reading

First published in Great Britain 2019

by Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted

First e-book edition 2019

978 1 4052 9367 9

Ebook ISBN 978 1 4052 9368 6

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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For my girls, who have never

stopped believing in Roar

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Map

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

Back series promotional page

There is a wizard in Grandad’s attic.

I’m sitting in his garden looking up at the attic window, and I can clearly see a dark shape standing just behind the glass. I give my sister a nudge. ‘Look, Rose. You can see its pointy hat and everything!’

Rose swipes at the screen of her phone. ‘There isn’t a wizard in the attic, Arthur. Leave me alone. I’m busy.’

I glance over her shoulder and see that she’s busy liking someone’s picture of a puddle. When I look back at the window the strange shadow is still there. My eyes trace the outline of shoulders, a head and a slightly crooked hat, as I try to work out what it could be . . . A reflection of the trees? Some rubbish Grandad’s dumped up there?

Then I see something that makes goose bumps prickle my arms: a tiny white patch – like a puff of breath – is misting the glass. I squeeze my eyes shut and rub them. When I open them again the white patch has gone. I smile nervously. Mum’s always saying I’ve got an overactive imagination.

‘It’s probably the inflatable skeleton,’ I say, ‘the one Grandad got for Halloween, and the hat could be from the dressing-up box –’

‘Be quiet, Arthur,’ says Rose. ‘You’re annoying me.’

With a sigh I give up on Rose and wander around the garden. I peel some bark off a tree, kick a punctured football into a hedge, then hang from a branch. Tap, tap, tap goes Rose on her phone. I drop to the ground and look up at the attic window. ‘It’s still there,’ I say.

‘Arthur!’ Rose snaps. ‘Will you shut up about wizards? I’m not going to play with you!’

I groan and flop back down on the grass. Every summer Mum and Dad leave us with Grandad while they go camping. It used to be brilliant. Rose and I would spend the whole week doing whatever we liked – building dens, swimming in the sea, eating cereal three times a day – but since Rose got her phone she’s become totally boring.

‘Om-pom-pom . . .’ Grandad drifts out of his shed, his grey hair and beard standing out against his dark skin. He grins at me, then starts hacking at a bush with a pair of rusty secateurs.

‘Grandad, have you put a dummy or something up in the attic?’

He laughs. ‘Not me, mate.’

I turn back to Rose. She can’t stare at her phone all day. ‘How about we check out the attic, then go and catch crabs off the end of the pier?’

‘No.’

‘Play ping-pong?’

‘No.’

‘Go to the arcade and pretend to be pirates and see if we can find money that’s fallen out of the slot machines?’

She shakes her head in alarm. ‘No way!’

‘But you used to love doing that.’

‘You used to love doing that, Arthur. I went along with it.’

Suddenly Rose jumps to her feet and stuffs her phone in her pocket. Mazen Bailey, Grandad’s next-door neighbour, has appeared on the trampoline in her garden. Mazen Bailey is a horrible person, but Rose worships her because she’s thirteen, two years older than us, and has her own YouTube channel called Totally Mazen!

Rose scrambles on to the wheelie bin and leans over the wall. ‘Hi, Mazen!’

‘What have you done to your hair?’ shrieks Mazen, then she joins Rose at the wall and they begin a whispered conversation, every now and then glancing in my direction.

‘Arthur,’ says Rose, ‘what was it you saw in the attic?’

I hesitate. They’re smiling, waiting for me to say something stupid, so I say, ‘A shadow.’

‘Yeah, but what did the shadow look like ?’

‘A wizard,’ I mutter, making them burst out laughing. I feel my cheeks burn and I point at the window. ‘I’m not imagining it! Look!’

And they do look, but Rose shakes her head. ‘There’s nothing there, Arthur!’

‘There is . . .’ I protest, but then I realise she’s right. The window is just a blank empty square. ‘You’ve got to stand in the right spot,’ I say, moving from side to side. ‘Make sure the sun isn’t reflecting on the glass.’ But no matter what I do, I can’t make the shape come back.

With a final giggle Mazen says she’s got to go. ‘Come round later, Rose. You can try out my trampoline.’

‘Really?’ cries Rose. ‘Thanks!’

Mazen disappears inside her house and Rose jumps off the wheelie bin.

‘Really? ’ I say, imitating her gushy voice. ‘Thanks! ’

Quick as a flash, Rose throws her arms round my legs and sends me crashing to the ground. Rose is good at rugby . . . but I’m good at wriggling. I try to escape by twisting and turning like a snake, but Rose just tightens her vice-like grip.

