Free The Girl With Glass Feet by Ali Shaw Page A

case.
    His father put his hands on his hips. ‘What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in school.’
    ‘I ran away.’
    ‘Oh…
Midas
!’ He plodded over, looking his son up and down. ‘You’re going to get pneumonia if you don’t dry yourself off. You picked a filthy day to run away. Let’s go and get you a towel.’
    ‘What are you doing with those bin liners?’
    His father looked over his shoulder at the black bags on the walls and floor. ‘Those? Well… Shall we get you that towel?’
    He turned off the garage light. Midas opened the door and they dashed back to the house together, their feet kicking up puddles. They leapt through the back door.
    ‘Towel, towel…’ murmured his father.
    ‘I can find you one,’ Midas said.
    ‘I’m trying to find
you
one. Here.’ He passed him one of the dishcloths. ‘Now. You can’t just run away from school.’
    Midas rubbed the dishcloth over his hair.
    ‘They’ll be worrying about you.’
    ‘They won’t miss me.’
    ‘Oh, they
will
, Midas. Institutions like that, they never miss a beat. They’ll have the police out by now, I’m sure.’
    The phone rang. Midas’s father rubbed his moustache with forefinger and thumb.
    ‘That’ll probably be them now,’ he said. ‘Phoning to let me know you’re gone. Come on.’ He walked into the hallway and lifted the phone off the wall. ‘Crook household. Mr Crook speaking. How may I help you? Yes. Yes, I’m afraid so. With me, yes. Oh, I will. Hm, well, good day.’ He put the phone down firmly and sighed. ‘Put your shoes on. I’ll drive you back.’
    ‘I’ve already got my shoes on.’
    ‘Ah. Ah-hah. Then let’s go. The car’s in the road. I was, er, using the garage.’
    ‘What were you doing with those bin liners?’
    His father checked his pockets for his car keys but stopped before he opened the door, fingers on the handle. ‘Don’t worry, Midas. You can take them down this afternoon.’
    ‘But what were you—’
    ‘Midas. Please?’ He opened the door. Rain flew in and slapped his face. ‘Good Lord, you’d think the world was flooding.’
    They stared up at the black clouds.
    ‘I don’t want to go back to school. If I do, Freddy Clare will either beat me up or stab me to death. Depending on whether he gets his knife back.’
    ‘Yes,’ murmured his father, watching plumes of water jump in puddles.
    ‘I’m serious,’ Midas said, ‘and so is Freddy. He’s crazy.’
    ‘Come on then, into the car. Bring a bucket if you like, to bailus out as we go.’ He chuckled to himself. Midas followed him through the rain, still holding the dishcloth, and climbed into the passenger seat. His father stopped, his keys halfway to the ignition.
    ‘Your mother would have had you go to Sunday school if I hadn’t objected. Can you believe that?’ He leant back in his seat. ‘I did you a favour, holding you back. Not for my son, the dogmatic belief in a monotheistic deity. No, my son is fully aware of the symbolism of a pantheon – the impossible coexistence of a multitude of ruling drives. Isn’t that so, Midas?’
    Would it be a fast puncture, if Freddy had the knife back, or something drawn out? Excruciatingly slow, a sliver at a time…
    ‘You know, Midas, I’m glad we stumbled across each other this afternoon.’ He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel while the keys still hung, unturned, in the ignition. ‘This talk of Sunday school, and this torrid downpour, has taken me with thoughts of the Flood.’
    Rainwater sloshed down the windscreen.
    His father began to talk about arks settling on mountain peaks, about snow-white doves and drowned crows floating on oceans. Midas lost himself in worry. Then he realized his father had stopped talking. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. His glasses had slipped halfway down his nose. That was how he got when he was excited. His father was never enthused or merry, but once in a very long while he was thrilled.
    A blackbird,