TWENTY-EIGHT
By the time Darren wandered from the road to trudge over the fields which led to Stoak, his clothes were wet through, the water squelched in his shoes and his hair stuck like plaster over his forehead, stiff and unmoving. He kept his face to the grass and plodded on, hunched up and miserable. Every now and then, he would shelter under some trees, and at one such stop, he fed himself on the sandwiches he’d prepared in the kitchen as he stood next to Ellen’s corpse. The bread was soggy and inedible, so he threw them all away in disgust.
It was early morning and he needed to find shelter. He’d buried Ellen’s body quickly, throwing her in a ditch and covering her with leaves before getting back into the car and driving through the gloom until the petrol ran out on the outskirts
