Read Online Crow Boy by Philip Caveney - Free Book Online

handed him Tom’s school shoes. ‘These can go in the box. And make sure you get a receipt, just in case he changes his mind.’ She looked again at Tom. ‘You’re sure these are the ones you want? You could go for the leather if you prefer; it’s only another ten quid . . .’
    â€˜No, these are fine,’ mumbled Tom. ‘Thanks.’
    Dad nodded and strolled away.
    â€˜You sure you’re all right?’ asked Mum. ‘You seem . . . odd today.’
    He glared at her. She looked different from how he remembered. Her hairstyle was pretty much the same, but it looked sharper, glossier. She was wearing a coat he hadn’t seen before, a bright red coat, the same colour as her lipstick and nails.
    â€˜What are we doing here?’ he asked her.
    She looked dismayed. ‘But you said this was where you wanted to come. If there’s somewhere else you’d rather . . .’
    â€˜You know what I mean! What are we doing back in Manchester? What happened to Edinburgh?’ He leaned closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘What happened to Hamish?’
    She gazed back at him, her expression blank, and he realised that she couldn’t have faked it that well. She genuinely didn’t have the first idea what he was talking about. Thoughts raced through his mind in a jumble. This wasn’t something he had experienced before and nor was it something that was likely to happen to him in the near future. He thought, once again, of Kane in Timeslyp , the way he would burst through a series of doors, each of them leading into an alternate reality. Was this what had happened?
    Dad came wandering back, a shoebox tucked under his arm. ‘Sorted,’ he said. He looked from Mum to Tom and back again. ‘What now?’ he asked.
    Mum smiled. ‘This is Tom’s day. Let’s see what he’d like to do.’
    Tom could hardly believe it. Mum was asking him what he wanted to do, like it really mattered. He thought for a moment. ‘I could eat something,’ he ventured. ‘I’m quite peckish.’
    â€˜Great idea,’ said Dad. ‘Where do you fancy?’
    â€˜ Wagamama’s ,’ said Tom, without hesitation. It was a kind of test. It was his favourite place to eat but Mum always vetoed it, saying her delicate stomach couldn’t tolerate the flavours . . . but not today.
    â€˜ Wagamama’s it is,’ she agreed and started towards the exit.
    Tom got to his feet and followed her. ‘But . . . you don’t like it there!’ he protested. ‘You always say the food’s too spicy for you.’
    Mum shook her head. ‘Don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I’m having the chicken katsu curry.’
    â€˜And the duck gyoza,’ added Dad. ‘Don’t forget that. With the sticky plum sauce. Mmmm.’

    Twenty minutes later, Tom was sitting at one of the long wooden tables, watching in amazement as Mum wolfed down a portion of curry as though she’d been eating it all her life. Dad too, seemed to be enjoying his bowl of noodles, as never before, and he’d ordered not one but three side dishes. Not bad for a man who previously couldn’t seem to make a decision about anything. Tom picked at his own food, staring around the crowded interior of the familiar restaurant and it seemed to him that he was looking at it for the first time.
    It was the same but different somehow – bigger, brighter, louder than he remembered it. In the open kitchen, the chefs in their white jackets and red headbands sent up brilliant columns of orange flame from beneath their sizzling woks and shouted instructions at the waiters, who bustled frantically to and fro among the tables in their brightly coloured T-shirts, their electronic order pads held ready for action.
    The food in Tom’s mouth seemed to explode with flavour – the duck gyoza, rich and succulent parcels dripping with sweet plums; the