‘Nothing’s wrong. I just need to speak to that girl. See? Her with the dog there!’

But we are driving too fast, and we’re already way past her.

‘Susan? It’s me … Guess what? I’ve just seen Dennis being walked by Kez Becker by the Park Hotel.’

I’m up in my room, lying on my bed under the hook where the Dreaminator used to be. I told Uncle Pete and Mormor that I wasn’t hungry (untrue) and that I was tired (untrue) and that I was going upstairs to read (also untrue).

‘What?’ says Susan.

‘Dennis. Kez has got Dennis – Kenneth McKinley’s dog?’

‘All right …’

‘Look. Seb is … he’s not improving. In fact, he’s getting worse. We have to act fast. And Kez Becker is the key.’

‘The key to what?’

‘Getting the Dreaminator from the funeral parlour!’

‘And how will we get Kez to help us?’

‘I don’t know.’ I say. ‘I haven’t thought of that yet.’

‘I see.’ She sounds doubtful. ‘But … it is getting late and Mola is …’

‘No,’ I say. ‘We haven’t got much time.’

I tell her everything about the hospital, about Seb writhing on the bed and getting the wound on his face, and the ICU …

‘How soon can you meet me?’ says Susan, her tone suddenly changing from doubtful to positive.

‘How soon? You mean now?’

‘You said it was urgent.’

‘I know. But I can’t just … leave. I’ve got relatives here.’

‘You will find a way. Twenty minutes. By the Priory gates. I have an idea.’

I take a deep breath and look in the mirror. Is that me? My blond haystack is the same, my bogie-coloured eyes (Seb’s description) and the freckles over my nose … they are all familiar. But something has changed. Do I look older? That’s silly. A nearly-twelve-year-old can’t suddenly look older.

Perhaps I just feel it. I run my hand through my hair, and, as I do, I touch the spot where, weeks ago now, I bruised my scalp when I floated up to the ceiling that very first time. It doesn’t hurt now, there’s no bump or anything, but it makes me think.

I go back to my bed and lie on it, trying to position my head against the headboard to touch the same spot, and I really can’t. Not easily, anyway. I did this the first morning, remember, but I just thought I must have bumped my head on the wall. Now I know that I didn’t.

The head-bump from my dream became real, just like the teeth-marks, just like the sores on Seb’s wrists …

It has been going wrong right from the start!

I stand up from my bed, tighten my jaw and say with as much determination as I can: ‘You can do this, Malky.’