I suspected he was telling the truth. “Look, I’m sorry, there was nothing I could do about it, you’ll have your money tomorrow morning … by eleven, okay?” The phone went dead.
For the next few minutes I sat at the table with my gaze fixed on the phone in my hand, as if it was going to provide guidance as to my next move. Interrupting my thoughts, the waitress came over and removed the dirty plate and I gave her a couple of quid in tips; maybe the generosity would do something for my Karma. I had less than twenty-three hours to kill Musgrove and get to the airport for my flight. What the hell was I going to do? Then it came to me in a flash of inspiration. Looking at the discarded morning paper on a neighbouring table, I realised it was Thursday, and Thursday, of course, for Musgrove, meant pub night. If I could intercept him outside the Earl of Arundel pub and get him in the dark alley opposite, it could work. It wasn’t perfect, not as discreet as his flat, but it would have to do. What other choice did I have?
Staring out of the window from the back of the café, I watched as the distinctive figure of Musgrove appeared from the end of Stanley Road and made his way to the bus stop. Presumably he was on his way to see his dealer and no doubt cursing the fact that I hadn’t turned up with his money. I waited a few minutes until his bus departed, and then made my way back to 17b. More workmen had arrived, along with a JCB digger; clearly this was no small job. The temporary traffic lights were now functioning, and the police, thankfully, had already left, as I headed down the driveway and let myself into the bedsit.
For the rest of the afternoon I paced the small room, struggling to sit still for more than a few minutes. Musgrove arrived back home at little after 2:00 p.m. and I watched as he comically scaled the piled-up tarmac at the end of his drive. Once inside the flat he went through his usual ritual of heroin followed by sleep. I sat back in the chair and closed my eyes, trying to get some rest, but within seconds I was back up again and prowling the room.
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As the darkness slowly enveloped the flat, I watched as Musgrove woke from his drug-induced slumber. I watched as he heated up baked beans and ate them straight from the pan. I watched as he relieved himself, as always leaving his bathroom door open. I watched as, early evening, he left the flat, climbed over the rubble at the bottom of his driveway and headed for the bus stop. My hours of watching were almost over.
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The next couple of hours dragged slowly by. I spent much of the time unnecessarily checking the contents of my rucksack. At 9:20 p.m. I did a final inspection of the bedsit and wiped down the surfaces with gloved hands to remove any fingerprints. Within thirty minutes I would be standing in the dark alley opposite the Earl of Arundel public house with a machete in my hand. A further sixty minutes later Musgrove would be dead and I would be desperately running for my freedom, pursued through the streets by the police and thanking God that I’d had the foresight to make a contingency plan.
Chapter 18
At 6:00 a.m. exactly I scramble out of the Kinder Scout bolt-hole for the last time. With my belongings stacked outside, I do a final check to make sure that I’ve not left anything behind and then carefully block the entrance with rocks as I say my farewells to my sanctuary of the last six months. Despite the apprehension for whatever lies ahead, there is the relief that the months of waiting are over and my journey has finally started.
The sun is just beginning to rise above the horizon, and under the indigo sky I carefully negotiate the numerous rocks and ruts that litter the paths that will lead me off the plateau. The early morning air is crisp and the cold breeze brings tears to my eyes as I press forward, struggling across the rough terrain with the two heavy rucksacks. The heavier of the bags is on my back, the second I carry in my hand, and I swap periodically between each side when my hand and arm begin to ache. After just a few minutes of walking, I’m out of breath and beads of sweat are forming on my brow. I stop briefly to remove my jacket, tie it around my waist and put the now superfluous woollen hat in my trouser pocket.
After a mile of hard walking I reach the first significant milestone of my journey: Mermaid’s Pool, a solitary deep-water pond which supposedly has a mythical connection to the Atlantic Ocean which renders it poisonous to the wildlife and sheep that graze the area. Seeming almost to confirm the legend, the carcass of a dead sheep can be seen at the far edge of the pond, with its partially decomposed head gently bobbing up and down as the wind ripples the water’s surface. Folklore has it that staring into the water grants a vision of the future ... but nope, as hard as I try, it’s not working for me.
