It’s the first day of Year Seven. No – this time it really is, although part of my head still feels as if I’m in the waking dream.

It’s a longish walk to school, but we don’t have a car, anyway.

I’m thinking: the big mammoth-dog peeing on the rugby goals … Fit Billy talking Chinese … Kobi the Cave Boy and his strange cartoon body … Me floating up to the ceiling … Cuthbert appearing under my desk …

But most of all I’m thinking, Seb had the same dream as me. How can that even happen?

There is something else as well, though.

I guess now is the time to tell you that my ‘behaviour record’ at Marden Middle School is, shall we say, ‘inconsistent’. I think I told you that everyone’s convinced that the reason I’ve been in so much trouble is because of Dad’s breakdown, and Mam and Dad splitting up, but that was all ages ago so I don’t see the connection. Besides, half of the things I got into trouble for weren’t my fault. Once you get a reputation, though, it’s hard to shake off.

‘When trouble knows where you live, Malky,’ says Valerie the school counsellor, ‘it keeps knocking on your door.’ She’s right about that, at least.

Anyway, I’ve promised everyone – especially Mam – that things will change this school year.

So I’m scared that the woman who saw me in her backyard last night will report me to the school, or give them my description, anyway. Burglary? Theft? Animal cruelty? That last one’s the worst and it wasn’t even deliberate.

I’m half-running-half-walking so as not to be late and all these things are going round in my head as I cross the road. I hear a car horn, a screech of brakes and a human scream that turns out to be mine.

A dusty, rusty SUV has stopped about thirty centimetres from me. I look up and gasp. The car appears to have no driver. The electric window hums down and as I look closer I see that there is somebody driving, only they’re so small that their head barely appears over the steering wheel.

A head pops out of the driver’s window: it’s the old lady from last night, who gave me the yak’s butter. I think she’s going to shout at me, but she doesn’t. Instead, she just gives me the same intense stare and says, ‘Killed!’

I have stopped in the road; there are no other cars around.

‘I … I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking.’

She half closes her eyes and nods as if this explains everything. She wags a finger at me.

‘I nearly killed you. Bad boy!’

I nod quickly. It occurs to me to get all smart with her. You know: ‘How could you even see me over the top of your steering wheel?’ and stuff like that, but there’s something about her that puts me off. I feel I’d come off worse, even though she’s tiny and old. So I say, ‘Yes, yes. I’m sorry.’

Her gaze seems to bore into me. If this is a telling-off, it is the strangest, gentlest, yet most intense one I have ever had. I feel my knees trembling.

‘I’m sorry!’ I repeat, and then I hear from inside the car what sounds like Mo-La! and some more words I don’t understand.

The woman’s expression changes, softens a bit. Her eyes, which were screwed up in a glare, relax. She gives a curt nod and a tight little smile, then pulls her head back in as the rear window goes down. The girl from last night with the night-black hair – Susan, was it? – sticks her head out.

‘Get in, Malcolm. We’ll give you a lift!’

‘Ah no … no … thanks. I’m happy to walk,’ I say. I’m embarrassed: I don’t know her, I’m scared of the old lady, and I’m still in a world of my own about the dream I had last night which is connected to the Dreaminator, and … well, everything.

The old lady says, crossly, ‘Don’t be stupid! Get in! Hurry, hurry.’ She revs the engine, then her angry face changes again to a peaceful smile. It’s as though she has flicked some unseen switch and it is very strange to watch. I find myself obeying and I get into the back seat next to the girl.

She looks even cleaner than last night, with her brand-new Marden Middle School uniform: grey skirt, the whitest socks I’ve ever seen, maroon jumper, all perfect. There’s a shiny black instrument case on the floor of the car. (It’s not violin-shaped, that’s all I know.)

The old lady’s head is not much higher than the seat back. I can just see her grey-streaked hair.

‘How’s that wound you got, huh? Bleeding stopped?’ she shouts back at me over the coughing engine. Honestly, it’s like I’m being given a lift to school in a tractor.

‘Thank you. Yes, much better.’ It improved overnight, in fact. I was careful in the shower and I don’t think I smell of yak butter.

‘Yak butter, yeah? Dri is the best, no? You rubbed it in good?’

‘Yes,’ I say. The packet is still in my bedroom, still smelly. ‘I rubbed it in very, erm … good.’

Beside me, I hear Susan give a quiet snort, and when I glance over she has covered her mouth with her hand. Is she laughing at me?

I hope not. I don’t even know this girl. Not yet, anyway.