I focus my attention out of the window, all the time ready to make a move if need be. We’ve stopped outside a petrol station next to which are a couple of shops and a large pub. As a sixteen-year-old, the latter had a certain infamy, as the licensee had been particularly lax at interpreting the legal age for drinking and the place was consequently popular with a younger clientele. Life seemed so much simpler in those days.
After fifteen very long minutes, a city council van finally drives past and soon I hear the whine and rattle of a chainsaw starting up. A third policeman with collar-length blond hair, slicked back with gel, joins his colleagues. The other two officers refer to him as “Glamour Boy”, and they sit at the front talking to the driver while the council worker begins to dismantle the obstructing branch. Turning to look through the back window of the bus, I see that the rain is slackening, and with the improving visibility I can see the traffic held up all the way to the previous roundabout almost half a mile back. Facing the front again, my heart immediately sinks as Glamour Boy picks up a copy of the Metro. I grip the emergency door handle, silently praying that I won’t have to use it. But providing a reprieve, however temporary, he turns straight to the football on the back page.
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.