I find myself on my feet again, and my voice is louder. Mola does not flinch, but maintains her steady gaze as I say, ‘But it’s not! They are separate! You … you’ve got stuff going on in your head, and then there’s stuff going on here, in the real word!’ I stamp my foot and thump the table to emphasise my point. ‘They can’t … they can’t interfere with each other, can they? Can they?’

Mola gives her serene smile, and this time it drives me mad.

‘Stop smiling!’ I say. ‘It’s not funny. You can meditate, you can dream, you can do whatever you like, but it can’t have any effect.’

Mola says, ‘And your brother’s wrists? Your sore arm, Malcom? Your … ahh … performance at school yesterday? Oh yes, I heard. Were they real, or just in your mind?’

I fall silent and sigh, and sink on to the wooden seat again. I rub my forearm, remembering the teeth-marks of the crocodile. No one says anything for ages. I mutter, eventually, ‘I just don’t know what to do.’

‘Some more tea will help us think. Susan, be a good girl. Malcolm, help clear the table. And for a little while we say nothing at all. Complete quiet.’

Perhaps it’s doing something in total silence that clears my mind. A familiar action: clearing cups and plates, carrying them into the house’s sparse, neat kitchen, no one saying anything at all. I find a cloth and wipe down the picnic table while Susan boils the kettle. I put fresh cups on a tray, then I load the dishwasher. It makes me feel better.

On the kitchen wall is a photograph of a handsome man with shiny black hair like Susan’s. Mola sees me looking.

‘My son,’ she says.

‘Susan’s dad?’ She nods and I follow her back outside. She makes herself comfortable with a cushion on the wooden planks of the picnic-table bench. I can’t sit.

‘He is in prison,’ says Mola, as matter-of-factly as if she had simply said, ‘He’s gone to Sainsbury’s.’

‘Yes. Susan mentioned, erm …’ I don’t know what to say. What do you say in situations like that?

At that moment, Susan arrives, carrying a tray of tea things. Mola looks at the tray and makes an approving noise in her throat.

‘I don’t think you would like po cha, Malky,’ says Susan, ‘so I’ve brought you regular tea.’ She sees me looking a bit embarrassed. ‘Po cha is Tibetan tea.’

‘The best tea! Everyone loves it,’ interjects Mola. ‘It is made with tea leaves and …’

I can already identify the smell. ‘Yak’s butter?’

Mola grins. ‘Clever boy!’

‘But it takes a bit of getting used to,’ says Susan.

‘Nonsense! I drink it when I was a little girl!’

‘Tibetan tea,’ Susan says, ‘is made by boiling the leaves, then adding butter and salt. It’s … unusual. I love it!’

Mola beams. ‘See? You are good girl, Susan!’ She takes a sip of her butter tea. ‘Malcolm will not drink that goat’s wee.’ She grasps the cup that Susan had poured for me and throws the contents on the grass behind her, and says, ‘Malcolm? Dream-boy? You all right?’ She hands me her cup and says, ‘Drink it. It is good.’

Hesitantly, I raise the little cup to my mouth and pause. Something has washed over me, like a cloud obscuring the sun.

I stare at my teacup, inhaling the strange odour, and blinking.

‘Am … Am …’ I am finding it hard to talk. I stare at Susan. ‘Susan … am I dreaming?’ Right now?’