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.”