Текст книги "Bolt-hole"

Автор книги: A. J. Oates

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Chapter 12

 

November 12th, and on my one-month anniversary in the Kinder Scout bolt-hole I wait the last few minutes before the beeping of the 6:00 a.m. alarm and my signal for temporary freedom.  A creature of habit, in the isolated hideaway my life has settled into a well-established pattern.  I doze much of the time, both night and day, but probably only sleep deeply for five or ten minutes at a stretch.  The rest of my existence is punctuated by meal breaks and occasionally tuning in to the radio news bulletins.  During the first weeks of my incarceration, I counted down the minutes to the next news headlines, but as the days passed the “man-hunt” was increasingly relegated down the order of news items, presumably reflecting the absence of developments.  Within three weeks the story was dropped completely, and thereafter I rarely switched on the radio.

As always, though, the focus of my day is my all-too-brief early-morning escapes to the outside world.  Now late autumn on the high plateau, the weather has taken on a wintry feel, but even in the driving rain and freezing winds the immense relief to be out of the bolt-hole is worth far more than the discomfort caused by the elements or even the risk of potential detection.

At exactly 6:00 a.m. I make my way out of the bolt-hole and stop briefly in the entrance to check that the area is deserted.  I’m amazed by the amount of light flooding the area, and, about to check my watch to confirm the dawn hour, I realise that the unusual brightness is moonlight reflecting off the thick snow that has fallen overnight.  With the thermal insulation provided by the massive boulder walls of the bolt-hole, I’d been oblivious to any temperature drop or the fact that it had been snowing.  I kneel in the entranceway staring at the scene, and feel a tingling in my spine and a sense of excitement as the freezing air catches my breath.  I reach behind for my fleece jacket before hurriedly leaving the bolt-hole and heading for my usual vantage point over Ashop Moor.

I’ve always had a fascination with the snow.  As a child, I’d spent hours sledging with friends, building igloos and having snowball fights in Graves Park.  Even in my teens the most memorable hiking and camping trips were always snowbound.  I think back to one particular trip with my dad, when we’d set off in brilliant sunshine from Edale at the base of Kinder Scout and by the time we reached the plateau we were greeted by a blizzard with horizontal wind that made standing a near impossibility.  For many kids I suspect this ordeal would not have been particularly pleasurable, but to me it was fantastic.  Today the wind is completely still, and as I survey the scene with the sun just starting to rise in the cloudless sky, the untouched snow glistens with an almost silk-like surface that adds a further dimension of beauty to the landscape.  Sitting on my favoured boulder, the cold cuts deep through my jacket and within a few minutes I begin shivering.  I regret not putting on extra layers, but there’s no way I’m going to prematurely return to the bolt-hole and miss even a minute of my freedom.

The next two hours pass all too quickly, and with reluctance I concede that it’s time to return to the bolt-hole before the first ramblers arrive to enjoy the winter views.  As I turn to walk the short distance back, I’m shocked at the sight of my prominent footprints carved deep into the thick snow, clearly marking the route to the bolt-hole.  As I kick at the snow to disrupt the trail, I quickly realise that my efforts are futile and I’ll never be able to mask the entire length of the route.  I doubt a passing walker would identify the significance of the tracks and the location of my hideaway, but I’m not prepared to take the chance.  I begin to panic, cursing my stupidity as I scour the area looking for a branch or some other vegetation to disturb the snow.  But as if answering my prayers, the wind, almost imperceptible at first, gradually picks up and flurries of snow begin to fall.  By the time I make it back to my home the tracks are almost completely gone and I can’t help but smile to myself, sensing that after all these months my luck is perhaps beginning to change.

My fingers are pale and throbbing with the cold as I climb back inside the bolt-hole and reposition the rocks to block the entrance.  Despite my reluctance at leaving behind the beauty of the moors, I’m grateful for the warmth and shelter of the bolt-hole, but it’s not until I crawl, fully-clothed into the cosy sleeping bag with the hood pulled over my head, that the shivering finally abates.

The previous few hours of freedom in the snowy landscape have left me feeling optimistic and upbeat for the future.  Having been in the bolt-hole for a month, and with the worry of immediate discovery and capture by the police having subsided, the weeks of isolation have provided the time to reflect and in many respects begin the process of reconstructing my fractured life and self-worth.  Like following some kind of self-help manual, I find myself, step-by-step, going over the events of the last year to try and somehow rationalise it all.