‘Let go of me!’ I shout.

‘Not until you stop being annoying!’

‘I’ll stop being annoying –’ I try and fail to kick her off – ‘when you stop being boring, which will be NEVER!’

Rose squeezes harder until my legs start to go numb. ‘Drain,’ she says in a deep, slow voice. ‘DRAIN . . . DRAAAAIN . . .’

This is something we used to do to each other – pretend we could drain each other of energy by holding on tight and not letting go. Rose hasn’t done it for years, but it’s still surprisingly effective. Already my legs feel weak and heavy, like lumps of concrete.

‘Twins!’ We look up and see Grandad standing over us. ‘I don’t want to break up your game, but I thought you’d like to know there’s a surprise waiting for you in the attic!’

We jump to our feet.

I knew I saw something up there. Grandad’s surprises are legendary. He’s built us a tree house, go-carts with working lights, and even a raft that we take on the river. Whatever he’s done in the attic, I bet it involves that wizard!

‘Race you!’ I yell, making a dash for the back door.

I’ve only gone three paces when Rose overtakes me. She shoves me on my shoulder, shouting, ‘See you later, loser!’

I try to make my short legs work faster, but Rose is such a good runner and she drained me so well, there’s no way I can catch up with her. So instead I go with insulting her, and I shout the insult that I know annoys her the most, and I shout it all the way through the house and up the stairs.

‘You look like me! You look like me! YOU LOOK LIKE ME!’

‘Whoa . . .’ I say, standing at the attic door.

I’ve not been up here for a few years, but it’s even messier than I remember. Bags and boxes are piled knee-deep across the floor and toys are scattered everywhere. There are broken bikes and a canoe tucked into the eaves, and I can just see the old sofa buried under a pile of blankets. It’s a tip, but just standing in this dusty, untidy room makes me happy. This is where Rose and I used to play – the best games that went on for hours.

‘I can’t see any surprise,’ says Rose, poking around behind the sofa.

My eyes go straight to the window. I’m expecting to see the inflatable skeleton, or a load of boxes . . . but there’s nothing there at all. For a second I’m disappointed – I was so sure the wizard was going to be part of Grandad’s surprise – but then the prickle of fear comes creeping back because I’m sure I saw something up here.

Just then Grandad comes wheezing into the room. ‘So what do you think of your surprise?’ he says.

I pull my eyes away from the window. ‘We can’t find it.’

Grandad laughs and throws his arms out wide. ‘That’s because you’re standing in it!’

Rose blinks. ‘What do you mean, Grandad?’

‘The attic is your surprise. Isn’t it amazing?’

Rose and I share a look of confusion. Grandad’s done some pretty weird stuff over the years – including dying his beard green for Christmas – but he’s never given us his attic as a present.

He looks at us eagerly. ‘Do you like it?’

I nod. ‘Yeah, it’s really . . . surprising.’

Rose is less polite. ‘Is this some sort of joke, Grandad?’

He walks around the messy room, kicking things out of his way. ‘I know it doesn’t look like much at the moment, but once you’ve cleared it out, I’m going to turn it into a den for the two of you. I’ll put a TV over there, replace the sofa, put a popcorn machine in the corner. Whatever you want. It will be yours!’

I smile as I imagine how amazing it will look. Even Rose’s eyes light up, breaking her number-one rule of never showing she’s into something. ‘I’ve always wanted a proper den,’ she says. ‘Not the sort of thing me and Arthur used to make with blankets. Can we have beanbags?’

Grandad laughs. ‘Shaped like burgers?’

And that’s when my mind catches up with what Grandad just said. ‘Hang on. What do you mean, once you’ve cleared it out?’

‘Well, look around! How can I make you an amazing den if all this junk is up here?’ He pushes a wobbly pile of boxes. ‘I’d like to help, but I can’t, not with my asthma.’ To prove his point he bends over and breaks into a hacking cough.

‘Inhaler,’ I say, and obediently he pulls out his asthma inhaler and has a puff.

‘Nothing to worry about,’ he says, straightening up. ‘Now, after you’ve got the attic empty, we can spend the rest of the week painting.’

Rose groans. ‘Do we have to, Grandad?’

I’m with Rose on this. In just over a week we start at Langton Academy – a huge secondary school that’s packed full of big, scary kids and that has a no-talking-in-the-corridors rule – I do not want to spend my last days of freedom doing DIY.

