‘And also the realness of the dream increases at the same time? So you get a sore arm from the crocodile, and Seb’s wrists get rope burns?’

‘I suppose so. Is that what’s happening? I don’t know for certain.’

‘Well, neither do I, of course. But it sounds like that is what is happening. Doesn’t it?’

I sort of nod, but I don’t really know what to say and the garden returns to its previous silence. Mola hasn’t said anything. She’s just listening, her tiny dark eyes flicking between Susan and me as we talk. Then she gets up, accompanied by a percussion of cracks and pops from her joints, and starts walking up the garden. She pauses to look back.

‘You coming.’

It isn’t a question.

‘These are nice,’ I say, referring to the strings of coloured flags that Mola has taken us to. Close up, their fluttering has become a rattle that is noisier than I expected. I add, ‘What are they for?’

Mola has turned her face up to the sun.

‘They are prayer flags,’ says Susan. ‘A tradition in Tibet. We say that the wind carries the prayers away.’

I nod. ‘Carries the prayers up to God, yeah?’

Susan shakes her head. ‘We don’t believe in God. Or at least – not like “God” god.’ She pauses, lets this sink in and I find myself wishing I had paid more attention during our RE lessons with old Mrs Puncheon at school. ‘But we do believe in prayer, and we like to think the winds will carry our prayers of compassion and hope to every corner of the world.’

I stroke a pale pink cotton flag through my hand. ‘They’re very old,’ I say. ‘And faded.’

‘That is a good thing! It means the prayers are being taken.’

We’re both kind of waiting for Mola, who was the one that summoned us to the flagpole, but she is just standing there, silently. Just as it’s beginning to get a bit awkward, she looks up at me with such force that I want to turn away, but it seems rude, so I make myself gaze back at her.

‘I warned you. You remember? I say, “Inside your head is bigger than outside. It is easy to get lost in there.”’

‘Mola,’ says Susan, protesting. ‘Poor Malky’s feeling bad enough already.’

Mola flaps her hand as if my feelings were the least important thing in the world right now.

‘How old are you?’ she says.

‘I … I’m nearly twelve.’

‘Huh. Old enough to know better. My grandfather is a teacher of young children when he is your age. You wanna know what I think?’

She’s being so direct and intense that I hesitate and she jumps in again. ‘Well, do you, Dream-boy?’