Текст книги "Bolt-hole"

Автор книги: A. J. Oates

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Chapter 9

With daylight beginning to fail in the remoteness of the Peak District, the illuminated digits on my watch indicate 4:17 p.m.  I’ve been walking for close to ten long hours and, not daring to rest for any longer than a few minutes, exhaustion is beginning to take hold.  With the fatigue, coupled with the fever and the pain from my neck, I feel like death.  But despite my suffering, the relief that I remain a free man tempers my mood.  To my astonishment the police helicopter hasn’t appeared, and scanning the horizon in the gathering gloom I can see that there are still no pursuing officers on the ground.

Reaching the ruins of Crookstone Barn, I’m now just a mile short of my ultimate destination.  The final section involves a climb of around two hundred metres up an old Roman Road, a route I’ve taken many times before, including four occasions in the last month, when dropping off supplies.  On what is probably one of the least demanding paths to the summit, I would normally stop and take the time to marvel at the views of the mysterious peak of Lose Hill away to the south, and the awe-inspiring reflections on Ladybower reservoir beyond.  But of course today is different, and with darkness encroaching my only priority is to put one foot in front of the other and drive myself forward to my bolt-hole and to what I hope will be security.

I stop briefly to dig out a Yorkie bar from the bottom of the side pocket of my rucksack and take a huge bite, not so much out of hunger but more in a conscious effort to refuel my weary body.  I immediately start walking again and begin the climb up Crookstone Hill, following the well-trodden track up the east side of Kinder Scout.  Halfway up the hill my progress is abruptly haltered by a sudden searing pain in my calf, and I collapse to the ground.  I’m stunned by the intensity, and in my fatigue-ridden and paranoid state my first thought is that I’ve come under fire from a police marksman.  Reality quickly re-established, I realise that it’s just cramp and begin frantically massaging my lower leg to ease the pain, regretting that I’d not taken more fluids on board during the course of the day.  The pain is unrelenting, but within a minute I’m on my way again, struggling up the hill.

Forty-five minutes later I reach the summit of Kinder Scout just as the last of the daylight disappears.  With the moon hidden by the dense cloud and many miles from the nearest street lighting, I can barely see more than a few metres.  I stumble over the rocks littering the path and I’m desperate to switch on my torch, but now that I’m so close to the bolt-hole I daren’t risk the light giving me away.  Negotiating the darkness and battling against cramp, the final hundred metres to the bolt-hole takes almost as long as the previous half mile, but finally I reach my Nirvana at the fantastically named Madwoman’s Stones.

Sick with fever and exhaustion, I neurotically check over my shoulder one more time.  Reassured that I’m still alone, I remove the rucksack, and with the energy drained from me I slump to my knees and bow my head, almost as if offering a prayer of thanks.  In the darkness, and relying on my sense of touch, I crawl behind the distinctive rock that signals the entrance to my sanctuary.  It’s only now that I switch on the torch, but even so I keep my hand over the lens and it illuminates only half a metre or so in front of me.  I study each rock in detail and compare it with the almost photographic image in my head from when I was last here a little over a week ago.  Mercifully nothing has been disturbed, and I remove the rocks and make my way through the entrance.  The glorious feeling is of returning home after a long trip away to the relief and comfort of familiar surroundings.

Safely inside, I reposition the rocks behind me to secure the entrance and reduce the chances of inadvertent discovery.  The entrance area is about three metres long, 0.5 metres wide and 0.5 metres high; similar to the dimensions of the Graves Park bolt-hole.  But once I’ve negotiated the entrance, the remainder of the subterranean hideaway opens into a metre-high space that’s more than two metres across.  Far bigger than the Graves Park bolt-hole, it feels almost cavernous by comparison.

The Kinder Scout bolt-hole had always been a key feature of my contingency planning, a plan that had evolved from my worries that if for any reason I wasn’t able to reach the airport, I would have a secure place to hide out.  Though I’d always been totally committed to Musgrove’s untimely demise and confident that it was achievable, I was determined not to let complacency compromise my chance of future freedom.  Now, of course, I’m more than a little grateful for the foresight of such a contingency.

