by A. J. Oates
I rub my face with my hands and feel a fine layer of salt on the skin from the dried sweat. My mouth is dry and my furred tongue sticks to my teeth; a mouth like the bottom of a birdcage, I’ve heard it described. I reach for a bottle of water and take several large gulps, savouring the icy cold water running down my throat as I begin to replenish my dehydrated body. I’m starving hungry, and open a packet of chocolate digestives before greedily eating two sandwiched together. The biscuits only serve to clog up my mouth again, and I wash them away with more water.
My thoughts return to the events of the previous evening and I can’t help but think that, if everything had gone to plan, I would be on the plane by now and no doubt eating an unpalatable airline meal out of a plastic tray. In my current mood, though, I’m happy enough with chocolate biscuits and water.
I attempt to sit up a little, and crouching awkwardly I piss in one of the two-litre water bottles, now a dedicated pee-collecting receptacle. My urine is dark orange in colour and fills the confined space of the bolt-hole with the harsh smell of ammonia, a function of my dehydration from the exertions of the previous night. Next I gingerly remove the scarf from around my neck while holding the blood stained handkerchief beneath it in place. The hanky is stuck firmly to a chunk of flesh hanging below my jaw line. Wincing with pain, I splash the hanky with cold water until it is soaked through and then try to peel it slowly away from my skin. The pain is excruciating, and I can’t believe it didn’t hurt more at the time of its infliction. With the filthy hanky finally off, I use a tiny mirror from one of Helen’s compacts for guidance and pick at the dry blood with baby-wipes. By the time I’ve finished, the wound is bleeding again, although not as heavily as the night before. I smear it in stinging antiseptic cream before packing it with cotton wool and wrapping it in a crepe bandage from my first aid kit. I inspect my handiwork in the mirror: not quite Florence Nightingale, but it’ll suffice.
With medical issues dealt with, my thoughts turn to the next phase of my plan and the optimal time to move on to the more secure and longer-term bolt-hole at Kinder Scout in the Peak District National Park. In my current abode I have sufficient food stockpiled for at least a week and, with the nearby streams, an adequate supply of fresh drinking water is not a limiting factor. But in my contingency planning, the Graves Park bolt-hole had only ever been intended as a short-term measure. It’s far too close to busy footpaths, risking discovery at any time, and with its low ceiling and limited space it is impractical for anything more than a temporary stop-gap. I need to make the twenty-five-mile journey to the isolated Kinder Scout, where discovery is less likely and I’ve got food stock-piled for at least six months. An intellectual assessment suggests a balance has to be reached: leaving the current drain too early will risk capture if the area is still swarming with police; alternatively, staying too long will increase the risk of accidental discovery by a member of the public, possibly a dog-walker. Reluctantly I also admit that there is an emotional aspect to my decision-making. Of course I’m keen to move on to Kinder Scout, so I’m one step closer to my ultimate freedom, but at the same time the previous night’s pursuit by the police has left me exhausted and badly shaken, and I certainly don’t want to expose myself to a similar event.
To make an informed and rational judgement I need to know what’s going on in the outside world. More specifically, have the police identified me as the prime suspect, and if so, do they have any leads as to my whereabouts? In terms of the former, from my work in the lab I know that the PCR fingerprinting analysis of the forensic DNA evidence won’t be available yet, but a description from the officers at the scene and my unfortunate run-in with WPC Shaw will certainly point the finger at me. I reach over to the front pocket of the rucksack and pull out a small DAB/FM radio, about the size and weight of a pack of playing cards, which I’d bought a few days earlier. I’d already preset the FM and digital stations for both BBC Radio 4 and the local stations BBC Radio Sheffield and Radio Hallam. I switch on to the latter, and with an earpiece in situ the reception on the digital station is crystal clear. A song is playing: a Barbara Streisand number, I think.
I absently listen to the rest of the ditty before the news starts at 11:00 a.m. The female newsreader begins: “… a man in his thirties was brutally attacked and killed in the Linton Green area of the city at around 10:45 p.m. yesterday evening. The name of the man has not yet been released; however, police are appealing for witnesses to come forward. The senior investigating officer, Detective Superintendent Adam Greene, is holding a press conference this afternoon and we’ll bring you more details as we have them. In other news ...” The newsreader goes on to discuss the visit of Prince Charles to the city and I turn the radio off.