‘You have to if you want a den,’ says Grandad. Then he grabs a pile of comics and heads for the door. ‘I’ll be in my shed.’

For a moment Rose and I stand there staring at the chaos. Then Rose picks up a metre ruler – which for some reason is wrapped in tinfoil – and starts clearing a path through the middle of the junk. ‘This is my half,’ she says, then she tosses the ruler into the messier part of the attic, ‘and that’s your half.’ Next she opens a cupboard and starts pulling out books. After a moment, she says, ‘No wizards in here, Arthur.’

With a sigh I pick up a sports bag and start stuffing it full of National Geographic magazines.

Suddenly Rose gasps. ‘Hang on . . . I think I’ve found one!’

I can’t resist looking up.

Rose is grinning and holding up a large dusty book. ‘My mistake. It’s not a wizard. It’s a French dictionary.’

I go back to the magazines. Something tells me this is going to be a very long day.

Rose decides that we’re going to put everything in the garden before sorting out what’s going to the tip and what’s going to the charity shop, and ‘Hurry up, Arthur!’ soon becomes her favourite phrase. But it’s hard to hurry up when there’s so much cool stuff to look at.

I discover a magic set, a whole pillowcase stuffed full of Playmobil pirates, and I even find a wizard’s hat perched on top of an oar. I wonder if this could be what I saw at the window, but the oar is right at the back of the attic. There’s no way I could have seen it from the garden.

I put the hat on and creep up on Rose, planning to scare her, but when she turns round she just narrows her eyes and says, ‘Didn’t you once have an imaginary friend who was a wizard?’

She’s right, I did. His name was Wininja and he was stealthy and a bit magical.

‘He was a wizard-ninja, Rose. Big difference.’

She smiles. ‘Is he standing next to you right now, Arthur, whispering in your ear?’

The moment she says this I have this sensation that someone could be standing next to me and I have to fight the urge to look. Rose goes back to her books and I glance around the attic, my eyes lingering on the darkest corners. ‘Hurry up, Arthur!’ Rose snaps.

While Rose takes her bag downstairs, I decide to get started on the dressing-up box. I take out an armful of clothes and dump them on the floor. I’m just trying to detangle a ball of beards and wigs when I spot a Quality Street tin buried at the bottom of the box.

I pull it out and feel the weight of it in my hands. It’s round and dented, and has a picture of a soldier and a lady on the front, and when I shake it I can hear something rattling around inside. I sit down and prise at the lid until it opens with a shower of rusty flakes. All that’s inside is a foil chocolate wrapper and a large folded piece of paper. The piece of paper has the word ‘SECRIT!’ written on the front in my own handwriting.

I stare at the thick, yellowing piece of paper, holding my breath as I wonder what I once thought was so secret. Carefully I unfold it and spread it out across the attic floor. It’s a hand-drawn map, covered in tiny pictures and carefully written labels, something Rose and I must have made years ago.

The map is of a wobbly land almost cut in half by a river. One side of this land is as colourful as a cartoon with emerald-green trees and bright blue lakes. The other half has hardly any colour at all. It’s filled with blackened mountains, jagged grey cliffs and forests of stick-like trees. Written along the top of the map, again in my spiky handwriting, is one word: ROAR.

‘Roar . . .’ The word sounds so familiar when I say it out loud.

My eyes follow the zigzag waves one of us has drawn across the sea, and suddenly I remember the way those waves crashed against the cliffs and how there were so many of them the sea seemed to churn and boil. Just when I’m thinking that this map must have been inspired by some place Mum and Dad took us on holiday, I remember something else: me and Rose bursting into this attic and shouting, ‘Let’s play Roar!’

I smile. Roar isn’t a real place. It’s a game that Rose and I used to play, one that was so good, we drew a map of it.

As I gaze at the map the game comes creeping back to me. I see mountain ranges stretched between the folds of the paper and a curving coastline dotted with coves and cliffs. There’s a cluster of jelly-shaped islands labelled Archie Playgo, a castle rising out of the sea, and three dragons soaring through the sky. Butterflies, or maybe fairies, are dotted everywhere and sly-looking unicorns peer from between trees. I can’t actually remember sitting next to Rose and drawing these things, but still my mind tingles with recognition and something else. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.

Rose’s footsteps pull me back to the attic.

‘What’s that?’ she says, kneeling next to me.

‘It’s a map we drew of Roar.’

She frowns. ‘What’s Roar?’

