Despite feeling more relaxed than I have in days, with my obsessive disposition I can’t resist re-checking the contents of what will be my hand luggage when I get to the airport.  I take out the small black canvas bag that I shoved in the top of the rucksack, and look inside; unsurprisingly my passport, or rather the passport of Mr James Andrew Bosworth, the envelope of US dollars and plane ticket are exactly as I’d left them a couple of hours earlier.  I verify the details on the passport, though I committed them to memory months ago.  James Andrew Bosworth, date of birth 14/10/1969. I silently repeat the details several times, attempting to sound convincing as I put the bag back in the rucksack.

Over the next thirty minutes, passengers begin to accumulate on the platform.  Many are weekend shoppers, predominantly teenage girls huddled in groups, plus a few football supporters wearing United shirts, all heading for the metropolis of Manchester.  Several people join me in the shelter, though nobody speaks.  After my weeks of solitude, I’m aware that I’ve developed the habit of vocalising my thoughts, probably a means to abate any feelings of loneliness.  But now in the company of others, I find myself repeatedly and rather bizarrely interrogating facial expressions, attempting to confirm that my “thoughts” are not overheard.  Hey baldy, I silently scream; to my relief, the follicley-challenged gentleman opposite is oblivious.

Five minutes before the train is due, a middle-aged woman with a yappy Jack Russell terrier takes a seat opposite me.  She feeds her dog a titbit and then takes a copy of the Daily Telegraph from her large over-the-shoulder bag.  With the dog irritatingly buzzing round her ankles, she spends a few minutes reading the front page before turning her attention to the glossy weekend supplement.  On the front is a photograph of a scantily clad young woman with microphone in hand, above it written: “The world’s most famous pop diva?”  I’ve no idea who she is, and have the feeling that the world has moved on in my six months of isolation. With the realisation of my ignorance, I try to reacquaint myself with society and begin to read the first line of the article: “US chart sensation visiting UK …” but with the effort required to read upside down I quickly lose interest.  In any case, even if I hadn’t been buried in a hole for God knows how long, I doubt that I’d have recognised her.  Helen had always been into pop culture, but not me. The woman skips through the rest of the magazine but is interrupted by the dog as it yaps at the sound of barking coming from further down the platform.  “Quiet, Sniffy, Quiet.”  As the dog ignores her pleas and continues its tirade she puts the magazine on the empty seat next to her and tries to calm her companion.  The wind catches the pages of the magazine and it drops to the floor, falling open in the middle.  I absent-mindedly glance at the pages, upside down from my perspective, and almost instantaneously, like being injected with a syringe of adrenaline, I feel a pounding in my chest. The photograph is taken from my university ID, and next to it the headline: “Still Running?”  My new-found confidence deserts me in a second, and I close my eyes in that childlike way of making oneself invisible, and pray that I’m not recognised.

After a minute or so Sniffy settles and the woman picks up the magazine and closes it.  She puts it back in her bag, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she’s sitting opposite a fugitive.  But it does nothing to alleviate my anxiety.  Clearly my story is not out of the pubic eye, and although the dog-lady didn’t recognise me, others might.  Sniffy begins to take an unwanted interest in my left boot, and in my paranoid state it flickers across my mind that he’s recognised me.  I quickly dispense with the idea and reprimand myself for such stupidity as I urge myself to stay calm.

In the distance, probably a couple of miles down the long straight section of track, I can just make out the train as it exits the tunnel that cuts through Dore Hill.  I use it as a cue to leave the shelter and head for the front of the platform.  It takes another two or three minutes before it finally pulls into the station, and I board the first of the two carriages and move as far away from the woman and Sniffy as possible.  The carriage is at most half full, and I find an empty seat and immediately turn my head towards the window, my gaze concentrated on the plateau of Kinder Scout.  As I look towards the site of my home of the last six months, my thoughts are still obsessing over the magazine article, and I know that my hope of an uneventful journey could be sorely over-optimistic.

The train leaves Edale station at the scheduled departure time of 10:37 a.m., due to arrive in Manchester Piccadilly Station at 11:02 a.m.  After a few minutes the conductor moves down the centre of the train collecting fares and checking pre-booked tickets.  I find his dark uniform unnerving; it represents an authority figure of sorts, an unpleasant reminder of the police and security I’ll face at the airport.  I pay for the ticket, the conductor giving no indication of recognition, his only comment: “Change at Manchester Piccadilly, Platform 3,” as he moves on down the train.  With my rucksack held tight on my lap, I close my eyes and lean my head against the window, finding the gentle vibration soothing.

I open my eyes with a start as the brakes of the train squeal shrilly as it pulls into the Manchester Piccadilly.  With many of the passengers already queuing at the doors, I’m amazed that I’ve been able to sleep in my wired state. Nevertheless, I feel all the better for it.  I exit the train and follow the signs for Platform 3, at the far side of the station.  En route I pass a newsagent’s stand and pick up a copy of the Telegraph.  With another twenty minutes to wait for the connecting train, I move to the end of the platform and lean against one of the massive concrete structures supporting the roof.  Out of the gaze of the numerous CCTV cameras and the police patrols, I turn to the middle pages of the supplement and begin studying the article. I’m relieved to find that there’s nothing new of substance and that it’s largely a rehash of what had been in the media months ago.  As far as I can tell, the only relevance of the timing of the article is that it is approaching the one-year anniversary of the deaths of Helen and the boys.  I carefully reread the article and smile to myself at the last paragraph, which discusses several suspected sightings of “the fugitive”, mostly in Spain and North Africa. Also interesting, the reporter suggests that I may have committed suicide.  I’m pleased, of course, that the description of my demise is somewhat exaggerated, but would have much preferred not to have my picture plastered over the media at the time when I’m making my bid for freedom.

After fifteen minutes an empty train pulls in, but the doors remain closed while cleaners with mops and black bin-bags do their work.  The train is a direct service to the airport, and the platform quickly fills with holiday-makers with their hotchpotch of non-matching luggage, student backpackers, and the occasional businessman.  I study my reflection in the window of the carriage; with rucksack and walking gear I look as if I’ve just completed a long-distance hike.  My appearance is fine for now but not the ideal look to blend in with the other travellers at the airport.  In an attempt to make myself more congruous, I take off my mud-spattered gaiters, the waterproof sleeves protecting the bottom of my trousers, remove my thick Berghaus jacket and woolly hat, and run my fingers through my hair.  I re-check my appearance and feel satisfied: clean boots, jeans and short-sleeved shirt; reasonably smart and, more importantly, nondescript – eminently forgettable.