Mark knew what that meant. There were people who had tried to shift from their place in the wall, and whose foundations had collapsed. Mark tilted his head to listen more closely to what Owen was saying. It didn’t sound reassuring. But he always learned things from Owen, and he had to listen in case he missed something.

‘There’s a spot where a lot of people go to do away with themselves,’ said Owen. ‘The car park at the top of the Eden Valley, where you can see Mam Tor. They call it Suicide Corner.’

‘Yes, I know it,’ said Mark.

‘They always seem to go to that one spot. They park up in their cars to enjoy the view for one last time, then write their notes and drink their whisky and connect a hose up to the exhaust. Sometimes they use pills, sometimes a knife or razor blade across the wrists. Occasionally, they change their minds when they see what they’ve done, when the blood begins to flow and the pain they’ve only imagined becomes real.’

Mark nodded. But he wasn’t sure if the Ranger was just talking generally, or whether he was communicating some personal message.

‘There’s a story about a student,’ said Owen. ‘I don’t know if it’s true or not. They say he drove from Suicide Corner to the hospital in Edendale with blood pouring from both his wrists where he had hacked his arteries open with a pair of dressmaker’s scissors. The car was warm, and the blood flowed pretty well from the cuts he made before he panicked. It had run down his arms and on to his trouser legs, soaked into his lap and pooled on the rubber mat. They say the car looked like a slaughterhouse. But it’s over five miles to drive into Edendale, and the student said afterwards that he had stopped at three red lights in the centre of town, waiting for the traffic to pass. By the time he arrived at Accident and Emergency, he was almost unconscious. He sat in the car outside the hospital entrance for ten minutes before an ambulance crew found him. His hands were glued to the steering wheel with congealed blood. The nurses had to prise him free.’

‘It isn’t right,’ said Mark. But he didn’t think Owen had heard him. His eyes were on his hands, though they were hidden by his gloves. He rubbed the palms together, as if irritated by some persistent itch.