Waiting for the storm to pass, I take off the rucksack and perch on the far-from-comfortable metal bench. Already I’m exhausted, the short sprint taking far more out of me than I would’ve expected. The nausea is returning and my skin is burning up; I suspect that my earlier fear that the neck wound is getting infected is becoming a reality.
Although grateful for the breather, after waiting for twenty minutes and with no sign of the storm abating, I’m increasingly desperate to get moving again. I let another few minutes pass by and then I’ve had enough: I know that I’m wasting too much time. I put the rucksack back on, step out of the shelter and glance behind me towards the town centre. In the distance, barely visible in the driving rain, I can just make out the number 218 single-decker bus heading in my direction. Almost without thinking, I wave for it to stop and the driver brakes hard, skidding a little on the wet surface before pulling up at the curb. I climb aboard and with the hood and scarf still obscuring my face I vigorously shake the wet off my jacket, using the action as an excuse to avoid eye contact with the driver. “One way to Owler Bar please.”
“A bit grim out there.” he says with a strong Yorkshire accent as he takes my £5 note.
“Yeah, you arrived at just the right time,” I respond, again without looking directly at him.
Normally the bus would be full of ramblers heading to the town of Bakewell in the Peak District, but I’m relieved to find that I’m the only passenger; presumably the poor forecast has put many of them off. Out of view of the driver’s rear-view mirror, I take a seat at the back, the warmest spot on the bus, above the throbbing engine generating heat below me. The windows are lined with thick condensation and I clear a patch to view the blanket of water falling from the sky. As I stare out at the pounding rain, I begin to question whether I’ve done the right thing by catching the bus. I feel strangely uneasy about deviating from the rigid structure of the plan that has held me together for the last few months. In my original planning stage I’d briefly considered taking the bus, knowing that it would reduce the walking distance by a good six miles, but ultimately on balance felt it too risky, with recognition by the driver or another passenger a distinct possibility. I can only hope that I won’t live to regret it.
Attempting to distract my mind from negative thoughts, I pick up a discarded copy of the Metro paper from the seat next to me. Studying the front page, I’m pleasantly surprised to find that I’m not the main event, and it crosses my mind that my fifteen minutes of notoriety are over. But turning to page two, I see that it’s not the case: there’s a full-page story under the banner headline, “Revenge Killer on Run”, below which is a photograph, again taken from my university ID. There is also a small photograph of Detective Superintendent Greene. He looks about fifty, though possibly older, and has a weathered face that reminds me of the stereotypical hard-drinking and grizzled old detectives on TV. The article proceeds to describe in lurid detail the hit-and-run and the failure of the police to bring any charges. The final paragraph, and the one of most relevance to me, discusses the potential whereabouts of “the fugitive” and DS Greene is quoted: “We are keeping an open mind but at the moment our priority is to speak to Dr Julian Scott wherever he might be. I would urge him to come forward, and if his whereabouts are known to members of the public I would ask them to call 999 immediately.” He went on to add: “There have been several possible sightings, both at home and overseas, and we are investigating a number of important leads. Following our earlier appeals a witness has also come forward who states that a man matching Julian Scott’s description was seen staying at a bedsit directly opposite where the victim lived in the weeks prior to his death. We are currently performing a detailed forensic search of the property.” A final question by the interviewer has produced the following answer: “Whoever has committed this murder is by definition a dangerous individual and it is the highest priority of South Yorkshire Police Service to apprehend him as soon as possible.”
I put the paper down and consider the latest developments. Clearly the police know that I was living at 17b – presumably my busybody neighbour is the witness in question. But the discovery of 17b doesn’t necessarily worry me; yes, I may have left forensic evidence confirming that I’d stayed there, but certainly nothing to indicate my long-term plans. A second point that stands out from the article is the repeated use of the word “victim”. I can’t believe it: Musgrove isn’t a victim, he’s a murdering parasite. Helen is the victim, my boys are the victims, my parents are the victims, and I’m the victim. Musgrove is not a victim.
I slowly reread the article to check that I’ve not missed anything. As I come to the end of the final paragraph for the second time, my concentration is interrupted by a blur of blue light speeding past the window, followed a second later by a siren wailing. I sit bolt upright, dropping the paper to the floor. Has the driver recognised me? I can just make out the reflection of his eyes in the rear-view mirror but they give nothing away and I turn my attention to the outside. The condensation on the window has re-accumulated and I wipe it clear with the palm of my hand as the water drips down my forearm under the sleeve of my jacket. Frantically I press my forehead against the window, attempting to get a better view of the front of the bus, but I still can’t make out what’s going on. The brakes squeal loudly as the bus slows, and I move to the centre of the back seat to look down the aisle and through the windscreen, with the wipers on full pelt to clear the rain. The bus comes to a complete stop, with a Volvo police traffic car blocking the road twenty metres or so in front. I turn behind me to look through the back window just as another police car overtakes the bus and then pulls up next to the Volvo.
Panic-stricken, I search for the bus’s emergency exit, not realising that I’m sitting right next to it. Within seconds the front doors open and a short, overweight policeman climbs aboard and then looks down the bus towards me. I grab the pull handle of the emergency exit and, almost rigid with fear, hold my breath and wait for his response. But amazingly he appears indifferent to me, turning instead to the driver. “Sorry to stop you mate. I’m PC Dave Carmichael from Otley Road. Bad news – a lightning strike ahead has brought down a tree branch. Unfortunately the road’s blocked until a bloke and a chainsaw arrive from the council. You know what they’re like – we could be here for a few weeks.”
My anxiety eases a modicum, and I afford myself the luxury of a breath as sweat continues to pour from my skin. I let go of the emergency handle, though keep it in easy reach, check my collar is pulled up to cover my face, and sink into the seat.
For the next few minutes PC Carmichael and the driver engage in small talk, before a second and much younger policeman boards the bus and addresses his colleague. “Somebody from the works department is on the way, apparently should be here within ten minutes.”
The driver turns round to look down the aisle in my direction. “We should be sorted before too long, mate.”
“No problem,” I respond, as casually as I can, although no problem is not how I would describe my current situation: virtually a national celebrity, on the run for murder, and within ten metres of the boys in blue. I suppose I should just be grateful that they’re not the most diligent of coppers and I’m not already in shackles.
I focus my attention out of the window, all the time ready to make a move if need be. We’ve stopped outside a petrol station next to which are a couple of shops and a large pub. As a sixteen-year-old, the latter had a certain infamy, as the licensee had been particularly lax at interpreting the legal age for drinking and the place was consequently popular with a younger clientele. Life seemed so much simpler in those days.