Bolt-hole

by A. J. Oates

  “I want the money by the end of the weekend.” Jesus, that’s not possible, I thought. I needed a few more days to get everything to ready.

  Thinking quickly, I responded: “I can’t do that … I’m out of town … in London. It’ll have to be next Thursday. I’m not getting back till then.” Musgrove was clearly irritated, presumably his habit dictating the terms. “You better not be fucking me about, Julian, I want my money.”

  “You’ll have it next Thursday, that’s the best I can do.” This time it was Musgrove who went quiet, and I continued: “I’ll bring the money round to your flat next Thursday at 11:00 a.m., I remember where you live.”

  “Okay, but you’d better get it here. Trust me, Julian, you wouldn’t like prison, people like you don’t fit in.” I had no doubt he was right, and switched off the phone without answering.

  With exactly seven days to put the final elements of my plan in place, the date of the ultimate act was now set for October 8th, a Thursday and, coincidentally, my birthday. Heading back to Rawlton, I got off the bus a couple of stops earlier than usual and called in at a travel agent’s in the precinct. I’d passed it numerous times over the previous few weeks and had popped in once to check that the place was suitable. It was an independent place but big and bustling, with at least ten sales assistants sitting behind desks. It seemed to cater predominantly for flights to the Indian subcontinent, serving the large ethnic minority in the area, and also student backpacker trips. To me it had particular appeal in that there were no CCTV cameras, at least that I could see, and it was a busy, chaotic place where I hoped my presence wouldn’t be remembered. It also had the advantage that many customers paid in cash, however large the transaction, presumably explaining the need for two burly security guards on the door. I entered the shop with baseball cap in situ, though whether this made me more or less conspicuous I wasn’t really sure. The assistant’s English was basic at best, probably matching her computer skills, and she kept shouting through to the back in her mother tongue for instructions on using her workstation. What should have been a five-minute job in the end took close to half an hour, but I was happy with the outcome: two return tickets to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. The first ticket, which, as circumstances dictated, I never got the chance to use, was in my name, departing Manchester Airport, 16:35 on October 9th. The second ticket, and my contingency, was for my fictitious business partner, Mr James Andrew Bosworth, departing Manchester Airport, 16:35 on April 17th. I paid cash for the economy-class tickets, both to return a couple of weeks after departure, though whether I’d need the return trip was of course another matter. At the same time I booked a hotel at Manchester Airport for the night of 8th, the evening of the day of Musgrove’s planned demise.

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  On the floor at 17b, I lay in my sleeping bag, restlessly tossing and turning, into the early hours of October 8th. My thoughts were in overdrive as I obsessed over the events and likely consequences of the coming day; the day on which my plan would reach fruition and the day, if all went well, Musgrove would die and my freedom would be guaranteed. It was six weeks since the inception of the plan, and although I was as committed as ever, I couldn’t rid myself of lingering doubts. Perhaps for a few, a very few, taking another man’s life is an acceptable hurdle to overcome in reaching a much desired objective, but I certainly didn’t belong to such a category.

  I climbed out of the sleeping bag a little after 5:00 a.m. and still another six hours to wait before my meeting with Musgrove at his flat. It was dark outside and I switched on the living room light as I began to go through the contents of my small rucksack. My hand immediately found the machete wrapped in an old cloth. I took it out and took a couple of practice swings, a bit like a tennis player during the knock-up session. I liked the way it felt in my hand: the weight was just right and the grip was secure – perhaps there was a future for me in the contract killing business. I wrapped the machete back in the cloth and placed it on the floor before emptying out the rest of the rucksack: two passports, two envelopes of US dollars, one envelope with £500, a spare set of clothing, a few toiletries and finally, in the front pocket, a pair of leather driving gloves. Everything was in order.

  With the bag repacked, from my discreet perch at the bedsit window I looked out towards Musgrove’s flat. For several minutes the street outside remained quiet, with even the dawn chorus seemingly subdued. It was almost 5:30 a.m. before there were any signs of activity: a man on a bike appearing at the end of the road away to my right. I watched as he peddled along, but then, bizarrely, as he reached Musgrove’s flat, he swerved dramatically, almost falling off his bike before regaining his balance and taking a wide detour to the far side of the road. It was only when I looked more carefully into the shadows of the early morning that I could see his path had been blocked by a pool of water filling the gutter and spilling onto the pavement. As I watched over the next few minutes the dirty pool, presumably from a burst water main, accumulated in a natural dip, eventually covering almost half the road in front of Musgrove’s driveway. My thoughts went into hyper-drive as I tried to envisage how this would affect my plan. But in the end I reassured myself that, even if I had to paddle through the water, I’d still be able to get access to his flat. Not exactly ideal, but by no means a fatal blow to my plan.

