Lying in bed, unable to move. Looking up and seeing someone sat watching you from across the other side of the room, their face cast in shadow.

Mr Stevens.

Matt drummed his fingers across the brown bag in his lap. His skin was turning cold beneath his wet clothes. He fidgeted in his seat, trying to get comfortable.

Outside, the rain continued to fall against the window in a steady stream.

Matt (2002)

1

The storm hit when they were only halfway to Creek Lane.

The first five miles had ended up taking them around six hours, because they’d had to skirt around two tors and the terrain in between had been terrible. Matt thought at least one whole mile had been nothing but tussocks, with no discernible path. James had fallen and twisted his leg during that stretch, and he’d been walking with a limp ever since.

As they’d been going around the second tor, James and Matt leading the way with drizzle blowing in their faces and Tramper’s arm slung around Matt’s neck for support, James had begun to cry. He was sobbing under his breath, trying to muffle the sound, but Matt could hear him whimpering below the noise of the wind.

The sound made him angry.

As the afternoon grew shorter and their progress became slower and slower, Matt had become convinced that Mr Stevens didn’t know what he was doing. He had all the right equipment and he said all the right things, sure – shit, he even looked like a hiker – but Matt could tell he hadn’t thought their route through at all. It was fucking ridiculous that they’d come this far out into the middle of nowhere, so far from any roads or help, when it was their first time on the moor.

Matt’s mum and James’ gran might think Mr Stevens was great, but Matt didn’t see it. There was something about him, something in the condescending way he had of looking at people and the strict edge that sometimes crept into his voice, that Matt didn’t like at all. He was like one of those teachers that’s cruel in the classroom but can turn on the charm for parents’ evening.

And now it was just after seven in the evening, they still had five miles to go, and the wind was picking up.

Matt had briefly left James half an hour before to go and speak to Mr Stevens. He told him that Tramper was injured and that he was worried they weren’t going to make it to the road tonight, but Mr Stevens had brushed off his concerns with a wave of the hand.

‘We’ve come over the hard bit,’ he said, adjusting his glasses and smiling. ‘The next five miles is flat, and there are plenty of paths.’