‘That game we used to play. You must remember!’

‘Not really . . . We played loads of games up here.’

‘But Roar was our favourite. There were wizards and mermaids and we’d fight and have adventures. We played it loads!’

Rose looks at me with wide, amused eyes. ‘If you say so, Arthur.’

I point at the blackened castle rising out of the sea. It’s labelled The Crow’s Nest. ‘That’s where the baddie lived, and look –’ I tap a black circle – ‘that’s my ninja-wizard’s cave. There he is!’ A smiling face peeks out of the cave, a pointed hat sitting on his head. ‘I’m sure you had a friend too . . .’

Rose searches the jelly-shaped islands until she spots something: a girl’s head poking out of the sea. She has blue hair drifting around her and the word ‘Mitch’ written by the tip of her silver tail. ‘Mitch . . .’ says Rose, frowning. Then she smiles. ‘She was a mermaid-witch!’

‘With a bad temper –’

‘And webbed fingers and a magic tail!’

Sun streams through the window and outside the birds sing. Just for a moment, it’s like it was when we were little, when we used to finish each other’s sentences and make stuff up faster than we could think it.

Together, we stare at the map. Suddenly Rose shakes her head and jumps to her feet. She grabs a bulging bin bag and drags it towards the door. ‘Hurry up, Arthur,’ she calls over her shoulder, ‘or we’ll never get our den.’

When I hear the bag thumping down the stairs I turn back to the map. I can’t resist.

My eyes wander over pathways and streams and mountain passes, and I start to lose myself in this strange place we invented. Then something catches my eye – a flicker of movement, a flash of light – and I find myself staring at the Crow’s Nest. I see something that I missed before. A face is looking out of a window. The face is pale with round eyes and a crooked stitched mouth. It’s a scarecrow, a boy, and I can just make out two wings sprouting from his back.

‘Crowky,’ I say, the name coming easily to my lips. I stare at his black button eyes and his smile seems to stretch.

‘I’d almost forgotten about you,’ I whisper.

After lunch Rose disappears to our room, and Grandad comes up to the attic to check on our progress.

‘Carrying all the stuff down the stairs is taking ages,’ I complain, staggering under a pile of magazines. ‘We need a quicker way.’

Grandad looks out of the attic window. ‘Maybe you could use this.’

I join him and I see that the garden is directly below us. ‘I suppose we could lower everything down on a rope . . .’

‘Or maybe,’ Grandad says, grabbing a handful of my magazines, ‘you could chuck it all out!’ And before I can say, no, that’s a ridiculous idea, he’s hurled the magazines out of the window. They flutter through the air and land all over the grass. He turns to me with a gleam in his eye. ‘Your turn, Arthur!’

‘Isn’t it a bit dangerous?’

‘Not if we only do the small stuff. And no glass or metal, right?’

‘Right,’ I agree, nodding seriously. Then, with a yell, I hurl out the rest of the magazines making Grandad laugh with glee.

Then we get down to the serious business of throwing the contents of the attic out of the window. We go into a bit of a frenzy, whooping and yelling as bags burst open mid-air and boxes explode on the patio.

Eventually, and predictably, Rose comes up to ruin our fun.

‘Grandad, your pants are hanging in a tree!’ she cries. ‘Why have you even kept them?’

‘I was saving them to use as dusters,’ he explains, then, possibly because Rose looks so disgusted, he shuffles off to collect them, coughing all the way down the stairs.

‘Inhaler!’ Rose and I call after him. Then Rose flops down on the sofa, pulls a piano keyboard on to her lap and starts randomly pressing the keys.

‘Do you want to chuck some stuff out?’ I ask, hauling a bag towards the window. ‘This one’s full of cuddly toys.’

‘Nah.’

So, while Rose’s creepy music fills the attic, I throw the cuddly toys out. Grandad appears and tries to catch them. When a stuffed Winnie-the-Pooh hits him in the face he starts to fight it. It’s really funny. I turn round to tell Rose to come and watch, but then I change my mind. There’s no way she’s getting off that sofa.

Rose used to be all right. No, she was better than all right. She was funny and laughed at my jokes and, except for the dark, she wasn’t scared of anything. It was Rose who jumped off the harbour wall one summer, right in front of all those teenage boys, and Rose who worked out that we could sledge down the sand dunes on trays. At school we were in the same class and played together every break time. I thought Rose liked this as much as I did, until our head teacher decided to mix up the Year Five classes.

