I spin around instantly, almost falling off the rock, praying that I’d imagined the voice. But no such luck: I’m facing an elderly man, probably mid seventies, just ten metres or so away as he walks on the path towards me. Wearing the latest waterproof all-weather gear, expensive rucksack and walking pole, he looks like he’s stepped out of an Outward Bound catalogue. “Good morning,” he repeats.
I struggle to respond, shocked that my solitude has been shattered. Eventually, after a few seconds, I manage to mutter, “Morning.”
Catalogue man slows his pace, and then stops, now less than a metre away. Staring at me inquisitively, he bends at the waist, looking at me through the thick lenses of glasses. With an arrogant and slightly condescending manner, as if I’m being reprimanded by an old-fashioned schoolmaster, he addresses me. “Do I know you? … You look very, very familiar, young man.” You moron, Julian, you moron, flashes through my thoughts, furious as I am at my stupidity for breaking my routine and not returning to the bolt-hole sooner.
Desperately trying to compose myself and not appear suspicious, I answer casually, “I don’t think so … erm, at least not that I remember anyway.”
The man isn’t convinced and continues to stare intently while waiting for a flash of inspiration. Finally he turns to face Ashop Moor. “I think I’ll join you. The walk up Crookstone Hill almost killed me. It is a bit grim this morning, but I come here every Christmas Day, rain or shine. I used to come with my good lady wife, but she’s passed on now.”
Before I have chance to respond, he sits next to me on the boulder and turns again to face me. “You’re an early riser, young man, where’ve you come from.”
Trying to gain some composure and think on my feet, I answer immediately, “Hagg Side,” but instantly regret it as I feel his stare burning into the side of my face.
“Oh, I’ve just come from there. I didn’t see your car.” I don’t respond but attempt to feign distraction at something in the distance. After a few seconds he continues, “Are you sure we’ve not met before?”
“No, I’m sorry but I think you’ve made a mistake,” I respond, this time more forcefully.
But he wasn’t about to let it drop so easily. “No, I never forget a face. The names Stead, David Stead, Chief Inspector Stead. S-T-E-A-D,” he helpfully spells out in case I should want to take notes. “A memory like an elephant – that’s what my missus used to say. Twenty-five years as a bobby in the Met, moved up here fifteen years ago after I retired. No, never one to forget a face. Trust me, son, I’ll remember,” he says belligerently.
I begin to feel my hands shake and my heart-rate increases again after only just beginning to settle after the run, and without thinking I pick up a small rock from the ground next to me. I grip it tightly and the sharp surfaces dig into my hand, the pain almost therapeutic.
For the next few minutes Stead proceeds to lecture me on the local fauna and flora. Unsurprisingly I have no interest in his knowledge of wildlife but I’m grateful that he’s distracted from the issue of my identity. Passing his binoculars to me, he asks me to name a bird that swoops in front of us, quizzing me on his recent lecture material. As I lift the binoculars to my eyes he takes a sharp intake of breath, and I immediately turn to face him. For the first time he appears lost for words, and it’s several seconds before he finally speaks. “I know who you are, I know who you are, you’re Scott … You were in the paper a few months ago. You’re that Julian Scott.”
I stare back at him unsure how to react or what to say. He gets up to leave, and then almost as an afterthought he grabs the binoculars from my hand and glares intently at me. “You’re a murderer.” It’s only now that he sees the rock gripped in my hand, and a look of fear crosses his face. I drop the rock immediately but it’s too late, he’s already turned and is running back in the direction of Crookstone Hill.
I follow him a few paces behind. “Wait, please, please, I just want to talk, I’m not going to hurt you.”
My pleas clearly fall on deaf ears as he continues on, his rucksack swinging wildly on his back. After a hundred metres or so, and with no sign of him relenting, I try to slow him down by gently pulling on the strap on his rucksack. He stops abruptly, and then glares at me before defiantly pushing me back and shouting at me, “I’ll not give up without a fight you know, I’ll not give up without a fight, sonny,” as he raises his walking pole and shakes it at me.
I put my hands up. “I don’t want to hurt you. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.”
“Talk? Talk? Is that what you wanted with the other fella whose head you chopped off? Don’t get me wrong, it was terrible what happened to your family but you can’t go round killing people … you can’t take the law into your own hands.” I step towards him, desperately trying to placate him but he’s not having any of it, and he turns and starts running again.
His panic is contagious. It crosses my mind that I should head back to the bolt-hole, collect my stuff and make a run for it. But it was never part of the plan – where would I go?, what would I do? Before I’ve a chance to make any sort of decision, just a few metres in front of me his foot catches in a deep rut, he falls heavily to the ground, and his forehead crashes onto a boulder with a sickening thud. For several seconds he lies motionless, before slowly and awkwardly getting to his feet. Blood is already beginning to drip down through his hairline and into his eyes. Again I try to calm him, but, disorientated, he turns to run. He struggles over the uneven ground and almost immediately falls again. I kneel on his back, attempting to subdue him while I have the chance to reason, but with a strength that shocks me, he wriggles free, turns over, and swings his elbow, forcefully catching me in the groin. I’m left winded, and within a split second he’s on his feet and running again. I’m amazed by his tenacity. He’s like a terrier after a rabbit and determined not to give up. I follow as he approaches the edge of the plateau, the steep rocky drop beyond. His running is increasingly erratic and he’s continually close to falling.
After another thirty seconds of running I’ve got him cornered. In his confusion he’s stepped out onto a rocky ledge, with me blocking the way to the front and at least a twenty-metre drop behind him to the rocks below. I begin to feel more relaxed, knowing that he’s got nowhere to run and I’ll have a chance to reason with him. But to my amazement he turns to face me, then gets on his hands and knees, then onto his belly, and begins to shuffle backwards. “What are you doing?” I scream. “You’ll kill yourself. Look, listen to me, I just want to talk, that’s all, just talk.”
Stead mumbles incoherently and shuffles backwards, his legs hanging over the edge as he continues to move away from me, almost as if he’s trying to lower himself down the massive drop. Fearing the worst, I lunge forward onto my knees and grab both his wrists to pin him to the ground. But he squirms violently, and with his hands covered in slippery blood I struggle to maintain any sort of grip. For the next twenty seconds or so I battle with him, desperately trying to hang on and prevent him slipping backwards. He begins to shout, swearing at me and screaming, “Murderer!” Then it happens: my grip finally gives way and I make a final desperate attempt to grab him by the collar of his jacket. Our gazes lock and I don’t know who is the more scared.
Should I let him drop? It could solve all my problems and in all probability the police would treat it as an accident. I can almost picture the headlines in the local paper, probably tucked away in the middle pages: an elderly hiker, walking alone, falls to his death in a tragic accident. He screams at me again but this time the realisation of his plight appears to dawn. "Pull me, please, pull me back up.” Again it flickers across my consciousness that I should just let him drop. But what sort of person am I? Am I really capable of killing an innocent man? Thankfully his thick jacket is zipped and buttoned all the way to the neck line, and by gripping onto his collar I’ve just got enough purchase to support his weight – but for how much longer? With a final massive surge of effort and with my fingers burning, I dig the heels of my boots into a shallow groove in the rock, and with all my strength I drag him back onto the ledge.