Back-Slash by Bill Kitson Page B

humanity in and around Leeds represented his best chance. He was unable to find a seat but after twenty minutes or so the train stopped at Throxendale. A large, noisy family got up to leave the train. Marshall slid into the seat vacated by one of them.
    The first thing he needed was money: cash, to be specific. Paying for goods and services with a credit or debit card was as good a way of advertising his whereabouts to the police as waving and shouting, ‘Yoo-hoo, here I am, come and get me.’ To get cash involved a visit to his building society, where his account had been active since he was at university. There he’d be able to withdraw sufficient for his needs. Cash would be anonymous , untraceable and had several other advantages. Traders liked it, because cash never bounced, and it didn’t cost the trader a commission. If cash brought the trader peace of mind it bought the same for Marshall.
    Leaving the cottage so hastily had been a panic measure. Marshall acknowledged the fact, but he’d no experience of being a fugitive. He’d need to think out every move with greater carefrom now on. He’d collected his few valuable possessions such as driving licence, bank and building society passbooks and one or two private documents but had completely overlooked the matter of clothing. If his period in hiding was to be lengthy, he’d need not one, but several changes. He’d have to buy these and something to contain them to avoid drawing attention to himself, to appear normal.
    Marshall smiled ruefully. What was normal about his life? Was it normal to be on the run? Was it normal to be on the run from both the police and a ruthless killer who’d slit your throat as soon as look at you? Was it normal to have spent so long hiding from your past, from the consequences of a crime you hadn’t even committed? No, whatever else could be said about his life it certainly wasn’t ‘normal’.
    Marshall remembered everything about his arrest with hideous clarity. The journey from Leeds to Scarborough in the back of the police car, sandwiched between the two officers leading the enquiry. The mortuary: its chill, damp air, musty with the smell of death and formaldehyde. The drab green paint on the doors, the faded magnolia emulsion on the walls. Then the examination room, the cold clinical look of stainless steel everywhere. Everywhere, except in the middle of the room where a central spindle supported the table, ominously covered with a heavy green sheet. He knew what lay beneath that sheet. He knew he’d been brought there only in part to identify the body: an impossible task. The real reason was to allow the detectives to pressure him into confessing to Anna’s murder.
    Marshall felt the tears pricking at the corner of his eyes as he remembered the obscenity that was revealed when the sheet was pulled back. The ocean and its creatures had ravaged her beyond all recognition, ripping to shreds his memory of the beautiful girl he’d courted and married.
    At his trial he had been made to listen whilst the prosecution seeking his conviction exposed Anna’s infidelity in lurid, lascivious detail for the world to see and hear, and drool over. No matter that every word was a fresh torment to him. No matter what his feelings were. He was only the defendant. His feelingsdidn’t count. He might have protested but knew his protests would carry as little weight as his plea of not guilty.
    His conviction had been inevitable. He’d seen it coming from early on. As shock followed shock, lie followed lie, he began watching events unfold with a detached, almost neutral viewpoint . As if the events in court were happening to someone else.
    He didn’t dwell on his years in Durham. There were some things that should remain buried. It was a life sentence he’d been given. It had seemed like several lifetimes before the successful appeal. Outside the court following his release, Marshall remembered the senior detective telling him, ‘Don’t