Текст книги "Bolt-hole"

Автор книги: A. J. Oates

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

With the chainsaw still whining away, I can just make out the workman’s bobbing head at the bottom of the windscreen and the occasional stream of flying sawdust, but frustratingly I can’t see how much longer he’s going to be.  Again I curse my stupidity for deviating from my carefully constructed plan; I sense that my luck is finally running out as Glamour Boy finishes with the sports section and turns to the front of the paper.  Almost resigned to my fate, I’m desperate for the torture to end, and as he turns the page I suspect that even capture is better than the current uncertainty.  The walls feel like they’re closing in, and I hold my breath, one hand gripping the door handle, the other on my rucksack, in readiness for a speedy exit.  I watch, my body rigid with fear as he scans the page with my photo covering more than half of it.  I count the seconds as he stares at my picture, one … two … three … four … and then, to my utter disbelief, without looking up, he turns to the next page.

I take a hurried breath but my sense of relief is immediately punctuated by an ear-splitting whistling sound.  The driver and the three coppers turn to face me … should I run? But before I’ve time to make a decision, the driver is on his feet and walking towards me.  “You’ve triggered the alarm, mate … the emergency exit is open.”

I look down and see that my sweat-soaked hand has slipped off the handle and released the locking mechanism.  The driver reaches across me, opens the door wide into the road and then slams it shut. The alarm ceases on cue.  The third copper, Glamour Boy, is still staring at me; am I paranoid or is there a flicker of recognition in his eyes?  Loud knocking on the windscreen diverts the focus of his gaze and I realise the whine and rattle of the chainsaw has finally stopped.  With the words of the council worker, “Roads clear, lads,” the policemen jump off the bus, obviously relieved the waiting is over, and I watch traumatised as they head for their cars.

Within a few minutes the bus is moving again and the now segmented branch has been moved to the roadside, with just a pile of sawdust indicating where it had fallen.  I sit at the back of the bus, emotionally wrecked and struggling to hold myself together as the police cars peel off into the distance with their blue lights flashing.

Chapter 7

“Welcome to the Peak District National Park.”  The torrential rain has finally abated and there are blue, cloud-free skies in the distance as we pass the sign at the side of the road.  Twenty minutes after the bus got moving again we’ve officially left the Sheffield city boundary, though I’m in no state to celebrate the milestone, and sit with my head in my hands.  Despite the relief that I’ve not been recognised, the pounding in my chest and feelings of nausea are unrelenting and only compounded by the winding and undulating narrow country road.  I know the area well; if I stay on the bus it will take me at least three miles closer to Kinder Scout.  But I’m desperate for fresh air and ready to sacrifice the extra few miles to be rid of the stifling atmosphere of the bus.

I press the bell to signal to the driver to stop.  “We’re not at Owler Bar yet, mate,” he responds, looking at me through his mirror.

“I’m not feeling too great, I need some fresh air.”  I can picture my grey and sickly appearance as I reply.

Presumably his bus smelling of puke is the last thing he wants, and he adds quickly:  “Hang on mate, hang on, I’ll stop at the next safe bit of road.”

We go over the brow of a hill and around a sharp bend before pulling over on a straight section of road.  I gratefully climb off the bus with my head bowed, staring at the floor.  Behind me I hear the driver chuckling, followed by a final quip under his breath.

“I didn’t think my driving was that bad.”

I wait for the bus to pull away and then do a quick 360-degree survey of the area.  On both sides of the road there is a patchwork of fields divided by dry stone walls, and beyond them in the distance, probably two or three miles away, the rough terrain and bracken of the open moorland begins.  Immediately next to me is a field with a herd of Friesian cows grazing on the lush grass.  After checking that I’m alone, I climb the metre-high dry stone wall and jump down the slightly greater distance on the other side, into the field.  With my head still spinning, I drop to my hands and knees and violently regurgitate the partially digested beans and biscuits from my breakfast.  I vomit continuously until my stomach is empty and my abdominal muscles begin to ache.  After sixty seconds or so the retching finally stops.  I wipe the spit from my chin with the back of my hand and lie face down in the long, rain-drenched grass, unconcerned that my clothes are getting soaked.  I close my eyes as the sun breaks through the clouds and gently warms my aching, angst-ridden body.

