by A. J. Oates
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.”
I felt a droplet of water falling onto my folded arms, quickly followed by another and then another. There was a moment of realisation, and then incredulity: I was crying. I hadn’t cried since I was a kid. I couldn’t understand what was going on. It was almost like an out-of-body experience as I watched myself emotionally fall apart; my shoulders began shaking uncontrollably as the sobbing started and became more intense. I buried my head in my hands, unable to face Bob. God only knows what he thought was going on. I felt him reach over and put his hand on my shoulder, but it was the last thing I wanted and I shrugged him off.
After a minute or so I began to pull myself together, and with the relative composure, acute embarrassment set in. What possessed me to do such a thing? I was normally so emotionally controlled. Looking down, my pale khaki trousers showed numerous wet spots where the tears had fallen. I got to my feet quickly, mumbling almost incoherently as I left the office, “Bob, sorry, I’m really sorry.”
I needed to get out. I was sick of the place. I had slogged my guts out for the last fifteen years and they repay me with a fucking technician’s job. Perhaps ironically, even in my utter desolation I suspected that the job probably wouldn’t be so bad. It would provide a regular salary, and freedom from the stress of writing grants; but what upset me the most, and which I readily admitted to myself, was the sheer loss of face. Just a few years earlier I’d been tipped as a future professor – and now look at me. “What a pathetic waster,” I sneered at myself under my breath.
I hurriedly left the department, passing several of my colleagues in the corridor and stairway. I kept my head down, not saying a word and ignoring their greetings. I heard the mutterings of one of them – “ignorant sod” – but I didn’t care. I headed out of the building and down the street towards the city centre. The late January weather was bitterly cold and many of the loitering students had thick coats on and hats and gloves, but in my light cotton shirt I barely noticed it. I may have stopped crying, but inside I was falling apart.
I walked briskly, almost jogging, for thirty minutes. I tried to make sense of my life, and in my head I listed my achievements: A-level results, Ph.D, lectureship, research awards – but they all seemed meaningless. I’d wasted my time and had nothing to show for it. With no particular destination in mind I kept going and going, eventually reaching the train station and the main bus depot. I passed numerous shops, a café, and a run of small B&Bs. Then in the distance, a few car lengths or so in front, a dark blue Ford Mondeo pulled into one of the few curb-side parking slots. A man in a grey suit quickly exited from the driver’s side, and as he walked around to the passenger’s door I recognised him as James Kentish, a former colleague of Helen’s. I’d always despised the insincere little cretin, and the last thing I wanted was him seeing me in my bedraggled state, so I dodged into the doorway of a launderette. While I waited for him to get to wherever he was going, I had the sudden need to talk to Helen. About to press the call button on my mobile, I was distracted by a familiar voice coming from the street, and as I peered out of the doorway I was stunned to see Helen getting out of the Mondeo. Struggling to understand what was going, I was about to beckon her over, but then I watched on in astonishment as she ran towards Kentish. Both were laughing excitedly; then they kissed on the lips, briefly but passionately, before entering one of the B&Bs. I stood shell-shocked in the doorway, my life unravelling about me and unable to do anything to prevent it.
After a minute or so an old lady pulling a small trolley behind her joined me in the porch, trying to pass me and get into the launderette. I moved out of her way, stepping onto the pavement and then continuing down the road. Passing the B&B, I cautiously glanced through the open door to see Helen and Kentish, their backs to me, walking up the stairs holding hands. I felt sick, and wretched a couple of times, but my stomach was empty and nothing came up.
I continued walking down the street. In the distance a cement lorry was coming along the road in my direction. Going well above the thirty m.p.h. speed limit, it drove through a puddle of water that extended from the gutter and filled almost half the road. A huge fan of dirty water leapt up, soaking two businessmen walking on the pavement, their golfing umbrellas doing little to protect them. The lorry was forty or so metres in the distance and closing fast. I knew what I had to do. I bided my time, counting down the distance in my head: twenty-five metres, twenty, fifteen, ten ... When the lorry was only ten metres away I stepped carefully and purposefully into the road with my eyes closed, directly into its path. I heard a screech of brakes, and waited for the impact, but there was nothing but the sensation of a rush of wind and the sound of the heavy lorry passing by. After an incredulous second I opened my eyes. To my disbelief, the truck had taken the other limb of the forked junction where I was standing. Stunned and rooted to the spot, I heard behind me the aggressive sounding of a car horn and turned to see a flashy Audi TT in front of me as I blocked its path in the road. A young woman passing by on the pavement stared nervously at me, and clearly recognising my agitated state, said, “Are you … are you okay?” No I fucking wasn’t, but I didn’t answer. I turned away and started running.
