Bolt-hole Read Online Free PDF Page A

surprise.  They’re rarely cleaned, and with the lights not working you’d have to be pretty desperate to frequent such a place after nightfall.  I take the torch out of the front pocket of the rucksack, switch it on and then balance it on the edge of the cracked porcelain sink.  With some difficulty I remove the small key from the pocket of my soaking wet jeans, now clinging to me like a second skin, and then unlock the padlock sealing the door of the end cubicle.  Still struggling for breath, I take out the mountain bike I’d stashed earlier and attach the front wheel to the quick-release mechanism.  With the bike reassembled, I stand on the toilet base and lift the heavy porcelain lid of the old-fashioned cistern a couple of metres off the ground.  I reach into the icy cold water, pull out a tightly sealed plastic bag, and empty the contents onto the closed toilet lid.  I take out the still-dry trainers, grey jogging bottoms and hooded Nike top and begin peeling off my soaking wet jeans and jacket.  I’m shocked at the amount of blood staining my top and dripping onto the floor.  In my adrenaline-heightened state I’d felt little in the way of pain, but as I study my reflection in the rusty mirror on the toilet wall I can see a five-centimetre square flap of skin and tissue hanging from the underside of my jaw.  As I move closer to the mirror and readjust the torch to get a better view I can see that the wound is still bleeding; not spouting like an artery, but definitely a good sized vein has been severed.  I grab a hanky from my rucksack, wedge it into the crook of my neck, and secure it tightly with the scarf.  It crosses my mind that the machete, still embedded in Musgrove’s neck, will be covered in traces of my blood and no doubt ripe for forensic analysis, but I can’t allow myself to worry about it now.  I quickly put on the clean jogging gear, shove the blood-stained clothing into the toilet cistern, force down the lid and leave the toilets with the bike.
     
    I mount the bike and head back to the cycle path before following it through a thickly-wooded, shallow valley gently sloping downhill.  The path is deserted: presumably the rain has dissuaded the kids that normally hang out late into the evening here.  After the hard running, the cycling provides something close to a breather and I cover the next couple of miles with relative ease.  I know that I can’t take the bike all the way to the bolt-hole, the rough terrain just won’t allow it, and I’ll have to dump it before resorting to foot again, but if I’m going to avoid capture, now is the time to put distance between me and the police.
     
    Within ten minutes I’ve reached the perimeter of the park and the boundary provided by the Abbey Lane.  I get off the bike and cautiously peer out from behind a massive oak tree, and then, with the road deserted, I nip across and head for the seclusion of Beauchief Abbey Woods on the far side.  Back under the cover of the trees, I hear for the first time the distinct whirring of helicopter blades.  I glance upward to see the markings of the police chopper as it flies low above my head in the direction of the town centre but feel some sense of relief as it continues on its way without slowing or doubling back.  Checking my watch, I’m satisfied with my progress: it’s twenty-five minutes since I left the pub and I’ve put a little over three and half miles behind me. 
     
    For the next mile I follow a meandering bark-chip path that cuts through the dense woods.  The rain continues to pound, and with water and sweat dripping into my eyes I struggle to make my way in the darkness.  The handlebars and my shoulders frequently collide with the tree trunks that border the narrow footpath, and I have to focus my concentration on staying upright rather than on speed.  Eventually I reach the end of the tree-line and arrive at the busy main road of Meadowhead.  With some reluctance I leave the