Mike Cross, still in his blue boxers, the fresh bandage tied tightly around his left lower calf and with the Naproxen ebbing the pain away bit by bit, made his way down the passage to the master bedroom, or the Altar Room as the Reeds had named it. In his hand he clutched the ruined pair of light grey cargos, the left leg torn and bloody.
At the end of the passageway he opened the closed door and went in, the room was cool and dark and the first thing he did was click the light on. Their bags and all the now empty kit cases were stacked by the far side of the large bed where Scotty had left them the day before. Mike only had one holdall with a few emergency bits in he’d bought from Go Outdoors in Plymouth on their way down. When he’d left home to head to Manchester, he’d had no idea he’d