After a few minutes the crisp fresh air begins to alleviate my thick-headedness and I refocus on my current plight.  I check my watch, 11:45 a.m.  So far at least, I’m satisfied with my progress and estimate that I’ve covered close to ten miles since leaving Graves Park, with a further sixteen miles to the Kinder Scout bolt-hole.  Of course I regret not staying on the bus, but in my quest for anonymity, throwing up would undoubtedly have left an unwanted impression on both the driver and the other passengers.  In any case, I console myself, I’d never planned to catch the bus, and I’m probably several miles ahead of my original schedule.

I get to my feet too quickly and feel light-headed as I study the landscape around me.  At the far side of the field is a wooden stile leading to a narrow track that winds around an area of raised ground and heads off in the general direction of Kinder Scout away to the north-west.  I take out my OS map, unfold it and lay it out on the grass, now almost dry in the strong sunlight.  As I bend over the map, obscured from the road by the dry stone wall, I become aware of a vehicle moving at speed just a few metres behind me.  I turn and cautiously raise my head in time to see a Volvo estate police car driving past purposefully, with no siren but blue lights flashing.  In the front passenger seat, I recognise Carmichael, the overweight copper from earlier.  I can feel the emotional roller coaster beginning again; is it just a coincidence or are they onto me?  After just a few seconds thought, there is little doubt in my mind: it’s almost certainly the latter.

With renewed urgency I turn my attention back to the map and begin to identify some of the key landmarks.  I find Kinder Scout, probably twelve miles away as the crow flies, and then trace back following the quickest and most secluded route: down Crookstone Hill, the south side of Ladybower Reservoir, staying within the cover of the tree line, follow the edge of Bamford Moor, on to Burbage Rocks, drop down behind Fox House pub, beyond Owler Bar and finally to my current position. I realise that if I follow the path at the far side of the stile, within half a mile it intersects with the route I’d originally intended to take had my plans not been changed by the bus journey.  Satisfied with the new route, I pack the map away, shove my jacket into the rucksack and cautiously set off across the field heading for the stile.  As I reach the far side of the field the unmistakable wail of a police siren blasts out, the sound distorted by the swirling wind.  I hurdle the stile and then jump down the far side and crouch behind the dry stone wall.  From my secluded spot I watch through a crack in the wall as a grey Vauxhall Vectra, driving at speed with flashing blue lights built into the grill, comes over the brow of the hill, the front wheels airborne, following in the direction of the earlier marked car.  The lingering doubts I’d wishfully clung on to evaporate: they’re after me.  With the Vectra out of sight, I wait, listening, alert to more cars arriving.  But after thirty seconds all is quiet, at least for now, and I continue along the path.

I’m stunned that the police have arrived so quickly.  Presumably one of the officers, or maybe even the bus driver, belatedly recognised me and raised the alarm.  Whatever the truth, I’ve little doubt that within the hour the area will be flooded with police, so it’s imperative that I make good progress.  Another sixteen miles or so to go,  I make a quick calculation: assuming three miles per hour, all being well I’ll be at Kinder Scout in a little over five hours and before darkness falls on this shortening autumn day.  I know it’s not a particularly fast pace but the profile of the land doesn’t lend itself to rapid progress; the meandering path is littered with loose rocks and boulders, and is further narrowed by swathes of coarse bracken demanding numerous minor detours.  For a few hundred metres I attempt a more direct route and cut through the centre of the thick bracken and heather, but within minutes I’m exhausted and my thigh muscles burn as I struggle to make headway through the unforgiving vegetation.  Despite the rain of the last few days, back on the main path the ground underfoot is dry, the walking conditions almost perfect.  Many years earlier I’d walked the same path with a group of school friends.  The rain had been torrential for days and we’d walked in ankle-deep mud for much of the way.  I suppose I should be thankful for the small mercy that the early thunderstorm has abated.

