“I was just going through some old things, my mum’s photos and stuff, and it just got me thinking, and you know … I just don’t know how I can go on.” He took another slug of his beer.

Despite my irritation I had genuine sympathy for him. “Bozzy, you need to give the booze a rest, it’s not helping you.  If you don’t watch it it’ll become a big problem for you.”

Bosworth nodded in agreement and took another generous swig.  “I know, I know, I’m going to cut down, I promise.  I feel better already now you’re here.  I just couldn’t be alone.”

Bosworth slumped down onto the settee and rested his head back on the cushion.  I took a seat in the armchair opposite and reached forward, picking up the passport from the coffee table.  I flicked to the photograph page and immediately recognised the image of Bosworth I remembered from our school days.  It had probably been taken mid-teens, and he was wearing our old school blazer, blue with yellow trim, and matching tie.  I put the passport back and began to sift through the stack of photos.  Most were of places and people I didn’t recognise, but some were also old school photographs, with Bosworth again wearing the distinctive uniform.  One particular picture of the entire 5th year class caught my attention; back row, third from the right, probably about fifteen years old … I recognised myself, of course, but even so the fresh-faced youth seemed like a completely different person – so long ago, and so much had happened in the meantime.

Within a few minutes Bosworth’s breathing became slow and deep and he was soon asleep, anaesthetised by the alcohol.  I leaned over and removed the half-full beer can that he clutched in his hands.  He stirred momentarily, opening his eyes, and smiled at me, before his breathing pattern settled and again he was asleep.  I put the photographs and papers back in the box, and after waiting another five minutes I quietly let myself out of the back door.  As I made my way home I knew that Bosworth was becoming a liability, an emotional drain, and that if I wasn’t careful he would begin to compromise my own fragile rehabilitation.  Like dumping a girlfriend when it becomes clear that it’s not working out, I had to break the link.

Chapter 12

November 12th, and on my one-month anniversary in the Kinder Scout bolt-hole I wait the last few minutes before the beeping of the 6:00 a.m. alarm and my signal for temporary freedom.  A creature of habit, in the isolated hideaway my life has settled into a well-established pattern.  I doze much of the time, both night and day, but probably only sleep deeply for five or ten minutes at a stretch.  The rest of my existence is punctuated by meal breaks and occasionally tuning in to the radio news bulletins.  During the first weeks of my incarceration, I counted down the minutes to the next news headlines, but as the days passed the “man-hunt” was increasingly relegated down the order of news items, presumably reflecting the absence of developments.  Within three weeks the story was dropped completely, and thereafter I rarely switched on the radio.

As always, though, the focus of my day is my all-too-brief early-morning escapes to the outside world.  Now late autumn on the high plateau, the weather has taken on a wintry feel, but even in the driving rain and freezing winds the immense relief to be out of the bolt-hole is worth far more than the discomfort caused by the elements or even the risk of potential detection.

At exactly 6:00 a.m. I make my way out of the bolt-hole and stop briefly in the entrance to check that the area is deserted.  I’m amazed by the amount of light flooding the area, and, about to check my watch to confirm the dawn hour, I realise that the unusual brightness is moonlight reflecting off the thick snow that has fallen overnight.  With the thermal insulation provided by the massive boulder walls of the bolt-hole, I’d been oblivious to any temperature drop or the fact that it had been snowing.  I kneel in the entranceway staring at the scene, and feel a tingling in my spine and a sense of excitement as the freezing air catches my breath.  I reach behind for my fleece jacket before hurriedly leaving the bolt-hole and heading for my usual vantage point over Ashop Moor.

I’ve always had a fascination with the snow.  As a child, I’d spent hours sledging with friends, building igloos and having snowball fights in Graves Park.  Even in my teens the most memorable hiking and camping trips were always snowbound.  I think back to one particular trip with my dad, when we’d set off in brilliant sunshine from Edale at the base of Kinder Scout and by the time we reached the plateau we were greeted by a blizzard with horizontal wind that made standing a near impossibility.  For many kids I suspect this ordeal would not have been particularly pleasurable, but to me it was fantastic.  Today the wind is completely still, and as I survey the scene with the sun just starting to rise in the cloudless sky, the untouched snow glistens with an almost silk-like surface that adds a further dimension of beauty to the landscape.  Sitting on my favoured boulder, the cold cuts deep through my jacket and within a few minutes I begin shivering.  I regret not putting on extra layers, but there’s no way I’m going to prematurely return to the bolt-hole and miss even a minute of my freedom.

The next two hours pass all too quickly, and with reluctance I concede that it’s time to return to the bolt-hole before the first ramblers arrive to enjoy the winter views.  As I turn to walk the short distance back, I’m shocked at the sight of my prominent footprints carved deep into the thick snow, clearly marking the route to the bolt-hole.  As I kick at the snow to disrupt the trail, I quickly realise that my efforts are futile and I’ll never be able to mask the entire length of the route.  I doubt a passing walker would identify the significance of the tracks and the location of my hideaway, but I’m not prepared to take the chance.  I begin to panic, cursing my stupidity as I scour the area looking for a branch or some other vegetation to disturb the snow.  But as if answering my prayers, the wind, almost imperceptible at first, gradually picks up and flurries of snow begin to fall.  By the time I make it back to my home the tracks are almost completely gone and I can’t help but smile to myself, sensing that after all these months my luck is perhaps beginning to change.

My fingers are pale and throbbing with the cold as I climb back inside the bolt-hole and reposition the rocks to block the entrance.  Despite my reluctance at leaving behind the beauty of the moors, I’m grateful for the warmth and shelter of the bolt-hole, but it’s not until I crawl, fully-clothed into the cosy sleeping bag with the hood pulled over my head, that the shivering finally abates.

The previous few hours of freedom in the snowy landscape have left me feeling optimistic and upbeat for the future.  Having been in the bolt-hole for a month, and with the worry of immediate discovery and capture by the police having subsided, the weeks of isolation have provided the time to reflect and in many respects begin the process of reconstructing my fractured life and self-worth.  Like following some kind of self-help manual, I find myself, step-by-step, going over the events of the last year to try and somehow rationalise it all.

I was already running twenty minutes late for my rendezvous with Bosworth by the time I left my parents’ house.  I cursed under my breath as I reached the end of the driveway, realising that I’d left my wallet inside.  After spending another five minutes searching for the damn thing, I was finally on my way.  It was a frustrating day, most of the time spent liaising with solicitors and estate agents in readiness for completion and the handing over the keys the following day, and now I sorely regretted arranging to meet the needy Bosworth in the New Inn.  As I reached the pub, having jogged the last five minutes, beads of sweat were forming on my brow and I was more than ready for a cold lager.  As I entered the pub there was a loud beeping from my phone, indicating a text.  I quickly scrolled through to find that it was from Bosworth. As I read the message I knew it had been a mistake giving him my number: “Where are you? There’s someone here who’s desperate to see you?” What the hell was the fool on about?