of a young woman in dark sunglasses.  It takes me a second before I recognise her from the front cover of the Telegraph supplement: some American pop princess, I forget her name, on tour in the UK.

Shell-shocked and about to take a seat opposite Gate 47, there’s another call on the p.a., this time with more urgency than the earlier request.  “Mr James Bosworth, Mr James Bosworth on flight BA207 to Rio de Janeiro, please come immediately to the desk at Gate 47.”  I look around me; the police and security are now someway down the long concourse, and I approach the desk.  The attendant looks at me. “Mr James Bosworth?”

“Yes”, I respond, placing my passport and ticket in her extended hand.

She scans the ticket and passport before looking back at me. “Sir, economy has been overbooked, so we’ve upgraded you to business class.”  I stare back at her in silence, my nerves shattered. “Obviously at no extra charge,” she adds.

I smile back at her mumbling, “Thank you”, and take the passport and new boarding pass.

–

 

With my upgraded ticket in hand, I climb the luxuriously carpeted steps of the Boeing 747.  I’m greeted at the top by a pretty flight attendant with an enthusiastic smile. “Good morning, sir, can I take your boarding pass.”  I hand it to her and she takes me to my seat.  About to sit down, for the first time I realise the significance of the seat – 17b, the number of the flat in Rawlton.  I smile to myself at the irony as I sink back into the plush leather, stretching out my aching legs into the generous leg-room.

After a few minutes I glance around the cabin. Still only half the seats occupied with just five minutes to the scheduled departure time.  After showing several other passengers to their seats, the flight attendant returns. “Champagne before we depart, sir?”

“Yes, that would be great – thank you.” I take a glass from the silver tray she’s holding.  About to have a sip, it crosses my mind that I’m tempting fate: the plane is still on the ground and in home jurisdiction; the police could board at any minute.  But with the attendant smiling sweetly on, I relax a little; in any case, if the strong arm of the law were to appear now it would all be over. There’s nothing I can do about it, so why worry.  I indulge myself.

Within ten minutes the plane leaves the stand and begins to taxi across the apron.  Out of the corner of my eye, I keep checking the top of the staircase, alert to a visit from police or security, but there are to be no final unpleasant surprises.  A few minutes later the plane roars down the runway and there’s the distinctive hum as the wheels leave the tarmac and we’re airborne.  I’m not quite sure what to feel; should I feel pleased?  Yes, I’ve made it out, but I still don’t have my family back, and what does the future hold? I suppose part of me worries that my plan has been my raison d’être and that now, with its successful completion within touching distance, where will I go?, what will I do from here?

After the meal and a second glass of champagne, tiredness overwhelms the waves of melancholy.  I study the myriad of buttons on the seat arm, press a few randomly, and after some trial and error the foot-rest elevates and the back-rest reclines.  I snuggle down under the thick woollen blanket on the newly created bed, separated from the neighbouring seat by a full-length privacy shield.  In my last few seconds of wakefulness, the pretty stewardess comes over. “Are you comfortable there, sir?”

“Yes … Thank you,” I respond, looking round my cosy retreat. “It’s quite a little bolt-hole, isn’t it?”