Within ten minutes I reach a fork in the path and bear to the right in the direction of Kinder Scout.  Having walked most of the route several times before, I’ve little use for the map anymore.  From my previous trips, I know that the ground is undulating but relatively flat for the first ten miles but the last five miles or so require a climb of close to a thousand feet.  I suspect it is the latter that will be the real test, but I’ll worry about it later – I need to get there first.  In any case, I remind myself, the more inhospitable the terrain, the more difficult it will be for my pursuers to catch me.  I lengthen my stride and identify a steady rhythm as I dip my head and shoulders into the strong breeze.  Come on, Julian, come on, Julian, I urge, knowing that every step forward is a step closer to my sanctuary.

Walking along, I try and anticipate the likely strategy of my pursuers.  Presumably they’ll have stopped the bus within minutes and the driver will tell them where I got off.  From which point they’ll establish a search, most likely involving tracker dogs and a helicopter.  Like a few days earlier in Graves Park, my biggest fear is the eye in the sky, particularly in such an isolated area of countryside with few roads and little scope even for heavy-duty 4x4s.  For now all is quiet, but how long it stays that way is another matter.

I still feel feverish.  It’s like I’ve got a bad case of the flu, and the pain from my neck now extends into my shoulders and is certainly not helped by the constant rubbing of the rucksack.  I’m starting to get worried, really worried.  Maybe I’ll get too sick to carry on.  Maybe I won’t make it to my hideaway.  An old friend of my dad cut his hand while gardening, it got infected, and within three days he was in hospital, and after a week he was in the morgue. Jesus Christ, Julian, stop over-reacting, I admonish myself, sensing almost blind panic setting in.  With my mouth dry and lips sticking together, I stop as an underground stream surfaces in a small rocky clearing within the otherwise dense bracken.  Checking that I’m alone, I drop to my knees and fill my cupped hands with the crystal-clear water and pour it greedily into my mouth.  The ultimate natural spring water, the refreshing elixir immediately hits the spot, and just replenishing my body seems to help calm my mood.

After filling my water bottle I turn and look back in the direction of the road.  From the raised area of ground where I’m standing, I have an unimpeded view of several square miles.  I take out the binoculars from the front pocket of the rucksack and survey the scene through the powerful lenses.  The path I’ve just followed is completely deserted, but as I focus on the distance I can see two cars pulling up at the side of the road, the police Volvo with its fluorescent livery and the grey Vauxhall Vectra with blue lights still blazing away.  I drop to my belly and, hidden by the dense bracken, watch as three men get out, two in uniform and a third, from the Vectra, in a dark-coloured suit.  With his prominent overhanging beer belly, the distinctive form of PC Carmichael is unmistakeable.  He’s carrying a rolled-up newspaper, presumably the morning’s Metro, and seems involved in a heated exchange with the man in the suit, the latter gesticulating wildly. I struggle to focus on the suit’s face, and form a tripod, my elbows apart and planted firmly on the damp ground. Now that the figures are sharply in view, I immediately recognise him from his photo in the morning’s paper: with his weather-beaten features and bushy grey mop, Detective Superintendent Greene is very much the silver fox.  He’s clearly angry, his face flushed as he barks orders at the other two coppers and then into his mobile, before grabbing the paper from Carmichael and throwing it in his face.  The silver fox is not a happy man.

From the police pow-wow I scan the road towards Sheffield.  A mile or so back I can see a tractor pulling a trailer of livestock, but the road is otherwise deserted.  Tracing the road away from the city, in the far distance, just before it disappears from view beyond a sweeping bend, I can make out the number 218 single-decker parked at the roadside with a police car blocking its path.  The bus driver is leaning against the car smoking a cigarette as he talks to Glamour Boy, who’s taking notes in his little book.  For a final time I check back to the start of the path where Greene is still letting rip and jabbing his fingers into Carmichael’s chest.  I put the binoculars away, cautiously raise myself off the ground and onto my hands and knees, and then crawl through the bracken for close to fifteen metres, until I’m over the brow of the hill.  Satisfied that I’m way out of sight of the road, I get to my feet and continue along the path.  I have a weird feeling – anxious, of course, but also strangely exhilarated; the man-hunt is very much on, and with added impetus I begin to run.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 8

