Bolt-hole Read Online Free PDF

safety of the dark woods and join the traffic heading out of town.  After slowing to a near crawl in the woods I soon pick up the pace again and speed past the numerous pubs, wine bars and takeaways.  I cycle on, negotiating the heavy traffic, the numerous weaving taxis taking their boozy clientele home or on to late bars.  Occasionally a police car with blue lights flashing shoots past, but always in the direction of town and mercifully never slowing to give me a second glance.  I’ve no doubt that by now most of the city’s police are aware of the attack and a description of me will have been circulated.  I can only hope that my change of clothing and the fact that I’m now on a bike will buy me precious time. 
     
    My next destination is Graves Park and a place I know well from my childhood.  At close to 250 acres it’s the largest park in Sheffield, and for a kid growing up in the area it was heaven: a vast expanse of grass and woodland, as well as sports fields, children’s play areas, and even a small farm with a rare breeds centre.  All those years ago, I’d learnt every short-cut and cycle route through the park, and during the long summer holidays I’d built bivouacs and camped overnight in the woods with school friends.  Now, with Graves Park less than half a mile away and the entrance almost in view, I begin to relax a little for the first time, knowing that I’m close to home turf.  But almost as if my newly found optimism has tempted fate, as I round a bend in the road and half a dozen or so car lengths in front, a police car is parked at the curb-side. Too close for me to consider turning back, I’ve got no choice but to continue on towards it. Stay calm, Julian, stay calm , I whisper to myself as I reach the car and glance through the rear window.  The driver and front-seat passenger are facing each other and showing no obvious interest in my presence.  Relieved, I take a slow deep breath with my destination now so tantalisingly close; but again, as if my renewed optimism is provoking the Gods, the passenger door of a taxi parked in front of the police car abruptly opens.  I have a moment to react, and I brake hard and swerve to avoid a collision, but my front wheel skids on the greasy road and I lose control.  Within a split second I’m flying over the handle bars and then the side of my head and shoulder impacts hard with the tarmac.  I’m momentarily stunned, lying face-down in the road with the bike next to me and the front wheel spinning but buckled and useless. 
     
    The passenger of the taxi, a woman in her twenties, clearly drunk, stumbles towards me in ridiculous six-inch heels. “Are you okay? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she screams hysterically.  She begins pulling at my arm as she tries to help me up.  But as I get to my hands and knees and turn to face her, she stops short with a look of horror and then shrieks, “You’re bleeding, oh my God, oh my God … You’re bleeding .” 
     
    I glance down at my grey top to find it soaked in blood that’s been dripping from my neck wound, the hanky and scarf having clearly provided no effective barrier.  Dazed, I struggle to my feet, and shrugging off her attentions I say, "Don't worry. I'm fine, I'm fine.”
     
    Behind me I hear a car door open, and then another, and vaguely familiar, female voice.  “Sir, are you okay? ... Do you need help?” 
     
    In the corner of my eye a woman picks up my bike and places it on the pavement.  Then I hear the crackle of a police radio, which cuts through the fuzziness of my thinking.  I turn around to see a woman whose face bears a look of recognition that I suspect mirrors my own: WPC Shaw.  My thoughts are now more lucid but I still can’t quite believe what’s happening.  How can I explain all the blood? There’s no way she’ll believe it’s all from the bike accident. 
     
    I know I can’t take any chances. I turn, and sprint in the direction of the park, leaving