That night, Seb is excited. We’ve been getting good at the Stone Age dream, and Seb wants to ride on the back of a ‘mammuf’, but I’m just not in the mood. I’m too worried about tomorrow.

Mam has been tidying and has taken the box the Dreaminators came in from under my bed and put in on the chair. I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at it again: the big, colourful letters, and the picture of the man peering over the top of his glasses.

That night I hardly sleep. I definitely don’t dream. All I can think of as I lie there in the dark is the visit to Kenneth McKinley tomorrow morning.

Our house is tiny and the walls are thin and I can hear Mam on the phone downstairs. Fit Billy’s gone home. I know she’s talking to Dad. I usually try not to listen when they have their ‘discussions’, but then I hear her say the word ‘dreams’ and my ears kind of tune in, like a webpage loading on a slow connection.

‘Sinister? Spooky? We’re talking about dreams here, Tom, nothing more …

‘… For heaven’s sake, Tom, can you hear yourself? They’re mobiles, you know? No, not like that. Turning ones. Like you hang above a cot …

‘… Of course it’s rubbish, Tom. Harmless rubbish …’

There’s a longish pause, and I can tell she’s pacing round the living room, like she does when she’s angry. I hear the creak of the floorboard under the rug in the middle of the room.

‘… No, you listen to me, Tom. Whatever is causing it, they’re sleeping well, they’re going to bed on time without any argument, and they haven’t had a fight for ages, not even an argument. They’re laughing and joking as if they actually like each other, which is a first …

‘… No, Tom, you gave up the right to say how I bring them up three years ago …

‘… Yeah, well, tough luck, Tom. With them two, what I say goes, and I say … what? Billy next door? Don’t bring him into it …’

Three years ago, Mam said. That’s how long it is since Dad left. Susan said the same thing: it’s three years since she’s even seen her dad. At least I’ve seen mine. Not much, but still …

Eventually, I pull the pillow over my head to block out my thoughts and Mam and Dad’s bickering and I fall into a sweaty sleep.

Now

Chapter 27

‘The next forty-eight hours are critical,’ the doctor had told Dad, and that – or variations of it – are what Dad keeps repeating to me as we drive home from the hospital. Forty-eight hours, two days …

‘I know, Dad,’ I say, as gently as I can.