Free The Servants by Michael Marshall Smith Page B

The first man went by him again, more slowly now, mut 
    t h e s e r va n t s
    tering something darkly under his breath. Mark had slipped down low enough that what he mainly saw was a hand at the end of a suit sleeve, going past his face—the rustle of starched cloth, a gleam of polished shoe leather.
    Another bell jangled in the kitchen and the short woman hurried back along the corridor from behind Mark. She shouted something through to the parlor room, opposite where Mark was crouched, before darting into the kitchen. The sounds from down there were clearer than any of the others. Maybe everything was clearer down there—perhaps that was the center, where it all came from. Mark started to move slowly in that direction, feeling the weight of the air and the smell of smoke pushing against him. It was as if sensations were falling on him, like heavy rain, making it hard to go forward, hard to take stock of where he was. There was so much coming at him that he couldn’t think, just notice things—like the fact there was no dust here now, on either the walls or the floor. No dust, and yet it was not clean. It was as if a film of something had been laid over every surface, something sticky and earthy-smelling. A door slammed; a woman yelled angrily; there was a sharp hiss as something was thrown on a hot stove—and then someone came running out of the side corridor, straight at Mark.
    She was dressed in a crumpled white blouse and wore a black skirt and a white apron. Her hair was a soft red and tied up on the back of her head, and she looked eighteen, perhaps nineteen, tired but unbowed, as if she had been moving this quickly, and with this much purpose, all her life.
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    m i c h a e l m a r s h a l l s m i t h She came quickly into the main corridor, and Mark noticed how she used the curve in the join of the two passageways to save a split second on the journey, scooting at top speed to fulfill whatever task had been shouted at her by the short woman as she bustled past.
    As she passed Mark, the girl’s eyes suddenly flew open wide, and for a moment they were looking at each other directly. And she let out a tiny little scream.
    That was enough for Mark.
    The sound of her cry cut through the swirling confusion in his head—and he was suddenly upright and running down the corridor, away from the kitchen and its thudding sounds. He hurtled past the pantry door, which was now open wide. He glimpsed shelves lined with tall bottles and short bottles and cheese, and between them, a man’s back, bent over. The man started to straighten and turn, as if he’d heard footsteps behind him and wondered who it might be. Half a second before his face started to come into view, Mark jumped over the threshold and shut the big door behind him as quickly and quietly as he could.
    He was there only two seconds, panting, eyes staring wide. Then he stuck the big key in the lock with trembling hands, turning it in the same motion. By the end of the hollow clock sound, Mark’s vision had started to return to normal, scalded by the electric light above. The noises from the other side of the door fell away instantly, too, as if dropped off a cliff. Mark ran to the old lady’s door, pushed it wide—and saw
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    t h e s e r va n t s
    she was still asleep in her chair. He didn’t know how that could be. She must have been able to hear all the noise, surely?
    The short, busy woman must have come right out here!
    He dodged over to the drawer and dropped the key back in, then quickly left the room, closing the door behind. He limped into the narrow front passage and let himself out into the cold night air.
    It hit him like a wave, washing smells and sounds out of his hair. He took a series of deep, slow breaths, bent forward with his hands on his knees.
    Finally, he was very, very scared.
    He ran up the narrow metal stairs, remembering only as he was about to unlock the front door of David’s house that he couldn’t go in that