I was already running twenty minutes late for my rendezvous with Bosworth by the time I left my parents’ house.  I cursed under my breath as I reached the end of the driveway, realising that I’d left my wallet inside.  After spending another five minutes searching for the damn thing, I was finally on my way.  It was a frustrating day, most of the time spent liaising with solicitors and estate agents in readiness for completion and the handing over the keys the following day, and now I sorely regretted arranging to meet the needy Bosworth in the New Inn.  As I reached the pub, having jogged the last five minutes, beads of sweat were forming on my brow and I was more than ready for a cold lager.  As I entered the pub there was a loud beeping from my phone, indicating a text.  I quickly scrolled through to find that it was from Bosworth. As I read the message I knew it had been a mistake giving him my number: “Where are you? There’s someone here who’s desperate to see you?” What the hell was the fool on about?

I pushed through the heavy throng of drinkers and headed straight for the bar, traversing the entire width of the pub.  I spotted Bosworth sitting in the far corner, at the same table as on our previous visit for the quiz night.  Noticing me, he shouted across the pub and raised his pint above his head in a boozer’s salute. “Alright, Julian, mate, what kept you?”

I waved back and then turned away, not appreciating the attention as the other drinkers turned to see who the loudmouth drunk was yelling at.  I negotiated the last few people huddled around the bar and waited for my turn to be served.  In the long mirror behind the myriad of optics, I could just make out Bosworth’s reflection away to my right.  He was animatedly talking to someone across the table from him.  I could only make out the back of the man’s head and shoulders, but there was an immediate familiarity in the long greasy hair and filthy denim jacket.  As I struggled to place him, I was distracted by a group of raucous women in the far corner as they began yelling and screaming while a strip-a-gram in policeman’s garb began to strut his stuff.

It was another few minutes before I was finally served, and as I sipped my beer and waited for the change there was a tap on my shoulder.  I turned to face Bosworth, already a few pints to the good.  His eyes were glazed and his breath wreaked of beer. “Ju, Ju, guess who I’ve just bumped into, he’s over there – an old school buddy of ours and he reckons he’s a business partner of yours,” he said excitedly, almost childlike, pointing to where he’d been sitting.

A business partner? What the hell was he talking about?  I was in no mood for games and responded disinterestedly, “Go on, surprise me,” as I looked over to where he was gesturing.  At the same time the figure turned to face us and I saw that it was Dave Musgrove, a sly grin plastered across his face.  I couldn’t believe the evening I was having; I hadn’t seen Musgrove for over twenty years, since our school days in fact, and then I bump into him twice in the space of a couple of months.  He was a deluded fool and the idea of spending an evening with both Bosworth and Musgrove was not something to relish.  Bosworth continued to jabber away in the background but I didn’t pay any attention until he again mentioned the words business partner, and I tuned in to what he was saying. “… yeah, and he says that you owe him some money, for doing a job for you, helped you sort out a problem.”

I took a sharp intake of breath as, in one horrific moment, everything fell into place.  My knees gave way and the pint slipped through my fingers and smashed onto the bar.  I slumped forward, falling against Bosworth, who grabbed me under the arms, preventing me from going to the floor.  “Steady on, Ju,” he said as I attempted to compose myself, “I thought it was me that had been on the booze.  Anyway, I’m off for a piss, get yourself another drink and go and have a chat with Mousey.  I told him you’d be coming and all night he’s being saying that he’s dying to see you.”

I was in a state of shock.  My head was spinning and the hot stuffy air made me nauseous.  In an instant I was taken back to a few months earlier and my inadvertent meeting with Musgrove; Jesus, what had I done?  I slowly made my way through the crowded pub and over to Musgrove.  The smile was still fixed to his face as my heart pounded; I could feel my face burning, and droplets of sweat forming on my top lip.  The anger was beginning to boil inside me.  “What the hell did you do?” I blurted as I reached his table.

Musgrove widened his grin even more. “Is that really the way to greet an old school friend and business associate?  Sit down – make yourself comfortable.”  He pulled a stool out from under the table. “Take the weight of your feet, relax.”

I immediately kicked it over, drawing the attention of the boozers at the next table.  But I was unconcerned. “Fuck off you disgusting bastard,” was all I could articulate as his calm demeanour added to my anger.

