Hoofprints swallow ankles. A stile in shards, clutched by nettles. A drunken way-marker, faded and unsure. The gate screams, arrival announced.

Dead machinery flanks the track to the farmyard. A rabid thresher for stabbing moles. A tractor carcass, condemned. A pile-of-tyres tomb. Tarpaulin, covering hell knows what. Baths for an end-of-world thirst. Sheets of corrugate like the birthplace of rust. A mattress of ungodly stains. Razor wire, office chairs, a Buzz Lightyear toy missing the wings. A door thudding somewhere. Cows roaring. A dog yelping, then not.

The map cuts a line of easy green dashes through this merry clutch of buildings, like the route through a theme park. But they are on property now. There are windows, there are shadows. Ben points the way, as if his finger will keep them safe. Chloe reddens, her vegan furies simmering. Carlos fiddles with camera settings, wants high-contrast monochrome. Aliya mutters. Jade is silent.

A silo looms like a fretting mother. An open barn that should have animals but doesn't. Stacks of fencing, mulched straw, three computer monitors, spades. Chains, stakes, locks, an NYC baseball cap. Jade hurries to the front, Carlos stoops for low angles, Aliya's mutters become hums and then a nervy showtune. Chloe's eyes scour everything. Ben stops. He can't see the way forward. There should be a way out to the moor.

There is a fence, and it is new. It is electrified. A buzzing yellow strip and many warning signs. They follow it left. It keeps them in the farm. They follow it right. It keeps them in the farm. There's no way over. Ben frowns, Chloe tuts, Carlos pans, Aliya whistles. Jade has spotted the farmer.

She nudges Ben and points. The farmer is back the way they came. He is attending to some twine on a gate. The twine is bright blue and frayed. The farmer is hunched, working hard. Beyond him is a field. In the field, there is a bull. They make their way over, Ben at the front.

"Hi," he says. "Sorry, mate...?"

The farmer doesn't turn. The fingers keep working. "Aye?"

"Yeah, we might be a bit lost. Is that Black Wash Moor, back there? Towards Fenly Edge?"

The farmer ties a knot. Starts another. "Pilgrims, are ya?"

"Sorry?"

"Pilgrims."

"We're just, er, walking through..."

"For yer lad," says the farmer. "What topped himself."

Jade gasps, she can't help it. Chloe's eyes bulge. Ben scratches the back of his neck.

"We're just walking..." he says, but he's stuck for words now, the farm has swallowed them.

"Yer influencer," says the farmer. "Or whatever 'tis."

"Lucas," says Jade.

"Aye, that's 'im."

The bull's seen them. It wanders over, not bothered. The stench of the farm has settled in their noses, a permanent resident.

"He didn't..." says Chloe, shaking her head. "He fell."

"Fell? Oh aye?"

"That's right," says Chloe. "Look, can you just tell us the way?"

The farmer chuckles. He unfastens the twine, lets it unravel then sets to tying it again. Chloe huffs. Carlos has tracked forward, zoomed in a little.

"Sorry, mate" says Ben. "We just want to get to the Edge. To pay our respects, you know?"

"Respects is it?" says the farmer. "Hmm."

"The map says this is the footpath..."

"Used to be, aye. Not since."

"You can't do that," says Chloe. "You can't just change it. It's right-of-way."

The twine squeaks as the farmer pulls it as tight as it will go. The bull turns and lets out a stream of shit. Carlos frames it beautifully. The farmer leans on the gate which groans for him. He still hasn't turned around.

"Aye, right way," he says. His voice is thin needles, like sideways rain on a mountain climb. "Nothing right with what I saw, though."

Ben catches a drift. "You saw him? Lucas?"

"Saw him, followed him, watched him. Filmed him."

Ben turns and shakes his head at the others. He's trying to tell Carlos to cut the filming, but his friend won't be told. Aliya's leaning in asking; what? She's got the gale in her ears, missed most of it. Jade's stepped close to the stile with the nettles. She's not got the voice to say what's in her head. She's seeing them all strung up in barns on meat-hooks. That's what's got her by the throat.

"You filmed him?" says Carlos.

If the farmer's surprised by the accent, he doesn't show it. He doesn't move.

"Aye. Came through 'ere. Face of thunder like I've never seen. Drank from tap over there." Slight shift of the head. A tap somewhere. They'll never see it. "Thought to miself; summat's up here. Took off after him. He fair wobbled through them moors. Made a two-hour amble take five. Never good, is it?"

"This guy's talking shit," snaps Chloe. "Come on, guys."

"Aye, a lot of shite talking. He was doing that, yer lad. At t'Edge. Filming himsel' on his camera, fucking it all up. Final messages, I reckon."

Chloe stomps forward. "Listen, mate. Lucas didn't kill himself. We've all seen the footage. The rock went from under him."

"Aye," says the farmer. "Spent ages loosening it. Until he got it just right."

A rugby ball. A microwave. Half a gardening fork. The footpath sign, snapped and piled up for a fire. A mountain bike, no wheels. A dead lamb.

"Bullshit," hisses Chloe.

"Can we go?" whispers Jade.

"You haven't filmed him," says Carlos. "You got no camera."

The farmer drums a beat on his gate. "Aye, aye. That's it, innit? Old farmer Jack over here ain't got no internet, none of yer YouTubes." He almost turns. Seems to think better of it. "BlackWashBrothers. Look us up. It's all on there. Like and subscribe while yer at it, aye?"

Aliya's first with her phone out, searching. They wait. Something metal falls on something concrete. Beasts shuffle and groan. An engine starts and sputters out. Someone passes on a quad bike. The farmer speaks again, but not from his mouth. He's a tinny pitter from Aliya's phone and there's a scratching of gale over his words. Aliya's breath catches. Jade hurries over. Chloe moans. Carlos turns, his framing all messed up. Ben's shoulders tighten. Aliya pulls her jumper over her chin to hide the wobbling.

"We just..." manages Ben.

"Aye, aye," says the farmer. He stoops down, picks up a plank of fence, leans over the gate and hits a switch on a generator. "Electric's off. Climb over to yer moor. Follow the white poles. Watch out for boggy bits."

He opens the gate, goes through. He yanks it closed and it snaps and rattles. He walks up to the bull, then walks past. He glances back at them, but they don't see.

"Mind how you go," he mutters.

They don't hear it. They're gathered round Aliya's phone, watching. They watch again. And again. Until they can't see it through the tears. Aliya puts her phone away and they huddle.
The farmer's nowhere to be seen now, and neither's the bull. They climb the fence to the moor. They follow the white poles, two hours to the Edge.