Over the next couple of days, I lose count of the number of times someone asks me, ‘Are you okay, Malky?’

Look, have you ever been on a really fast roller coaster? Mam took me and Seb to Thorpe Park two years ago, and there was this ride called TerrorSpeed that Seb was too small for, so I went on my own while he and Mam watched and it was great, but …

When I came off, I was in a bit of a daze. Not dizzy, like staggering and so on. Just … spacey. It wasn’t for long – just a minute or so when I felt as if I was walking on cotton wool.

Well, that’s what this is like, only it’s going on all the time. I keep running my fingers over the indentations in my arm left by Cuthbert’s teeth. They don’t hurt any more, and you can hardly see them, but they are there.

Mam sees me fiddling. ‘What’s up with your arm, Malky?’

I’ve been bitten by an imaginary crocodile, Mam.

I pull my sleeve back down. ‘Nothing. Just a bit itchy.’

I can’t even talk to Susan about it because of our argument. Besides, she’s been away on a trip to some school orchestra competition in Leeds.

And then comes another dream, and this one is … well, I’d better just tell you. Bear with me. It’s funny.

Sort of.

I’m in the lunch hall again. It looks normal. It sounds and smells normal as well. I’m not taking any risks, though. I go up to Mason Todd who eyes me warily – as he might, I suppose. I’ve hardly spoken to him in real life for weeks.

‘Hey, Mason,’ I say. ‘Am I dreaming?’

He looks me up and down, as though I’m a stranger. ‘Of course you are!’ Then he adds, ‘Weirdo.’ He goes back to talking to Tilly Sykes who snorts with laughter at something he murmurs.

This is the awesome thing about being in a dream, you see. I wouldn’t normally do what I do next. And, before I do it, I carry out another ‘reality check’ just in case Mason’s lying. The old digital clock above the serving hatch is flashing numbers randomly – another sure sign that I’m in Dreamland.

‘Hey, Mason!’ I call out, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear, even though the lunch hall is pretty noisy. He turns round. ‘Is it true you and Tilly are secretly dating?’

They both turn bright red. ‘No!’ he says.

‘Well, that’s what I’ve heard, but she doesn’t dare tell you that she’s also in love with Jonah Bell, except he’s in love with Kez Becker!’

I’m making this all up, obviously, just because in a dream I can! People start to snigger, then I feel a tap on my shoulder. Turning round, I see Jonah Bell and his expression is furious. ‘Did you say something?’ he growls.

I’m fearless and loving every second.

‘Yes I did, you big lump,’ I say, right in his face. ‘You’re stupid and the only reason anyone hangs out with you is that they’re even stupider than you!’

People are starting to laugh now, and the feeling of power is terrific. I can say exactly what I want, to whoever I like! I push between some Year Fives on their bench and use it as a step up on to the table, kicking aside some plates and cutlery as I do so. They fall to the ground with a loud clatter and smash, so that everyone who hasn’t yet noticed the commotion turns round to see where the noise is coming from.

That’s when I see Susan Tenzin on the other side of the hall, with a gaggle of her orchestra friends. Her hand is held to her mouth in horror. I’m still stinging from her calling me a snob the other day, so now is the chance to get even in a safe way.

‘See this?’ I yell at her. ‘Do you and your perfect friends have enough to laugh at now?’

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mr Springham get to his feet over in the corner where the staff sit.

‘You don’t scare me-ee!’ I say in a singsong voice to Mr Springham, pointing at him and dancing a little jig on the table, dislodging more plates. People have stopped laughing now and are sitting open-mouthed in amazement.

I remember Seb’s insults to Adolf Hitler, and I reckon I’ll have a go myself.

‘You’ve hated me since I came into the school, haven’t you? Well, the feeling’s mutual, you … you great baldie spud-head with your too-tight shirts and your wobbly bum!’

This gets a proper gasp. It is just like being onstage as I look down at the faces gazing up at me.

‘Enough! Get down now!’ shouts Mr Springham. He’s only a couple of tables away and from the table I pick up a bowl of school trifle. I mean to throw the trifle and bowl so that it lands perfectly on his head: upside down, like it would in a cartoon, but it slips from my fingers and I watch – almost in slow motion – as the whole thing sails through the air and he bats it away with his arm. The trifle splats up his sleeve and some splashes the side of his face. It’s not a direct hit, which is a bit disappointing for a dream, but I’m having too much fun to care.

This time the crowd groans in amazement: a loud, ‘Oooooh!’

It only holds him back for a second or two. He’s nearly on me now, so I stop my jigging and hold my hands out to the side like a life-size statue.

‘Float!’ I say. ‘Float up!’

I wait for the feeling of the wire pulling me upwards. It’s slow in coming so I lift my heels off the table. ‘Float,’ I say again, then louder, ‘Float!’

Mr Springham is alongside me now. He wipes trifle from his face with his hand and folds his arms in mock patience. My failure to float is annoying. I’m not used to the dream-controlling wearing off so soon.

Mr Springham’s voice is normally deep and loud. Now it’s chillingly quiet.

‘Malcom Bell,’ he hisses, ‘get down from there this minute.’

I look round at the double doors of the lunch hall and say again, ‘The crocodile will be here soon – but have no fear! Cuthbert! Come now!’

But there’s no crocodile. I’m getting a bit desperate now. ‘Float! Float, man!’ I want to hover high above these people, above Mr Springham.

I’m flapping my arms now, and I hear someone say, ‘He’s trying to fly!’

Someone else starts to laugh, ‘Malky Bell’s lost it completely!’ while other people join in the laughter and begin to imitate my arms flapping.

So I stop. I lower my arms. The hall falls quiet and I take a few deep breaths. I look round at everyone looking up at me, some of them with loaded forks paused halfway to their mouths; and at Mr Springham, unusually calm with his arms crossed and a blob of custard hanging from his ear like cheap yellow jewellery.

I don’t know how long I’m there. Several seconds? A minute? It’s hard to tell when you’re dreaming, isn’t it?

I am dreaming … Aren’t I?

More seconds pass.

‘Wake up!’ I shout. I long to wake up in my bed. I hold my breath and puff out my cheeks and go paaaah! A murmur starts up in the hall. Mr Springham holds up his hand to shush everyone.

At the end of the queue of people waiting with their trays I see Susan. When our eyes meet, her face fills with sadness and she slowly shakes her head.

Now I feel sick, because I’m not dreaming, am I? I have just done this for real.

I have just thrown a bowl of trifle at the school’s scariest teacher after calling him a baldie spud-head. I have danced on the table and tried to summon a crocodile called Cuthbert.

I try one more go. ‘Earth – swallow me whole now,’ I pray quietly with my eyes shut. It doesn’t, of course. I’m still there, on the school dining table, and Mr Springham is still waiting for me. If this really was a dream, he’d probably have steam coming out of his ears.

But that doesn’t happen in real life, does it?