We were given a piece of paper and told to write down the names of three people we wanted to be with. I wrote down one name: Rose. I didn’t need anyone else. But then our teacher left the pieces of paper on his desk and I saw Rose’s list. She’d written:

Angel

Nisha

Briony

Rose was really happy in 5A with her three friends. Across the corridor in 5B, I wasn’t so happy. Then Rose got her phone and got into YouTube, make-up and her mates, and the Rose I knew just sort of disappeared.

I turn back to the window and shake out the last of the toys. Grandad is lying flat on his back now, letting them fall all over him. After the last teddy has bounced off his stomach I go to clear out the darkest corner of the attic.

I push aside a chunky TV and find myself staring into the sparkly eyes of a rocking horse. It rocks slightly, eyes wide, teeth bared, as if it’s angry about being left in this dingy spot for so long.

I grab its mane and pull it out. ‘Look who I’ve found, Rose!’

She looks up. ‘What? It’s just the old rocking horse.’

‘Yes, but it’s your old rocking horse, isn’t it? It was you who painted it black and covered it in glitter, and then you said it belonged to you and I was never allowed to sit on it. What did you call it?’

‘Prosecco,’ she says flatly. ‘You’d better put it in the charity shop pile. Someone might want it.’

Suddenly I want to make Rose admit that she used to love this rocking horse. I want her to look at it, and be interested in it, and stop being cool, just for a second . . .

‘Hey, Rose.’ I drag it towards the window. ‘Do you think Prosecco would like to fly?’

She looks up. ‘What’re you on about?’

‘He’s been stuck in the attic for too long. I think he’d like to feel the wind beneath his hooves.’ I’m at the window now.

She leaps off the sofa and grabs hold of the mane. ‘You can’t throw him out of the window, Arthur. He’s an antique!’

‘He?’ I say. ‘He? ’

Rose narrows her eyes.

‘Do you think you can you still talk to him, Rose?’

She yanks the rocking horse out of my hands. ‘Let’s see, shall we?’ Then she crouches down and presses her ear to his mouth. ‘What was that, Prosecco? Uh-huh. Got it.’ She looks up. ‘Prosecco wants me to tell you that you smell like the corridor outside the boys’ toilets. In fact, Prosecco thinks that the corridor outside the boys’ toilets might actually smell of Arthur.’ She smiles sweetly. ‘It looks like I can still talk to him!’

‘Yeah? Well, maybe I can too.’ I stick my ear next to its mouth. ‘Sorry, Prosecco? You think Rose’s perfume smells like cat poo after it’s been in the sun? OK, I’ll pass it on.’

Now it’s Rose’s turn. She rams her ear against his mouth. ‘Uh-huh, yep, got it.’ She looks up. ‘What Prosecco actually said was that it’s you who smells like cat poo after it’s been in the sun. You got it wrong because, unlike me, you don’t speak fluent Moonlight Stallion.’

Moonlight Stallion. Ha! I knew Rose was still into Prosecco! He used to pop up in loads of our games and I’m sure she was always sitting on him when we played Roar.

Roar. In a flash it’s back, and an image darts into my mind of Rose sitting high on Prosecco, bossing me around and translating his insults for me.

Prosecco rocks forwards and again I feel like he’s looking at me. I tug him towards the window by his tail, suddenly desperate to get away from his sparkly staring eyeballs. ‘He still wants to fly,’ I say. ‘He said so.’

Rose’s hands grab the tail. ‘I’d let go of that if I were you.’

‘Why?’

Her voice drops to a dramatic whisper. ‘Because since you last saw Prosecco his tail has become poisonous and every single strand stings like a bee. The pain is intense, Arthur, and it will shoot through you like a thousand needles burrowing into your skin!’

‘So? You’re holding the tail too!’

She shoves her face close to mine, eyes shining, and whispers, ‘The poison only affects BOYS!’

A chuckle makes us look up. Grandad is standing in the doorway with a cup of coffee. ‘It’s so wonderful to see you two playing again. Nothing could make me happier.’

‘We’re not playing, Grandad.’ Rose lets go of Prosecco’s tail. ‘We’re fighting. Big difference.’

‘Sounded a bit like playing to me,’ he says, then he sits on the sofa, props his feet on a suitcase and says, ‘Well, get on with it. This attic won’t clear itself out.’

It’s fun having Grandad in the attic. He plays tunes on the keyboard and seems excited by everything we find.

