‘Yes, I’m sure.’ I sink my head on to my hands and slump forward on the table, knocking a plate on to the grass. Mola shuffles along to me, making little clucking noises of concern. From the corner of my eye, I see her arm reaching to me and I think she’s going to cuddle me or something, which I’m not really ready for, but instead she taps me twice on the top of my head, quite sharply.

‘Hey. Hey! Dream-boy! Don’t leave us now. We need you here, we need you present, and fully awake, yes? And so does your brother.’

I lift my head wearily.

Then she says something so quietly that I can hardly hear. ‘Why did you do it, Malky? If it was going bad? Why?’

I blink at her, puzzled. Is she trying to tell me off – you know, ‘I told you not to mess with this’? I have to think for a long while before I answer.

‘I guess I didn’t believe it myself. I mean, I knew the shared dreams were really happening, but how wrong could it go? They’re dreams, Mola! They only exist in my mind. And Seb’s.’

Susan stares at her trainers for a while, then she raises her head and looks at Mola, as if she knows a reply is coming.

Mola shakes her head, with a sad smile. ‘The internal life, Dream-boy,’ she says, ‘is as real as anything else. Perhaps even more so.’

Chapter 55

I find myself on my feet again, and my voice is louder. Mola does not flinch, but maintains her steady gaze as I say, ‘But it’s not! They are separate! You … you’ve got stuff going on in your head, and then there’s stuff going on here, in the real word!’ I stamp my foot and thump the table to emphasise my point. ‘They can’t … they can’t interfere with each other, can they? Can they?’

Mola gives her serene smile, and this time it drives me mad.

‘Stop smiling!’ I say. ‘It’s not funny. You can meditate, you can dream, you can do whatever you like, but it can’t have any effect.’

Mola says, ‘And your brother’s wrists? Your sore arm, Malcom? Your … ahh … performance at school yesterday? Oh yes, I heard. Were they real, or just in your mind?’

I fall silent and sigh, and sink on to the wooden seat again. I rub my forearm, remembering the teeth-marks of the crocodile. No one says anything for ages. I mutter, eventually, ‘I just don’t know what to do.’

‘Some more tea will help us think. Susan, be a good girl. Malcolm, help clear the table. And for a little while we say nothing at all. Complete quiet.’