London, England — May.

"A gap year! Over my dead — " As he choked, the whites of Lord Watermain's eyes started to turn pink.

Across the table, Thomas leapt to his feet, cursing.

Before he could do anything, his mother pushed her husband forward and started pounding her palm between his shoulder blades. There was a hacking sound, and a blob of steak tartar flew through the air — right past Thomas' head.

Thomas dropped onto his chair, mindful of the concerned glances from other tables. He grabbed his napkin and shoved it into his lap, gripping it like grim death.

His mother passed a glass of water to her husband who drained it, then glared at his son.

Thomas held his father's gaze, heart beating. "Yes, Father," he said through his teeth. "I want to go backpacking."

"Backpacking? What a notion," said his mother, adjusting her silk blouse. "Sweetheart, we go abroad at least twice a year."

Luxury resorts don't count, Mother, he thought, not daring to say the words. She put a lot of time and consideration into their vacations.

The voices about returned to a murmur, the restaurant clientele thankfully focused on their meals, and notes resumed from a grand piano. A delicate cough announced a waiter, dressed in a crisp black-and-white uniform. Lady Watermain nodded at the man, and he began moving around the table, refilling their glasses, the tinkling sound ringing between them.

Thomas glanced around the room. Shards of afternoon light cut through high windows while the row of chandeliers cast shadows across marble, polished wood and burnished gold. He inhaled the scents of salty broth and garlic from the fusion of hearty British dishes and French cuisine. On a sigh, he brought his attention to his parents. His mother's hand hadn't returned to her knife. If he were a betting man, he would have wagered that it was squeezing his father's right thigh — tightly.

The waiter retreated to other duties, and his father continued. "You'll damned well sit for the Bar and continue at Watermain & Sons." He took another sip of his water and slammed the glass down. "That's what you'll do!"

Thomas closed his eyes, took a breath and opened them again. For once, he felt grateful for his barrister's training. Now at least, he could look someone in the eye and contradict them.

"I mean what I say."

The pink in Lord Watermain's eyes converged. His irises glowed. Blue was supposed to be a cool, calm colour. The pair of eyes facing Thomas were ready to hiss and bubble. They were aquamarine lava.

Lady Watermain turned to Thomas with a serene expression, her soft brown eyes sparkling. "What your father is trying to say is ..." She looked briefly at her husband. "Is that this is an important time in your life. You have a valuable opportunity here, and your father is so proud of —"

"It's tradition, damn it!" Lord Watermain thumped his fist on the table.

Thomas twisted his napkin, the starched material burning his palms. This was expectation — not opportunity.

"Sweetheart, where on earth has this idea come from?"

"From ... from a friend, who recently returned from India. Richard Jones, an Oxford chum."

"Humph, more like a chav." His father reached for his brandy and took it in one swallow. With a flick of his fingers, he motioned for a top up.

Thomas gritted his teeth as his father was attended to, this time by an attractive young waitress with curly red hair and a dusting of freckles.

Lord Watermain coughed. "Why thank you, young lady."

"What on earth is a chav, dear?" asked Lady Watermain.

His father cleared his throat. "Never mind."

"But I've never heard of a —"

The girl darted a glance around the table and scuttled away.

"They're not like us!" Lord Watermain snapped.

"I see ..." His mother reached her hand across the table. Thomas released the napkin and squeezed it. "I'm sure you and Beatrice could go ... uh, somewhere. She's always off and about. Where is she now?"

"Milan," Thomas said dryly.

"Oh, how ... er — intrepid."

"It's Milan, Mother. The fashion world might be savage, but it's not my idea of adventure."

"You've work to do back here — as is your birthright. That's an end to it!"

Curse more like it. Life was too short, and there was more to it than this.

"You do realise I'm a grown man, Father." Thomas gulped his glass of red, hoping to dampen the fire building in his belly. It didn't work. "Even William and Harry took gap years. It's hardly unusual behaviour."

Lord Watermain scoffed. "They did it for philanthropic purposes. You're a spoiled brat." Small, white specks flew from his father's mouth as he spoke. The face was turning mottled, and his eyes looked like they would boil and pop.

One didn't gainsay Lord Henry Waterhouse, the Marquess of Watermain. Especially those who had encountered the brute force of his character. A man who ranted and raved until he blew the metaphorical house down. But Thomas had inherited his father's pigheadedness as well as his mother's passivity. He intended to stand his ground.

"Father, I'm not planning to go live out my life as a celibate monk in Tibet. I have every intention of sitting for the Bar ... and then I will take a break, using my own money, before returning to —"

"The hell you will!"

The world became doused in red. Enough! He was twenty-four, not a child to be ordered around. As his chair legs screeched against the parquet floor, his mother, and the people at the neighbouring table stared.

His father snorted and downed another brandy. "Like I said."

"Mother. Father. Please excuse me a moment."

Thomas inclined his head, turned, and stalked across the long room, aware of the sidelong glances and raised brows. He shoved open the heavy double doors and stepped outside.

London had grown unseasonably cold — more like winter than spring. Steely clouds danced through the sky, a light rain had begun to fall, and a brisk breeze was picking up. It didn't cool him off one bit. His heart thudded, and his throat felt like it would close over.

A member of staff brought him his coat. Thomas thanked the man and shrugged it on. As he did, he caught the ghost of his reflection in the window. A tall man with broad, hunched shoulders and dark-blonde hair ruffled by the wind. He lit a cigarette and inhaled, savouring the flavour of menthol and tobacco. An old Morris Minor chugged past, releasing a gust of petrol fumes that tickled his nose. He exhaled and felt his throat relax a little. The rest of his body was on edge. Sweaty palms, cold and tingling fingers, shoulder and leg muscles taut and throbbing.

He needed to move.

Thomas set off at a quick trot, thoughts racing as he darted through the crowds. I just need to get away.

His vision tunnelled to the pavement before him as his feet ate up one cracked, grey slab after another. Place and time faded — until a damp sheet of newspaper flew into him and wrapped around his face.

He pulled it off and peered about, uncertain where he was. Some side lane in Carnaby perhaps. It was as dim as dusk and deserted. Odd for a Saturday afternoon. A flash of lightning flooded the scene about him, not a moment later the ground shook, and thunder roared. Then, the skies opened.

Thomas ran.

Banner credit: Photo by James McDonald on Unsplash.