I’d always had a clear idea of the perfect bolt-hole.  It would be isolated, but at the same time somewhere I could reach on foot. I would be familiar with the area, and I must be able to live self-sufficiently for several months while the murder was newsworthy or the police investigation at its height.  I’d considered all the remote areas I’d previously visited: the Highlands of Scotland, Dartmoor and the Lake District.  In many ways they were ideal, but getting to these places, a good few hundred miles from home, would be difficult, particularly if the police were giving chase.  Then I remembered my last visit to Kinder Scout in the Peak District just a few days earlier.  The place was isolated and remote, yet within a hard day’s walking, and it had the added advantage that I’d been there numerous times.  Just picturing the area in my mind, I’d remembered a hiking trip to the plateau of Kinder Scout some twenty-five years earlier while in the Boy Scouts.  We’d spent several hours fox-holing, as we called it at the time, a game that involved hiding in and around the numerous stacks of boulders that were strewn across the landscape as if flung by an angry giant.

One of these massive structures in particular was imprinted on my memory.  Bizarrely, it resembled a massive distorted face presumably formed after thousands of years of exposure to the fierce elements.  In school at the time we’d talked about abstract art with our trendy art teacher, and my friends and I had called the distinctive feature Picasso’s Head.  Inside there was a large cavity that had been a godsend in a game of hide-and-seek, and although even as a kid in my early teens it wasn’t big enough to stand fully upright, I suspected it was big enough to hide out in relative comfort.  If I stocked it with food, sufficient for six months or so, and with plenty of fresh water from the nearby streams, it offered the ideal solution.

From the outside the structure is no different to the numerous other haphazard stacks of boulders that litter this part of the “dark peak”.  As a child, I explored many of the piles of rocks while on visits with my parents or more often as a teenager with the Boy Scouts.  We spent hours climbing the stacks, some containing boulders as large as ten metres across, pretending each was the summit of Everest.  In school geography classes we studied the Peak District, and some twenty-five years later I’m amazed how much I can still remember.  I can picture the brown corduroy trousers and checked shirt, and hear the monotone voice of my geography teacher, Mr Willis: “The Peak District covers an area of over five hundred square miles, quiet at the back there, and is bordered by the industrial conurbations of Sheffield and Manchester.  The geology of the land separates the area into the dark and light peaks, the former formed by millstone grit and the latter by carboniferous limestone.”  I smile to myself: after all these years God only knows why I still remember these irrelevant facts.  At the time, as a thirteen-year-old, I was far from thrilled with geography, but studying this area of the District held my boyish interest, largely because of the unusual-sounding names of the landmarks in the area.  I recall one particular geography lesson when Mr Willis had handed out photocopied maps and we’d all been intrigued by place names like Madwoman’s Stones, Mermaid’s Pool, Ringing Roger and Pym Chair, and had tried to imagine the stories behind such evocative names.

Now some twenty years on from the innocence of my schooldays, secure inside the bolt-hole with the entrance blocked by rocks, I sit exhausted in the deeper, larger section of my new home.  Although not able to stand fully upright, I can kneel comfortably without risk of suffering a head injury, as would undoubtedly have been the case in the Graves Park bolt-hole.  I gratefully remove my boots and soaking wet socks, and under the torchlight inspect my blistered, red and swollen feet.  They’re in desperate need of a good soak, but I have no such luxury.  Almost too tired to move, I lean over to the back of the bolt-hole and find the two large rucksacks I’d hidden behind a collection of loose rocks a few days earlier.  I drag out my sleeping bag from inside the first rucksack, and then a Gore-Tex bivvy bag, a large waterproof sack made of breathable fabric.  I briefly consider preparing a boil-in-the-bag camping meal that I’d stashed away, but tiredness rather than hunger is my overwhelming emotion and I crawl fully clothed into the sleeping bag and then awkwardly manoeuvre myself into the larger bivvy bag.  Too exhausted to even unfurl my cushioned sleeping mat, I lie on the damp and rocky floor and pull the hood of the sleeping bag over my head.  After all I’ve been through in the last few days, I still can’t quite believe that I’ve made it.  Gripped by exhaustion, within seconds I’m asleep.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 10

My first morning in the Kinder Scout bolt-hole, I wake abruptly to the beeping of the 6:00 a.m. alarm on my watch.  Initially disorientated in the total blackness, it takes a few seconds to realise where I am, and, to my amazement, that I’ve been asleep for almost twelve hours.  It’s probably the first time since the hit-and-run that I’ve slept through the night undisturbed by horrific dreams and picturing the boys crumpled bodies.