He continued: “If you prefer to stand that’s fine, but there’s the business arrangement that I would like to discuss with you.”

“There’s no way I’m having anything to do with you.  You’ve taken everything from me, there’s no way I’m giving you money,” I responded, barely containing my rage.

Musgrove stared intently back at me with pin-point pupils, taking a swig of his Guinness before wiping the froth from his lips with a dirty sleeve. “Listen, Julian, or is it Dr Julian? What do you prefer? … You asked me to take care of your missus and that’s what I did.  I thought I was being a bit creative doin’ a hit-and-run sort of thing … must have being going a bit too quick though, lost control, and sure there was a bit of collateral damage, your kids and stuff, but the job got done.”

I felt sick listening to him but didn’t know how to respond.  He continued: “I’ve given you some time, in fact plenty of time, to grieve. The police must have stopped sniffing round by now and I’m sure you’ve got your inheritance.  Now I want my payment – a deal's a deal.”

I could take it no longer and lunged at him, grabbing him by the collar of his jacket and a large clump of his lank hair.  Even Musgrove appeared surprised by my action as I hissed in his ear, “You’ve killed my whole family, you fucking moron, and now you expect me to give you money.”

The smile returned to Musgrove’s face as he pulled back from my grip and preciously readjusted his clothing. “No need to get so heated, Julian.  Relax, sit down and enjoy a drink.  If you prefer, next time I’m chatting with our mutual friend DI Patel, maybe I’ll get a blast of conscience and tell him the truth about our little business arrangement.  You must remember you asked me to kill her …”

I interrupted him and leant forward to within an inch of his face, getting the full effect of his breath,.“I never asked you to kill her, you fucking moron.  You’ve twisted everything.”

But Musgrove carried on as if he’d not heard me. “I’m sure Patel would be more than interested to find out who was responsible for the demise of your lovely missus, and with all this modern technology, CCTV and stuff, I’m sure they’ll be able to link us together.”

I couldn’t take any more of his bullshit, and headed for the door.  Behind me Musgrove fired a parting shot. “I’ll be in touch soon, Julian.” A thought that made me shudder.

I pushed through the crowd of drinkers and left the pub, desperately needing fresh air.  En route I collided with Bosworth returning from the toilet and almost knocked him off his feet.  Obviously surprised by my haste, he opened his mouth to speak but I continued on with my head down.  I reached the doorway and was immediately sick, spraying the small porch in vomit.  A smartly dressed middle-aged couple were just entering the pub and had to step back sharply to avoid being splattered.  I didn’t stop to apologise but headed across the car park as I heard the woman muttering to her husband, “Disgusting pig.”  I could think of far worse insults to direct at myself.

I needed to think and to be on my own.  I was desperate to get away from Musgrove and I broke into a jog and then a flat-out sprint.  Only slowing my pace once, to be sick again, I reached my parents’ house and let myself in.  The house was devoid of furniture, and with just a sleeping bag on the floor it felt eerily cold and intimidating.  My mood, which had only just begun to ascend from the depths, was crashing around me, and I could feel myself slipping back into the dark hole of depression that I’d struggled to climb out of in the weeks following the hit-and-run.  Perhaps bizarrely, I could almost feel my fingertips aching as I struggled to cling onto the walls of my metaphoric black hole.

I lay down on the sleeping bag while still out of breath and sweating like a pig.  I closed my eyes to block out the pain, but couldn’t rid myself of the image of Musgrove’s smug face, as if were permanently imprinted on my retina.  In the few weeks after the hit-and-run I’d thought back to my chance encounter with Musgrove and questioned, albeit fleetingly, whether he may have been involved.  But I’d always quickly dismissed the idea as ridiculous, and reassured myself that it had just been the booze fuelling his deluded words.  Clearly, I had been wrong.  Yes, of course I was angry with Helen, betrayed by her actions, but I never, never wanted her to die, and the thought of hurting my sweet boys was simply unimaginable.  Musgrove was a psychopath; he had twisted my words and taken advantage of me.

It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault. I said the words over and over as I lay in the sleeping bag in my parents’ cold and empty house, desperately trying to convince myself it was true.

