Michael slipped the torch into the inside pocket of the jacket he had pulled on over his hoodie and flexed his fingers, feeling the joints protest at being forced to work against the cold and damp of the night air. The torch was reassuringly weighty; he could use it as a weapon alongside his knife, should a situation develop.
Drawing closer, he saw that the church was smaller than he had judged it both from a distance and from its appearance in the postcard. A crumbling drystone wall, low enough in places that Michael could have stepped over it, surrounded the churchyard, itself little more than five good strides across from wall to church. The roof of the lych-gate was bowed unevenly, the gate itself sagging haphazardly on its one remaining hinge.
Michael pushed the latch-end of the gate and it creaked open, its bottom edge scraping the stone flagstones like fingernails down a blackboard.
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