Over those mornings, and between the moments of terror at Mola’s driving, I learn a lot about Susan, mainly because she never really shuts up. She has been in international schools in Singapore and Dubai. She talks to me about music (she’s in the school orchestra, natch – the thing in the case is a piccolo); about the prime minister (her mum has met him); about stuff going on in countries that I’ve never even heard of.

To be honest, I’m getting a bit sick of it and I’m starting to think she does it just to make me feel stupid. (I once responded by telling her I’d binge-watched four episodes of Celebtastic back to back, and had she seen the one where Jamie Bates the TV reporter got pushed into the pool, and she just gave me this blank smile and said, ‘Oh, that’s nice.’ I honestly don’t think she’d even heard of Celebtastic. She probably doesn’t even have a TV.)

Mola doesn’t mention her empty dreams again and I’m sort of relieved. I was a bit embarrassed last time. It felt a bit like saying to someone that you enjoy reading comics and them saying they prefer to read Shakespeare. Or like Susan never watching Celebtastic, I suppose. She tells me her mum works at the university and I say that Mam used to work there as well.

‘Oh really? Which department?’ she says.

‘Catering. Not any more, though. What about yours?’

‘Politics. She is a senior lecturer.’

Clever then. It figures.

‘What about your dad?’

‘Oh, he is fine,’ Susan replies, which seems like a strange answer to my question and I turn my head to her. She immediately looks out of the car window and says something that sounds rehearsed. ‘My daddy is still in China, but we hope that, all being well, he will soon be able to join us here in the United Kingdom.’

The mood in the car has shifted in a way that I don’t really understand.

‘When did you last see him?’ I ask. ‘Is he working there?’

Susan’s still staring out of the window and she swallows hard. ‘No. He, erm …’

Suddenly the car swerves to the kerb and shudders to a halt. ‘Visa!’ barks Mola over her shoulder. ‘He needs a visa and that’s it. Now we are here. Get out.’

It’s like the car has been filled with a huge, spiky ball of awkward and I scramble out gratefully, followed by Susan, just as Kez Becker crosses the road in front of us. We’re sort of forced together going through the gate. Susan takes a deep breath through her nose.

‘Are you okay …?’ I begin.

‘Yes. Yes. See you later,’ says Susan, quickly. ‘And … and you too, Kezia.’

Kez was going to ignore us, but she can’t now. ‘Why me?’ she grunts.

‘COMMS taskforce! Mrs Farroukh’s announcing our duties.’

COMMS! I hadn’t exactly forgotten about it, but I was trying not to remember. Kez just rolls her eyes and lumbers off. Susan’s about to go in the same direction when she stops and turns back to me.

‘Three years,’ she says and I give her a puzzled look. ‘You asked. It is three years since I saw my daddy. My “dad”.’ Then she turns abruptly and marches off, leaving me wondering what the heck I said wrong.

It’s lunchtime. Mrs Farroukh’s at the front of the classroom, guarding the biscuits (‘Only two each, please, Malcolm!’). Kez isn’t there and I can’t say I’m surprised. She’ll have wriggled her way out of this somehow, probably with the help of her dad calling the school or something. Two students from the sixth-form college up the road do most of the talking, and hand out a list of ‘COMMS tasks’.

Anyway, long story short: Susan Tenzin and I are visiting some old geezer on Collingwood Terrace. I put my hand up.

‘Yes, Malcolm?’ says Mrs Farroukh.

‘How long do we have … that is … how long do we stay?’ I was going to say have to stay but it was halfway out of my mouth when I realised that might sound like I have the wrong attitude. It makes no difference: Mrs Farroukh’s on to me and she purses her lips.

‘I think, Malcolm, a rule of thumb will be long enough to have a leisurely cup of tea. Is that too onerous for you?’

I don’t know what ‘onerous’ means, but I shake my head and say, ‘No, miss,’ and she seems satisfied.

‘Good. Mr McKinley will be very pleased to see you. To see you both,’ she adds, aiming a sickening smile at Susan Tenzin.

I look down the list:

Mr Kenneth McKinley

12 Collingwood Terrace

It’s been staring me in the face since the sheets were handed round. How come I didn’t see it? But, when Mrs Farroukh actually says his name, I think I almost jump out of my seat.

Mr McKinley.

McKinley. That’s the name on the box I stole!

Someone is saying my name and I look up.

‘Malcolm! Do pay attention. He’ll be expecting you both tomorrow morning. Is that all clear?’

Am I imagining it? Is there a sly look in Mrs Farroukh’s eye?

I look again at the sheet. Collingwood Terrace. Mrs Farroukh has even printed off a little map and a Street View picture. The backs of the houses lead to the lane where I was with Kez Becker when I took the Dreaminators. A kind of sick feeling comes over me.

I am being sent to visit the very person I stole from.