  Musgrove roused himself from his filthy bed a little after 8:00 a.m. But unlike the other days that I’d watched him, he didn’t leave the flat, and just wandered impatiently round his living room, presumably awaiting my arrival with the money. Still a couple of hours before the meeting, I knew I had to get out of my flat. The last thing I wanted was Musgrove watching from his window, waiting for me to arrive and then to see me leaving 17b – it certainly wouldn’t be an easy thing to explain. My opportunity eventually came when he went to the toilet, and with his back to me as he used the facility I grabbed my rucksack and headed out of the door. I hurried down the road and passed the pool of dirty water. Thankfully it didn’t seem to be getting any bigger and there was still access to Musgrove’s driveway. At the end of the street I turned right and headed for a small café. It was a greasy spoon sort of affair that was a popular hangout with the local taxi drivers. I ordered a coffee and then sat at the back, well away from the window, as I counted down the minutes before my rendezvous. As I sipped at the strong coffee I regretted my choice of beverage. I was already jumpy at the prospect of the next few hours and the caffeine boost certainly wasn’t required or helpful.

  Over the next hour I obsessively dissected my plan and tried to identify any potential weakness. But I was confident in my preparations, including the bolt-hole contingencies, and felt I’d done all I could to ensure a satisfactory outcome. At 10:30 a.m., and with much of my coffee untouched, it was time to leave. I put on the black leather gloves from the front pocket of the rucksack and made my way into the street. I felt sick with anxiety and prayed that I could go through with it. I can do it … I can do it; I said the words over and over as I walked along, staring at the ground in front of me. I was now at most sixty seconds from his flat and I knew that my whole life would change, depending on what happened in the next few minutes. I turned the corner on the Stanley Road, my head still down, trying to eliminate any distractions and focus solely on Musgrove. I felt strong. Yes, I can and I will do it. With renewed belief, now just twenty metres from his flat, I lifted my head; but as I faced the scene in front of me I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

  Parked directly outside my flat was a police car with blue lights flashing. My first fear, of course, was that somehow the police had discovered my plan, but as I looked more closely I felt a slight sense of relief: two policemen stood directing traffic beyond the pool of water as a workman was setting up temporary traffic lights and another started bombarding the tarmac with a pneumatic drill. My head was spinning, what the hell was I going to do?

  In a daze, I turned around and headed back to the café. I sat at the same table, slumped in the chair, as if all my energy had
suddenly deserted me. The waitress came over and though I wasn’t hungry I felt obliged to put some money in the till, and asked for the all-day breakfast. A few minutes later the greasy mass arrived. At first I just picked absent-mindedly at the occasional mushroom, but I soon discovered that I was actually hungry, and as the food began to fill my stomach my anxieties settled a little.

  I began to think with greater clarity. I doubted that the police would be there for long. Presumably once the temporary traffic lights were up and running they would be on their way. But I suspected the workmen would be there for some time, probably most of the day, if not longer. To reach Musgrove’s flat I would practically have to climb over their tools and the mountain of tarmac and earth they were busy creating. It just wouldn’t work. I couldn’t risk them giving a description to the police once the body was discovered. Shit, shit, shit, I said under my breath. Today had to be the day, no question: my flight was in less than twenty-four hours.

  I finished the rest of the breakfast and started on a big mug of industrial-strength tea. It fleetingly crossed my mind that I should forget all about it and head to Brazil for an extended holiday and try to put Musgrove behind me. But within seconds I knew it wasn’t a viable option. There would always be the threat that he’d go to the police, and maybe even more importantly, and quite simply, I wanted revenge.

  As I pondered my next step and drained the last of the tea, my mobile rang. I knew who it was even before looking at the number. “Where the fuck are you, where’s my fucking money”, Musgrove yelled down the phone.

  Sensing his displeasure, for the first time that day I managed a smile at his obvious discomfort. “My train was delayed. I’m still stuck in London at my friends’ house. I’ll be up tomorrow.”

  There was silence on the other end and I could imagine Musgrove pacing round his flat, presumably withdrawing and desperately needing his pharmaceutical crutch. “You’d better not be messing with me, Julian, if I don’t get my fucking money I’ll be going to Patel ... You better fucking believe me.”

  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 th
an 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.