Bolt-hole Page 11

  I was taken aback by the state he was in, and at first struggled to make sense of his request. “Bozzy, calm down, it’s late, I can’t come now, but I’ll come first thing in the morning.”

  “No, Julian, you need to come now, please, you’re the only one that understands. Look, I’ll do something stupid if you don’t come.”

  Before I had chance to respond the phone went dead. I momentarily considered my options but knew I had no choice, I had to go. I was knackered, and with my bed welcoming me, furious. It was emotional blackmail in no uncertain terms, but he sounded so unstable. God only knows what he’d do if I didn’t go.

  Despite the late hour it was still warm, and short sleeves were sufficient as I walked the ten minutes from my parents’ to Bosworth’s house. I’d walked past his house numerous times but I’d never actually been inside. I pressed the bell on the front door, but couldn’t hear it ring, and knocked impatiently on the glass panel. Within twenty seconds Bosworth’s face appeared, distorted by the scalloped glass. He opened the door, his eyes red but no longer crying.

  “I’m so sorry, Julian, but there was no one else.” My face must have given away my scepticism and irritation.

  “No, seriously, Ju, you’re the only one.” And as if fearing I would run away, he pulled me by the wrist in through the porch.

  His house was stuck in a 1970s time-warp, with distinctive brown kitchen tiling and wallpaper, but was meticulously clean and seemingly without a thing out of place. He led me through the hallway and into a lounge with a similar thirty-year-old décor. On the floor was an old biscuit tin, the contents of which were neatly laid out in piles on the coffee table. One stack contained photographs, some old black and white portraits. The next stack contained documents, including several of the distinctive pale green birth and death certificates, and on top was a UK passport, the now-obsolete dark blue variety.

  “Can I get you a drink, Julian?” said Bosworth, gesturing me to sit down.

  “No, no, I’m fine thanks, I can’t stay long, I need to get home.” He looked a crushed and pathetic figure.

  “I was just going through some old things, my mum’s photos and stuff, and it just got me thinking, and you know … I just don’t know how I can go on.” He took another slug of his beer.

  Despite my irritation I had genuine sympathy for him. “Bozzy, you need to give the booze a rest, it’s not helping you. If you don’t watch it it’ll become a big problem for you.”

  Bosworth nodded in agreement and took another generous swig. “I know, I know, I’m going to cut down, I promise. I feel better already now you’re here. I just couldn’t be alone.”

  Bosworth slumped down onto the settee and rested his head back on the cushion. I took a seat in the armchair opposite and reached forward, picking up the passport from the coffee table. I flicked to the photograph page and immediately recognised the image of Bosworth I remembered from our school days. It had probably been taken mid-teens, and he was wearing our old school blazer, blue with yellow trim, and matching tie. I put the passport back and began to sift through the stack of photos. Most were of places and people I didn’t recognise, but some were also old school photographs, with Bosworth again wearing the distinctive uniform. One particular picture of the entire 5th year class caught my attention; back row, third from the right, probably about fifteen years old … I recognised myself, of course, but even so the fresh-faced youth seemed like a completely different person – so long ago, and so much had happened in the meantime.

  Within a few minutes Bosworth’s breathing became slow and deep and he was soon asleep, anaesthetised by the alcohol. I leaned over and removed the half-full beer can that he clutched in his hands. He stirred momentarily, opening his eyes, and smiled at me, before his breathing pattern settled and again he was asleep. I put the photographs and papers back in the box, and after waiting another five minutes I quietly let myself out of the back door. As I made my way home I knew that Bosworth was becoming a liability, an emotional drain, and that if I wasn’t careful he would begin to compromise my own fragile rehabilitation. Like dumping a girlfriend when it becomes clear that it’s not working out, I had to break the link.

  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 drin
kers 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.