The Servants by Michael Marshall Smith Page A

in the mood for taking any hassle from anyone. He went straight upstairs, pushing past the gatekeeper. His mother was sitting in the armchair, hunched over. She looked up quickly when he came in.
    “Hey,” she said. Her voice sounded odd. “Is it raining again?”
    “Are you ever going to come out?” he asked.
    “I’d like to. What time is it?”
    “Only four o’clock. Things are still open. We could go to the Lanes and you could look at rings and stuff.”
     
    t h e s e r va n t s
    “Oh, honey . . .”
    “No,” David said. “It’s foul out there.”
    “Just let her do what she wants !” Mark shouted. “Why do you always have to interfere in everything?”
    He turned back to his mother to enlist her support, and noticed that her skin was very pale and that her nose was running.
    David handed her a tissue and turned to Mark. His shoulders looked stiff. Mark stared back at him, willing him to squat down in that way he did, so he’d be at the right height for Mark to thump him one.
    “I’m not trying to—”
    “Yes you are, ” Mark said. “This may be your house, but we don’t belong to you. You can’t always make us do what you want.”
    “Mark. It is too cold, and too wet, for . . .”
    “Oh, piss off,” Mark said, his head feeling cold and clear, and stalked out of the room.
    He could hear David coming after him before he was even halfway down the stairs, so he jumped the last few and ran into his room. He slammed the door quickly and grabbed the wooden chair and wedged its back under the door handle, like he’d seen it done on a television program a few weeks ago—a few seconds before David reached the hallway. The doorknob rattled and the chair creaked, but it worked. Mark was delighted. He’d never tried this before. It was worth knowing.
    “Mark,” David said from the other side. “Open this door.”
     
    m i c h a e l m a r s h a l l s m i t h Mark opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again. David was all about talking. Not getting a reply would annoy him far more.
    “Mark,” he said again.
    Stepping carefully and quietly, Mark moved over until he was just the other side of the door. He could hear his stepfather breathing heavily.
    “Mark, open the door .”
    Mark said nothing. Every second that passed without saying anything was a small victory.
    “I know you’re there,” David said then, disconcertingly. His voice was low and quiet. “I know you’re right the other side of this door, and I know you can hear me. So hear this. What your mother needs right now is for you and me to get on with each other. So what I need, if I’m honest, is for you to stop being such a little asshole.”
    Mark blinked.
    “Oh, sorry, ” David added. “That’s an American word, isn’t it, and I know how much they confuse you. Try not being an arsehole instead, if that’s easier. Put another way, just fucking grow up .”
    He walked away from the door and back up the stairs. The blood was singing in Mark’s ears, and his mouth was hanging open. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t believe it. This man, this stranger, was now calling him rude words! When Mark’s mother couldn’t hear, and so wouldn’t know what was going on!
    Before this man arrived, everything had been okay, even after Mark’s real father had not been living at home so much
     
    t h e s e r va n t s
    anymore. But within mere weeks of David coming into their lives, Mark’s mother had started to get ill. And yet now he was blaming Mark for things and calling him rude words. Mark turned furiously from the door, and that’s when he noticed that there was something lying on his bed. A small bag. He went over and tipped the contents out.
    It was a new book.
    For a split second Mark felt guilty—but then he dropped to his knees and reached his arm under the bed. Swept out the books he threw under there a couple of nights before. He laughed harshly. Yep. Just as he’d thought. The book on his bed tonight was one