In the vast expanse of the Peak District countryside I’ve been walking for a little over an hour since the arrival of DS Greene and his colleagues.  Without daring to slow my pace, I glance over my shoulder, where the road and the start of the path are now well out of sight some four miles behind and obscured by a large hill.  Despite my continued anxiety and constant compulsion to check skyward for the police helicopter, the open space and beauty of the area is verging on the therapeutic.  Just a few miles from home, I’ve visited the Peak District many times: as a kid with my mum and dad, and then, in recent years, with Helen and the boys.

After the funerals six months ago I’d come here almost daily, probably in an attempt to identify with happier, more settled times.  Now, as then, I find the isolation and solitude reassuring.  The vastness is a reminder that my problems in the great scheme of existence are perhaps not as overwhelming as I sometimes fear.  As I walk, the stimuli to my senses, like listening to a well-remembered song, are linked inextricably with memories of my family.  I shudder involuntarily when I think back to the few days leading up to their funeral.  My emotions were completely flat and I was barely able to summon the mental strength to get out of bed. I spent the days lounging on the settee with the curtains closed and unwatched daytime TV in the background.  There were relatively few interruptions to my self-imposed solitude.  Debbie from work phoned a couple of times and then visited, bringing flowers and a sympathy card.  I also spoke several times on the phone to DI Patel.  His tone appeared a mixture of embarrassment and frustration, presumable because he’d not been able to move the case forward some three weeks since the hit-and-run.  He certainly didn’t fill me with optimism that justice would be served. “Unfortunately no witnesses have yet come forward, despite our numerous public appeals.  We’ve spoken to the owner of the vehicle, who claims it was being used by one of his employees at the time.  But this particular employee is not what we would describe as a reliable witness and states that the van was stolen from outside his flat while he was asleep.”

WPC Shaw also phoned a few times.  She’d been assigned the role of family liaison officer and it was her job to keep me up to date with how the investigation was progressing.  She’d been far more frank than Patel. “We’ve no doubt that the person driving at the time of the incident worked for the owner of the pick-up truck.  We’ve interviewed him several times but he’s denying everything and claims the truck was stolen.  Anyway, I’m sorry to say, with no forensic evidence or witnesses it’s going to be very difficult to bring charges.”

Perhaps surprisingly, I wasn’t particularly upset by the news; I was lost in my grief and basically of the opinion that finding who was responsible wouldn’t bring my family back.

In the immediate aftermath of the hit-and-run there had been massive interest from the media.  Within forty-eight hours the local reporters had picked up the story, and a further twenty-four hours later the national papers were on my doorstep.  One freelance journalist even pushed a business card through my door; on the back, written in red ink, “£5,000.”  Needless to say, I didn’t call and the card went straight in the bin.

Perhaps ironically, arranging the funeral became the single focus on which I could concentrate my attentions.  But prolonging my agony in a sense, the release of the bodies and consequently the funerals were delayed by the coroner’s request that post mortems be performed on all the bodies.  This delay seemed like the final insult, particularly to my sons, as their already crumpled bodies had to be subjected to further dismemberment.  With the bodies finally released, though, I could begin planning the funeral in earnest.  I’d considered having two separate services, one for my parents and a second for Helen and the boys, but ultimately I opted for a single funeral as I didn’t think my fragile emotional state would tolerate more than one battering.

The service was held in the local church just a stone’s throw from the site of the hit-and-run.  At first I’d had reservations about the venue, but in the end I decided that it was such a beautiful building that it seemed an appropriate place to mark the lives of my beautiful boys.  The small church was packed with many of my parent’s friends as well as our neighbours, and also teachers from William’s school, attending to pay their respects. Even an old school friend, James Bosworth, attended, though I didn’t recognise him at first.  He’d grown a ridiculous goatee beard and put on a good couple of stone since school days.  I was shocked by his reaction: he cried through much of the service, which seemed a bit over the top given that he’d never even met Helen and the boys.  I didn’t get the chance to speak to him: he disappeared before the end of the service.  I was also aware of James Kentish shedding his crocodile tears.  He’d been the headmaster at Helen’s last school before her maternity leave, and since I’d first met him at a school fundraising event several years earlier I’d never liked the slimy little man.  There was just something about him, though nothing specific that I could put my finger on; and subsequent events were only to reinforce my intense dislike of him.  Despite the numbness of my emotions, I was surprised by the intensity of my feelings at the sight of him, and I had the genuine desire to smash his face in.

