I sit on a large boulder taking slow deep breaths of crisp morning air. Almost perceptively, with each breath I take, my anxiety gradually dissipates. After all the pain and turmoil of the previous months I begin to feel at ease and can almost forget that just a few days earlier I took a man’s life. I feel confident that with the solitude of the bolt-hole and the beauty of Kinder Scout I’ll have the time and the space to take stock of my life and plan for a time when I can finally stop running.
As I enjoy the simple pleasures of fresh air and sunlight, almost symbolically, as if reflecting the change in my spirits, a tiny chink in the cloud appears in front of me and then gradually enlarges. I feel a sense of exhilaration as the fabulous view of the beauty of Ashop Moor opens up as the cloud cover burns away.
With the early morning sun warming my stiff and aching body after a week of immobility and confinement, the prospect of returning to the darkness of the bolt-hole is far from appealing. But I know self-discipline is key, and with the time approaching 8:00 a.m. I daren’t risk recognition by any of the ramblers who’ll no doubt be appearing before long. I remove the empty bottles of drinking water from my bag and refill them in one of the numerous underground streams that break through the surface of the peat ground. I brush my teeth in the freezing water, my mouth almost numb with cold by the time I’ve finished. I empty the two bottles of stagnant, stinking urine that I’ve accumulated over the previous week, and rinse them in the stream, ready for use again. Then, using my trowel, I quickly dig a small latrine in a bare patch of earth, no more than twenty centimetres deep, and take care of business before dumping my waste bags from the camping meals, refilling the hole with soil, and dragging a small flat rock on top to hide my digging. Finally, with the essentials taken care of, I head back to the bolt-hole and negotiate my way back inside before repositioning the stones behind me to secure the entrance.
My brief taste of freedom has reawakened the senses that have lain dormant during the previous week’s confinement, and I am desperate for more. After the brilliant sunshine and magnificent views, the dark, damp bolt-hole has an immediate deflating effect. Despite my best efforts, my thoughts drift back to unhappy times, the weeks after the funeral when I attempted the slow process of rebuilding my shattered life. From an early stage, I’d largely dispensed with any realistic expectation that the police would charge the person responsible. I knew that it was futile to rely on such a conclusion to bring about any sort of personal closure; only my own actions could bring about a tolerable end to this chapter in my life.
At first my only comfort came from the long walks in the Peak District, and every day, irrespective of the weather, I drove the ten miles to the isolated moors and for a few hours walked the hills. It seemed that only with the time and space the open countryside provided was I able to think with sufficient clarity to make the decisions that I knew, for better or worse, would define my future.
My first pivotal decision was to resign from my job at the university. The department head, Bob Andrews, had been more than reasonable and had made it clear that I could take as much compassionate leave as I needed. But as the days passed by I knew that I could never return. I’d spent fifteen years in that place and it was simply time to move on. The decision was made far easier with the news from my parents’ solicitor, acting in his capacity of executor of their will, that I was the sole beneficiary. This came as no great surprise and I’d often joked with my parents about bumping them off for the inheritance, but I was shocked by how much they’d managed to squirrel away over the years. With insurance policies and savings, there was close to £75,000 in cash, and the value of their modest house, my family home as a child, was almost £200,000. I briefly considered holding onto it as an investment, but I knew it would only make it more difficult to move on with my life, and after a few days mulling it over I arranged for estate agents to come round to value the property and, in the interests of a quick sale, to accept any offer close to £190,000.
Within a few days of the For Sale sign going up I got a call from the estate agent explaining that they’d received an offer for the full asking price. I immediately began to get cold feet, but as I returned to my parents home to sort through their belongings, a raft of old memories and emotions resurfaced and I knew I had to break some of the links with my past, however painful it might be.
I spent close to two weeks at my parents’ house, sorting their stuff, and was surprised at how much they’d accumulated in a three-bedroom house. My mum had always been a hoarder: paintings, old school reports and photographs, anything to do with me, and more recently the boys, she couldn’t bear to part with. I’d always thought that I’d inherited the obsessive aspect of my personality from her, and the experience only reinforced my thinking. As I began packing it became clear that much of the stuff I would have to get rid of. There was simply too much to fit in my house whether I wanted to keep it or not. Despite the pangs of guilt, I found a house-clearing service on the internet and arranged for them to take the larger items of furniture.
It was during the middle of the second week of emptying the house that I had an unexpected visitor. I was on the front drive lifting boxes of ornaments and a tea service into the boot of my car, and as I bent over there was a tap on my shoulder. Startled, I stood and turned. I was looking into the beaming face of a balding overweight man, bearing what I could only describe as an inane grin. It took me a few moments before recognition dawned. James Bosworth, or Bozzy, as he was known at school, had changed much from the spotty, lanky youth of twenty years earlier.
“Hello, Julian,” he said excitedly. “You remember me, don’t you?” I offered my hand, which he shook enthusiastically, and for a second I thought I was in line for a hug.
“Yeah, yeah, course I remember you, Bozzy, how are you?”
“I’m great, just great, a bit balder than the last time you saw me, eh?” he responded, running his hand through his short-cropped and receding hair. “You seem to have aged pretty well though, Julian.”
I smiled, unsure what to say but keen to mirror his enthusiasm. “Yeah, you look well too, what have you been up to all these years?”
I didn’t give him chance to respond. Bored of packing, I was ready for a break from my exertions. “Look, I was just about to put the kettle on, do you want to come in and join me?”
He looked ecstatic at my suggestion and again I thought I might be in line for a hug. “Yeah, that sounds great, though I’d prefer something a little bit stronger if you’ve got it,” he said, smiling and eyeing up the beer left over from Christmas that my dad had stacked at the back of the garage. We headed inside, picking up a four-pack of beer on the way.
We spent the next couple of hours reminiscing about old school days and the mutual acquaintances and teachers we’d known. The memories came flooding back and were made particularly vivid by Bosworth’s hilarious impressions. I was grateful for a breather from the packing, as well as the guilt at getting rid of so much of my parents’ prize possessions, and it was probably the first time in a couple of months that I’d been able to laugh about anything. The beer continued to flow, and soon I went back outside to the garage to get more supplies. When I returned, Bosworth’s demeanour had changed. His expression was serious and, for the first time, unsmiling.