Chapter 13

 

Now well into December, the routine of life on Kinder Scout continues to revolve around my early morning sortie from the bolt-hole.  But with the shortest day of the year just a week away and darkness encroaching by 3:00 p.m., I allow myself the indulgence of a second venture of the day to the outside world.  At 6:00 p.m., when even the most enthusiastic of walkers have long since left for home and doubtless a hot bath, I again creep out of the bolt-hole.  Having now spent two months confined in the cramped conditions for twenty-two hours a day, my characteristically toned and muscular body is becoming flabby and I feel lethargic and unfit.  Conscious that I’m just a few months from leaving the bolt-hole, I’m determined to be physically strong for whatever lies ahead.  Therefore, during each day’s second episode of freedom, I instigate a fitness routine and go on a twenty-minute run to give myself a cardiovascular workout.  The route never takes me more than a couple of minutes away from the safety of the bolt-hole, and other than the evenings where the cloud cover is particularly thick, the light from the moon and stars is usually sufficient to find my footing on the rutted and rock-strews paths.  On the first day of my new regimen, I’m out of breath within a few minutes and my calf muscles burn as the lactic acid builds up.  But after just a few days I begin to feel stronger, and relish the surge of adrenaline and endorphins that helps to lift my mood after the confinement and darkness of the bolt-hole.

Inescapably, the pattern of my emotional existence is like the proverbial rollercoaster.  Some days I feel ready to take on the world, but others, the dark days, I reflect ad infinitum on the events of the previous few months. I can’t help but blame myself, and to an external observer I probably seem like a cold-blooded killer.  In reality, though, the situation is far more complex: yes, I killed Musgrove, in a premeditated act of revenge and self-preservation, but I never, never intended my family to die.  Frequently I play the what-if game and reflect on what I could have done differently, often starting with the day of my chance encounter with Musgrove in the Earl of Arundel pub, a few weeks before the hit-and-run. What if I hadn’t gone in the pub, what if I hadn’t gone back to his flat, what if, what if ...  

 

In the quietness and solitude of the bolt-hole, I think back to the events of that day, a month or so prior to the deaths of my family, when I met Musgrove for the first time in twenty years.  At the time life had been one long struggle and my mood had been low for several months.  I’d been incapable of finding enjoyment or satisfaction in anything I did, and though I hated to admit it, even spending time with the kids.  Matters had reached such a low point that at Helen’s insistence I’d visited our family GP and was diagnosed with clinical depression.  At the time it seemed like a further blow to my fragile self-esteem: I’d always sort of assumed that depression was a condition of the weak and feeble-minded; so maybe that’s what I was.  Prescribed a course of antidepressants, I was taking them religiously, though they didn’t seem to be doing me much good.

I couldn’t put my finger on a single reason for my low mood, though I’m sure frustrations at work were a big factor.  In the previous year I’d had rejections from three major grant applications, and with each proposal taking several months to prepare, the knock-backs were becoming increasingly difficult to accept.  There was also the real danger that if I didn’t get a grant soon I could be out of a job. I was sleeping badly, often waking in the early hours, with no chance of further sleep.  I’d always had an anxious personality; a worrier, as my mother had put it.  Relatives on both sides of the family had committed suicide, and while I didn’t feel that I was in that category, I began to suspect that I might have an inherited predisposition to depression.  I’d tried to talk to Helen about my concerns, but she’d seen the episodes of anxiety before and would offer only passing words of reassurance: “… Don’t worry, everything will turn out okay.”  I wasn’t so easily placated, and with a large mortgage and two kids to support it was impossible for me not to worry.  Helen had a completely different philosophy to life: I was focused and driven, while she was happy to let life wash over her.  She’d trained as a teacher but was on a much-extended, and seemingly open-ended, career break.  In many ways, I’d always wished I could be more like her.

Following the rejection of my third grant proposal I got an e-mail from Bob Andrews, the head of the Biochemistry Department, wanting to meet up for a chat.  I’d known Bob since I was a Ph.D student, and had always found him pretty reasonable, but I wasn’t looking forward to the meeting.  I had no doubt what the chat would be about: a university-wide assessment was scheduled for later in the year that would determine the rating of the department and, as a consequence, how much government research money it was entitled to.  Like all my colleagues, I was well aware that the assessment was based on the number of published research papers and, more pertinent to me, the number of successful grant applications.  Bob made it clear. “Julian, you know the situation we’re in. Now more than ever it’s publish or perish. You need to get the grant money coming in, we can’t carry anybody, it’s …”

Sitting opposite Bob in his cramped office, I interrupted. “That’s a bit unfair, Bob, I’ve had a couple of lean years, that’s all.  Before then I was bringing in as many grants as anyone.  It’s not that long ago that you said yourself that I’d make it to Professor by the time I was forty.”

