‘I know,’ she says and follows me as we both scramble over, landing on the other side in a huge blackberry bush, which snags our clothes and rips our skin as we struggle to get free and down the embankment to the cycleway. I feel something crack beneath my jacket, but I can’t stop to check.

Have we been followed? I don’t think so. I have heard no shouts, though the intruder alarm is still wailing behind us.

‘This way,’ I say, pointing in the direction of North Shields, a couple of kilometres away.

And so we run along the track, past back gardens and through a gap in the fence, which tears a long rip in my jacket, and we’re in the playground of Seb’s primary school, and still we don’t stop till we’ve climbed over the spiked railings and we’re at the end of the back lane of Susan’s street with her rear gate to our left and my house a bit further on.

It’s pretty dark at this end, and there’s a patch of grass where I sink to my knees, my chest heaving. With shaking hands, I take out the Dreaminator and examine it. One of the pyramid sides has been bent, and there’s a crack in the bamboo hoop, but it’s otherwise all right. I hope. Susan is less puffed-out that I am, although she’s just as scratched and filthy.

You okay?’ I say after a moment, and she nods. ‘Thanks for getting me.’

‘Kezia just left you!’ she says in a tone of disbelief. ‘When her dad turned up on his motorbike, she tossed me the keys and told me to make myself scarce and to put them back when I was done. I am sorry. I had to wait until her dad had gone from the front office, and he had reset the alarm. What a … what a …’

I’m waiting for Susan to choose her insult for Kez Becker. I have never heard her say anything nasty about anyone.

I still haven’t. She finishes her sentence with a tut and a shake of her head, and hands me back my phone.

I turn it on and stare at it while it boots up. I’m still panting a little – more, I think, from nerves than exhaustion.

‘Oh no,’ I say and Susan crouches down next to me.

‘What’s wrong?’

Eleven missed calls: all from Uncle Pete. Plus two voicemails, and three text messages. Reluctantly, I click on messages. This can’t be good news.

Where are you?

Please call – urgent.

Come home now, or I am coming to get you.

That last one was only five minutes ago. I can’t call him, I don’t dare. Instead, I send a text back.

Sorry. Phone battery died. On my way back.

It’s a poor excuse but it’ll have to do.