Read Online Crow Boy by Philip Caveney - Free Book Online Page A

chicken katsu curry, tender mouthfuls of meat in a thick, glutinous sauce. Dad offered a taste of his noodles, which were springy and crunchy and laced with chilli and fresh ginger. It wasn’t usually Tom’s favourite dish, but today it tasted like a bowlful of heaven.
    I’ve gone barmy , thought Tom, calmly. There was no other explanation. His accident back in Edinburgh had given him a bash on the head that had sent him into some prolonged hallucination from which he would probably never escape. And what about Morag and her friends, back in the seventeenth century? Was he going to see any more of them ?
    â€˜You know,’ said Dad, lowering his chopsticks for a moment. ‘We’re really proud of you, son.’
    Tom nearly laughed out loud at that one. ‘Is that right?’ he muttered.
    â€˜Sure. I mean, you turned it all around, didn’t you? Started studying extra hours, made sure your homework was done before you went out. Showed those teachers they were wrong about you.’
    â€˜Why are you talking like this?’ cried Tom.
    Dad held his hands up in mock surrender. ‘Yeah, I know, a bit cheesy. But I just wanted to say, well done. Keep on like this, and you’ll be headed for university in a couple of years. That is, if you decide it’s what you want.’
    â€˜Don’t pressure the boy,’ Mum chided him. ‘Just because you went, it doesn’t mean Tom wants to follow in your footsteps.’
    Tom’s jaw dropped. He knew for a fact that Dad had never gone to uni. He’d done a vocational course at an obscure technical college back in Wales. But it was pointless to protest the point. Clearly, in this version of reality, Dad had done rather better for himself. He decided to probe a little more.
    â€˜So, Dad . . . your job?’
    â€˜What about it?’
    â€˜I’ve never really understood exactly what it is you do.’
    Dad laughed. ‘Join the club,’ he said, but when Tom didn’t laugh, he smiled and thought for a moment, as though considering the best way to answer. ‘I suppose it’s just a case of deciding what a building needs to be and then, thinking about what it could be. You have to find the right balance between the two. You know, I always think that architecture is like . . .’
    â€˜You’re an architect ?’ Tom interrupted him.
    Dad laughed. ‘Well, yes, you knew that much, didn’t you?’
    â€˜Er . . . sure,’ said Tom. He wanted to add, you were a painter and decorator last time I checked . Instead, he turned his attention to Mum. ‘And I suppose you’re still . . .’
    â€˜at the BBC,’ she finished. ‘Yes, of course; I think I’d have mentioned if there’d been any change.’ She gave him a puzzled look. ‘I feel like I’m at an interview,’ she said. ‘You are being a bit odd, Tom, if you don’t mind me saying.’
    â€˜What happened to the catalogue?’ he asked her.
    â€˜What catalogue?’ She was looking at him blankly, her red painted mouth moving around a mouthful of sticky rice.
    The one you used to work for . The words were in his head but he couldn’t bring himself to say them, because he knew he’d just get that blank look again, as though he’d started speaking in another language.
    He tried to rationalise things in his mind. OK, so he was back and everything had changed for the better. Mum and Dad were together, they both had better jobs, they seemed incredibly happy and he, Tom, had turned into some kind of genius, getting A grades left, right and centre. But . . . it couldn’t be as easy as that, could it?
    There was a great flash of flame from the open kitchen and Tom turned his head to look. A huge cloud of smoke had momentarily blanketed the chefs from sight and, as it began to clear, he noticed a strange figure standing over by one of the hobs – a thin man wearing a powdered