Despite the good night’s sleep I feel horrendous.  My neck is on fire and the smell coming from the wound is like rotting fish.  I slowly adjust my position, trying to get more comfortable, but searing pain immediately shoots through my body.  As I try and breathe through the pain, I realise that my sweatshirt bottoms are soaking wet and it crosses my mind that I’ve pissed myself.  But then, as my body starts to shake and I touch my red hot skin, I realise that sweat is leeching from every pore.  Jesus, what’s happening to me?

For a frustrating thirty seconds or so I fumble in the darkness searching for my torch, eventually finding it at the bottom of the sleeping bag.  With the light on, and studying my flushed reflection in the tiny compact mirror, I gingerly begin to peel off the crepe bandage covering the gash in my neck.  The smell is overpowering as thick yellow pus oozes from the dressing and my thinking begins to fog and the walls of the bolt-hole spin.  I grit my teeth and remove the last of the bandage, which is stuck to my skin with congealed blood and pus, but seemingly with the adhesive properties of Superglue.  I lie back down on the sleeping bag, taking a few seconds to recover and to stifle the nausea, before again going to work to clean the wound with baby-wipes.  The process takes a good hour, with frequent rests when the pain or nausea becomes too much to bare.  Eventually the edge of the gaping wound is clean, and with a final surge of effort I douse it in antiseptic TCP.  The second the fiery liquid hits the raw wound edges, acidic vomit fills my mouth and I lurch to one side to avoid puking on my sleeping bag.

As the urge to vomit finally subsides, I lie back down taking slow deep breaths.  I can’t believe I feel so bad.  As a kid I’d had a burst appendix and spent two weeks in hospital, but I’m sure it was never as bad as this.  I’m getting really worried.  This is no ordinary infection: the vomiting, the fever, the stinking pus, and now the shaking.  Blood poisoning, or septicaemia, I think is the medical name for it, and I know that you can die without proper antibiotics.  I have a weird, edgy feeling that the bolt-hole might prove to be some kind of tomb.  Maybe I’ll be discovered fifty years down the line, all desiccated and shrivelled in my final resting place.

With paranoid fear beginning to kick in, I reach for my rucksack and remove the small first-aid kit.  In amongst the plasters, bandages and miscellaneous other stuff are several strips of antibiotics.  The names I can barely pronounce: metronidazole, cefuroxime, co-amoxicillin.  Most of them I’d picked up from my parents’ bathroom cabinet, stockpiled by my mum after she had a nasty tooth abscess.  Although I’ve no idea of the proper dose, I take two of each of the antibiotic tablets plus the painkillers ibuprofen, paracetamol and codeine for good measure, and then wash the mouthful down with water.  I lie back on the sleeping bag, desperately trying not to be sick as my body continues to shake.

–

I wake in the bolt-hole with the sleeping bag round my ankles.  I’m unbelievably cold, and starving hungry, but feeling infinitely closer to life than in my previous recollection of consciousness.  My neck is still sore but much improved, and the fever and shaking have settled.  Sitting up, I check the illuminated face of my watch.  It’s 7:10 a.m., but I’m shocked when I see the date: 11th October.  I’ve been in the Kinder Scout bolt-hole for over forty-eight hours, and I’ve no idea where the time has gone. I can only imagine that the fever combined with the painkillers and antibiotics knocked me out to the extent of some sort of near-coma.  With the smug satisfaction that I feel so well, other than being freezing cold, I pull the sleeping bag snugly around me and over my head, and curl into a ball to conserve heat.

