‘Good heavens!’ says Susan, as we walk down the road, which might be the first time I’ve ever heard someone say that in real life. ‘Wasn’t that just … wonderful, Malky! I absolutely reek of smoke, but I don’t care!’

‘Aye, I s’pose,’ I mumble, but all I’m thinking of is the Dreaminator above Mr McKinley’s bed. ‘Why’d you wanna leave so soon, anyway?’ I’m still cross with her for that.

‘Oh, but I thought you looked a little bored at all that talk of unconscious minds and so on.’

Bored? I was anything but bored! If my face was blank, it was because I was fascinated.

I say nothing, but my silence isn’t going to last for long. Susan’s still babbling on, just like someone’s parent. We’ve gone past Prior’s Park and reached the road by the little bay when she says, ‘Do you want to go back another time? Mrs Farroukh would like it, I think.’

Obviously, I do. I grunt in response. You know, a sort of, ‘Hmp, aye.’ The kind of reply that drives adults nuts, then I go back to swimming in the whirlpool of my head again.

Old Mr McKinley’s Dreaminator …

Andi saying ‘his final days …’

‘Are you all right, Malky? You are rather quiet.’

‘Aye, fine.’

Should I tell her? I find myself wanting to talk to her – not just about my dreams, but also to ask her about her dad, tell her about mine …

Should I let this strange adult-girl into my head?

The problem is, she’s just too flippin’ annoying. Little Miss Perfect. Not my kind of friend at all. Too posh for me.

And she’s talking again.

‘Do you have any plans for your Saturday night?’

Where it comes from I don’t know, but I hear myself take a deep breath and reply, ‘Yeah, Seb and me are going to the Stone Age!’

Susan knows nothing at all about me sharing my dreams with Sebastian. And yet there was something about our encounter with Kenneth McKinley, and my ‘confession’ to Andi, that has made me bolder.

‘Seb? Your brother?’ She frowns.

Dammit. Think, Malky, think. Just tell her it’s some daft game we play.

Then there’s another voice in my head, contradicting me.

Why don’t you just tell her the truth, Malky? Everything might be fine, you know?

And so we sit on a bench, looking at the little sailing-club dinghies skittering in the grey sea, and first I get her to promise that she won’t tell anyone at school. The way she looks at me when she promises is reassuring. Her small dark eyes widen behind her glasses and she nods earnestly, hooking her hair behind both ears as if she’s preparing for something important. I’m building up to telling her about the Dreaminators, I think because – for the first time – I realise that I’m not under suspicion.

I can tell her, surely? She won’t snitch … surely? First I’ll tell her about Seb and me sharing our dreams. Only then, depending on her reaction, will I tell her about the Dreaminators, and the one I saw hanging in Mr McKinley’s bedroom.

Good plan, Malky.

Then I start. Susan goes quiet. For perhaps the only time since I’ve known her, she doesn’t offer an opinion or interrupt me, or sound clever or superior. She just lets me speak. When I tell her about Seb being in my dreams, she leans forward and tilts her head like it’s the most fascinating thing she has ever heard, and she doesn’t scoff and accuse me of making it all up.

She giggles occasionally and it reminds me of the teacups tinkling on Andi’s tray. She likes the Santa Ana ship story. I exaggerate it a bit, and she laughs some more, putting her hand over her mouth. When I get to the bit with the Christmas puddings, her hand goes down, she grins widely and laughs out loud and I realise I have never seen her teeth before: she always smiles with her mouth closed.

(Her teeth are small and white and even and no doubt very, very clean. In case you were wondering.)

Then, after a few seconds, she stops laughing. She shifts round and puts both of her hands on my forearm – a sort of gesture of concern, I guess. I’ve seen adults do it. ‘But, Malky,’ she says, suddenly looking serious, ‘I don’t think this is altogether safe.’

Altogether safe? Who speaks like that? I immediately start to regret my decision to share this stuff with Susan.

‘Safe?’ I repeat, suddenly feeling annoyed and yanking my arm from her grip. ‘Why wouldn’t it be safe? I mean … we’re not doing it for real.’

This has put me off my stride, I can say that. I was building up to the Dreaminators, and suddenly she’s gone all superior. She clasps her hands in her lap. She closes her eyes for a moment, then says, quietly, ‘It’s a dream, Malky. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.’

‘Eh? Of course it does!’

‘How do you know that? My Mola even questions whether this is real.’ She waves her hand around, and taps the wooden fence with her fist, and looks out to sea. ‘Everything. It all could be a dream. An illusion. It is like Mr McKinley was saying. Exploring these things could be … dangerous, I suppose. They can mess with your head. Think about it. I mean really think about it, Malky.’

The way she says really suggests that I don’t ever think about things properly, and I don’t like it.

We sit in silence for a moment and when the church clock chimes up on Front Street she says, ‘Lunchtime, methinks!’

I mean, really. Who says methinks?

We walk without saying anything until we’re at the top of the beach path joining Front Street that runs through Tynemouth village. On the corner at the top of the path is a newish building, which is Becker & Sons, the funeral directors. It’s painted white and blue, with big display windows, and I think they try to make it look friendly and modern, but they have things like gravestones in the windows and those little statues of angels that go on top of graves, so I still get creeped out by it.

Just as Susan and I get there, Kez Becker comes out of a side door. She lives with her mum and dad and older brothers in the flat above the shop. I keep my head down, but I’ve never been good at blending in.

‘Oi, oi, Blondie Bell!’ she says, like she’s trying out a new nickname. She swaggers towards us, hands deep in her pockets.

I force a smile and murmur, ‘Oh no, here we go.’