I continued on with my head down, staring at the pavement just a few feet in front of me. I was going nowhere in particular, just away, attempting in some futile way to leave my life behind. After running and walking for close to an hour I reached a shabby residential area of town. The road surface had originally been cobbled and then sometime later covered with tarmac, but much of this was worn away to reveal the old stones beneath. I walked down the pot-holed pavements and passed a rusty street sign attached to the wall of the end house: “Station Road”. I passed a chip shop, empty except for a plump serving girl who sat behind the counter, and then a small pub, The Earl of Arundel. About to pass on by, I had a sudden desire for alcohol. I stepped into the pub and immediately drew the attention of the resident drinkers, as I coughed loudly when the warm smoky atmosphere hit my lungs. Clearly the smoking ban had not reached this part of town. In soaking wet clothes and my shoes squelching with every step, I crossed the worn and dirty carpet and took a seat on a high stool at the bar. The bartender, a man in his fifties, his arms and the back of his hands covered in tattoos, wearily came over, apparently unused to strangers dropping in. “Can I get you something?” he barked.
I ordered a whiskey even though I hadn’t touched the hard stuff since drunken student days. I took a sip of the unpalatable fiery liquid. “I’ll have a Carlsberg to go with it as well,” I added before the barmen had a chance to hand over my change. The lager slipped down more easily and I quickly ordered a second.
Self-consciously I scanned around the pub, which was probably not much bigger than a good-sized living room. It was a spit-and-sawdust type of affair, though only the spit was evident. There were at most ten other patrons, a motley crew of drinkers ranging from a couple of elderly men to a group of youths in their late teens and early twenties. The latter group looked an unsavoury lot, and from their furtive edginess they appeared to be negotiating a drug deal or some other dubious activity. Certainly not the kind of place a sane man would consider for a quiet pint, but after the day I’d been having I was way past caring. I thought back to the episode with the cement lorry and couldn’t help smile; what a complete an utter moron – I wasn’t even able to do a decent job of topping myself. In disgust I knocked back the remainder of the whiskey and then ordered another lager. I watched as the barmen pulled the pint; on the back of his neck were the words “FUCK OFF AND DIE”. I wondered if he ever regretted his decision, though thought it prudent not to ask. I was in the mood for self-destruction – maybe I should get a similar inscription.
I was beginning to relax into my surroundings as most of the other drinkers lost interest in me. But unnervingly, I kept catching the eye of one particularly character, sitting alone at the far end of the bar. Probably in his early forties, he had lank and greasy collar-length brown hair that lay plastered against his forehead. With his pale, gaunt features and several days’ stubble, he had an appearance not unlike a sewer rat, although it was probably doing a disservice to rodent-kind. To my ongoing discomfort, each time I glanced up from my beer he’d be watching me before quickly turning away. There was a certain familiarity about his distinctive features, but I couldn’t quite place him – although CrimeWatch on TV was a distinct possibility. As I pondered his identity there was a vibration followed by the ringing tone of the mobile in my trouser pocket. The screen indicated “Home” and my first thought was to hit the red button, but I answered anyway. I subconsciously held my
breath as I waited for her to speak, but to my surprise she sounded no different to normal – clearly guilt was not weighing heavy on her shoulders. “Hi, just checking what time you’re coming home. Where are you? What’s that noise in the background?”
The alcohol was having an effect and I concentrated hard to avoid slurring my words. “I’m having a drink in The Oxford with a visiting professor, there’s a group of us. I’ll be late home so don’t bother to wait up. How are the boys?”
“Yeah, they’re fine, both in bed. I’ll see you later. Be good.”
I switched off my phone without responding and mulled over the irony of her last statement. I didn’t feel like being good, and returned my attention to the serious business of drinking.
Glancing up from my pint, I was relieved to see that rat-features had moved from his lair at the end of the bar. But as I took another gulp of beer there was a firm tap on my shoulder. Turning cautiously, half-expecting a kiss with a broken bottle, I found myself face to face with him. The proximity was uncomfortable, and enough to experience the foul breath emanating from him, a concoction of alcohol, tobacco and rotten teeth. “You’re Julian Scott, aren’t you?”
I was momentarily stunned, and leaned back against the bar, “Yes … yes, that’s me.” For a second I thought I must have left my university ID badge pinned to my shirt pocket, but then remembered it was on my lab coat at work – how the hell did he know me?
