Crow Boy (6 page)

Seven

Tom looked around in stunned silence. He knew exactly where he was. He was in the Schuh store on Market Street in Manchester. He'd been here a few times but never with his Mum and Dad. In fact, he'd called here only last Saturday . . . at least, it seemed to him that it had been last Saturday, though he could no longer be sure – he'd seen the red Converse boots in the window and told himself that he'd treat himself to a pair when he got some birthday money. Now it seemed like his parents were offering to buy them for him, but . . . there were more pressing concerns right now.

‘How . . . how did I get
here
?' he croaked.

Mum and Dad stared at him for a moment, as though waiting for a punch-line. Then they exchanged glances and shrugged.

‘I blame you,' said Mum, jovially, a tone of voice she
never
used when she was talking to Dad. ‘You've been working him too hard. Poor lad's lost his mind.'

Yes, maybe that's it
, thought Tom glumly. He'd come back from the seventeenth century with his brains scrambled. How else was he to explain this?

‘He hasn't worked
that
hard,' protested Dad, laughing. ‘But he has done brilliantly. Four A's!' He looked at Tom. ‘And I said if you got three, I'd buy you the boots.'

‘A's?' Tom stared at them. ‘I've got A's? In what?'

Dad looked confused. ‘Er . . . well in English, History, Maths and . . .' He looked at Mum for help.

‘Science,' she added. She looked at Tom. ‘How could you forget?' she asked him. ‘You only got the results yesterday.'

Tom didn't know what to say. He'd never had an A in his life! What in hell was going on here? He noticed a mirror on the wall, a short distance away, and he stumbled over to it to check his reflection, half-expecting to see an unfamiliar face staring back at him. But no, as far as he could see, he looked exactly the same as he had the last time he'd checked.

‘Still the best-looking boy around,' said Mum.

‘Hey!' Dad warned her and she smiled, bowed her head.

‘Still one of the
two
best-looking boys around,' Mum corrected herself and then unbelievably, she stepped closer to Dad and they exchanged a little kiss, right there in front of everyone.

‘No way!' cried Tom and they both turned to look at him.

‘I think we're embarrassing him,' murmured Dad. Then he looked at Tom. ‘You OK, sport? You look a little pale . . .'

‘It's . . . warm in here,' murmured Tom.

‘Sit down a moment,' Mum advised him. She steered him to a leather bench, pushed him down on to it and then, kneeling in front of him, began to unlace the boots.

‘No, I'll leave them on,' he told her. ‘If that's OK.'

She smiled. ‘I can't say I blame you!' she said. ‘God knows how you managed to get these ones so filthy.' She indicated Tom's black school shoes which were encrusted with dried mud. ‘Looks like you've been wading through a pigsty,' she said.

Tom stared at her, wondering if she somehow knew what had happened to him. But now she had turned back to Dad. ‘Michael, you go and sort out paying for them,' she suggested and 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 . . .'

‘No, these are fine,' mumbled Tom. ‘Thanks.'

Dad nodded and strolled away.

‘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.

‘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 . . .'

‘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.'

‘Great idea,' said Dad. ‘Where do you fancy?'

‘
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.

‘
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.'

‘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 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
?

‘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.

‘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.'

‘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.'

‘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.

‘So, Dad . . . your job?'

‘What about it?'

‘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 . . .'

‘You're an
architect
?' Tom interrupted him.

Dad laughed. ‘Well, yes, you knew that much, didn't you?'

‘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 . . .'

‘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.'

‘What happened to the catalogue?' he asked her.

‘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 white wig and a fancy gold jacket. He was staring expressionlessly across the rows of tables at Tom. Then he grinned, revealing twin rows of rotten green teeth.

Tom dropped his chopsticks and said something rude. His parents stared at him across the table.

‘Steady on, sport!' said Dad. ‘There's no need for that kind of language!'

Tom stood up. ‘I need to go,' he said. He looked back towards the kitchen. The man seemed to have vanished now but he knew he couldn't just sit here and eat while there was any chance of him returning.

‘You've barely touched your food,' observed Mum. ‘Are you sure you're not feeling ill?'

‘I'm . . . tired,' said Tom. He was already sliding sideways off the bench. Dad started waving frantically to one of the waiters, while he attempted to cram in a last couple of mouthfuls of noodles.

‘Hold on a minute,' protested Mum. ‘What's the big hurry? Don't you want a pudding?'

‘I'll be outside,' he announced and started walking towards the exit.

They drove home in silence. By now, nothing could surprise Tom, so the fact that they were in a brand new BMW X5, rather than the usual five-year-old Vauxhall Astra, had passed without comment. He sat in the back, staring out at the rolling green countryside, while Mum and Dad prattled aimlessly away in the front. Dad was working on a new health centre and Mum was doing a documentary series about the history of theatre, which involved some famous actors. She mentioned their names as though they were old friends of hers. It occurred to Tom that the car didn't seem to be heading towards Withington and, sure enough, a few moments later, he saw a road sign for Wilmslow and realised that this must be yet another change in their circumstances.

Dad pulled the vehicle to the right and stamped on the accelerator as he overtook a slower vehicle. Tom almost laughed hysterically when he saw that it was a black coach being pulled by four horses. Sitting at the reins was an unshaven man wearing a frock coat and a triangular hat. His upraised arm held a leather whip, which he was cracking above the heads of the horses.

‘Bloody tractors,' muttered Dad, as he accelerated past.

Tom didn't bother correcting him. He realised now that he was seeing things that his parents couldn't see and it probably wouldn't be a good idea to mention it.

Eventually Dad steered the BMW off the road towards a set of ornate metal gates, which swung magically open to admit them. He drove down a long, gravel drive and pulled the vehicle to a halt outside a three storey, ivy-clad building which looked amazing in the last rays of afternoon sunlight. Tom got out of the car and stood there, looking up at the front of the building, realising for the first time just how successful these new versions of his parents really were.

‘How much does a place like this set you back?' he asked.

His dad looked surprised. ‘What an odd question,' he said. ‘Let's just say I won't be retiring for a few years yet.'

Mum and Dad started up a flight of stone steps and Tom followed them, watched as they unlocked the door and disabled the burglar alarm.