It isn’t that long since I asked Susan if I was going mad, and she said no, then added a ‘but’ that was left in the air when Andi greeted us on the Tyne path. I keep thinking about it, and wondering whether I should prompt her to finish her thought. It’s probably going to be along the lines of what she said before: you know, ‘it can mess with your head,’ and so on.

It turns out it’s all going to become a lot clearer, but not necessarily in a good way.

Susan’s house has a back entrance in the lane near the end of my street that – until recently – was so overgrown you couldn’t really see in. It’s the gate that Susan let me out of the first time I met her before term started.

I wasn’t really paying attention to the house that night I jumped over the wall. So, if you were to ask me, I’d have guessed it would be big and old with tall, grand windows, and a wide verandah – all that sort of stuff. Spooky, I suppose, and crumbling.

In fact, it’s not like that at all. It’s big all right, but more modern-looking and square. It looks completely out of place in the middle of the large, overgrown grounds and the only thing that seems right is that it is definitely crumbling. The tiled roof is dotted with patches of green moss and sags in the middle, and one window is boarded up. The walls have graffiti on them. There are weeds everywhere: on the path, in the flowerbeds. In the corner of the lawn, a small bonfire is smouldering in a firepit, a thin wisp of smoke rising from the ashes.

I remember, with a flush of shame, what I said to Susan about her living in a big house. It’s big but very run-down and not a bit ‘posh’.

I really, really don’t want to be here. For a start, I’m supposed to go back home straight from school. Mam is working an extra shift packing parcels at the Swift Centre. We’ll talk tonight her text had said, and that won’t be fun. What’s more, I should be home when Seb gets back from his goalkeeper training and I’m in enough trouble as it is.

He’s got a key, though. A few weeks ago, I’d have been certain he’d snitch on me. Now I’m going to have to trust him …

Ahead of me Susan’s babbling on as though she’s a grown-up showing me around. ‘We are making a lot of progress. The place was awful when we moved in, but Mummy reckons it will be shipshape in a few weeks.’

Her mum. I’ve never met her, but then … why would I? ‘Is she in? Your mam? Mum, I mean?’

‘She has gone to London for some meetings. My daddy may be coming home. Well, I say “home”: he has never lived here.’ For a second, I think she’s going to tell me more about her dad. We’re standing at the front door now, which has been freshly painted in smart navy blue. She chews her lip and glances quickly at me. ‘He, erm …’ She stops, then starts again. ‘The house was rather run-down. It’s the only way we could afford to move here after … after what happened.’

Is she trying to tell me something? I look at her, but she has moved ahead of me.

Inside, it’s like I’m immediately wrapped in a thick blanket. There is a little lobby filled with houseplants and beyond that is a dark, warm hallway with an old, patchy carpet. The house smells different too. There are cleaning smells, and a warm, comforting spice aroma that reminds me of when Mam cooks curry.

‘Shoes!’ commands Susan, and I kick mine off. She picks them up and places them neatly on a shoe rack, then hands me a pair of grey felt slippers from a box. She must have noticed my face, although I’m trying hard to look as though this is normal. She does her half-smirk.

‘It’s Mummy. She’s a bit, erm … particular about stuff like that.’ Susan takes a breath, and I know she’s going to tell me more, but at that second Mola’s piercing old-lady voice screeches from upstairs in Tibetan. Susan yells a reply, and, when our eyes meet again, we both know the moment has been lost.

There’s a small room off the main hallway that is black-dark when Susan opens the door and, when she hits a switch, dim lights illuminate ancient-looking velvet-covered sofas facing a huge screen.

‘Wow! A home cinema! Is this where you watch telly?’

I forget – she probably doesn’t watch television.

‘Not really. It was here when we moved in. But it’s great for movies. And Mola uses it to watch her old Indian films.’

She points to a rack of ancient video cassettes in brightly coloured boxes.

I’m confused. ‘I thought she was Tibetan?’

‘She is. Only there are almost no Tibetan films, and she won’t watch Chinese ones, so she likes these ones, in Hindi with English subtitles, if she can get them.’

‘Wow,’ I say. ‘How many languages does she speak?’

‘Loads. Tibetan, obviously. Ladakhi, where she grew up. Cantonese if she has to. A bit of Hindi and Nepali. English …’ She turns back to a cupboard. ‘Give me a minute and I’ll set it up.’

Susan opens the cupboard to reveal various box-shaped machines with wires coming from them. One I can tell is a DVD player, the other two I don’t really know what they are.

I carefully take one or two of the boxed films out of the rack. Some of the titles are in squiggly writing that I can’t understand. Others I can read because the letters are the same as we use, but I still don’t know what they mean. One has a picture on the front of a young couple gazing at each other lovingly. Susan takes it from me gently.

‘Mola loves her romantic films! Don’t you, Mola?’

The old lady is standing in the doorway, watching us and smiling.

‘Ah! It’s my favourite Dream-boy!’ she beams. ‘How nice that you come to visit! You watching films?’ She points at the one I’m holding. ‘That’s the one I like best. Such a beautiful story. I watch it every year at least one time. What we watching now?’

Susan takes the videotape out of the bag and holds it up to show her grandmother. ‘It’s an old VHS that has been lent to us by Mr McKinley. You know – the old man we visited? Malcolm here wants to know what is on it.’

Mola narrows her little eyes. ‘It might not be … ah … suitable for kids, huh? Could be too violent or, or … saucy or something, no?’

Susan thinks for a moment, then she says, ‘Mola – it’s part of … it’s a school outreach project.’ She turns to me. ‘Isn’t it, Malcolm?’

‘Yes!’ I say, too enthusiastically, but I think it goes unnoticed. ‘Yes, it’s a school thing.’

Mola scrunches up her face in confusion.

Susan says, ‘Homework, Mola.’

‘Ah! Homework! You are a good girl! You must do lots of homework and you will be a diplomat like your pha. You must love homework too, boy?’

Ah, she means me. ‘Erm … I … ermm …’

‘Malky loves homework, Mola. Don’t you, Malky?’

The old lady nods approvingly and winks at me, as if she’d known all along that I love homework. As if.

‘I knew it! Susan always chooses very clever friends. Very well. But I will watch with you in case it is too saucy.’ She sits down heavily. ‘And now you will bring me tea, because you are such a good girl, Susan. And butter cake. And another cushion.’

I sit down on the faded velvet sofa while Mola beams at me, silently delighted that Susan has a friend who loves homework.