The warmth gradually begins to seep through me, and after a few minutes I stretch out and my hand finds the torch lying in the sleeping bag next to me.  I flick the switch on and off several times but nothing happens.  I reluctantly lean out of the warmth of the sleeping bag and cautiously extend my hand in the total darkness to feel for the two rucksacks at the back of the bolt-hole.  After a few seconds I find the first, unzip the top pocket and take out spare batteries. The torch illuminates my underground sanctuary and I’m further reminded, if it were needed, of the icy temperature as the water vapour in my breath immediately condenses in the air.  With the insulating effect of the thick walls, I’ve no doubt that the sun-starved bolt-hole will remain on the chilly side of comfortable, irrespective of the weather outside.  Wedged with a few small pebbles, I jam my torch in a small crevice in the rocky side wall and adjust the aperture of the lens to produce a broad shaft of light that illuminates much of the bolt-hole.  I scan around me, studying the numerous massive boulders that form much of the structure that will be my home for the next six months.  The floor is a single large boulder with a flat upper surface that cuts into the side of a gently sloping hill.  As I turn towards the entrance, the damp peat surface of the hill provides the wall on the left hand side.  The walls to the right and that behind me, the furthest from the entrance, are composed of several large boulders, the gaps between which are blocked with numerous smaller rocks, providing a barrier to the outside that is probably close to a metre thick.  A single large boulder also forms the ceiling such that ultimately the arrangement of rocks and boulders has, presumably by some fluke of nature, created a wind– and rain-proof box that is no doubt capable of withstanding a nuclear explosion.

I’m famished.  Other than the occasional chocolate bar, I’ve not eaten a proper meal for more than four days.  Even the baked beans and biscuit breakfast on the day of my commute to my new abode have mostly re-seen the light of day after the psychological trauma of the bus journey.  I reach behind me for one of the bottles of icy cold water that I dropped off the previous week.  After taking a swig, I fill a small saucepan and begin heating it on a gas camping stove, warming my cold hands over the flame at the same time.

Waiting for the water to boil, I drag over the second of the rucksacks.  I’m still surprised at how heavy it is, even though I know what is contributing to much of the weight.  In the bottom compartment is a waterproof polythene bag containing close to a hundred packs of high-calorie camping meals. I reach into the bottom of the bag and pull out the pack closest to hand and read the label – “Lancashire hotpot. That’ll do nicely” – and then place the food in its thick aluminium packaging into the saucepan.  With the water only just beginning to boil, I’m already salivating, and unable to wait a second longer than is absolutely necessary I set the timer on my watch to exactly ten minutes.

With breakfast beginning to heat through, I unfold a large tarpaulin sheet and cover the rocky floor and part of the gently sloping side wall consisting of damp earth.  On top of the tarp I empty the contents of both the rucksacks plus the small bag I carried with me from Graves Park.  Facing the mountain of stuff in front of me, I’m slightly taken aback at how much I’ve been able to accumulate, but with six months to survive my belongings probably aren’t excessive.  In the far corner of the bolt-hole I sort my possessions into piles: clothing, food, including four large bottles of drinking water, cooking equipment with spare gas canisters, and toiletries.  I also have a gardening trowel that I’ll use to dig a small latrine and to bury any other waste.  I smile to myself; just arranging the things gives the place a slightly more lived-in and homely feel, though I suspect it isn’t quite ready for a feature in Home and Garden.

With the water bubbling away and just a few more seconds for the food to finish heating, I have the sudden and almost shocking realisation that in the fifteen minutes or so that I’ve been awake I haven’t given a moment’s thought to DS Greene and my police pursuers.  Presumably the fact that they’re not at the forefront of my thinking reflects my growing sense of security; for the first time in days, my nerves aren’t stretched to breaking point.  My thoughts are interrupted by the beeping of my watch and I grab the food pack from the pan, shake off the boiling water, and with the small scissors on my Swiss army knife, remove the top of the package.  I burn my hands on the hot pack, and put on a pair of woollen gloves before tasting the near-scalding food.  I’ve eaten this brand of food packs before, though not this particular variety, and found it completely acceptable; but today I struggle to remember when food ever tasted as good.