Bob nodded. “Yes, yes, sorry, Julian, I didn’t mean it quite like that. You’re a good scientist, I know that … and I don’t want to lose you.”  He paused for a few seconds, appearing hesitant about what he was about to say. “You know that Gill Taggart is retiring don’t you … well, there’ll obviously be a vacancy to fill …”

I stopped him by raising my hand, palm facing him as if controlling traffic. “You’re not seriously suggesting that I do Gill’s job are you? She’s a low-level administrator and doesn’t even have a degree, let alone a Ph.D,” I responded, fuming at the insult.

“Listen, calm down, Julian,” said Bob, seemingly shocked by my outburst and doing his best to placate me, “there’s more to it than that. I’m going to expand the job description, there’ll be a lot more responsibility and you’ll still be able to do some research.  Plus you won’t have to write any more grants, and your salary wouldn’t be much different to what you’re on now.”

I sat back in the chair unsure how to respond.  There was silence for a few seconds.  “Julian, are you okay?” Bob looked at me, a worried expression on his face. “Listen, it’s just a suggestion.  Go away and think about it.”

I felt a droplet of water falling onto my folded arms, quickly followed by another and then another.  There was a moment of realisation, and then incredulity: I was crying.  I hadn’t cried since I was a kid.  I couldn’t understand what was going on.  It was almost like an out-of-body experience as I watched myself emotionally fall apart; my shoulders began shaking uncontrollably as the sobbing started and became more intense.  I buried my head in my hands, unable to face Bob.  God only knows what he thought was going on.  I felt him reach over and put his hand on my shoulder, but it was the last thing I wanted and I shrugged him off.

After a minute or so I began to pull myself together, and with the relative composure, acute embarrassment set in.  What possessed me to do such a thing? I was normally so emotionally controlled.  Looking down, my pale khaki trousers showed numerous wet spots where the tears had fallen.  I got to my feet quickly, mumbling almost incoherently as I left the office, “Bob, sorry, I’m really sorry.”

I needed to get out. I was sick of the place.  I had slogged my guts out for the last fifteen years and they repay me with a fucking technician’s job.  Perhaps ironically, even in my utter desolation I suspected that the job probably wouldn’t be so bad.  It would provide a regular salary, and freedom from the stress of writing grants; but what upset me the most, and which I readily admitted to myself, was the sheer loss of face.  Just a few years earlier I’d been tipped as a future professor – and now look at me.  “What a pathetic waster,” I sneered at myself under my breath.

I hurriedly left the department, passing several of my colleagues in the corridor and stairway.  I kept my head down, not saying a word and ignoring their greetings.  I heard the mutterings of one of them – “ignorant sod” – but I didn’t care.  I headed out of the building and down the street towards the city centre.  The late January weather was bitterly cold and many of the loitering students had thick coats on and hats and gloves, but in my light cotton shirt I barely noticed it.  I may have stopped crying, but inside I was falling apart.

I walked briskly, almost jogging, for thirty minutes.  I tried to make sense of my life, and in my head I listed my achievements: A-level results, Ph.D, lectureship, research awards – but they all seemed meaningless.  I’d wasted my time and had nothing to show for it.  With no particular destination in mind I kept going and going, eventually reaching the train station and the main bus depot.  I passed numerous shops, a café, and a run of small B&Bs.  Then in the distance, a few car lengths or so in front, a dark blue Ford Mondeo pulled into one of the few curb-side parking slots.  A man in a grey suit quickly exited from the driver’s side, and as he walked around to the passenger’s door I recognised him as James Kentish, a former colleague of Helen’s.  I’d always despised the insincere little cretin, and the last thing I wanted was him seeing me in my bedraggled state, so I dodged into the doorway of a launderette.  While I waited for him to get to wherever he was going, I had the sudden need to talk to Helen.  About to press the call button on my mobile, I was distracted by a familiar voice coming from the street, and as I peered out of the doorway I was stunned to see Helen getting out of the Mondeo.  Struggling to understand what was going, I was about to beckon her over, but then I watched on in astonishment as she ran towards Kentish.  Both were laughing excitedly; then they kissed on the lips, briefly but passionately, before entering one of the B&Bs.  I stood shell-shocked in the doorway, my life unravelling about me and unable to do anything to prevent it.

