It often feels like I’m living some kind of parallel existence; all alone and self-sufficient (pre-packed camping meals not withstanding) in a wild environment, like some sort of feral creature.  As a kid I’d always fantasised about living such a life and surviving against all the odds while on the run from the evil authorities.  Despite the fact that I’m a total conformist, I’ve never grown out of such a notion and the concept of living alone and isolated has always held great appeal.  I've long had a fascination and admiration for adventurers who travel the globe and experience the myriad of emotions that come with waking up in a different place each day.  Some men leave their wives and families for the thrill of another woman, but I’ve always known I would never do such a thing.  But in the farthest reaches of my imagination, perhaps in a weakened state, when life became too much, I could envisage leaving my responsibilities behind and living out of a backpack.  Increasingly in the last few years I’ve often thought that my life has got too complicated.  Every time I looked at my bank statement the point was reinforced: numerous payments for a multitude of things, most of which we didn't need, but we were cemented and trapped in modern living.  I always thought I’d never had the guts break free, but now, as I look around my new home, I wonder if maybe I was doing myself a disservice and I’m capable of more than I ever thought.

In my sedentary state I have no great appetite, but preparing and eating meals becomes a focus for the day and uses up the minutes I’m eager to dispatch.  Other rituals of normal daily life, usually considered small chores, have taken on new significance.  I’ve never been the most diligent of tooth brushers: no more than a minute and that would be enough, and my school-mistress-like dental hygienist would often reprimand me.  But now I almost look forward to this activity and can spend a good ten minutes scrubbing away, no doubt wearing the enamel thin.  The act of shaving has also taken on new meaning.  Never have I been so clean-shaven, despite the fact that there’s no one here to see me.  With a small cup of cold water, a few drops of shaving oil and my disposable razor, I go to work, gingerly steering around the neck wound, until my face is like the proverbial baby’s bottom.  As before in the Graves Park bolt-hole, I use one of the two-litre bottles to collect piss, and perhaps the least palatable aspect of my incarceration is the need to use a nappy bag and baby-wipes for a crap.  In fact the prospect of being able to dig a small latrine and “go” in the open air is more appealing than I could ever have imagined.

Other than the radio I have no external stimuli and I regret not packing my Kindle e-book or even a crossword to help pass the time.  In my planning I fleetingly considered such items, but ultimately thought it prudent to carry only what was absolutely necessary.  And I suppose in my original thinking, my contingency plan had only ever been such, and I always doubted that I would be holed up alone for six months.  My pocket diary is arguably my only luxury of sorts, and in the tiny space under each day, to pass the time, I write down a few key words to describe my feelings.  These normally range from safe to darkness, empty, or hollow.  After a day or so, the scientist in me kicks in and I have the strange need to somehow quantify my emotions.  I rate my mood on a score of one to ten.  Ten equates to ecstatic, though I mock myself with the concept, knowing that the chances of experiencing such an emotion are slim in the extreme.  In contrast, one is the worst pain imaginable, which I liken to when I held in my arms William’s crumpled lifeless body.  The first few days I spend probably a good thirty minutes assigning a mood score, three times a day: first thing in the morning, midday and then evening.  The scores hover between three and five but as the days pass by there is a gradual decline, though I never reach one.  I assign an arbitrary rule that if I score one on three consecutive mornings, I’ll head to the edge of the Kinder Scout plateau, to the massive ridge of Ringing Roger, and take the small step off the edge to the stream five hundred metres below.

Despite my best attempts to fill my time with such trivial activities, after the initial relief of reaching the bolt-hole my mood progressively darkens.  I struggle to focus my thoughts on the future, knowing that to dwell on what might have been will not help me.  Musgrove is dead of course, but it gives me none of the pleasure or even the satisfaction that it did in the first few days.  I certainly don’t regret what I’ve done, but all the days of reflection have not brought back my beautiful boys.  I also have the realisation, and one that I’d not previously considered, that if I’m able to avoid capture and make it out of Britain I doubt that I will ever be able to return.  I’ve never considered myself to be a full-blown patriot, but the thought of never being able to return to the country of my birth is surprisingly painful and it’s almost as if Musgrove has stolen my nationality, a part of my identity, as well as taking away my family.

By the evening of the sixth full day of incarceration I’m desperate to leave the bolt-hole, to experience natural light and feel the warmth of the sun.  I feel like a novice swimmer with my head underwater, holding my breath, frantic to reach the surface and to fill my lungs with oxygen.  I promise myself that tomorrow, with my drinking water supply almost exhausted, I’ll permit myself out of necessity the luxury of a venture to the outside.  But even with this goal my spirits barely lift, and for the first time since the inception of my plan I begin to cry as the worthlessness of my life suddenly overwhelms me.  Almost immediately, I’m angry at myself for being so pathetic and letting down Helen and the boys.  Aggressively wiping away the tears and attempting to re-establish focus, I reach back into the rucksack and pull out a transparent A4-size zip-lock plastic bag containing an airline ticket and two passports.  I open the first of the passports and flick to the last page.  There’s a photograph of myself, probably taken a good five years ago. “Dr Julian Scott” is the name underneath, though I’m not sure who that person is anymore.  The second passport falls open with the airline ticket inside: “British Airways … Manchester to Rio de Janeiro … 13th April … Mr James Bosworth.”  I study the second passport photo; taken just a few weeks ago, the picture is unmistakably of me, but the name and the other details are obviously not mine.

Chapter 11

On the seventh morning of my incarceration in the Kinder Scout bolt-hole I break cover for the first time.  Despite the draw of the outside and the hours I’ve longed for it, leaving my underground retreat fills me with anxiety, obsessively conscious as I am that I’m risking recognition and potential capture.  Like an agoraphobic attempting self-reassurance, I rationalise that at 6:00 a.m. the chances of discovery are slim: it’s far too early for even the keenest of hikers, and surely by now the police have given up on any search of the area.

With a small rucksack on my back I slowly remove the rocks that block the entrance of the bolt-hole.  I stop every few seconds to listen to the sounds of the outside world, half expecting to hear the drone of a helicopter or the barking of police dogs; but all is quiet bar the rustle of the gentle breeze through the heather.  Removing the last few rocks, I hold my breath as I peer out into the gloom of the early morning, with the sun barely above the horizon and cloud swirling all around.  After a few minutes of waiting, and confident that I’m alone, on my hands and knees I negotiate the narrow entrance.  Reaching the outside, I cautiously stand and survey the Kinder Scout plateau, which is bathed in thick fog.  With no sign of any ramblers or the police, I make my way the hundred metres or so to the rocky outcrop at the edge of the plateau and then turn to face in the direction of Ashop Moor.  Visibility is limited to barely ten metres as the dense cloud swirls in vortices, and although it isn’t raining, in the dampness of the air my jacket is covered in tiny droplets of water.