It was raining up on the hill, the steady patter-patter-patter hitting the vast golfing umbrella like bullets on tin. Truth be told, it was raining everywhere, but up on the hill, here in the allotment, that was the only place Wilfred Mott really cared about it raining right now.Whenever it rained, he couldn’t help but remember. That awful, awful day when  he  had come to the house, bringing Donna with him. Unconscious, unable to remember anything. For her own safety.