Not just down to the local shopping centre to hide in the dressing room of some crappy store for a few hours until she was caught. Also not to her mother, current whereabouts unknown. When Meggy was four, her mother had decided a man named Garvin was a much more exciting prospect than reading bedtime stories, and disappeared off to live in a caravan in Bolton. She hadn’t bothered to keep in touch with her husband or her daughter. It still hurt, but Meggy had learned that anger was a more effective way to handle rejection than sadness.

No, if there was running away to be done, it had to be properly planned. She needed money, a safe place to go, and travel plans. She might be twelve, but she was up to the challenge. Her teachers had for years described her as bright, organised, thoughtful, and mature. It was time to put those compliments to the test. A lone twelve-year-old would necessitate a call to the police from any decent-minded citizen. If she could pass as fourteen with makeup stolen from her step-mother and some borrowed clothes, it became a grey area. Old enough to go out alone at night. Mature enough to make some legal decisions herself. Able to go to a doctor alone. She’d done plenty of research. Enough that she could write a running-away blog even. Or start a hostel for kids run by kids. That would be the best. It would have beanbags and unlimited snacks, while requiring everyone to continue with their education, of course. And to eat some fresh fruit and vegetables. There was rebellion then there was self-destruction, the two things not to be confused. Reminded of the need for vitamins and fibre, Meggy took an apple from her pocket that she’d saved from the school canteen at lunch, and bit into it hard.

A man walked into the playground, sat down on a bench and opened a newspaper. Meggy lifted her head from the roundabout and checked the area for his kids. She liked meeting new people at the park. Sometimes she could have conversations with people who had no idea she was regarded as the school geek or the teacher’s pet. That was nice. Sometimes those kids turned up with nice mothers, too, who would smile at Meggy and talk softly to her, ask about her school and her family.

Those days she would lie on the roundabout after the family had left and imagine being a part of it. A big sister to some wide-eyed kid who would want to sit with her and watch TV, or ask Meggy to play a game. Even better was the thought of being the little sister to someone cool, good-looking and streetwise. Someone who would sort out the bullies for her so she didn’t have to. They were good imagination sessions. Today gave her nothing. Just one lone weirdo, reading some story with more pictures than text.