Read Online The Servants by Michael Marshall Smith - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Marshall Smith
Tags: Fiction, General, Fiction - General, Psychological, Psychological fiction, Fantasy fiction, Fantasy, Haunted Houses, Ghost, English Horror Fiction, Boys, Brighton (England)
Ads: Link
pictured the front of the house accurately. There was well over a yard of empty space between him and the ornamental fence and handrail that led down from the front-door steps to the street.
Hmm.
He considered the problem for a moment, then lowered himself so that he was sitting on the sill, legs dangling over the edge. The metal uprights of the fence had been painted so many times that there were no sharp edges, just a thick covering of paint everywhere. If he pushed himself off, hard, and then whipped his hands around to the front, he’d be able to grab two of the uprights. Pull himself up, and hoist himself over the handrail. Then he’d be on the steps, and away. He hesitated. What was he going to do after that? Leaving the house was all very well, but what happened next?
Then he heard the sound of the television drifting through the window of the floor above and down to him. An old film.
t h e s e r va n t s
All was well up there, evidently. Mark was no longer even being discussed. It was as if he wasn’t even here. He might as well not be, then. He’d work out what he was going to do when he got to the other side of the fence. He pushed out hard, before he could change his mind, and suddenly was flying through the air. He yanked his hands around immediately, reaching out. Even though the distance was a little farther than he’d thought, both hands clamped firmly around an upright bar of the fence.
That part went exactly according to plan.
But it was raining, and the uprights were a lot wetter than he’d expected. No sooner had his hands gripped them than he started to slide down, and fast. He scrabbled out with his feet, trying to find something to grip onto. There wasn’t anything. His left hand reached the bottom first, and the shock of its collision with the stone bounced it right off. Mark had an instant to realize the same thing might happen when his right hand reached the bottom, and then it did.
And he was falling through the air.
He lashed out, managing to get brief holds on things—
little brick outcrops, a lower sill—but these were also wet, and he was dropping too fast to get any purchase. He whacked his knee in passing and lost what little balance remained and plummeted the last six feet all in one tumbling crash. He was on his feet for a moment, but the force of his landing pushed them out from underneath him and dropped him hard on his behind. That hurt enough, but gravity wasn’t fin
m i c h a e l m a r s h a l l s m i t h ished with him yet—and very soon afterward he was lying on his back, fetching his head a solid crack on the ground. He lay there twisted, panting. He was in practice at being knocked around, but it still hurt. A lot. Above him was the underside of the windowsill outside his room. It looked a very long way up.
A moment later, there was something else above him. A figure, black in silhouette against the dark sky.
“Good gracious,” said an old, cracked voice. “How did you come to be down here, I wonder?”
Mark’s first thought was that he should jump to his feet, sprint up the narrow metal staircase that led from this basement courtyard to the street, and run away. Run down to the front. Run . . . just run somewhere else. Then he found that he was crying.
There was no warning of this. He had no sense it was going to happen, didn’t even decide to do it, as—like most people—he’d done from time to time. He didn’t want to do it at all. He was just doing it. Lying there on his back, with tears streaming silently down his face.
“Oh dear,” the old lady said. “Now, now.”
She’d moved to one side, so that light from a streetlamp caught her face, and through his tears Mark could see she was looking down at him with a frown of concern. This just made him feel worse, and he started to sob properly. She waited, not saying anything, as the gusts of misery blew through him. After a minute or so, she started to nod.
t h e s e
Hmm.
He considered the problem for a moment, then lowered himself so that he was sitting on the sill, legs dangling over the edge. The metal uprights of the fence had been painted so many times that there were no sharp edges, just a thick covering of paint everywhere. If he pushed himself off, hard, and then whipped his hands around to the front, he’d be able to grab two of the uprights. Pull himself up, and hoist himself over the handrail. Then he’d be on the steps, and away. He hesitated. What was he going to do after that? Leaving the house was all very well, but what happened next?
Then he heard the sound of the television drifting through the window of the floor above and down to him. An old film.
t h e s e r va n t s
All was well up there, evidently. Mark was no longer even being discussed. It was as if he wasn’t even here. He might as well not be, then. He’d work out what he was going to do when he got to the other side of the fence. He pushed out hard, before he could change his mind, and suddenly was flying through the air. He yanked his hands around immediately, reaching out. Even though the distance was a little farther than he’d thought, both hands clamped firmly around an upright bar of the fence.
That part went exactly according to plan.
But it was raining, and the uprights were a lot wetter than he’d expected. No sooner had his hands gripped them than he started to slide down, and fast. He scrabbled out with his feet, trying to find something to grip onto. There wasn’t anything. His left hand reached the bottom first, and the shock of its collision with the stone bounced it right off. Mark had an instant to realize the same thing might happen when his right hand reached the bottom, and then it did.
And he was falling through the air.
He lashed out, managing to get brief holds on things—
little brick outcrops, a lower sill—but these were also wet, and he was dropping too fast to get any purchase. He whacked his knee in passing and lost what little balance remained and plummeted the last six feet all in one tumbling crash. He was on his feet for a moment, but the force of his landing pushed them out from underneath him and dropped him hard on his behind. That hurt enough, but gravity wasn’t fin
m i c h a e l m a r s h a l l s m i t h ished with him yet—and very soon afterward he was lying on his back, fetching his head a solid crack on the ground. He lay there twisted, panting. He was in practice at being knocked around, but it still hurt. A lot. Above him was the underside of the windowsill outside his room. It looked a very long way up.
A moment later, there was something else above him. A figure, black in silhouette against the dark sky.
“Good gracious,” said an old, cracked voice. “How did you come to be down here, I wonder?”
Mark’s first thought was that he should jump to his feet, sprint up the narrow metal staircase that led from this basement courtyard to the street, and run away. Run down to the front. Run . . . just run somewhere else. Then he found that he was crying.
There was no warning of this. He had no sense it was going to happen, didn’t even decide to do it, as—like most people—he’d done from time to time. He didn’t want to do it at all. He was just doing it. Lying there on his back, with tears streaming silently down his face.
“Oh dear,” the old lady said. “Now, now.”
She’d moved to one side, so that light from a streetlamp caught her face, and through his tears Mark could see she was looking down at him with a frown of concern. This just made him feel worse, and he started to sob properly. She waited, not saying anything, as the gusts of misery blew through him. After a minute or so, she started to nod.
t h e s e
Similar Books
