I abandoned trudging up the new muddy path cut through the hospital’s grounds, and we returned to the car.
I’d spotted a gap in the fence; admittedly it was a set of open gates, leading to more parkland pathways, but it did represent
a way in.
Confidently I drove into the secure heart of St. Crispin’s, driving past derelict lodges and boarded outbuildings,
plastic red fences making a mockery of the original airing court design.
The carpark, slippery with grey slurry, was empty. The asylum stood before us: all doors were open.
We had to behave ourselves.
