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I t was an hour or more before my mum moved away from the side of the bed. She sat there, perched, listening to me tell her all about Mr Mumbles and Caddie and Ameena and all the others.
    â€˜I knew we shouldn’t have talked about that Mr Mumbles,’ she said, stroking my forehead. ‘Trust your nan, filling your head full of nonsense.’
    I frowned. Of course. The conversation about my old imaginary friend over Christmas dinner had happened. Really happened, I mean. It was later that the intruder came. I tried to remember back to that moment, but the only image that came to mind was of Mr Mumbles in his hat and coat with his mouth sewn tightly shut.
    â€˜Nan,’ I said, pushing the thought away. ‘Is she all right?’
    Mum smiled. I had looked closely for any sign of stitching round her face, any sign that she wasn’t who she said she was, but I had found nothing.
    â€˜She’s fine. Worried about you. But she’s fine.’ Mum stole a look towards the door. ‘I should phone her. Let her know.’ Her hand reached for mine and squeezed it. ‘But not quite yet, eh?’
    â€˜Did they catch him?’ I asked. ‘The man who… The man?’
    Mum shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not yet. But they will. Someone saw him attacking you and chased him off.’
    â€˜Ameena?’
    She looked at me strangely. ‘No, Kyle. There is no Ameena, remember? It was a boy from your school. What’s his name? Billy.’
    I sat up sharply. ‘Billy,’ I gasped, remembering him in the tower, and then not in the tower as the porter dragged him away. ‘I have to help him. They’ve got him.’
    My mum rested a hand on me. It was soft and warm, and the panic began to ease at once. ‘Billy’s fine,’ she assured me. ‘He came in the other day to see you. Brought a card too, I think.’
    She got up and looked through the cards. ‘Here we are,’ she said, passing me one of them. ‘It’s not in the best taste,’ she said, pursing her lips, ‘but he assured me it was a joke.’
    I looked down at the card. It was a sombre-looking thing with “My Deepest Sympathies” printed across the top. Below that was a picture of a snow-covered church, not unlike the one he’d been taken from.
    Hadn’t been taken from. Hadn’t .
    It was a sympathy card for relatives of people who had died. Billy’s sense of humour was no better in real life than it was in my dreams, apparently.
    Inside, in messy handwriting, was a short message. I totally saved your ass. You’re doing my homework for the rest of your life. Get well soon, dweeb , and then Billy’s scrawled signature at the bottom.
    â€˜That was nice of him,’ I said, handing the card back.
    â€˜Hmm,’ Mum said, unconvinced. ‘But as you can see, nothing bad’s happened to him.’
    â€˜Yeah,’ I said. Then I added, ‘Shame, that,’ and we both laughed.
    I wanted to freeze-frame the moment. Me and Mum sitting there laughing, like everything was right with the world. All too soon, though, it came to an end.
    â€˜Right, I better go phone your nan and let her know the good news.’ She bent over me and kissed my forehead. ‘I won’t be long. You want anything?’
    â€˜No,’ I said, and I really and truly didn’t. I didn’t want anything, didn’t need anything. It was over. The nightmare was over.
    Mum kissed me again, said a garbled goodbye, then left through the same door the doctors had, promising to be back in no time at all.
    The door closed and I was left alone. I could hear the hustle and bustle out in the corridor, the normal sounds of a hospital at work. Normal . That was a word I didn’t think would ever enter my head again.
    I relaxed into the pillow. The top end of the bed was raised at a slight angle, and as my head sank down, I couldn’t remember ever