Dillon's Fabrication had been abandoned since the bottom fell out of the steel industry in the eighties. It had been for sale ever since, though the signs had long since deteriorated and the car park was now a mass of weeds and buddleias. The brick building was gradually being reclaimed by nature. Grass grew from the gutters and Ivy snaked up the sagging walls. Windows like expressionless eyes pierced the facade, most of them broken by three generations of shoolkids.
Harry Fletcher had ignored the "Private Property" signs; walked heedless past the 'Danger: No Entry" and used the 'Unsafe Building: Keep Away' as a means to block one of the broken windows from the rain. A few minor thefts in the area had furnished him with the rudiments of camping and a tent pitched beneath the cavernous roof of the factory floor was surprisingly comfortable.
He spent the summer there, stealing food when he couldn't fish or hunt , intending to seek better quarters in the autumn. As the temperature fell he became less enthused by the prospect of moving on and when the first snow of winter lay thick on the ground he burrowed further into his sleeping bag and rationed his food.
It was the kids throwing snowballs that did it. A competition to throw one onto the roof led to a minor avalanche and a partial collapse. They ran away, unaware of Harry Fletcher, his leg trapped under a roofing bean inside the derelict building