Greedily finishing the meal, I place the foil wrapping in a thick plastic bag ready for disposal later, then add a teabag to the saucepan of water, which is still close to boiling.  After a minute or so I spoon in powdered milk, and then sip the hot tea straight from the saucepan.  Savouring the moment, I feel a sense of pride that I’ve come so far and although I haven’t reached my ultimate destination I’m still free.  I certainly don’t feel any satisfaction that I killed Musgrove, but I console myself that, in the grand scheme of existence, the world is no worse a place for his absence.

With the tea sufficiently cooled I take a small handful of the unpronounceable antibiotic tablets and the painkillers, and struggle to swallow them down.  It reminds me of Helen’s aversion to taking the huge pregnancy vitamin tablets, or “horse tablets” as she used to call them.  I dare not think what the concoction is doing to my internal organs, but I’ll give anything to stave off my experience of the last few days.  I finish my drink and then turn my attention to my neck wound.  As I did a couple of days earlier, I peel off the bloodstained bandage and then clean the wound with baby-wipes.  The soreness remains, but the amount of pus is far less and the surrounding redness has also settled – maybe I’ll live after all.  I rinse the wound with antiseptic solution while biting down on a pair of socks to control the agony, and then apply a new dressing.

With housekeeping matters taken care of, I switch off the torch to conserve my battery supply, and wait for the next radio news bulletin on the hour.  Within the near-total darkness, the substantial walls obliterate any sound from outside and I feel eerily isolated from the wider world.  In contrast to the Graves Park bolt-hole, a helicopter could be hovering a few feet above me and I suspect I’d be completely oblivious.  I lie back down on top of the sleeping bag but the darkness only seems to add to the icy temperature, and with the cold biting I crawl under the welcoming covers.

Over the next thirty minutes I lie contemplative in the silence of my sanctuary.  As the minutes pass by I begin to feel a creeping and pervading sense of anticlimax.  During the previous few weeks, my every waking hour was consumed either by planning the act of retribution or, more recently, evading capture.  Now, despite the massive relief that I’ve reached the bolt-hole and my nerves have survived the stress, for the first time my thoughts aren’t racing and there is a void to be filled.  Eventually I switch on the torch to light the blackness in an attempt to halt my declining mood.  I roll onto my stomach and reaching to full stretch I remove the pocket diary from the rucksack and thumb through the pages to today’s date, Monday October 12th.  Written in pencil below the date is “? Rio de Janeiro / ? Kinder Scout Bolt-hole.”  Clearly I’ve not made it to Brazil as I would have hoped, and again I lament my bad luck, knowing the outcome would surely have been so different if the police hadn’t arrived as my plan was reaching fruition.  Come on, Julian, stop moping, I say loudly, almost shouting, confident that no one can possibly hear from the outside – think positive. And again console myself that if it wasn’t for my contingency plan and the current bolt-hole, I would surely be in police custody.

–

The remainder of my first full day of consciousness at Kinder Scout passes without incident.  With the enthusiasm of an addict, I spend much of my time flitting between stations for my fix of news updates.  To my surprise, no new information is released and there is no mention of my close run thing with Carmichael and Greene.  Maybe it’s old news already, although I also suspect that there is no little embarrassment that I evaded capture and the police are in no hurry to broadcast such a fact.  In any case, at least in the eyes of the media, the “man-hunt” seems of secondary importance, and it becomes clear why the force helicopter did not appear and there were not more police involved in my search.  Much to the continued excitement of the newsreader on the local station, Prince Charles had been visiting the city when a “major security incident” had occurred.  The newsreader linked to an even more excitable reporter: “Yes, John, although all quiet right now of course, as we all know just seventy-two hours ago, where I’m standing right now, was a scene of sheer pandemonium.  The heir to the throne was opening a renal dialysis ward at Sheffield Children’s Hospital and an as-yet-unnamed man, believed to be an Islamic extremist, fired a pistol from the crowd.  In the panic that ensued Prince Charles was pushed, unhurt, to the ground by his bodyguards while the man ran off.  Now in the latest development to the story a man was apprehended in the early hours of this morning at an inner-city flat after an extensive search with hundreds of police, tracker dogs and the force helicopter.  Buckingham Palace have …”  I listen to the rambling for another thirty seconds and then turn the radio off, more than a little grateful to the terrorist for providing such a welcome distraction.

–

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

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

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

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

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