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Staring at the roof of the drain a foot or so above my head, I contemplate the latest developments. Of course there’s still no formal police confirmation that I’m wanted for questioning, but the bulletin makes it pretty clear that this is the case, particularly if the “source” is to be believed. I have to be prepared for the worst, irrespective of what information is released by the media, and I’ve no doubt that by now my description will have been circulated to police forces nationwide, as well as airports and ports. I have to accept that I’m a fugitive and on the run for murder, a concept which in part fills me with sheer terror, but perhaps bizarrely is also half appealing, and I can’t help but smile to myself.
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Inside the bolt-hole the light is already begi
Throughout the afternoon I tune in to the news bulletins but no new details are released and there is much recycling of what had already been said. In between news updates I eat more of the baked beans and crackers, wrapping the waste in a double layer of plastic bags to reduce the chances of police dogs picking up an erroneous scent. I still feel dehydrated, and drink more of the water. I’ve already moved onto my last bottle, and I know that I’ll have to venture outside to one of the nearby streams if I am to stay here for much longer.
When not snacking or listening to the radio bulletins I doze intermittently, but my thoughts are too anxiety-ridden for any meaningful sleep. I’m quickly begi
The next significant information comes when I switch on the radio for the 6:00 p.m. national news on Radio 4. The murder is now the lead story. “A man-hunt is underway for university academic Dr Julian Scott, who is wanted by police in co
I now know for sure that I’m a police suspect, but thankfully there has been no suggestion that my possible whereabouts is known. I’m slightly shocked by the fact that I’m the subject of a “man-hunt”, a slightly salacious term I’d always linked with the search for serial killers. But with the police recommendation that I shouldn’t be approached, maybe they think I really am a danger to the public.
Sitting in the darkness, I spend the rest of the evening mulling over the key timing of my move to the bolt-hole at Kinder Scout. Going back and forth over the pros and cons, I seem incapable of making a decision. After listening to the 10:00 p.m. bulletin, and with no new developments, I can procrastinate no longer. Set the agenda ... don’t just react to it, I silently preach, and then finally make the decision: wait thirty-six hours to get fully rested before the twenty-five mile journey, and then make my move early morning, day after tomorrow. With my mind made up, I almost immediately begin to relax, and with a wave of tiredness overcoming me I snuggle down into the sleeping bag, and shortly after I’m asleep.
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Sleeping in short spells throughout the night, I wake to the slightest disturbance from outside. I’m surprised at the extent of wildlife: the hooting owls and the tiny scratching paws on the ground next to the bolt-hole. I only hope it isn’t rats – I’m not particularly squeamish but these vile critters have a certain hold over me.
During an episode of wakefulness, I take the opportunity to restock my drinking water. Nervous of both the potential police presence and the rodent wildlife, I cautiously remove the rocks sealing the entrance of the drain and then crawl forward a little through the gap. Leaning out at full stretch, I can just reach the fast flowing stream. I hurriedly fill my bottle in the icy water and then empty out the second bottle containing the stale piss and give it a quick rinse.
About to crawl back inside the bolt-hole, I sense a sudden and almost silent movement away to my right. With a sharp, involuntary intake of breath I turn to face a pair of yellow slit-like eyes staring back at me just a few feet away. Initially unsure what species it is, though certainly not human, I recognise as the moon slides from behind the cloud the form of a far-from-timid scruffy urban fox. I smile to myself as the animal arrogantly turns its back on me and saunters off into the darkness.
I gratefully crawl back inside the bolt-hole, and with the entrance secured I switch on my torch to inspect the water. Following the recent torrential rain, the sediment in the stream has been disturbed and my drinking water is slightly browner than I would have liked. Under the limited torch light I filter the water through my handkerchief to remove the larger debris and then add the chlorine-releasing sterilising tablets. Hopefully by morning most of the bugs will have been killed off; the shits are the last thing I need.
As first light begins to permeate the entrance of the drain, I switch on the radio for the 7:00 a.m. news. Again I’m the main story, but there are no further developments or reports on my suspected whereabouts. I don’t know whether I feel relieved or frustrated by the lack of news, probably somewhere in between. In any case I have another preoccupation: my neck wound is increasingly painful, even with the slightest movement. Reluctantly I peel off the bandage and then the blood-stained cotton wool beneath. The skin around the wound is sore and the area of redness has doubled in size, probably now the dimensions of my palm at least. As before, and despite the pain, I clean it thoroughly with baby-wipes and apply more antiseptic cream.
The pattern for the rest of the day revolves around the hourly news bulletins and the occasional food break. Although the water levels in the stream are still coursing high, I can occasionally hear footsteps and the voices of recreational walkers as they venture on the path above the drain. In the middle of the afternoon I overhear a lengthy conversation between two elderly female dog-walkers, who stop to chat directly over the bolt-hole. They discuss numerous topics ranging from the increase in the cost of bread to the death of a mutual acquaintance, but to my surprise they don’t talk about the local murder and police hunt. Clearly for some people life is continuing as normal – a concept I struggle to grasp.