There is Kenneth again, on a different stage. This time, though, he’s not in his kilt: just jeans and a huge striped jumper. He has grown a little beard, and his hair is longer. Behind him on a backdrop in big letters it says

NEW AGE – NEW BEGINNING

1983

Kenneth is addressing an audience, although it’s hard to judge how many people there are. It’s an amateur production: the camerawork is wobbly and the sound isn’t great.

‘My friends,’ he says as he raises both arms above his head, ‘a new age of understanding and insight is upon us! Together we can dream of a new future. A future free of conflict! A future free of disease! A future of love and brotherhood, in which we use the infinite power of our subconscious to release us from poverty, from sickness, from weakness and from hatred!’

He is mesmerising to watch. His voice swoops, his arms slash the air in front of him and his hands make chopping motions to emphasise his words. I don’t even understand most of what he says, to be honest. It sounds like a sermon by one of those old-time preachers, only there is no mention of God, or heaven, or hell. Instead, it all seems to be about ‘releasing our inner powers’ and ‘coming together to dream a better future’. Kenneth displays pictures behind him of the stars, and ancient temples, the pyramids in Egypt, complicated-looking mathematical formulas, a picture of a human brain, and a Native American chief complete with a huge feathered head-dress …

Then he holds up a Dreaminator and the audience applauds. ‘This, my friends, will change the world! Control your dreams, and the awesome force of our thoughts, even when we sleep, will create a world of …’

Then the picture goes fuzzy and finally black as the tape ends.

Susan turns off the VHS machine and we sit in silence for a moment.

‘Wow!’ I say.

‘Poor Mr McKinley,’ she says at last.

‘Ridiculous,’ says Mola, taking a long and noisy slurp of tea. ‘Nothing but cocky-pop. And dangerous cocky-pop as well.’

‘Poppycock, Mola,’ corrects Susan. ‘And why dangerous? It’s just harmless, surely? I mean, it can’t possibly work.’

‘This is just a short cut. A very bad short cut. Like … like eating sweeties instead of proper food.’

I say nothing. If what Mola just said is true, then I have been munching my way through a family pack of Haribos. Every night. While I am asleep.

Mola continues, an air of righteousness settling over her. She closes one eye and turns the other to Susan, raising a single finger, palm out. Although she addresses her granddaughter, I think this is meant for me.

‘I have heard of these toys. Pah! They will mess with your head.’

That phrase again! I am surprised. ‘You’ve heard of these Dreamy-thingies?’ Clever, Malky, I think. Don’t sound too familiar with them.

‘Course I have. Not that one exactly, but others. People always look for a quick solution. They want to control everything. “Control your dreams,” he says. Meditation is all about giving up control. Just be, you know? It takes time and patience to be good at it. But who has time and patience these days, huh? You want everything now-now-now. Click, I want it now! Click, same-day-delivery!’

‘Well …’ says Susan, ‘it may not be …’

‘Don’t interrupt, Tenzin. Thing is, when you eat only sweeties, your teeth fall out, you get fat and you die an early death. You understand? Stop trying to control everything. Just let it be. You know – like the Beatles song?’

To my astonishment, she starts singing Mam’s bedtime song: ‘Let it be, let it be … You understand?’

Susan gasps. ‘That’s the song Mr McKinley just mentioned!’

Mola’s not listening. ‘I’m talking to him. Dream-boy over there. He knows, don’t you! You with me?’

‘Yes, Mola,’ I lie. I haven’t got a clue what she’s on about, and I’m still a bit freaked out at hearing Mam’s song warbled by Mola.

Susan is showing me to the door, and she’s wincing a little. ‘Sorry about Mola. She gets a bit … intense sometimes.’

I nod. ‘Why does she call you by your last name?’

Susan is puzzled for a moment, then her face clears. ‘Oh! Tenzin! That is only my last name in English. It is my first name in Tibetan.’

‘That’s odd,’ I say, and she smiles.

‘Not really. My daddy wanted me to have an English name as well, so he chose Susan and then added my first name to make a surname because in Tibet they don’t really do names in the same way as you do.’ She points to a picture of an elderly man with spectacles and a bald head, in a silver frame on the wall of the little entrance lobby. He has the look of a government minister, or head teacher, except he’s wearing dark red robes. ‘I am named after this man. Dalai Lama,’ she says.

‘But that’s not your name?’

‘Dalai Lama is his title. His name is Tenzin Gyatso.’

‘Cool. Is he a relative or something?’

Susan lets out a little gasp of laughter and puts her hand to her mouth. ‘No, Malky! Dalai Lama means “great master”. He is the world leader of Tibetan Buddhists.’

I nod slowly and – I hope – wisely. ‘Like the Pope?’

Susan shrugs and smiles. ‘I suppose. A bit like the Pope.’

I say to her, ‘Are you a Buddhist then?’ and she does the exact same shrug-and-smile.

‘Sort of. Not really. It’s quite hard to be a good one. I practise with Mola.’

It occurs to me that I have never said sorry for siding with Kez that day, and for what I said in the lunch hall earlier. And so I do. She gives her shy smile and nods. ‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘Friends?’

‘Aye. Friends.’

I seriously think this whole thing might have ended right there had the next few seconds been different. If I hadn’t had that conversation, I’d have been on my way home and Susan would never have found out.

But what happens, happens. And guess whose fault it is?

My phone goes as I’m standing there with my hand on the doorknob, ready to go.

It’s Seb. He’s FaceTiming me. I think about not taking the call, but I remember I was supposed to be there when he got back from goalie training …

I hold the phone up and Seb’s face appears. He’s on Mam’s laptop in our bedroom, in his green keeper’s top.

‘Sorry, mate,’ I say, trying to head off any whingeing. ‘I’m just leaving now. Five minutes.’

‘Okay. Are you passing the corner shop?’

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘Can you buy some triple-A batteries …?’

Batteries? I should have been quicker. I can see where this is going. I try to swipe the phone screen to end the call, but I’m in too much of a hurry, and end up stabbing at it with my finger to no effect. Meanwhile, Seb is still talking.

‘The ones in my Dreaminator are losing power. Look – it’s not as bright …’ He tilts the laptop and my phone screen is filled with an image of Seb’s Dreaminator.

Susan sees and hears everything and, oh my God, the look on her face.