Bolt-hole

 

 

Many thanks to Joy my mum, friends Rob and Dawn, and most importantly Archana, my wife, for the patience and willingness to read through the numerous drafts.

 

For the A-team.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © 2013, A.J. Oates

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

“... and that was the news headlines on BBC Radio 4 with the time approaching 9:21 p.m.”

I flick the switch on my tiny portable radio and zip it into the top pocket of the rucksack propped against the decrepit armchair.  For the final time, I look around the single room of the bedsit, my home of the last six weeks.  Far from salubrious, the carpet is filthy and threadbare, 70’s flock paper is peeling in huge sheets from the walls, and the damp patch in the far corner is supporting the growth of a seemingly unnatural, almost fluorescent green species of mould.

The shabby appearance of the flat on the inside only mirrors the state of the neighbourhood on the outside.  Rawlton, a former council estate a few miles from Sheffield city centre, is some years past its prime – that’s if it ever had one.  The numerous boarded-up properties have become havens for junkies and glue sniffers, and even the flats still legitimately inhabited possess an assortment of rusty washing machines and broken furniture dumped in the overgrown front yards.  Just a year ago the idea of driving through such an area, let alone living here, would have been unthinkable.  But now, of course, everything has changed, and despite the decor, the first floor bedsit has served its purpose and provided the perfect vantage point to track the movements of Musgrove living across the road in his similarly run-down flat.

I move over to the window and cautiously peer through the gap at the edge of the drawn curtains.  In the street outside water continues to gush from the ground as workmen dig up huge chunks of tarmac under the hum and brilliance of portable spotlights, but the inside of Musgrove’s flat is shrouded in darkness and there’s no sign of him at home.

With my constant obsession with time and keeping to my schedule, I again check my watch: 9:25 p.m.  Time to go, I whisper to myself, although suspect I should come up with something more profound, given the significance of the moment.  I confirm the precious contents of my small rucksack, place it on my back and head over to the doorway taking slow deep breaths as I shake my hands at the wrists to release my pent-up anxiety.  Come on Julian … come on … you CAN do it, I urge through gritted teeth as I desperately try to instil some kind of internal resolve.

I turn off the light from the single bare ceiling bulb and, in the near-total darkness, I carefully descend the steep staircase.  My shoes stick to the filthy linoleum in the small entranceway at the bottom of the stairs as I neurotically check that the rucksack is still on my back.  Reassured, I unlock the front door and cautiously step into the darkness of the driveway sheltered from the road by the massively overgrown privet hedge. I glance behind me as I leave the drive and then hurriedly turn right down Stanley Road.  Other than the workmen, the street is deserted and, seemingly intent on digging through to the earth’s core, they appear oblivious to my presence as I pass quickly by.

A shiver courses down my spine as the wind cuts deep, and I pull up the thick collar of my jacket and adjust my woollen scarf.  After the Indian summer of the last few weeks, the evening of October 8th, the day of my 37th birthday, is distinctly autumnal, with fallen leaves accumulating on the ground and my breath condensing in the crisp air.  Normally it’s my favourite time of year, reminding me of birthdays as a child followed by bonfire night and then the excitement of the long run-up to Christmas with parties and pantomimes, but tonight such innocent contentment seems light years away.

I continue down the road, negotiating the dog shit and discarded chip paper wrappers that litter the pavement, and nervously adjusting the straps of the rucksack on my back.  The woman from a few doors down, the only neighbour I’ve spoken to in the last six weeks, is in her front garden and swearing under her breath as she picks up beer cans dumped by a group of passing kids.  I quickly cross the street to avoid eye contact and unwanted conversation and then cut through the forecourt of the petrol station to reach the main road.

Without slowing my pace, I again glance at my watch under the yellow sodium street lighting.  Still only 9:30 p.m. – I’ve plenty of time to reach the bus stop, which is now just a couple of minutes away.  For the umpteenth time I mentally rehearse my plan and the numerous contingencies should anything go wrong.  I attempt to argue away my anxieties and convince myself that in a few hours time I’ll be safely on the train to the airport hotel in readiness for my flight in the morning and the start of a new life.

A few minutes ahead of schedule, the number 49 single-decker is pulling into the lay-by as I reach the bus stop.  A handful of people are already waiting but no one gives me a second glance as I join the back of the loosely formed queue.  The floor of the vandalised bus shelter is covered in tiny fragments of glass and it grates underfoot as we all shuffle forward in expectation of the doors opening.  But the bus driver sits aloofly behind his Perspex shield, checks his watch in an exaggerated fashion, and the doors remain shut.  Impatiently I watch as he lights a cigarette and, in between drags, holds it out of the side window while reading the Metro paper propped against the massive steering wheel.

With the engine left running, dark noxious clouds belch from the exhaust and quickly begin to accumulate in the shelter.  The harsh smell only adds to my anxiety-driven nausea and I focus all my attention on not being sick.

After a long few minutes, the driver flicks the butt of his cigarette into the street and the doors finally open.  With my head bowed and face obscured by the collar of my jacket and scarf, I climb aboard and hand over the exact fare of £1.70 before taking the ticket without saying a word.  My short-lived fame in the local media has long since come to an end and no one shows any interest as I take a seat at the back.  Within a few minutes the bus departs for the town centre and I begin to feel the slightest hint of relief that at least the first step of my plan has gone to schedule.

Full of barely controlled nervous energy, I sit above the noisy vibrating engine with my foot tapping on the back of the seat in front.  The occupant, a middle-aged woman stinking of stale cigarette smoke and booze, turns part-way to face me, her irritation clearly evident as she glares down at my foot and then back at me.  I get the message and cease my tapping.

As an attempt to refocus my thinking, I take out my wallet from my inside jacket pocket and remove the crumpled, much-thumbed photograph tucked in the slot next to the credit cards.  It had been taken a couple of years earlier, during a family holiday on the beach in St Ives; in the foreground is Helen, my wife, along with our two young sons, William and Oliver, and me standing at the back with a ridiculous grin plastered across my face.  It had been a great day, a day I’ll never forget; we’d bought a dinghy and spent hours in the rough Atlantic surf playing pirates.  Even now, when I close my eyes, I can still hear the waves pounding the beach and the excited laughter of the boys.  I can picture their beautiful faces so vividly it’s almost as if I can reach out and touch them.  So many times, God, so many times in the last few months, how achingly I’ve wished I could go back to that day.