Grandad and Nani grew up in Mauritius, and when I discover something I think came from there I show it to him: an empty bottle of Labourdonnais rum, one of Nani’s old saris, a tin that once contained Bois Cheri tea.

‘I can smell home,’ says Grandad, sticking his nose in the tin and breathing deeply.

All this nostalgia makes Grandad move on to singing sea shanties in French, and Rose and I fall quiet as his deep voice fills the room. We’ve only visited Mauritius once, when we were little, and I can hardly remember it. I can hardly remember Nani either. She died when we were three. Rose and I start to put anything that might have belonged to Nani on the sofa next to Grandad. He glances down at the beads and scarves and boxes, but he doesn’t stop singing until Rose pulls a half-deflated dinghy into the middle of the room.

It’s not the dinghy that interests him, but something hidden behind it.

He disappears into the shadows of the eaves and comes back dragging a camp bed. ‘Remember this old thing?’ he asks.

I catch my breath. It’s an ancient camp bed, one of those ones on wheels that folds in the middle, like a table-tennis table. It has a mouldy-looking orange mattress, rusty springs and a plastic headboard . . . It’s rubbish, but just looking at it makes my heart beat fast because Rose and I loved playing with it. We kept it closed, and the folded mattress made a damp, dark tunnel which we would dare each other to crawl through. I can clearly remember the spine-tingling feeling I got when I pushed my head inside and forced myself to go into the darkness.

‘Arthur weed in that,’ says Rose.

‘I did not! I spilled a Fruit Shoot in there.’

‘Whatever,’ she says with an infuriating smile.

Grandad runs his hand through the dust on the headboard. ‘Well, one of you definitely did something to it. Look at this!’

I see some words are scratched into the plastic headboard.

‘“Enter here for the Land of Roar”,’ I read, although what it actually says is,

I slip my hand in my pocket and touch the corner of the map.

‘What’s the Land of Roar?’ asks Grandad.

‘Just some game we used to play,’ says Rose.

Suddenly I know exactly why we scratched those words on to the headboard. ‘This was how we got there,’ I say. ‘We’d crawl into the bed, shout, “Hear me roar”, and when we came out the other side we’d be in Roar!’

Rose groans. ‘We’d be in the attic, Arthur.’

‘I know,’ I say quickly. ‘I mean, it’s how the game always began.’

Grandad pats the bed. ‘Well, how about it, twins? Fancy crawling through the bed and having one last adventure in Roar?’

Rose looks at him in horror. ‘Grandad, we haven’t played games like that for years. Plus I’m not going anywhere near that stinky old wee mattress.’ She gives the bed a shake. ‘It’s heavy. Do you want me to help you get it downstairs so we can dump it at the tip?’

‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘We’re saving the big stuff for the end. Right, Grandad?’

He nods. ‘But I have seen one big thing we can get rid of.’ He picks up the dinghy and carries it towards the window. ‘Let’s see how far this baby can fly!’

He forces it halfway out then gives it a massive shove. Rose and I get to the window just in time to see the dinghy float over the garden wall and land on the Baileys’ conservatory.

‘Oh dear,’ says Grandad. ‘I suppose I’d better get it back.’

‘I’ll go,’ cries Rose, dashing out of the attic.

Soon I see Rose run outside, climb on the wheelie bin and scramble into next door’s garden. Mazen is on her trampoline; she acknowledges Rose’s presence by shrieking, ‘What are you wearing?’ then doing a backflip.

‘Well, Arthur?’ Grandad is watching me. ‘Are you up for taking one last trip to Roar?’

Honestly? I’d give anything to play Roar with Rose again. Just me and her, and a load of dragons and unicorns and no thoughts of starting secondary school. But it’s impossible. I’m too old and I couldn’t do it without her. The rush of excitement that I felt when I saw the bed has gone and in its place is a heavy lump of disappointment. ‘No thanks, Grandad. Rose is right. We don’t play games like that any more.’

Outside, we can hear Rose and Mazen talking, then the squeak of trampoline springs.

‘Who said anything about playing a game?’ Grandad grins then turns away. ‘Come on. I saw a bag of tennis balls earlier. Let’s see if we can chuck them as far as Mazen’s trampoline.’

By the end of the day the attic is empty.

Well, almost. The camp bed is sitting in the middle of the room, watched over by Prosecco, but everything else has gone: the dressing-up clothes, the plastic weapons, the Playmobil, the cuddly toys. Even the Quality Street tin is down in the garden in the tip pile.

I take one last look around the room, and turn out the light.