GLAZE Read Online Free Page B

disappear?’ I skid on the lino flooring of the landing and race down the stairs after him. We’re on the first floor now. Only one level to go.  
    ‘Pretty much.’  
    His feet land on the marbled ground floor with a loud bang. It takes him a little longer to find his balance. I hope he’s hurt himself.  
    ‘I don’t even know your name,’ I say, from the top of the stairs. He’s standing in front of a fire exit that leads to the street outside. The light spilling through the dappled security glass throws him into shadow.  
    He waits and thinks about it for a bit. ‘Ethan. It’s Ethan,’ he says finally. He stretches out his hand in greeting. I walk down three steps to meet it.  
    ‘I’m Petri. But you already know that.’
    It’s a good handshake. Strong and confident. Zizi has drilled me about the importance of a good handshake. How it tells you everything you need to know about a person. She told me mine was like holding a wet fish and made me practice with her till she was satisfied it conveyed the right message about me. And about her.  
    All Ethan’s shake tells me is that his hand is rough—calloused palm and leathery skin—weird for a boy not much older than me. Rough and warm, like he’s just taken it out of his pocket.  
    ‘How are you going to get home?’ he asks, sliding his hand free.  
    ‘Underground, I guess. It’s how I got here.’
    ‘I’ll see you back.’ He turns and opens the exit, pushing down on the bar. A blast of cold air rushes through the doors and blows my hair in front of my face.  
    Outside it’s darker than I had realised. The autumn night’s coming in fast.  
    ‘I’ll be fine on my own,’ I say, wrapping my arms around me to keep out the chill. ‘I don’t need an escort.’  
    The truth is I’ve never been out this late on my own before. Not without Kiara or Pippa and a company car to drop me off and pick me up again. Zizi didn’t even know about the protest. I told her I was going to Kiara’s to do some homework. I couldn’t bear the smug, satisfied look on her face if I’d told her I was joining in some civil unrest. She’d no doubt go on and on about the marches she’d led in her day, ‘when protests actually meant something’.  
    Ethan doesn’t say anything. He wraps his gun-metal grey scarf around his face again and leads me out of the alleyway behind the office block and back onto the street. It’s empty; not a single person to be seen.  
    ‘Where is everyone?’ I ask, looking up and down. Sol-lights flicker on, doing a terrible job of illuminating the street. But they’re regulation now after all the power cuts.  
    Ethan points up at a large vidboard overhead as an answer.  
    A glossy actress dressed as a policewoman smiles down at us from the board. ‘Curfew has been called,’ she says. ‘Please return to your home.’  
    The announcement disappears and the screen returns to showing an ad for the next election. The headline reads:  

    REGISTER TO VOTE! THE FUTURE IS IN YOUR HANDS!

    Under it, there’s a head-to-head shot of Harris and Walters, the two party leaders, staring at each other, like boxers before a fight.  
    A curfew? That means we have less than an hour to get back.  
    The station is across the road. I will be fine, I tell myself. I can work out how to get home. What does he think I am: a kid? But a creeping anxiety prickling at the back of my scalp says it would be sort of nice to have some company. And maybe it’s on his way home.  
    The concourse of the station is nearly empty when we enter it, with only a few commuters rushing for their trains. The curfew looks like it’s already taking effect.  
    I place my wrist on the scanner and the doors open for me. Ethan looks left and right and then vaults over the barrier.  
    ‘OysterChip against your religion too?’ I ask.  
    He turns and faces me. ‘Look, it’s not because of some religion. I’m just not on, OK?’
    ‘OK!’ I say, holding my hands