Free The Chinese Egg by Catherine Storr

coming off flying saucers and saving the world.”
    â€œDo they really?”
    â€œI’ve never seen any.”
    â€œI didn’t mean the little men. I meant, do people really believe in them?”
    â€œYes. And write books about them. But it’s all right. This is serious. It’s scientists that did the experiments. With the cards and that.”
    â€œI don’t see how it matters,” Vicky said.
    â€œBecause I don’t want to be mixed up with something stupid. It’s bad enough it happening. It isn’t quite so bad if there’s a proper scientific explanation. Don’t you see that?” Stephen asked, annoyed.
    Vicky said, “Yes, I suppose I do,” rather doubtfully. Then she said, “I suppose it’s because your father’s that—what you said—a psychologist, makes you feel it’s got to be scientific.”
    â€œNo it isn’t. It’s nothing to do with my father.”
    â€œAll right. You needn’t jump down my throat.”
    Stephen said, “Sorry,” and they walked on in silence.
    â€œWhere’s your sister?” Stephen asked, after a pause.
    â€œGone shopping.”
    â€œWould you like some coffee?” Stephen asked to show that he’d got over being angry and that he wasn’t only interested in Chris.
    â€œI can’t! Mum’s out this afternoon and I’ve got the door key and I said I’d be back by four o’clock to let Chris in.”
    â€œThat’s a pity.”
    Without giving herself time to think about it too much and get self-conscious, Vicky said, “If you’d like to come back I could make tea.”
    â€œThanks. I’d like that.”
    Vicky felt better. Then she remembered that her Dad was on a late shift and would be getting up from a day-time sleep to go out to work in the early evening. He was never at his best directly he was woken up, and she hoped Stephen would be gone before he came down. Otherwise she could foresee trouble.
    He wasn’t around when she and Stephen went into the kitchen, which was a relief. She made tea, opened a packet of biscuits, and then, greatly daring, brought out a tin that had the remains of one of last Christmas’s cakes. Mrs. Stanford always made two or three big cakes of incredible richness each Christmas, and theywere brought out for special occasions during the following year. Vicky wasn’t sure if this counted as special enough, but she wanted to impress Stephen and show off her Mum’s cooking.
    â€œGosh. It’s fabulous! You don’t have this every day?” Stephen said, his mouth full of delicious sticky fruit and only just enough spicy dough to keep it from falling apart.
    â€œMum makes them every year. But we don’t eat them every day. Just when we have visitors.”
    â€œYour mother must be a marvellous cook.”
    â€œShe makes good cakes. Mostly for dinner she does ordinary things. Sausages. Fish fingers. Baked beans. Bubble and squeak. You know,” Vicky said.
    Stephen was just beginning to say, “I wish my mother did ordinary things,” when the flash hit him. It wasn’t as bright, as dark round the edges and as bright in the middle, as the former two, and it was very quick. He saw Chris in her white skirt and pink top, coming towards him. Just behind her was a boy. A boy he’d never seen before. He had time to get the impression of dark hair, an expression on the face which he knew he ought to recognize but didn’t, and of there being something unusual about the boy’s way of holding himself. He heard, quite distinctly, Chris’s voice say, “Paul’s got a place at York!” and then it was over. He was in the kitchen with Vicky, looking stupidly towards the door as if the real Chris had come in that moment.
    He wanted to cover up. He looked at Vicky and saw her looking intently and frightened at him.
    â€œDid you have it too?” she