Hitler turns to his officers and laughs. Then he faces me. ‘It’s not vorking, is it, little English boy? You think you are so cleffer. You forget: I am Adolf Hitler, one of the most evil men who has ever lift! Ha ha ha ha! Kutbert – attack him!’

I try again. ‘Cuthbert! Stop! Stop!’

Still he advances. I don’t understand: my powers of dream-control should have lasted much longer than this. But I am taking no more risks.

‘Emergency Escape!’ I yell to Seb. ‘Ready?’

‘Aye aye, sir!’

SNAP!

In a flash, the croc’s jaws clamp down on my extended arm in an agonising grip, tearing at my flesh as it tries to wrench my arm off.

‘Wake up!’ I shout, ‘WAKE UP!’

Nothing happens.

Chapter 42

‘Wake up!’ I shout again.

I take a huge lungful of air. Then I tighten my mouth and throat shut and try to breathe out. My cheeks bulge. I strain harder, urging my ears to pop with the effort.

Meanwhile, the crocodile chews down deeper, his teeth inching further up my arm towards my shoulder. With my other hand, I pinch my nose and blow hard, feeling my eyes and cheeks bulge until I release the air with a loud paaaah!

Then I open my eyes.

I’m in bed, panting hard, still imagining that my arm is being eaten by a crocodile. I know now that, if I close my eyes, the images from the dream will come back to me for a few seconds before fading away. So I do, just to test it.

And there’s the croc, jaws clamped on my wrist, and a shooting pain goes up my arm until I open my eyes again and the croc has gone.

I am awake, in my own bed. I turn my head and there is Seb, fast asleep in his.

Except my arm is still hurting. Not badly. Not a-crocodile-is-biting-my-arm-off agony, but it’s definitely sore. I wait a moment until my breathing returns to normal, and look up at the Dreaminator above me.

No more nightmares! the instructions said. Even when I was little, and before Mam and I had renamed the crocodile Cuthbert, the thing had never actually bitten me. I swing my legs out from under my duvet and shuffle out of bed.

I turn the bathroom light on and have a wee, and I roll up my pyjama sleeve to look at my arm. The pain is lessening, but it’s still there and … am I imagining this? I look closer.

Surely not.

There is a line of indentations, little pink marks, where the croc chomped down. Exactly where its teeth were. Turning my arm from side to side, I can see the marks clearly. Then I hear a noise on the landing outside and the rattle of the bathroom doorknob. It’ll be Seb coming for a drink of water.

I’m facing the mirror, which reflects the bathroom door behind me.