Midnight's Choice by Kate Thompson

lamely. ‘To do with birds.’
    For a long moment Martin’s mother stared hard at Tess, but gradually her gaze began to soften and be replaced with something slightly less hostile.
    â€˜Well,’ she said at last, ‘you can only try. He’s in his room sleeping, probably. Why don’t you go on up and see if you can get him out of bed?’
    Tess nodded and stepped inside.
    â€˜First door on the left at the top of the stairs. Let me know if you need anything, won’t you? Like a straitjacket or a tranquilliser gun.’
    Tess turned to share the joke with the woman, but she was merely looking up the stairs, her white face drawn with anxiety. With mounting apprehension, Tess started up.
    The house was unusually dark. The window at the top of the stairs which ought to have lit the landing had been replaced by dimpled yellow glass; the type that is sometimes found in bathrooms. There was something eerie about the silence up there which made it difficult for Tess to muster the courage to knock on the bedroom door. Martin, he was called. She remembered his charming smile. Surely there was nothing to fear?
    She knocked and waited. Nothing happened. She knocked again, and then a third time.
    â€˜Martin?’ she called. ‘Hello?’
    Nothing. She knocked again, then leant against the wall, wondering what to do next. There was no sound from below, and she wondered what the boy’s mother was doing down there. She had the impression that the rest of the house must somehow be as dark as this landing, and it gave her the creeps. She longed to turn back, to just slip quietly down the stairs and out of the door without telling anyone, but she knew that if she did that she would never have the courage to come back again. If she was going to make contact with Martin, it was now or never. Steeling herself, she reached out and quietly turned the door handle.
    It wasn’t locked. The door opened stiffly, rubbing against the dark grey carpet within. The curtains were drawn and only a suggestion of daylight made its way through them. In the opposite corner was a bed, and as Tess’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom she could just make out the shape of the boy, lying on his back.
    â€˜Hello?’ she said, but quietly. The atmosphere was so heavy that she dared not speak any louder. There was no response, so she crossed the room, taking care not to disturb any of the clutter which covered most of the floor.
    Martin showed no sign of hearing her approach. His face, when she drew near, was not as pale as his mother’s, but there was a darkness around his eyes as though he were in the habit of not getting enough sleep. Tess wondered whether she was making a mistake in coming to wake him. Perhaps there were family troubles? Perhaps he was an insomniac and this was the only sleep he had managed to get in days?
    â€˜Martin?’ she said, gently. Still the boy’s eyes didn’t open, and Tess realised with a shock that she could see no sign of movement from his chest to signify that he was breathing. What if he was dead and his mother didn’t know? What if she did know?
    Suddenly Tess had had enough of the darkness and enough of feeling afraid. With a new sense of purpose she strode across the room, knocking her knee against a stack of magazines as she did so, then pulled back the curtains. The rings squealed on the rail as though protesting against the flood of early-evening light.
    â€˜Martin!’ said Tess, with as much firmness in her voice as she could manage.
    The boy cried out softly as though he had been robbed of something precious, then opened his eyes.
    â€˜What is it?’ he said. ‘Who’s there?’
    â€˜It’s me. My name’s Tess. I saw you on the street a few days ago, remember?’
    Martin looked at her blearily for a moment, then sat up.
    â€˜Have you come to help?’ he said.
    â€˜Help with what?’
    Martin looked away for a