An hour later, I’m in Mrs Farroukh’s office.

There’s me, Mrs Farroukh and Mr Springham (in a fresh shirt, no trifle bits and what little hair he has is wet, like he’s rinsed it).

I’m being asked to explain, but the only explanation available is, ‘I thought I was having a dream,’ and I can’t say that because that’s mad, isn’t it?

I was given ‘time-out’ in the Quiet Room while Mam was called, but she can’t leave work.

I’ve worked one bit out. Mason Todd was being sarcastic when he said, ‘Yes, you’re dreaming’ when I asked him – no surprise there. And I glanced at the clock above the serving hatch as I was marched out of the lunch hall by Mr Springham. It was still flickering and changing like … well, a broken clock.

What happened?

I was in the lunch queue and then I thought I was in a dream. Something made my brain slip. I think about it. I’m wearing an old school sweatshirt that escaped the wash and I cast my mind back. When I was in the lunch queue … I remember glancing down at the sleeve of my sweatshirt, and realising it had some yak’s butter on the sleeve. I sniffed it and then … boom! That was when I thought I was dreaming.

I must be going mad, and that is terrifying.

I look up. They are both staring at me.

‘Sorry’ hardly seems to cover it. They’ll want an explanation. An explanation that I don’t really have without sounding like I have completely lost it.

Which perhaps I have. Didn’t Susan warn me, that time we sat on the bench, looking at the boats? ‘These things can mess with your head, Malky.’

How could I get it so wrong?

‘Do you have anything to say?’ asks Mrs Farroukh.

‘Um,’ I say. ‘I don’t know.’

Mr Springham sighs.

‘Perhaps we could recap the events,’ says Mrs Farroukh. ‘Mr Springham?’

Mr Springham recounts the episode from his point of view. It’s not like he’s exaggerating or anything: he’s just telling the truth, and it’s bad enough. He doesn’t even know about the bit when I called Jonah Bell a stupid lump or whatever it was I said. I’ll be paying for that later, I just know it.

And, all the time, I’m still half hoping that I’ll wake up. It’s as if a thick fog has taken over the space where my brain is supposed to be, and I’m expecting a sea breeze to come along to blow it away and wake me up. I would love this to be a dream, but it isn’t.

Mrs Farroukh takes over, and now we’re on more familiar ground. It’s stuff I haven’t heard in a little while, but it’s still the same.

‘Difficult time with you, Malky … disruptive influence … I had hoped for better things this term … this cannot go unpunished … appointment with Educational Counsellor … letting yourself down …’

And then she stops and both teachers sit down. Mr Springham clears his throat so that I think he’s going to take over where Mrs Farroukh left off, but instead he looks at me steadily and says, very quietly, ‘Is everything all right, Malky? I mean … at home and so on?’

This is a bit odd for me: Mr Springham being nice. I say nothing, so he continues. ‘Look, I know we haven’t always got on so well, but I’m concerned, we’re concerned …’

That’s when there’s a knock at Mrs Farroukh’s door. Impatiently, Mr Springham barks, ‘What is it?’ and Carol, the school receptionist, puts her head round the door.

‘There is someone to see you, Mrs Farroukh. She says it is very important.’

Carol steps aside and Susan Tenzin is standing there, a meek and sad look on her face.