Staring at the roof of the drain a foot or so above my head, I contemplate the latest developments. Of course there’s still no formal police confirmation that I’m wanted for questioning, but the bulletin makes it pretty clear that this is the case, particularly if the “source” is to be believed. I have to be prepared for the worst, irrespective of what information is released by the media, and I’ve no doubt that by now my description will have been circulated to police forces nationwide, as well as airports and ports. I have to accept that I’m a fugitive and on the run for murder, a concept which in part fills me with sheer terror, but perhaps bizarrely is also half appealing, and I can’t help but smile to myself.
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Inside the bolt-hole the light is already beginning to fail as it approaches late afternoon. I feel some sense of relief as the darkness descends and provides a blanket of reassurance; I’ve not been discovered in daylight and I’m confident the chances of discovery after nightfall are further reduced. Expecting the worst, I’ve been surprised at how uneventful the day has been; presumably the heavy rainfall of the night before has washed away my tracks and scent from the pursuing police dogs. Only once did my anxiety escalate with the distinctive hum of a helicopter passing low overhead, but to my relief it was gone within seconds and did not return.
Throughout the afternoon I tune in to the news bulletins but no new details are released and there is much recycling of what had already been said. In between news updates I eat more of the baked beans and crackers, wrapping the waste in a double layer of plastic bags to reduce the chances of police dogs picking up an erroneous scent. I still feel dehydrated, and drink more of the water. I’ve already moved onto my last bottle, and I know that I’ll have to venture outside to one of the nearby streams if I am to stay here for much longer.
When not snacking or listening to the radio bulletins I doze intermittently, but my thoughts are too anxiety-ridden for any meaningful sleep. I’m quickly beginning to recognise that the problem with solitude, and one to which I’ll have to acclimatize, is that it gives one too much time to think. This has led to anxiety and negative thoughts, and despite my best efforts to think positively, my good mood of the early morning is beginning to dissipate. Perhaps ironically, I’ve always liked my own company, but in the past the experience was underpinned by the knowledge that, if I wanted, I could find company, be it family or colleagues. Now, though, my solitude is absolute.
The next significant information comes when I switch on the radio for the 6:00 p.m. national news on Radio 4. The murder is now the lead story. “A man-hunt is underway for university academic Dr Julian Scott, who is wanted by police in connection with the death of local man, James Musgrove. It is believed that thirty-six-year-old Musgrove was the driver of a hit-and-run vehicle and was responsible for the death of Dr Scott’s wife, two young sons and both parents. At a press conference this afternoon, Detective Superintendent Adam Greene has urged anyone with information regarding the whereabouts of Julian Scott to come forward, but the public are advised not to approach him directly.” The newsreader moves on to the next story and I flick over to the local station and a male voice in mid-sentence: “… at this stage we are keeping an open mind. The last sighting of Dr Scott was in the city shortly after the incident, but it’s possible that he is already further afield. We have, of course, alerted our colleagues at police forces nationwide and overseas.” The voice of a female newsreader then comes on: “That was Detective Superintendent Adam Greene. Now, in further news, in the city, Prince Charles is visiting ...” I turn off the radio. No disrespect to the future monarch but I have more pressing concerns.
I now know for sure that I’m a police suspect, but thankfully there has been no suggestion that my possible whereabouts is known. I’m slightly shocked by the fact that I’m the subject of a “man-hunt”, a slightly salacious term I’d always linked with the search for serial killers. But with the police recommendation that I shouldn’t be approached, maybe they think I really am a danger to the public.
Sitting in the darkness, I spend the rest of the evening mulling over the key timing of my move to the bolt-hole at Kinder Scout. Going back and forth over the pros and cons, I seem incapable of making a decision. After listening to the 10:00 p.m. bulletin, and with no new developments, I can procrastinate no longer. Set the agenda ... don’t just react to it, I silently preach, and then finally make the decision: wait thirty-six hours to get fully rested before the twenty-five mile journey, and then make my move early morning, day after tomorrow. With my mind made up, I almost immediately begin to relax, and with a wave of tiredness overcoming me I snuggle down into the sleeping bag, and shortly after I’m asleep.
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Sleeping in short spells throughout the night, I wake to the slightest disturbance from outside. I’m surprised at the extent of wildlife: the hooting owls and the tiny scratching paws on the ground next to the bolt-hole. I only hope it isn’t rats – I’m not particularly squeamish but these vile critters have a certain hold over me.
During an episode of wakefulness, I take the opportunity to restock my drinking water. Nervous of both the potential police presence and the rodent wildlife, I cautiously remove the rocks sealing the entrance of the drain and then crawl forward a little through the gap. Leaning out at full stretch, I can just reach the fast flowing stream. I hurriedly fill my bottle in the icy water and then empty out the second bottle containing the stale piss and give it a quick rinse.
About to crawl back inside the bolt-hole, I sense a sudden and almost silent movement away to my right. With a sharp, involuntary intake of breath I turn to face a pair of yellow slit-like eyes staring back at me just a few feet away. Initially unsure what species it is, though certainly not human, I recognise as the moon slides from behind the cloud the form of a far-from-timid scruffy urban fox. I smile to myself as the animal arrogantly turns its back on me and saunters off into the darkness.
I gratefully crawl back inside the bolt-hole, and with the entrance secured I switch on my torch to inspect the water. Following the recent torrential rain, the sediment in the stream has been disturbed and my drinking water is slightly browner than I would have liked. Under the limited torch light I filter the water through my handkerchief to remove the larger debris and then add the chlorine-releasing sterilising tablets. Hopefully by morning most of the bugs will have been killed off; the shits are the last thing I need.
As first light begins to permeate the entrance of the drain, I switch on the radio for the 7:00 a.m. news. Again I’m the main story, but there are no further developments or reports on my suspected whereabouts. I don’t know whether I feel relieved or frustrated by the lack of news, probably somewhere in between. In any case I have another preoccupation: my neck wound is increasingly painful, even with the slightest movement. Reluctantly I peel off the bandage and then the blood-stained cotton wool beneath. The skin around the wound is sore and the area of redness has doubled in size, probably now the dimensions of my palm at least. As before, and despite the pain, I clean it thoroughly with baby-wipes and apply more antiseptic cream.