For a few moments I’m lost in my memories before my current plight dawns again and I reluctantly put the photograph back in its slot.  About to close the wallet, I catch a glimpse of my old university staff ID card and remove it from the transparent sleeve:

Dr Julian Scott

Senior Lecturer/Principal Scientist

Department of Biochemistry

School of Biological Sciences

University of Sheffield

 

I study the small ID photograph and barely recognise it as me.  Now six months since my existence was ripped apart, so much of my life and so much of me has changed.  At first I’d struggled to come to terms with what had happened, and it was only with the inception of my plan that my life developed a focus and I had a reason for going on.  Now, with the preparation over and the moment of truth just an hour away, I can’t help but question whether I can achieve my ultimate goal or if I’ll succumb to either conscience or cowardice.

The traffic flows freely and although we stop often to pick up rowdy boozers heading to town for the late bars and clubs, the four-mile journey takes only twenty minutes.  When the bus reaches my stop, I hold the rucksack protectively in front of me and push my way through the numerous standing passengers before venturing back out into the cold darkness.  My next destination is the Earl of Arundel Pub at the far side of Linton Green, an area covering two or three square miles of cheap housing with a large student and Pakistani immigrant population.  The houses are mainly back-to-backs, closely packed together and many now converted to flats and a disproportionate number of salmonella take-aways to serve the student populace.  I’ve walked the area many times in the last few weeks and it feels reassuringly like home turf: I know every escape route through the maze of backstreets and alleys.

After a brisk fifteen-minute walk I pass the derelict engineering works and then take the walkway under the dual carriageway to reach Station Road, a row of terraced houses on the corner of which is the Earl of Arundel Public House.  Despite the grand title, the pub is a single-roomed affair formerly frequented by the engineering workers from up the road, but since the demise of the factory it had developed a reputation as a hangout for drug dealers and their clientele.  On my one, much regretted, visit to the pub six months earlier, I’d got the distinct impression that strangers were undercover police until proven otherwise.

As raised voices emanate from inside the pub I jog past the entrance and hurry across the road.  On the far side is a builders’ merchant’s – Musgrove’s former employers – with a painted wooden sign hanging above the doorway: “William’s Building Supplies”.  Next to it is a narrow, poorly lit alley, and it is here that I take up my waiting position, the darkness providing a discreet vantage point free from the view of passers-by and prying CCTV cameras.

I know that if Musgrove is true to his routine he’ll be sitting alone at the bar drinking his pint.  During my weeks of surveillance I found him a mass of contradictions: until recently, he’d been able to hold down a regular job, albeit with little responsibility, but then had drug-fuelled episodes of erratic and unpredictable behaviour.  But, for whatever reason, his Thursday night ritual of drinking in the Arundel proved to be a permanent fixture in his life and provided one of the few opportunities to instigate my plan.  If the last three Thursdays were the norm, he’ll have arrived at the pub by early evening, will enjoy a skin-full, and then a few minutes before last orders he’ll leave, always alone, to catch the late bus home.  I check my watch for the thousandth time: 10:32 p.m.; he’ll be leaving within fifteen minutes.

In the darkness of the alley I crouch behind an overflowing and foul-smelling dumpster.  My nausea persists and I breathe with my hand over my nose and mouth.  Bar the occasional mangy cat, the street is deserted and the chippy next to the pub is empty of customers as I watch the plump serving girl constantly picking at the chips in the hot trays.

Unseen, I take the rucksack off my back, unzip the front pocket and, without removing it from the bag, inspect the heavy object wrapped in an old checked tea towel.  I fish in my pockets for the leather driving gloves and pull them on before removing the cloth and its contents from the rucksack.  As the tea towel falls away, the blade of a foot-long machete glints in the moonlight.  Though I’ve seen it and felt its weight in my hand many times, I’m still shocked by its promised violence.  I grip the wooden handle and, checking that I’m still alone and unwatched, raise it above my head.  I picture Musgrove standing in front of me, and with the anger and frustration simmering I take a practice swing.  As the blade cuts through the air with a reassuring sound, almost in an instant, as if flicking a switch, my anxiety dissipates.

I am ready.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

For so long, the events planned for this October evening have been my sole preoccupation.  But despite my familiarity with the plan and commitment to the ultimate goal, standing in the darkness of the alley with the brutal weapon in my hand seems far from real.  I’m certainly not proud of what I’m about to do and it’s not simply revenge that drives me on – more the realisation that any chance of a future life is inextricably linked with its successful conclusion.

As I wait for Musgrove to leave the pub my thoughts return to six months earlier and the precipitating events that have brought me to this place.  The day of my Dad’s 65th birthday, we’d celebrated with a family meal at a local restaurant.  The evening had been a happy occasion; my Mum and Dad were delighted at the prospect of their impending retirement and excitedly discussed the school holiday trips they were planning with William and Oliver.  I was also feeling more relaxed than I had in a long time and looking forward to starting a new job.  I’d videoed much of the meal, but even after all these weeks I’ve not been able to bring myself to watch it.  May be I never will.

As I would later explain ad infinitum to the police, we left the restaurant at about 7:40 p.m.  Although approaching dusk, it was mild for the time of year and the pink-orange hue of the setting sun was breaking through the clouds.  Given the beautiful evening, my Dad suggested walking the short distance home, which followed a picturesque route through the grounds of the local church.  The boys jumped at the chance to delay bed-time and we decided that I should drive the car back while the others walked.  I beeped the car horn several times as I drove past them: William on my Dad’s shoulders and Oliver riding piggy-back on Helen.  I watched through the rear-view mirror as they waved and smiled back at me, an image that will no doubt stay with me a lifetime.

Back at home I checked my watch for the first time at around 8:45 p.m.  The kids had school the next day and I was starting to get irritated that they were taking so long.  Even given the children’s predilection to dawdle, the journey on foot should have taken no longer than twenty minutes.  What were they doing?

At 9:00 p.m., and by way of a distraction, I switched on the TV to catch the news headlines.  Obama was visiting Moscow and there was more strife in the Middle East but I struggled to concentrate on the specifics.  I couldn’t understand what was taking so long; it was over an hour since I’d driven past them.  I was beginning to feel uneasy, but then dismissing my stupidity and obsessive tendency to worry.  I phoned Helen’s mobile and immediately heard it ringing on the kitchen table where she’d left it.