That evening, Fit Billy’s round again. He’s made salad, which at least makes Mam happy, and she’s put on make-up for some reason. She’s fine without it, if you ask me.

Because he made our food, Mam says Billy can choose what to watch and of course it’s something about World War Two. We can’t afford Netflix and stuff, so he’s brought a DVD: some comedy with a man pretending to be Adolf Hitler, which I don’t really like, but Mam and Billy are laughing and even Seb looks like he’s enjoying it.

Before it finishes, I say I’m going to bed, and Seb gets up to follow me.

‘Are you all right, pet?’ says Mam. ‘You’ve been very quiet. You never told me about your school visit thingy.’

‘I’m okay. I’ll tell you tomorrow.’

Billy gets up and sits on the sofa close to Mam, because you get a better view of the screen. ‘He’s just tired, aren’t you, pal? Go on, off you go!’ Well, that’s strange – Billy sending me off to bed, but I’m halfway out of the door, anyway.

As soon as we’re upstairs, Seb says we should dream about killing Adolf Hitler.

‘It’ll be awethome!’ he said. ‘We’ll be the boys who assassinate a mass murderer!’ (Try saying that with no front teeth, I dare you.)

We’re at the top of the stairs. I can hear the film has finished, and the pop of a wine cork, and now Mam and Fit Billy are talking about painting the fence between our backyards and they’re laughing. (I can’t imagine what’s so funny about painting a fence.)

‘No,’ I say, firmly. ‘We’re not killing anyone, Seb. Not even in a dream. You know that.’

His face falls.

‘Think about it. Our dreams are so real, there’s hardly any difference between them and real life, yeah?’ He nods. ‘So, do you really want to know what it’s like to kill someone? Even someone like Hitler? When you’re seven? It’s horrible. It could really mess with your head.’

I’ve just used the same phrase that Susan used with me, but it’s different this time because Seb’s my little brother.

He agrees, reluctantly. Then he comes up with the idea of attacking Adolf Hitler with our Nerf guns. It’s still more ambitious than anything else we have tried. Perhaps I am getting cocky.

But it does sound fun.

Seb and I were supposed to see Dad this afternoon, but he texted earlier to say he couldn’t make it. Mam tutted and said, ‘You’d think he lived in Mexico, not Middlesbrough.’

So, when we get to our room, I FaceTime Dad on my cracked phone instead. As soon as he answers, he says, ‘Are those the dream things behind you? I’ve heard a lot about them.’

I’ve listened to Mam and Dad talking on the phone and I know that Dad thinks it’s all a bit strange. Seb, though, comes over to my bed and grabs the phone, excitedly. ‘Yes!’ he says. ‘Do you want to see them?’

‘Sure,’ says Dad.

‘Okay.’ Seb gets up, switches them on, gets even more excited and before I can stop him he says, ‘And, best of all, me and Malky can share each other’s dreams! Can’t we, Malky?’

I might have known this would happen. It’s all very well me keeping quiet, knowing – because I’m much older than him – that people will react with disbelief, or scoff, or simply not understand. But Seb doesn’t do that. He just says it all, straight out, while Dad’s face stays blank. Seb gets one of the Dreaminator boxes and holds it up to my phone to show Dad.

‘A Dreaminator?’ Dad says in a mysterious sort of voice.

‘Have you heard of it?’ I ask. I’m about to tell him that I met the inventor this morning, but I’m put off by his suspicious tone of voice.

‘The name rings a bell,’ Dad replies. ‘Dunno where from, though.’

At that point, Dad’s girlfriend calls for him and he has to go. I keep thinking that the word ‘Dreaminator’ has stirred up some memory in Dad that he doesn’t want to – or can’t – tell me.