The rain was spattering down as Charlie made her way up Elm Avenue. She was twelve years old, shivering in her thin brown mac as the sharp chilling wind swept across from the Pennines to the west. The sky was a dull, sullen grey, brooding and bitter as black clouds began to roll across, the rain suddenly heavy, soaking through her coat, turning her blonde hair into a sodden mess plastered about her face.
She quickened her pace, head down, and clutching her useless coat tightly about her, turned into Fenstall Road and sprinted the last few yards to the house of her best friend ever, Josie Jowett.
Charlie knocked on the front door, tried the handle but it was locked so she ran down to the side kitchen door, which, as usual, was unlocked.
‘Josie’ she called, as she took off her sodden coat
