I lifted my head again and scanned the room, but didn’t immediately recognise my surroundings. It took several seconds before fragments of memory fell into place and my thoughts turned to Musgrove, but he was gone and I was alone in the small flat. I felt in my pockets for my house keys, mobile and wallet, but they were all missing. I quickly scanned around the floor and found my wallet, partially obscured by an old pizza box. My university ID and organ donor card were next to it, but the debit card I’d used at the petrol station cash point, along with the £300 withdrawal, were missing.
You bastard, Musgrove, I hissed, but I suppose I was more angry with myself for being so stupid and going back to his flat in the first place. I checked for my watch, a present from my parents, thankfully still on my wrist and indicating 8:30 a.m. I slowly got to my feet with the room spinning and a cold sweat forming on my brow. As soon as I was fully upright the retching started, producing yellow frothy vomit that left a sour taste in my mouth and only added to my nausea.
The air in the dingy cramped flat was oppressive and I desperately needed to get out. I wiped the vomit from my chin using the tatty curtains, and then made my way to the front door. After a few seconds of concentration I managed to open the Yale lock and step out into the street. At first the crisp cold air had a sobering and refreshing effect, but as I walked down the driveway the spinning and nausea quickly returned. Turning into the road, I tucked in my beer- and vomit-stained shirt, a half-hearted attempt to look vaguely presentable, and then fumbled through my pockets, emptying the contents into my cupped hand. £2.23, not enough for a taxi but just enough for the bus fare home – that’s if I could first make it to the city centre bus terminus. I certainly didn’t relish the prospect of walking the four miles, but what choice did I have; given the state I was in I couldn’t exactly ask Helen to come and get me.
As I walked, my unsteadiness and dishevelled appearance attracted the attention of some of the early-morning shoppers. Many moved to the opposite side of the pavement to avoid me, but one sweet old lady, shuffling along in carpet slippers and two walking sticks, appeared concerned, and to my surprise asked me if I needed any help. I would have laughed at the irony if I hadn’t felt so god-awful.
After ninety minutes of walking, and still feeling like death warmed up, I finally reached the bus station. The bus was waiting and I climbed aboard hoping that I wouldn’t recognise anybody. But it wasn’t to be, as I immediately spotted the teaching assistant from William’s reception class sitting in the front seat. It was obvious that she recognised me, her face bearing shock and then something close to disgust as she quickly looked away. I could almost read her thoughts: “Those poor boys with a drunk for a father.”
I reached home at 10:30 a.m., and without my house keys I was relieved to see the reflection of the TV through the living room window: Helen was at home to let me in. She opened the door with Oliver asleep in her arms, and although initially stunned by my dishevelled appearance, her disposition soon turned to anger. “Julian, where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick. Why didn’t you answer your mobile? ... I was about to phone the police.”
The last thing I needed was a lecture, and I brushed past her. “Sorry. Sorry. I just need to lie down.” I headed upstairs to the spare bedroom, removed my shoes and filthy clothes and crawled into bed, pulling the sweet-smelling, freshly laundered sheets over my head. As I offered a silent prayer of thanks that I’d made it home, I was totally oblivious of the horrific series of events I’d set in motion.
Chapter 14
As the weeks slowly pass in the Kinder Scout bolt-hole, I begin to find a certain peace with myself. I’m sure there are numerous research articles in which academics have studied the effects of solitary confinement on an individual’s mental state. I can imagine that some would struggle, but for me the experience, while not exactly pleasurable, is acceptable and provides largely uninterrupted time to order my thoughts.
My experience is a dichotomy: I have the confinement and darkness of my tiny bolt-hole, which contrasts sharply with the beautiful expanse of the vast Kinder Scout plateau, where the horizons feel limitless. Over the months I’ve begun to feel more than a little protective of my slice of the Peak District, and I get irrationally incensed when I find the occasional discarded Coke can or crisp packet left by a careless walker.
Despite my increasingly positive attitude I often wake in the darkness of the bolt-hole and, in my semi-consciousness state, imagine that the events of the last few months have all been a horrific nightmare. I picture myself at home, lying in bed with Helen by my side and hearing the excited chatter of William and Oliver. Subconsciously I tense my stomach muscles as I wait for them to jump on me as they did most mornings. But all too quickly the illusion is shattered and the starkness of my bolt-hole surroundings becomes apparent. But even with reality re-established, I find it difficult to believe, almost incomprehensible, that me, Dr Julian Scott, B.Sc, Ph.D, a university academic, is on the run from the police having committed murder. I’d always thought that the well-educated were, at least partially, insulated from the unpredictable aspects of life, but in the last year everything has changed. Most of my thoughts centre on the past but occasionally I think to the future and the time after I leave the bolt-hole. But invariably I struggle to imagine any sort of normality, and if anything, the last year has taught me that life is unpredictable; who knows what’s going to happen.
When I think back to the drinking session at the Earl of Arundel and then Musgrove’s filthy flat, I know I could never have imagined how the path of my life and those around me would be changed. After leaving his flat and finally making it home I headed straight for bed, the prospect of going to work unthinkable. My only hope was that the day would pass quickly and that the next day, a Saturday, I’d begin to feel better. Around noon Helen brought me tea but offered little else in the way of sympathy. “You’ve brought it on yourself, you’re not a kid anymore you know,” her only comment before reminding me that she was taking the boys away for the weekend on a long-arranged visit to an old school friend. It crossed my mind that the “school friend” might be Kentish, but I quickly dismissed the idea, confident that she would never use the boys in such a subterfuge. In any case, it was a relief to know that they wouldn’t be returning until late Sunday, giving me the chance to recuperate in peace.
I went back to sleep, only to be disturbed in the middle of the afternoon by the front door slamming shut and the key turning in the lock. I sat upright in bed and peeked through the partially drawn curtains to see Helen and Oliver leaving with their weekend bag to collect William from school before heading off. I still felt like hell; my brain was relentlessly pounding in my skull and my tongue was thick and furred, and I had the lingering taste of vomit. I took a sip of the now cold tea that Helen had brought me earlier, but it did little to alleviate my dehydration, and if anything only added to the nausea. I turned the pillow over and laid my head on the cool cotton fabric, providing temporary relief while quietly willing the hours to pass by, knowing that time was the only remedy for my particular illness.
I stayed in bed for the rest of the afternoon and it was only when the streetlamps outside the bedroom window had come on that I finally made it downstairs. With my head spinning, I headed to the kitchen for a glass of water and then rummaged in the cupboard to find a flyer for a local pizza takeaway. Although not particularly hungry, I ordered a large pepperoni pizza and bottle of Coke, a hangover antidote I’d discovered during my student days, and very much a kill-or-cure approach.