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For a time, almost hypnotised, I can’t take my eyes off him. The heavy instrument is embedded in his neck – he’s not completely decapitated but surely as near as makes no difference. I’d always wondered how I’d react to the sight of blood, and now looking down at my victim and watching the dark liquid pool between the cobbles of the street, my principle emotion is, shockingly, a kind of relief, certainly not guilt and certainly not regret. I fleetingly wonder what sort of person I have become, knowing that I’ve crossed a line and that I’ll never be able go back.
Shaking away my introspection and reco
For the next five minutes I continue at speed, though not quite flat-out, knowing that I’ve got several miles to cover and I need to pace myself. The rain is begi
With the initial shock subsiding I curse my bad luck. In my meticulous pla
Born and raised in Sheffield, I’m intimately familiar with the geography and the many public parks and woodland that link, almost without interruption, the centre of town to Graves Park on the outskirts and from there to the isolation of the Peak District beyond. But first I must get away from the built-up areas where I’m sure capture is more likely, and reach Millhouses Park, the first link in the chain of quiet and secluded parklands that I pray will be my route to freedom.
My thighs are burning and my chest tightening but I keep going. Buoyed up by the surge of adrenaline and the desperate desire to avoid capture, I run through the largely residential streets with the footsteps and heavy breathing of the chasing copper becoming gradually fainter. The wailing siren from the police transit is also begi
Millhouses Park, my immediate goal, is now less than a couple of miles away. I leave behind the narrow streets of Linton Green and run through the more affluent area of suburban Millhouses where the roads are wider and tree-lined. There are fewer pedestrians but more traffic on the road and I’ve no doubt that every passing motorist is questioning my bizarre behaviour. Wearing everyday clothes and ru
In the distance I can hear sirens, more than one, growing louder and seemingly coming from different directions. Come on, Julian, come on, I urge with the park now in sight on the far side of a dual carriageway. There’s a gap in the traffic and I sprint across the road and, like an Olympic steeple-chaser, hurdle the waist-high barrier in the central reservation and then head for the park gates a hundred metres or so away, the darkness and seclusion drawing me in. Within thirty seconds I’ve made it, and I pause exhausted in the darkness of the park entrance, hands on hips and gulping in the cold night air. I turn to look for the officer on foot but there’s no sign of him; presumably he’s some way back in the maze of streets. But within seconds, from different directions, two police cars pull up almost simultaneously in the middle of the dual carriageway – so near to me but oblivious to my presence in the darkness.
The arrival of the police serves to focus my mind more sharply, and I head for the shelter of the park and then turn right to follow a deserted cycle path. After a few hundred metres I leave the path and sprint across the adjacent cricket pitch, heading for the public toilets just beyond. In the near total darkness I trip over a knee-high rope marking the edge of the batting-square and skid on my belly across the wet grass. But I’m back on my feet in seconds and make my way to the toilets, a small flat-roofed building covered in graffiti.
To my relief the conveniences are empty, though it comes as no great surprise. They’re rarely cleaned, and with the lights not working you’d have to be pretty desperate to frequent such a place after nightfall. I take the torch out of the front pocket of the rucksack, switch it on and then balance it on the edge of the cracked porcelain sink. With some difficulty I remove the small key from the pocket of my soaking wet jeans, now clinging to me like a second skin, and then unlock the padlock sealing the door of the end cubicle. Still struggling for breath, I take out the mountain bike I’d stashed earlier and attach the front wheel to the quick-release mechanism. With the bike reassembled, I stand on the toilet base and lift the heavy porcelain lid of the old-fashioned cistern a couple of metres off the ground. I reach into the icy cold water, pull out a tightly sealed plastic bag, and empty the contents onto the closed toilet lid. I take out the still-dry trainers, grey jogging bottoms and hooded Nike top and begin peeling off my soaking wet jeans and jacket. I’m shocked at the amount of blood staining my top and dripping onto the floor. In my adrenaline-heightened state I’d felt little in the way of pain, but as I study my reflection in the rusty mirror on the toilet wall I can see a five-centimetre square flap of skin and tissue hanging from the underside of my jaw. As I move closer to the mirror and readjust the torch to get a better view I can see that the wound is still bleeding; not spouting like an artery, but definitely a good sized vein has been severed. I grab a hanky from my rucksack, wedge it into the crook of my neck, and secure it tightly with the scarf. It crosses my mind that the machete, still embedded in Musgrove’s neck, will be covered in traces of my blood and no doubt ripe for forensic analysis, but I can’t allow myself to worry about it now. I quickly put on the clean jogging gear, shove the blood-stained clothing into the toilet cistern, force down the lid and leave the toilets with the bike.