pounds as the anxiety is explosively reignited, and I sit bolt upright, cracking my forehead on the low ceiling. As I blink away the pain, relief comes with the realization that it’s only sunlight streaming through a slit between the rocks at the entrance of the drain. Breathing more easily, I check my watch in the cone of light, 10:05 a.m. Amazingly I’ve been dead to the world for the last five hours.
Viewing my temporary home in the daylight reminds me how small a space it is. I struggle to adjust my position before cautiously spying through the narrow aperture between the rocks at the entrance. My view is restricted to a small section of clear blue sky and tree canopy with autumn leaves falling. The rain has finally stopped and the only sounds come from the nearby stream with the water level running high and the gentle blowing of the wind through the branches. Mercifully, there are no helicopter blades whirring, German Shepherds barking, or policemen shouting. Clearly I’ve not been discovered, and refreshed after the long sleep, my mood and optimism has improved beyond recognition from just a few hours earlier.
I rub my face with my hands and feel a fine layer of salt on the skin from the dried sweat. My mouth is dry and my furred tongue sticks to my teeth; a mouth like the bottom of a birdcage, I’ve heard it described. I reach for a bottle of water and take several large gulps, savouring the icy cold water running down my throat as I begin to replenish my dehydrated body. I’m starving hungry, and open a packet of chocolate digestives before greedily eating two sandwiched together. The biscuits only serve to clog up my mouth again, and I wash them away with more water.
My thoughts return to the events of the previous evening and I can’t help but think that, if everything had gone to plan, I would be on the plane by now and no doubt eating an unpalatable airline meal out of a plastic tray. In my current mood, though, I’m happy enough with chocolate biscuits and water.
I attempt to sit up a little, and crouching awkwardly I piss in one of the two-litre water bottles, now a dedicated pee-collecting receptacle. My urine is dark orange in colour and fills the confined space of the bolt-hole with the harsh smell of ammonia, a function of my dehydration from the exertions of the previous night. Next I gingerly remove the scarf from around my neck while holding the blood stained handkerchief beneath it in place. The hanky is stuck firmly to a chunk of flesh hanging below my jaw line. Wincing with pain, I splash the hanky with cold water until it is soaked through and then try to peel it slowly away from my skin. The pain is excruciating, and I can’t believe it didn’t hurt more at the time of its infliction. With the filthy hanky finally off, I use a tiny mirror from one of Helen’s compacts for guidance and pick at the dry blood with baby-wipes. By the time I’ve finished, the wound is bleeding again, although not as heavily as the night before. I smear it in stinging antiseptic cream before packing it with cotton wool and wrapping it in a crepe bandage from my first aid kit. I inspect my handiwork in the mirror: not quite Florence Nightingale, but it’ll suffice.
With medical issues dealt with, my thoughts turn to the next phase of my plan and the optimal time to move on to the more secure and longer-term bolt-hole at Kinder Scout in the Peak District National Park. In my current abode I have sufficient food stockpiled for at least a week and, with the nearby streams, an adequate supply of fresh drinking water is not a limiting factor. But in my contingency planning, the Graves Park bolt-hole had only ever been intended as a short-term measure. It’s far too close to busy footpaths, risking discovery at any time, and with its low ceiling and limited space it is impractical for anything more than a temporary stop-gap. I need
Viewing my temporary home in the daylight reminds me how small a space it is. I struggle to adjust my position before cautiously spying through the narrow aperture between the rocks at the entrance. My view is restricted to a small section of clear blue sky and tree canopy with autumn leaves falling. The rain has finally stopped and the only sounds come from the nearby stream with the water level running high and the gentle blowing of the wind through the branches. Mercifully, there are no helicopter blades whirring, German Shepherds barking, or policemen shouting. Clearly I’ve not been discovered, and refreshed after the long sleep, my mood and optimism has improved beyond recognition from just a few hours earlier.
I rub my face with my hands and feel a fine layer of salt on the skin from the dried sweat. My mouth is dry and my furred tongue sticks to my teeth; a mouth like the bottom of a birdcage, I’ve heard it described. I reach for a bottle of water and take several large gulps, savouring the icy cold water running down my throat as I begin to replenish my dehydrated body. I’m starving hungry, and open a packet of chocolate digestives before greedily eating two sandwiched together. The biscuits only serve to clog up my mouth again, and I wash them away with more water.
My thoughts return to the events of the previous evening and I can’t help but think that, if everything had gone to plan, I would be on the plane by now and no doubt eating an unpalatable airline meal out of a plastic tray. In my current mood, though, I’m happy enough with chocolate biscuits and water.
I attempt to sit up a little, and crouching awkwardly I piss in one of the two-litre water bottles, now a dedicated pee-collecting receptacle. My urine is dark orange in colour and fills the confined space of the bolt-hole with the harsh smell of ammonia, a function of my dehydration from the exertions of the previous night. Next I gingerly remove the scarf from around my neck while holding the blood stained handkerchief beneath it in place. The hanky is stuck firmly to a chunk of flesh hanging below my jaw line. Wincing with pain, I splash the hanky with cold water until it is soaked through and then try to peel it slowly away from my skin. The pain is excruciating, and I can’t believe it didn’t hurt more at the time of its infliction. With the filthy hanky finally off, I use a tiny mirror from one of Helen’s compacts for guidance and pick at the dry blood with baby-wipes. By the time I’ve finished, the wound is bleeding again, although not as heavily as the night before. I smear it in stinging antiseptic cream before packing it with cotton wool and wrapping it in a crepe bandage from my first aid kit. I inspect my handiwork in the mirror: not quite Florence Nightingale, but it’ll suffice.
With medical issues dealt with, my thoughts turn to the next phase of my plan and the optimal time to move on to the more secure and longer-term bolt-hole at Kinder Scout in the Peak District National Park. In my current abode I have sufficient food stockpiled for at least a week and, with the nearby streams, an adequate supply of fresh drinking water is not a limiting factor. But in my contingency planning, the Graves Park bolt-hole had only ever been intended as a short-term measure. It’s far too close to busy footpaths, risking discovery at any time, and with its low ceiling and limited space it is impractical for anything more than a temporary stop-gap. I need
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