Waiting for the water to boil, I drag over the second of the rucksacks.  I’m still surprised at how heavy it is, even though I know what is contributing to much of the weight.  In the bottom compartment is a waterproof polythene bag containing close to a hundred packs of high-calorie camping meals. I reach into the bottom of the bag and pull out the pack closest to hand and read the label – “Lancashire hotpot. That’ll do nicely” – and then place the food in its thick aluminium packaging into the saucepan.  With the water only just beginning to boil, I’m already salivating, and unable to wait a second longer than is absolutely necessary I set the timer on my watch to exactly ten minutes.

With breakfast beginning to heat through, I unfold a large tarpaulin sheet and cover the rocky floor and part of the gently sloping side wall consisting of damp earth.  On top of the tarp I empty the contents of both the rucksacks plus the small bag I carried with me from Graves Park.  Facing the mountain of stuff in front of me, I’m slightly taken aback at how much I’ve been able to accumulate, but with six months to survive my belongings probably aren’t excessive.  In the far corner of the bolt-hole I sort my possessions into piles: clothing, food, including four large bottles of drinking water, cooking equipment with spare gas canisters, and toiletries.  I also have a gardening trowel that I’ll use to dig a small latrine and to bury any other waste.  I smile to myself; just arranging the things gives the place a slightly more lived-in and homely feel, though I suspect it isn’t quite ready for a feature in Home and Garden.

With the water bubbling away and just a few more seconds for the food to finish heating, I have the sudden and almost shocking realisation that in the fifteen minutes or so that I’ve been awake I haven’t given a moment’s thought to DS Greene and my police pursuers.  Presumably the fact that they’re not at the forefront of my thinking reflects my growing sense of security; for the first time in days, my nerves aren’t stretched to breaking point.  My thoughts are interrupted by the beeping of my watch and I grab the food pack from the pan, shake off the boiling water, and with the small scissors on my Swiss army knife, remove the top of the package.  I burn my hands on the hot pack, and put on a pair of woollen gloves before tasting the near-scalding food.  I’ve eaten this brand of food packs before, though not this particular variety, and found it completely acceptable; but today I struggle to remember when food ever tasted as good.

Greedily finishing the meal, I place the foil wrapping in a thick plastic bag ready for disposal later, then add a teabag to the saucepan of water, which is still close to boiling.  After a minute or so I spoon in powdered milk, and then sip the hot tea straight from the saucepan.  Savouring the moment, I feel a sense of pride that I’ve come so far and although I haven’t reached my ultimate destination I’m still free.  I certainly don’t feel any satisfaction that I killed Musgrove, but I console myself that, in the grand scheme of existence, the world is no worse a place for his absence.

With the tea sufficiently cooled I take a small handful of the unpronounceable antibiotic tablets and the painkillers, and struggle to swallow them down.  It reminds me of Helen’s aversion to taking the huge pregnancy vitamin tablets, or “horse tablets” as she used to call them.  I dare not think what the concoction is doing to my internal organs, but I’ll give anything to stave off my experience of the last few days.  I finish my drink and then turn my attention to my neck wound.  As I did a couple of days earlier, I peel off the bloodstained bandage and then clean the wound with baby-wipes.  The soreness remains, but the amount of pus is far less and the surrounding redness has also settled – maybe I’ll live after all.  I rinse the wound with antiseptic solution while biting down on a pair of socks to control the agony, and then apply a new dressing.

With housekeeping matters taken care of, I switch off the torch to conserve my battery supply, and wait for the next radio news bulletin on the hour.  Within the near-total darkness, the substantial walls obliterate any sound from outside and I feel eerily isolated from the wider world.  In contrast to the Graves Park bolt-hole, a helicopter could be hovering a few feet above me and I suspect I’d be completely oblivious.  I lie back down on top of the sleeping bag but the darkness only seems to add to the icy temperature, and with the cold biting I crawl under the welcoming covers.

Over the next thirty minutes I lie contemplative in the silence of my sanctuary.  As the minutes pass by I begin to feel a creeping and pervading sense of anticlimax.  During the previous few weeks, my every waking hour was consumed either by planning the act of retribution or, more recently, evading capture.  Now, despite the massive relief that I’ve reached the bolt-hole and my nerves have survived the stress, for the first time my thoughts aren’t racing and there is a void to be filled.  Eventually I switch on the torch to light the blackness in an attempt to halt my declining mood.  I roll onto my stomach and reaching to full stretch I remove the pocket diary from the rucksack and thumb through the pages to today’s date, Monday October 12th.  Written in pencil below the date is “? Rio de Janeiro / ? Kinder Scout Bolt-hole.”  Clearly I’ve not made it to Brazil as I would have hoped, and again I lament my bad luck, knowing the outcome would surely have been so different if the police hadn’t arrived as my plan was reaching fruition.  Come on, Julian, stop moping, I say loudly, almost shouting, confident that no one can possibly hear from the outside – think positive. And again console myself that if it wasn’t for my contingency plan and the current bolt-hole, I would surely be in police custody.

-----

The remainder of my first full day of consciousness at Kinder Scout passes without incident.  With the enthusiasm of an addict, I spend much of my time flitting between stations for my fix of news updates.  To my surprise, no new information is released and there is no mention of my close run thing with Carmichael and Greene.  Maybe it’s old news already, although I also suspect that there is no little embarrassment that I evaded capture and the police are in no hurry to broadcast such a fact.  In any case, at least in the eyes of the media, the “man-hunt” seems of secondary importance, and it becomes clear why the force helicopter did not appear and there were not more police involved in my search.  Much to the continued excitement of the newsreader on the local station, Prince Charles had been visiting the city when a “major security incident” had occurred.  The newsreader linked to an even more excitable reporter: “Yes, John, although all quiet right now of course, as we all know just seventy-two hours ago, where I’m standing right now, was a scene of sheer pandemonium.  The heir to the throne was opening a renal dialysis ward at Sheffield Children’s Hospital and an as-yet-unnamed man, believed to be an Islamic extremist, fired a pistol from the crowd.  In the panic that ensued Prince Charles was pushed, unhurt, to the ground by his bodyguards while the man ran off.  Now in the latest development to the story a man was apprehended in the early hours of this morning at an inner-city flat after an extensive search with hundreds of police, tracker dogs and the force helicopter.  Buckingham Palace have …”  I listen to the rambling for another thirty seconds and then turn the radio off, more than a little grateful to the terrorist for providing such a welcome distraction.

----

Cautious, verging on paranoid, for the next few days I confine myself to the bolt-hole.  Though desperate for fresh air and escape from my interminable darkness, I dare not expose myself and risk detection by the police if they are searching the area, or recognition from a passing hiker while my face is still in the papers.  Inside the bolt-hole it continues to be tolerable if not comfortable; the rocky floor covered by my bivvy bag, camping mat and sleeping bag provides a bed of sorts to sit and to sleep.  The digital thermometer on my watch rarely measures more that fourteen degrees C, and my favoured place is snuggled down in the sleeping bag trying to keep warm.  Much of the time, both day and night, I sleep, never deeply, but with my consciousness sufficiently depressed for the hours not to drag too unbearably.