Kick-startJarrod had made it home. There was a pile of letters on the floor next to the letterbox, which he brushed aside with the door. It was cold and stark. Nothing a fire wouldn’t fix. The longest of long days was coming to an end and he was secretly congratulating himself for making it this far without crashing out. It was the only way to reset the sleep patterns—make it to the next night-time regardless of how tired you were. He packed away the shopping, put on a load of washing and cranked up the gas fire. He was tucking into a piping hot single-serve soup like a true bachelor when his phone buzzed. It was Des Davis.
“Wow, Des,” said Jarrod, straining to put his hot bowl on the floor before readjusting himself in the sofa. “How is Hartlepool treating you?”
“Hello, Jarrod,” said De
