The Servants. M. Smith M.

for a while but his cup of tea tasted like dishwater and was cold within moments. The promenade was deserted. The sea turned grey and choppy and a spray came up over the rail. Even the seagulls looked freezing and embittered.

      When he got home he was soaked to the skin. He started up the stairs to see if his mother was awake yet but David was already waiting at the top, everything in his posture indicating a desire that Mark be quiet. He did everything short of actually holding his finger to his lips – as if he thought he was the gatekeeper, the person in charge of everything, with the power to decide who got access.

      ‘I want to talk to you later,’ he said.

      Mark tramped back down the stairs without saying anything. He changed his clothes and dried his hair on a hand towel from the kitchen. Then he went into ‘his’ room and shut the door.

      He read for a while, but soon finished his book. He didn't have any new ones, and until his mother felt like leaving the house so that they could all go further along the seafront to where the shops were, it didn't seem likely he'd be able to get hold of one. A couple of weeks ago, just after they'd got here, David had returned from one of his supermarket trips with a couple of books for Mark. They lay in a corner of the room, too boring even to open, and it seemed David had since forgotten about the idea of bearing Mark in mind. Mark wasn't going to help him to remember.

      He played PlayStation for a while but that wasn't much fun either. The television in the old house in London was huge. You could turn the sound up and it was as if you were actually there. The one in his room in Brighton was the smallest he'd ever encountered, so small he wondered why Mr Sony had actually bothered. Even when you sat close it was as if it was the other side of the room, and the sound was like it was being played over a very old radio. Though it was comforting to go running along the same old corridors and dodging through jungles and abandoned mines that he'd visited many times before, it wasn't very exciting. He gave up in the end and went and sat in the chair facing the window. It rained and rained and rained, and then it stopped. When it got properly dark, lights began to come on again in the other houses on the opposite side of the square. You could see people walking around, sitting down, doing things. Having a life.

      What he'd seen downstairs seemed a long way away, blurred by rain and the images of the video game. It was odd, the old lady living in such a small room at the front when there was so much space behind her: but he supposed she probably didn't have much money, and probably wasn't allowed to change things anyway. This was David's house now, after all – even if he'd let her stay down there because it had been her home, he was in charge.

      David's house, yes. But he was not David's son. And the woman in the room over Mark's head was Mark's mother. She didn't belong to anyone else, whatever they might think.

      When he tried again at six o'clock, David wasn't there to guard the stairs. Mark found his mother on the couch again. She looked less tired than she had yesterday, and was in a good mood. She patted the couch next to her and he went over and sat down.

      She asked him about his day, as usual, but for some reason he didn't tell her about visiting the old lady. Partly it was because he'd realized that it probably contravened the warning about talking to strangers, or going anywhere with them – even though the old lady hadn't looked like a person who could do anyone much harm. But also he didn't mention it because…

      Mark wasn't really sure why. Perhaps because she might mention it to David, and Mark didn't want him knowing what was down there. The omission made it sound as if Mark hadn't really done very much all day, however, and his mother picked up on this.

      ‘Maybe … we'll all go into town tomorrow,’ she said. ‘It's been a while. Don't you think?’

      ‘Really?’ Mark said. ‘That would be great. I need something new to read.’ He realized this sounded greedy, and anyway wasn't what he meant. ‘And it would just be, you know, nice.’

      ‘We'll have to see what the weather's like,’ said a voice.

      It was David, of course, coming in from the bedroom. He wasn't drying his hands on a towel this time but the effect was about the same. ‘It would be great for us all to go into town. But it's gotten really cold today, and the rain, you know.’

      Gotten. This was an American thing, Mark knew, because David had told him months ago, like he told you everything. But David was in England now, so why didn't he stop doing it? Did he think it made him sound cool, or something? It really didn't.

      Mark was disappointed to see his mother nodding, conceding David's point. ‘But maybe?’ Mark said.

      ‘Maybe,’ she agreed, smiling. ‘Are you hungry? David said you didn't have any lunch.’

       Of course he did. Reporting back.