from my police sources that Julian Scott, a thirty-seven-year-old academic at the university, is wanted for questioning by the police, although as yet they have not formally stated that he is a suspect. Back to you in the studio.” The broadcast goes on to cover a proposed rail strike, and I switch the radio off.
Staring at the roof of the drain a foot or so above my head, I contemplate the latest developments. Of course there’s still no formal police confirmation that I’m wanted for questioning, but the bulletin makes it pretty clear that this is the case, particularly if the “source” is to be believed. I have to be prepared for the worst, irrespective of what information is released by the media, and I’ve no doubt that by now my description will have been circulated to police forces nationwide, as well as airports and ports. I have to accept that I’m a fugitive and on the run for murder, a concept which in part fills me with sheer terror, but perhaps bizarrely is also half appealing, and I can’t help but smile to myself.
----
Inside the bolt-hole the light is already beginning to fail as it approaches late afternoon. I feel some sense of relief as the darkness descends and provides a blanket of reassurance; I’ve not been discovered in daylight and I’m confident the c hances of discovery after nightfall are further reduced. Expecting the worst, I’ve been surprised at how uneventful the day has been; presumably the heavy rainfall of the night before has washed away my tracks and scent from the pursuing police dogs. Only once did my anxiety escalate with the distinctive hum of a helicopter passing low overhead, but to my relief it was gone within seconds and did not return.
Throughout the afternoon I tune in to the news bulletins but no new details are released and there is much recycling of what had already been said. In between news updates I eat more of the baked beans and crackers, wrapping the waste in a double layer of plastic bags to reduce the chances of police dogs picking up an erroneous scent. I still feel dehydrated, and drink more of the water. I’ve already moved onto my last bottle, and I know that I’ll have to venture outside to one of the nearby streams if I am to stay here for much longer.
When not snacking or listening to the radio bulletins I doze intermittently, but my thoughts are too anxiety-ridden for any meaningful sleep. I’m quickly beginning to recognise that the problem with solitude, and one to which I’ll have to acclimatize, is that it gives one too much time to think. This has led to anxiety and negative thoughts, and despite my best efforts to think positively, my good mood of the early morning is beginning to dissipate. Perhaps ironically, I’ve always liked my own company, but in the past the experience was underpinned by the knowledge that, if I wanted, I could find company, be it family or colleagues. Now, though, my solitude is absolute.
The next significant information comes when I switch on the radio for the 6:00 p.m. national news on Radio 4. The murder is now the lead story. “A man-hunt is underway for university academic Dr Julian Scott, who is wanted by police in connection with the death of local man, James Musgrove. It is believed that thirty-six-year-old Musgrove was the driver of a hit-and-run vehicle and was responsible for the death of Dr Scott’s wife, two young sons and both parents. At a press conference this afternoon, Detective Superintendent Adam Greene has urged anyone with information regarding the whereabouts of Julian Scott to come forward, but the public are advised not to approach him directly.” The newsreader moves on to the next story and I flick over to the local station and a male voice in mid-sentence: “… at this stage we are keeping an open mind. The last sighting of Dr Scott was in the city shortly after the incident, but it’s possible that he
Staring at the roof of the drain a foot or so above my head, I contemplate the latest developments. Of course there’s still no formal police confirmation that I’m wanted for questioning, but the bulletin makes it pretty clear that this is the case, particularly if the “source” is to be believed. I have to be prepared for the worst, irrespective of what information is released by the media, and I’ve no doubt that by now my description will have been circulated to police forces nationwide, as well as airports and ports. I have to accept that I’m a fugitive and on the run for murder, a concept which in part fills me with sheer terror, but perhaps bizarrely is also half appealing, and I can’t help but smile to myself.
----
Inside the bolt-hole the light is already beginning to fail as it approaches late afternoon. I feel some sense of relief as the darkness descends and provides a blanket of reassurance; I’ve not been discovered in daylight and I’m confident the c hances of discovery after nightfall are further reduced. Expecting the worst, I’ve been surprised at how uneventful the day has been; presumably the heavy rainfall of the night before has washed away my tracks and scent from the pursuing police dogs. Only once did my anxiety escalate with the distinctive hum of a helicopter passing low overhead, but to my relief it was gone within seconds and did not return.
Throughout the afternoon I tune in to the news bulletins but no new details are released and there is much recycling of what had already been said. In between news updates I eat more of the baked beans and crackers, wrapping the waste in a double layer of plastic bags to reduce the chances of police dogs picking up an erroneous scent. I still feel dehydrated, and drink more of the water. I’ve already moved onto my last bottle, and I know that I’ll have to venture outside to one of the nearby streams if I am to stay here for much longer.
When not snacking or listening to the radio bulletins I doze intermittently, but my thoughts are too anxiety-ridden for any meaningful sleep. I’m quickly beginning to recognise that the problem with solitude, and one to which I’ll have to acclimatize, is that it gives one too much time to think. This has led to anxiety and negative thoughts, and despite my best efforts to think positively, my good mood of the early morning is beginning to dissipate. Perhaps ironically, I’ve always liked my own company, but in the past the experience was underpinned by the knowledge that, if I wanted, I could find company, be it family or colleagues. Now, though, my solitude is absolute.
The next significant information comes when I switch on the radio for the 6:00 p.m. national news on Radio 4. The murder is now the lead story. “A man-hunt is underway for university academic Dr Julian Scott, who is wanted by police in connection with the death of local man, James Musgrove. It is believed that thirty-six-year-old Musgrove was the driver of a hit-and-run vehicle and was responsible for the death of Dr Scott’s wife, two young sons and both parents. At a press conference this afternoon, Detective Superintendent Adam Greene has urged anyone with information regarding the whereabouts of Julian Scott to come forward, but the public are advised not to approach him directly.” The newsreader moves on to the next story and I flick over to the local station and a male voice in mid-sentence: “… at this stage we are keeping an open mind. The last sighting of Dr Scott was in the city shortly after the incident, but it’s possible that he
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