Mola slides down, her long sarong riding up past her knees, and seconds later we’re at the bottom together, while Cuthbert looks down at us angrily from the canyon’s edge, snapping his jaws. We haven’t got long, I know it: he’ll be after us soon enough.

When she gets alongside me, Mola grips my arm and points to where, midstream, three more crocodiles are gliding towards us through the pale green custard.

‘It’s getting worse. Can’t you stop them?’ she says.

I shake my head. ‘It doesn’t work like that, Mola. Not any more. Look.’ I point at the crocs and say, ‘Stop. Turn around!’

Nothing happens and they get closer to us, about thirty metres upstream.

I glance up to check on Cuthbert’s progress at the exact moment the beast launches himself down the steep, muddy slope towards us, rolling and sliding and flapping his tail. I stare helplessly, my head swivelling between Mola, Kenneth, Cuthbert and the three crocs.

We are trapped. I look across the custard river to the bank opposite: it’s our only escape, if we can outrun, or outswim, the crocs.

‘What should we do?’ I wail, while Mola and Kenneth shake their heads, sympathetically.

‘It’s your dream, Dream-boy. No one else is in charge. Just like life. But seeing as you ask …’ She’s looking at the river. ‘Your brother is on the other side, right?’

I’m ahead of her. ‘Come on! Into the erm … custard!’ I’m knee-deep already, and Mola is too, but Kenneth is lagging behind. ‘Come on, Kenneth – we have to be faster than those crocs!’

Mola and I are midstream. The three crocodiles are getting closer. Kenneth calls out to us: ‘You don’t have to be faster than them. You just have to be faster than me! I’ll take care of these wee scunners, but you, Malcolm – good Scottish name that, by the way, did I ever tell you? – you have to deal with yon big lad.’ He points to Cuthbert. ‘Here – you might need this! Catch.’

He unhooks his dirk from the sheath at the side of his kilt and tosses it to me. I watch it twirl and spin in the air, glinting in the sun as it arcs towards me, and I know – don’t ask me how, I just know – that if I raise my arm I will catch it perfectly, and I do. It lands with a thwack in my palm, much bigger and heavier than I had expected.

At the same time, the liquid around me stops being thick green custard and becomes a regular river, flowing with cold water.

Everything is becoming more real.

And it’s at that moment – the exact moment that I curl my fingers round the carved handle of the dirk – that I begin to surrender. I give myself up to whatever will happen and start to trust in my lack of control.