With the funeral over I sank back into a trough of emptiness.  I didn’t necessarily feel depressed, just completely flat and devoid of feeling.  Rarely leaving the house, my only company was daytime TV and my elderly well-meaning neighbours, who occasionally brought round plates of food for my evening meal, though with no appetite, they often remained untouched.  Occasionally I would go to the boys’ bedrooms and lie on their beds, attempting to drink in the sweet smell from their pillows.  But even that simple act of reassurance became a source of anxiety as I irrationally began to worry that I would very soon wear away the scent and that another link with them would be lost forever.

It wasn’t until a week after the funeral that I opened the living room curtains for the first time, perhaps in recognition that I was ready to let the outside world into my existence.  I was sick and frustrated with life but didn’t know how to climb from my emotional black hole and begin the rebuilding process.  For thirty minutes I stood in the dining room looking through the French windows into the garden.  It was a beautiful spring morning.  The spiders’ webs in the grass were drenched in dew, and the daffodil bulbs my sons had planted were in full colour and doing their best to raise my spirits.  For the first time in days I had the desire for a change of scenery.  I needed fresh air and to be free of the confines of my isolation.  Half fearing that I would change my mind or lose momentum, I ran upstairs and pulled on a sweatshirt, grabbed the car keys and got in the car.

I began driving, but with no particular destination in mind – I just needed to get away.  Lost in my thoughts and memories, after a few minutes I found myself on the outskirts of the city and heading through Holmsfield towards the Peak District beyond.  I drove on the largely empty roads for close to thirty minutes before pulling into the car park of the Fox House pub, a popular restaurant with walkers visiting the surrounding countryside.  I turned the engine off and sat in the car watching the hikers, represented by little more than dots on the far horizon.

After an hour or so, on impulse, I left the car and began the walk up Burbidge Brook, a long shallow valley that climbs from the pub car park over a distance of two or three miles to a height of two hundred metres.  Wearing just a lightweight sweatshirt, jeans and trainers, I barely noticed the freezing wind scything through to my skin and causing my eyes to stream.  I passed numerous walkers but didn’t acknowledge them.  I kept my head down, lost in my thoughts as I tried to work out how my life had gone so wrong.  After an hour of hard walking I left the main path and waded through a short stretch of thick bracken to Burbage Rocks, a spectacular thirty-metre-high rocky ridge overlooking several miles of Hathersage Moor.  Calmly I stood on the edge of the ridge, teetering on the edge, my toes hanging over the abyss, knowing that a single step forward, or even the slightest gust of wind, would gift me certain death.  Normally far from comfortable of heights, for the first time in months I felt empowered by the ultimate luxury of having complete control over my life and my death.  I stood almost motionless for probably close to thirty minutes, staring down at the rocky ground far below and contemplating whether to take that small step forward.

–

It was dusk and a light rain had started to fall by the time I got back to the car.  Turning the key in the ignition, the dashboard display indicated 2oC and for the first time I began to feel the effects of the cold as I struggled to control my shivering body.  With the car heater on full blast and gradually warming through me, I sat for several minutes trying to understand why I hadn’t taken that small step, knowing that it would have put an end to my misery.

Even now looking back, it is still no clearer.  I’ve always had a certain ambivalence towards my own existence.  It’s not that I don’t value life, but the prospect of a break from myself has always held more than a little appeal.  But maybe even in those early days I knew that there was unfinished business and I needed a form of justice before I could move on.  Whatever the reason, that afternoon represented a turning point, and as I drove back home I had the reassuring realisation that if I couldn’t find a purpose or a reason to go on, my life had a get-out clause in the form of that small step off the edge.