Ten year old Max came bursting into the house, red-faced and sweating from playing out on the park with his friends. There was nothing he enjoyed more than tearing around with his mates. He had just a vivid imagination and everything was an adventure. His mother and father looked up from their paperback books. 

‘You’re home early.’ His mother said. ‘I was going to shout you in an hour or so.’

‘It’s going to rain.’ Max said.

His parents, Tom and Carol, looked out the bay window at the blue, cloudless skies.

‘They’ve not forecast any rain. I’m sure you’ll be fine.’ his dad said.

Max simply shook his head and went upstairs to his room. He would no doubt busy himself in his bedroom, imagining his room was a dusty Wild West town and that his bed was a stagecoach. His parents returned to their books and lost themselves in fictional worlds of their own.

Ten minutes later, Tom put his book down. The skies outside had darkened. They would soon have to put a light on to be able to carry on reading. Rain started to fall, battering against the window. He gave Carol a nudge. 

‘He was right about that rain.’

‘He’ll have to get a job doing the weather on the BBC. I can just see him now.’ Carol laughed. 

Tim smiled but he found it a bit strange. How had his son known the downpour was on the way? Even the experts had predicted a sunny afternoon, but young Max had known better.

At tea-time, as they were sitting at the table, Tom asked how Max had known the weather would turn. He tried to keep his tone light and conversational. Max simply shrugged.

‘Charlie told me.’ Max said.

‘Who’s Charlie? I’ve never heard you mention him before.’

‘He’s my friend.’

‘Does he go to your school?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

Carol nodded, understanding immediately.

‘Is he a friend that only you can see?’

‘Yes, he’s so cool. He’s into the American football and the wrestling too.’

After they’d eaten, Max went back upstairs to play in his room, while Tom and Carol washed the pots. Tom dunked a dirty plate in the soapy water with a sigh. 

‘I don’t like this Charlie business.’ Tom said. 

‘Relax, love. Did you never have an imaginary friend when you were young?’ asked Carol.

‘You are joking. I had a brother and a sister, the only think I’d have imagined for myself was a bit of peace and quiet.’ He laughed. 

‘A lot of kids have imaginary friends. He’s an only child, he’s pretending his got a bit of company, that’s all.’

Tom said nothing but he still didn’t like it. 

A few nights later, while Carol was out with friends, Tom was flaked out on the sofa, watching the United game with Max beside him. Tom knew his son preferred watching the American sports, but he also revelled in joining his dad to watch the football. Tom also enjoyed the quality time together. Sport did bring people together, it was something that could unite people, give them a common ground. Most of the conversations with friends started with the phrase, did you see the game the other night?

And so, with mugs of tea, and a packet of biscuits, they got comfortable and settled in for the game. 

Half an hour into the game, Max called out, pointing to the screen. 

‘Penalty!’

Tom stared at the screen in confusion. There was no foul, no penalty call. He was about to ask what he was talking about when, on screen, the player tumbled to the ground. 

And that’s a penalty for United declared the excited commentator. Normally, Tom would cheer in excitement and anticipation of the United penalty. Would his team seize the opportunity to take the lead? But now, he found his attention drawn to his son, who had somehow predicted the penalty. His mind also replayed the prediction of rain the other afternoon. 

As the striker placed the ball on the penalty spot and prepared to take the kick, Max whispered, almost to himself, he’s missed it. 

Tom watched in horror as, sure enough, the player struck the ball hard, sending it sailing way over the crossbar. No goal. Tom turned to the boy, giving him his full attention. He suddenly felt like he didn’t know his son at all.

‘How did you-’

‘Charlie told me.’

Max was asleep in bed by the time Carol came home. She found her husband on the sofa, in front of the television. As she shrugged out of her coat and tugged her scarf loose, she asked if he’d had a nice evening and how Max had been. Tom nodded and replied with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. Yeah, yeah, all good really. 

Carol sensed something was wrong, and she joined her husband on the sofa.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

Tom explained as best he could, about the incident, how their son had predicted the penalty call and that the guy would miss.

‘Honestly, love.’ he said. ‘It was just so strange. Max knew it was going to happen, before it did. And, he says that Charlie told him.’

Carol nodded slowly and patted him gently on the arm.

‘It must just be coincidence. I bet he said other things tonight that did not happen.’ she suggested.

‘I don’t think so, but I can’t remember for sure.’

‘I bet he was coming out with all kinds of things, lots that Charlie was apparently telling him, none of which happened. You only remember the things he got right, not the dozens of things he was wrong about. Kids that age are always rambling on with themselves and most of its nonsense.’

Tom smiled, maybe she had a point.

‘Remember what your mum used to say about you? You told me that when you were a kid, she used to say you had a headful of magic. Max definitely gets it from you.’

Tom laughed. He hoped she was right. He still didn’t like this Charlie thing, but told himself, it must have all just been coincidence. 

The next day, whenever the topic of Max’s imaginary friend came to mind, Tom told himself that he was being silly. Max was such an imaginative boy. He did have Tom’s wild imagination. This imaginary friend must have simply been an random phase he was going through. It would, Tom hoped, soon pass.

On Sunday afternoon, Tom and Carol took Max to visit his grandparents. Tom’s parents loved making a fuss of their grandson. The boy would always leave with pockets stuffed with sweets and treats. Max always said that visiting his grandparents was like going trick or treating, 

They usually stayed for a few hours, drinking tea and catching up. On this visit, they had been there for around an hour when Max tugged on his mother’s sleeve. 

‘Can we go home now, please?’

‘We’ll leave in a bit.’ she replied. 

‘Mum, we need to go now.’

His grandmother placed her hand on his forehead.

‘Are you sick, love?’ 

Max nodded his head.

Tom and Carol made their apologies and ushered Max out to the car. Tom told his mother he’d call her in the week, before helping Max into the back seat of the car. Tom drove home as quickly as he could. He wanted to get the boy home and tucked up in bed so he could rest up. Max wasn’t a sickly child, and this really wasn’t like him. If he felt the same in the morning, they would keep him off school.

As they crossed the bridge over the River Irwell, away from Higher Broughton and across Salford, Carol turned in the passenger seat and felt his cheek.

‘I don’t think he’s got a temperature. Maybe he just needs to rest.’

Max didn’t speak, simply stared out the window at the Salford city streets rolling by. Tom glanced in the mirror. He couldn’t quite read the expression on his son’s face. 

Back home, Tom and Carol went through to the kitchen. Tom flicked on the radio and the kettle. They would have a cup of tea and Max could have a hot lemon drink.

‘Can I go and play in my room?’ the boy asked.

His parents turned and looked at him in surprise.

‘Play? I thought you were ill.’

‘I feel better now.’ He shrugged. 

‘What’s going on, Max? Why did you rush us back from Granny’s?’

Before the boy could answer, the news bulletin came on the radio. 

Breaking news. A bridge in Salford has collapsed. Three cars have been plunged into the depths of the River Irwell. The number of deaths is not yet known. 

They stared at their son. Tom knew that if he asked the boy how he’d known that the bridge would collapse, the answer would have been inevitable. A shiver went through him. Charlie says.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom