Kenneth is wading through the water towards the three smaller crocodiles. His musical, gentle Scots accent has been replaced with a guttural city growl. ‘Right, come oan, ye hockit wee jobbies. Ah’ll gie ye whit fer! Leave me pal alone!’

Behind me, Cuthbert has entered the water with a splash and is gliding quickly towards us. I turn to Mola, who is out of the deepest part now, and nearing the other side. I push through the waist-deep water, my feet slipping on the rocks on the bottom.

‘Mola! Help! Kenneth!’ I cry – pointlessly. There is nothing anyone can do. I look upstream to where Kenneth entered with the crocs.

Nothing.

Kenneth has gone. Cuthbert has gone too. I swivel round in terror, alone in the middle of the river.

‘Kenneth!’ I shout. ‘Kenneth!’ A scrap of blue-green tartan floats past me on the fast-moving water.

Mola shouts back. ‘Forget him, Malky. He was dead already.’

That’s when I see it: the huge creamy-white belly of Cuthbert just below the surface of the water, barrelling towards me as he turns and grabs my leg in his jaws, pulling me under the surface as I suck in a mouthful of river.

This can’t be happening! Wake up! Wake up!

I can’t shout because I’m underwater, but, if my thoughts could yell, they’d be deafening. I have forgotten Seb, I have forgotten everything in my desperate bid to fight off this beast that is churning up the water and twisting my leg, as if trying to wrench it off.

Around me I can see the water turning a misty red from my blood, and at some point I struggle to the surface, taking a gurgling, desperate breath as my head breaks free of the water. Cuthbert has let go and I manage to half swim, half stagger a couple more strides to the far bank, where I can see Mola screaming, ‘Malky! Malky! Behind you!’

I turn to see Cuthbert less than a metre away, swivelling once more to expose his belly as he opens his jaws for a final attack, the attack that will surely finish the fight. My right hand is still gripping Kenneth’s dirk and in a last, desperate effort I add my left hand to steady the blade and plunge it downwards – carelessly, furiously, knowing it is my only chance.

Half of the crocodile’s belly is above the surface, and the razor-sharp steel shaft slips silently into the skin, all the way to the knife’s hilt, opening up a massive gash but without stopping the beast. His tail thrashes round me, and I lose my grip, sliding below the water again, which is now a swirling mass of blood – Cuthbert’s and mine. Through the mist, I see his mouth open, ready for a last attack, his glassy yellow eyes fix on me and I screw my eyes shut, ready for the end, for there isn’t anything more that I can do, and then …

Nothing.

I’m standing now, near the shore, and I can hear Mola shouting, ‘Malky, Malky!’

Swallowing hard, gasping for breath, I look to my side where the body of Cuthbert lies upside down, nudging the dry bank, his purple guts spilling into the water, the cross-shaped handle of the dirk jutting out of the flesh. I stagger away until I’m lying, choking, at Mola’s feet.

Then I see something move inside the gaping corpse. In the space where the crocodile’s guts once were is a shape that rises up out of the split belly.

The slimy mound straightens out and I see that it is the back of a person who has been crouched down inside the beast. The human creature – stinking crocodile innards clinging to his clothes – stands up, removes his spectacles, and wipes a sloppy clot of blood from his eyes and beard before stepping out of the crocodile’s body with a squelch.

‘Dad?’ I croak, and he nods, puffing out his cheeks.

‘Aye.’

‘What are you doing here?’

He looks around, bewildered. ‘I wish I knew, Malky.’

I look behind me to where Mola was standing a moment ago. She has gone, and I turn back to Dad.

‘Is that it?’ I say. ‘Aren’t you supposed to say something, you know, inspirational at this point? Something properly … Daddish?’

Dad spits a bit of crocodile innards on to the ground and says, ‘Well. According to your mam, Malky, I gave up the right to say how I’d bring you up three years ago, and so …’

‘That doesn’t mean you can’t tell me stuff! Like now, for example. Can’t you just tell me what to do? Isn’t that what dads are for?’

He shakes his head, sorrowfully. ‘I’m sorry, son. I guess I’m not that sort of dad and never have been.’

‘But why, Dad? Why?’

He takes a step towards me, but I shrink back: he stinks of crocodile guts. He sinks to his knees and looks at me, his face streaked with blood, and shakes his head.

‘You want the whole lot now, Malky? The drugs, the depression, the divorce? It’s going to take more time than you have, son.’

He’s right, of course, and I feel my shoulders drooping in despair.

Then he takes a deep breath and says, ‘How about I tell you that I love you instead? And your brother. That I always have and always will.’

I turn to face him. ‘That would be good. I guess.’

He gives a sad little nod. ‘Aye. Well, it’s true. I love you, then and now and always.’

I smile. I didn’t know how much I needed to hear this.

‘Listen, Malky,’ he says, ‘I’ll be better in future, I promise. But you’ve got a job to do, and I’m not the one to help you.’

From behind me comes an urgent voice. ‘How much longer you gon’ be, Dream-boy?’