For the next couple of hours I ponder the short broadcast. I’ve now got confirmation that Musgrove is dead, although it’s no great surprise, given the extent of the injuries I inflicted. In other aspects the news report provides no further useful information, and the police, at least via the media, have not acknowledged that I’m a suspect in the attack or even released a description of the attacker. Little the wiser, I lie back down on the sleeping bag, nibble at a chocolate digestive and wait for the next bulletin.
I turn on to Radio 4 with the World at One broadcast just starting. The first news piece describes a terrorist act in Iraq, followed by a change in the Bank of England interest rate. I don’t listen to the specific details as my concentration begins to lapse, but the next item immediately grabs my attention: “… a man has been attacked with a machete close to the city centre of Sheffield. The man, whose name has not yet been released, is in his thirties and was killed instantly.” The news anchor-man then links to a reporter at the scene who elaborates: “Details are sketchy but it is believed that the murdered man was suspected to have been the driver involved in a hit-and-run incident in the city almost six months ago. This resulted in the death of the parents, wife and two young children of a local man, Dr Julian Scott. Police were unable to bring charges at the time due to insufficient forensic evidence and failure of witnesses to come forward. I understand from my police sources that Julian Scott, a thirty-seven-year-old academic at the university, is wanted for questioning by the police, although as yet they have not formally stated that he is a suspect. Back to you in the studio.” The broadcast goes on to cover a proposed rail strike, and I switch the radio off.
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 stil
l 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.
The pattern for the rest of the day revolves around the hourly news bulletins and the occasional food break. Although the water levels in the stream are still coursing high, I can occasionally hear footsteps and the voices of recreational walkers as they venture on the path above the drain. In the middle of the afternoon I overhear a lengthy conversation between two elderly female dog-walkers, who stop to chat directly over the bolt-hole. They discuss numerous topics ranging from the increase in the cost of bread to the death of a mutual acquaintance, but to my surprise they don’t talk about the local murder and police hunt. Clearly for some people life is continuing as normal – a concept I struggle to grasp.
I doze intermittently but most of the time my thoughts centre on the likely next move of the police and in particular Greene. I suspect that by now he’ll have been through the case-notes from the hit-and-run and will no doubt have spoken to Patel and Shaw to get background information on me. Thinking back and scrutinising my conversations with them, I certainly don’t remember giving away anything that was particularly relevant or that would provide an indication of my thinking or possible whereabouts. Of course, once I’d begun to put elements of my plan for Musgrove’s demise in place, I made a conscious decision to keep my thoughts to myself. But even before that time I was so emotionally flat that my responses to their questions were concise at best.
DI Patel was also pretty reserved with his views, and I struggle to imagine how he would describe me. Only once did I get an impression of how he was thinking – when, ironically, we discussed the act of revenge. The conversation took place about six weeks after the hit-and-run, and at a time when it was becoming clear that it was unlikely that anyone would be charged. We were sitting in his office at Otley Road police station. “If you don’t mind me saying, Dr Scott, you seem to be taking this well.”
I’d been surprised by his frankness and paused for a moment before responding. “I’m not necessarily sure that I’d agree. How would you expect me to react?”
Patel was quiet for a good ten seconds and at first I thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he slowly lent forward in his chair. “From my experiences, different people react differently to major life stresses. Some people seem to lose all sense of reason and their sole preoccupation is to exact some form of revenge at any cost to themselves or others. Often there is no clear focus for their revenge and it’s directed inappropriately, not uncommonly at the police, as I know to my own cost. Then there are others, they fall apart emotionally and give up on lif
e, as if the precipitating event had irrevocably shattered their emotional fabric. The third category, and that which you seem to belong to, is the stoical type. They seem to accept what is happening without obviously seeking to blame everyone and everything, and give the impression that they are rebuilding their lives.”
At the time, I’d been surprised by the depth of his response and the fact that he’d clearly given the matter a great deal of thought. I’m sure he wasn’t typical of most coppers, and I thought back to the psychology degree certificate on the wall of his office, perhaps illustrating the point. Given the recent events, I wonder if he’s now revising his theory on the category to which I belong.
At the end of my second full day of life on the run I listen to the 10:00 p.m. news, and with no new developments I perform quick ablutions and then snuggle down into the warm sleeping bag. Despite the pain in my neck, with the gentle rustling of the wind in the tree canopy playing a calming lullaby, within a few minutes my racing thoughts are interrupted and I’m asleep.