My hand is aching and the skin reddened with numerous indentations caused by the rough straps of the rucksack digging into my flesh. I drop the bag on the ground and rub my palm to get the blood flowing again. After checking that I’m still alone, I climb on top of a waist-high rock at the edge of the perfectly still and eerily dark water. I remove the rucksack from my back, and after taking a moment to get my balance I spin on the spot and, not unlike a shot putter, hurl it into the water, letting out a steroid-infused grunt any Russian athlete would be proud of. The bag floats for a few seconds and then disappears, satisfyingly accompanied by air bubbles rising to the surface. After a minute or so the bubbles cease and I jump off the boulder and move closer. With the toes of my boots getting splashed with water, I see nothing of the bag in the darkly peat-stained abyss.
With less weight to carry, my stride lengthens and I continue with renewed purpose. In the far distance I can just make out the first of the day’s hikers, a man and a woman, their brightly coloured jackets contrasting with the subtle browns and greens of the moorland. They’re heading away to the east and I can’t help but feel a sense of reprieve that our paths won’t cross, even though I know I’ll meet hundreds of people during the course of the day, everyone of them having the potential to recognise me from my earlier notoriety in the media. Perhaps strangely, despite the huge risks that I’m taking, I feel calmer than I’d expected. I suppose my philosophy, if you can call it that, is that I’ve done all I can to achieve success and now I just have to hope for a desirable outcome.
I pass the first rambler a little before 8:00 a.m. We acknowledge each other with a nod and a brief smile. The man is of retiring age and uncomfortably reminds me of David Stead. He slows his pace, presumably expecting me to stop and chat about the beautiful spring weather, but I put my head down and carry on walking. Within a few minutes, I pass a second and a third rambler, and then a fourth, and before long I lose count. Nobody gives me a second glance and I feel reassured that my whereabouts do not appear to be at the fore of the rest of the world’s consciousness. Feeling more confident, at the next stile and while waiting momentarily for an elderly couple to pass through, I utter my first words to a living soul for months: “Good morning.” Hardly profound, but it feels good to reconnect with society, albeit in a small way.
I press on, and even with the heavy rucksack I practically break into a jog and cover the route far quicker than I’d anticipated. By 10:15 a.m. I reach the small village of Edale nestled at the bottom of Kinder Scout. The village marks the start of the Pennine Way, a 240-mile walk that dissects much of northern England. As always there are numerous tourists and hikers milling about as I pass the handful of quaint cottages, a couple of pubs and a convenience shop. Within five minutes I arrive at the two-track train station, and with no ticket office or barrier I head straight for Platform 2, following the rusty and weather-beaten sign: “Trains to Manchester.” I pass through a damp and poorly lit underground walkway, which takes me below the tracks, before climbing the steps to Platform 2. Opposite me on Platform 1, a throng of people are already waiting as a train is just pulling in, heading for Sheffield away to the south east. With the train boarding, I turn my back on the passengers just ten metres away, always conscious that I might be recognised, and focus my gaze away into the distance. After a minute or so, the train departs and I’m left alone on the platform. I move over to the small corrugated metal waiting area that looks like a Second World War air-raid shelter. The structure is open at the front and contains wooden benches arranged in a U shape, sufficient for around ten people to take refuge from the elements. On the back wall of the shelter, a timetable is attached to a notice board with drawing pins, and I scan through to find the next departure to Manchester. From my research of six months earlier, I know that at this time of day trains run almost hourly, and although I’ve plenty of time before my flight, I’m relieved to find that I’ve only forty minutes to wait. Taking a seat on the bench, I begin to feel the chill in the air as my sweaty shirt clings to my skin, and I put my jacket and the woolly hat back on.