Free Crow Boy by Philip Caveney

looking at his new surroundings in awed silence. It was all fantastic, from the top-of-the-range iMac on the black-lacquered writing desk, to the framed posters of his favourite rock bands and the state-of-the-art stereo system complete with iPod dock. It was everything he’d ever wanted and it was all wrong somehow; one perfectly assembled, gleaming lie that he knew in his heart could never be his reality.
    He felt a sudden tiredness wash over him like a wave, sapping every ounce of energy from his body, so he closed the door and walked over to the bed. He sat down on the immaculate white cotton covers and stared around the room. A sudden scrabbling noise snapped his attention over to one corner, where he saw a sleek grey shape scampering along the base of the wall, and he supposed he should be shocked because the rat was spoiling this perfect vision of how his life could be but, in a weird way, he had almost expected it. The all-powerful weariness was claiming him, pulling him down onto the pillows and he allowed himself to be pulled; he stretched out on the bed and his body seemed to be weightless; it seemed to be floating inches above the mattress. His eyelids came down like shutters and he drifted in a blackness as thick as treacle.
    And then he slept.

Eight

    He woke suddenly, aware of a tickling sensation on his chest. He was lying in bed and a shaft of moonlight, cutting through a window above his head, was illuminating something that was sitting on him, something dark and sleek. His eyes focused and there was a close-up view of a furry, whiskered head and a twitching nose. It took an instant before he realised what he was looking at. Then he gave a yell and thrashed upright and the rat was gone, scampering madly away over the grimy bed covers and on to the bare floorboards.
    There was a groan from beside him, the sound of somebody stirring from sleep. Then a voice muttered into his ear with a suddenness that made him start.
    â€˜What’s the matter with you?’ It was Cameron’s voice. Tom realised this wasn’t his bedroom in Wilmslow. He was back at Missie Grierson’s orphanage, in the room under the eaves. The same shaft of moonlight that had shown him the rat now illuminated Cameron’s grumpy face. He looked none too pleased to have been woken in such a fashion. ‘I swear you’re worse than wee Davey!’ he complained. ‘At least with him it was just snoring!’
    â€˜There was a rat,’ gasped Tom, his voice ragged with revulsion. ‘It was sitting on my chest, looking at me.’
    â€˜Is that all?’ Cameron rolled his eyes.
    â€˜What do you mean is that all? That’s disgusting!’
    Cameron motioned to him to keep his voice down. ‘You’ll wake one of the neighbours,’ he hissed. ‘Like Missie Grierson says, it was probably more scared of you than you were of it.’
    â€˜I seriously doubt that,’ Tom hissed back. He gazed dismally around the grubby room, taking in the dark beams, the cobwebs and the rough-plastered walls. He realised that he was wearing some kind of rough, textured nightshirt. ‘How long was I gone?’ he muttered.
    Cameron stared at him. ‘Asleep, you mean? An hour or so, I suppose.’
    â€˜No, I mean . . . I’ve been gone, haven’t I? You must have missed me for at least a few hours?’
    Cameron was staring at him, mystified. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about,’ he said. ‘Keep your voice down, you’ll wake somebody up and then we’ll be for it.’
    â€˜Yeah, but . . . I need to get this straight. I was with Morag and the pigs, right? She was showing me how to feed them . . .’
    â€˜That was days ago,’ said Cameron, scornfully. He seemed to think for a moment. ‘Five days ago at least.’
    â€˜And . . . I’ve been here all that time?’
    â€˜Of course you have. And a right pest you’ve been, as well.’