Chapter 45

An hour later, I’m in Mrs Farroukh’s office.

There’s me, Mrs Farroukh and Mr Springham (in a fresh shirt, no trifle bits and what little hair he has is wet, like he’s rinsed it).

I’m being asked to explain, but the only explanation available is, ‘I thought I was having a dream,’ and I can’t say that because that’s mad, isn’t it?

I was given ‘time-out’ in the Quiet Room while Mam was called, but she can’t leave work.

I’ve worked one bit out. Mason Todd was being sarcastic when he said, ‘Yes, you’re dreaming’ when I asked him – no surprise there. And I glanced at the clock above the serving hatch as I was marched out of the lunch hall by Mr Springham. It was still flickering and changing like … well, a broken clock.

What happened?

I was in the lunch queue and then I thought I was in a dream. Something made my brain slip. I think about it. I’m wearing an old school sweatshirt that escaped the wash and I cast my mind back. When I was in the lunch queue … I remember glancing down at the sleeve of my sweatshirt, and realising it had some yak’s butter on the sleeve. I sniffed it and then … boom! That was when I thought I was dreaming.

I must be going mad, and that is terrifying.

I look up. They are both staring at me.

‘Sorry’ hardly seems to cover it. They’ll want an explanation. An explanation that I don’t really have without sounding like I have completely lost it.

Which perhaps I have. Didn’t Susan warn me, that time we sat on the bench, looking at the boats? ‘These things can mess with your head, Malky.’

How could I get it so wrong?

‘Do you have anything to say?’ asks Mrs Farroukh.

‘Um,’ I say. ‘I don’t know.’

Mr Springham sighs.

‘Perhaps we could recap the events,’ says Mrs Farroukh. ‘Mr Springham?’

Mr Springham recounts the episode from his point of view. It’s not like he’s exaggerating or anything: he’s just telling the truth, and it’s bad enough. He doesn’t even know about the bit when I called Jonah Bell a stupid lump or whatever it was I said. I’ll be paying for that later, I just know it.

And, all the time, I’m still half hoping that I’ll wake up. It’s as if a thick fog has taken over the space where my brain is supposed to be, and I’m expecting a sea breeze to come along to blow it away and wake me up. I would love this to be a dream, but it isn’t.