I reach for the alarm with my eyes closed. The beeping of that clock is the worst sound in the world, except for the sound of the silence after you’ve been murdered.

This is the thought that jolts me awake.

I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. Damp patch. Bigger than it used to be? Maybe. The ceiling is real. Real, real, real.

I turn my head. Yes, this is my bedroom. Clothes on the floor. Books piled on the table. Morning light coming through the blue curtains. My stuff is everywhere. My feet poke out of the end of the bed. I’m at home and this is normal.

I touch my neck. It’s smooth and a bit stubbly. That’s as it should be. I run my fingers through my hair, look at my hands, front and back. Obviously everything’s all right. I am here and alive.

Of course I am.

I’m such a twat.

‘Joe!’

Dad is shouting from downstairs. I sit up and yawn. I poke a leg right out of bed. It’s hairier than it used to be. No shit. Fifteen years old, six feet tall, terrified by a dream. I give myself a shake and try to focus.

‘Joe!’ he yells again. ‘You awake?’

‘Yeah!’ I say, or something like it. I get up and, because I’m only wearing pants, I pull on my dressing gown. Dad insists on seeing us with his own eyes before he goes to work.

I yawn as I open my door, blink at the light and focus on my dad.

He’s standing on the stairs, wearing his jeans and the polo shirt with the name of the nursery embroidered on his chest: BOUNCERS. Yes, he is a male nursery worker, at the age of forty-nine. He’s been doing it for so long that he’s in charge of the place, but really he just goes to work so he can play. I don’t know how he does it, looking after snotty little kids all day, but the thing with Dad is that he’s always happy.

Weirdo.

‘Bye,’ he says, coming up to the landing and patting my shoulder. ‘Have a good day. I finish at five, so I’ll be home at twenty past. I’ll run you back up to school at sevenish and wave you off.’

‘Shit!’

‘Joseph!’

He goes down the stairs. I follow. Dad hates anything that could be seen as ‘bad language’, however mild. It’s one of the rules. Gus and I aren’t allowed to swear because if we did ‘that would make it feel normal, and then I’d start doing it at work and I’d be fired, and we’d have to get our food out of bins’. It’s a legitimate reason. All the same …