Free Bolt-hole by A.J. Oates Page B

rips off the front page of yesterday’s paper, and standing on it to avoid the wind carrying it away, he replaces it with today’s edition. I glance down and read the banner headline: “Local Man Wanted for Murder”. Below is a half-page photograph, partially obscured by the man’s foot but immediately recognisable as that of my university ID card.  My recent optimism dissipates in an instant and my emotions swing from one extreme to the other in a matter of seconds.  I’m not sure why it bothers me so much.  It certainly comes as no great surprise; I know from the radio bulletins that the story has had massive local publicity.  Perhaps it’s simply the fact of seeing it in black and white, as well as my photo plastered up for everyone to see, that reinforces the reality of my situation. 
     
    With despondency setting in I continue on, heading towards the outskirts of town.  In the near distance the sky is becoming increasingly overcast and the daylight that’s only just arrived appears to be regressing prematurely, almost reflecting my mood.  The weather forecast had suggested the strong probability of rain, and it’s no surprise that within minutes a fine drizzle begins to fall and is quickly replaced by a torrential downpour as the skies dramatically open up.  I’m grateful for my waterproof jacket and stop briefly to put on the accompanying rainproof over-trousers.  The rain continues unabated for the next thirty minutes as the skies become even darker and the cars switch on their full headlights.  After a further few minutes the sound of the rain pounding the pavement is superseded by the occasional thunderclap, at first in the distance but progressively closer.  Then, without warning and instantly blinding, a brilliant flash of light hits the ground no more than five metres away, and then almost immediately the pavement underfoot begins to vibrate.  Stunned, it takes a few seconds for me to realise that it’s a lightning bolt, a little too close for comfort.  As I struggle to gather my thoughts, a second lightning flash hits, refuting the claim that lightning doesn’t strike the same spot twice.  Suspecting there’s a good chance I could be toasted by a further bolt, I sprint over to an empty bus shelter fifty metres or so down the road. 
     
    Waiting for the storm to pass, I take off the rucksack and perch on the far-from-comfortable metal bench.  Already I’m exhausted, the short sprint taking far more out of me than I would’ve expected.  The nausea is returning and my skin is burning up; I suspect that my earlier fear that the neck wound is getting infected is becoming a reality. 
     
    Although grateful for the breather, after waiting for twenty minutes and with no sign of the storm abating, I’m increasingly desperate to get moving again.  I let another few minutes pass by and then I’ve had enough: I know that I’m wasting too much time.  I put the rucksack back on, step out of the shelter and glance behind me towards the town centre.  In the distance, barely visible in the driving rain, I can just make out the number 218 single-decker bus heading in my direction.  Almost without thinking, I wave for it to stop and the driver brakes hard, skidding a little on the wet surface before pulling up at the curb.  I climb aboard and with the hood and scarf still obscuring my face I vigorously shake the wet off my jacket, using the action as an excuse to avoid eye contact with the driver.  “One way to Owler Bar please.” 
    “A bit grim out there.” he says with a strong Yorkshire accent as he takes my £5 note. 
    “Yeah, you arrived at just the right time,” I respond, again without looking directly at him.
    Normally the bus would be full of ramblers heading to the town of Bakewell in the Peak District , but I’m relieved to find that I’m the only passenger; presumably the poor forecast has put many of them off.  Out of view of the driver’s rear-view mirror, I take a