After a minute or so an old lady pulling a small trolley behind her joined me in the porch, trying to pass me and get into the launderette.  I moved out of her way, stepping onto the pavement and then continuing down the road.  Passing the B&B, I cautiously glanced through the open door to see Helen and Kentish, their backs to me, walking up the stairs holding hands.  I felt sick, and wretched a couple of times, but my stomach was empty and nothing came up.

I continued walking down the street.  In the distance a cement lorry was coming along the road in my direction.  Going well above the thirty m.p.h. speed limit, it drove through a puddle of water that extended from the gutter and filled almost half the road.  A huge fan of dirty water leapt up, soaking two businessmen walking on the pavement, their golfing umbrellas doing little to protect them.  The lorry was forty or so metres in the distance and closing fast.  I knew what I had to do.  I bided my time, counting down the distance in my head: twenty-five metres, twenty, fifteen, ten ...  When the lorry was only ten metres away I stepped carefully and purposefully into the road with my eyes closed, directly into its path.  I heard a screech of brakes, and waited for the impact, but there was nothing but the sensation of a rush of wind and the sound of the heavy lorry passing by.  After an incredulous second I opened my eyes.  To my disbelief, the truck had taken the other limb of the forked junction where I was standing.  Stunned and rooted to the spot, I heard behind me the aggressive sounding of a car horn and turned to see a flashy Audi TT in front of me as I blocked its path in the road.  A young woman passing by on the pavement stared nervously at me, and clearly recognising my agitated state, said, “Are you … are you okay?”  No I fucking wasn’t, but I didn’t answer.  I turned away and started running.

I continued on with my head down, staring at the pavement just a few feet in front of me.  I was going nowhere in particular, just away, attempting in some futile way to leave my life behind.  After running and walking for close to an hour I reached a shabby residential area of town.  The road surface had originally been cobbled and then sometime later covered with tarmac, but much of this was worn away to reveal the old stones beneath.  I walked down the pot-holed pavements and passed a rusty street sign attached to the wall of the end house: “Station Road”.  I passed a chip shop, empty except for a plump serving girl who sat behind the counter, and then a small pub, The Earl of Arundel.  About to pass on by, I had a sudden desire for alcohol.  I stepped into the pub and immediately drew the attention of the resident drinkers, as I coughed loudly when the warm smoky atmosphere hit my lungs.  Clearly the smoking ban had not reached this part of town.  In soaking wet clothes and my shoes squelching with every step, I crossed the worn and dirty carpet and took a seat on a high stool at the bar.  The bartender, a man in his fifties, his arms and the back of his hands covered in tattoos, wearily came over, apparently unused to strangers dropping in.  “Can I get you something?” he barked.

I ordered a whiskey even though I hadn’t touched the hard stuff since drunken student days.  I took a sip of the unpalatable fiery liquid. “I’ll have a Carlsberg to go with it as well,” I added before the barmen had a chance to hand over my change.  The lager slipped down more easily and I quickly ordered a second.

Self-consciously I scanned around the pub, which was probably not much bigger than a good-sized living room.  It was a spit-and-sawdust type of affair, though only the spit was evident.  There were at most ten other patrons, a motley crew of drinkers ranging from a couple of elderly men to a group of youths in their late teens and early twenties.  The latter group looked an unsavoury lot, and from their furtive edginess they appeared to be negotiating a drug deal or some other dubious activity.  Certainly not the kind of place a sane man would consider for a quiet pint, but after the day I’d been having I was way past caring.  I thought back to the episode with the cement lorry and couldn’t help smile; what a complete an utter moron – I wasn’t even able to do a decent job of topping myself.  In disgust I knocked back the remainder of the whiskey and then ordered another lager.  I watched as the barmen pulled the pint; on the back of his neck were the words “FUCK OFF AND DIE”.  I wondered if he ever regretted his decision, though thought it prudent not to ask.  I was in the mood for self-destruction – maybe I should get a similar inscription.