Abomination Page 10
I was outside Asda before nine, and of course she didn’t come. Of course she didn’t. Probably Mary showed up last night five minutes after I abandoned my vigil. She could’ve brought the police. Anything could be happening up there this morning. Anything. I paced the carpark till half nine, then set off to see for myself.
58. Martha
I had a rotten night. Well, rotten in one way, thrilling in another. I got into bed without undressing because I expected Mary any minute, but the longer I lay there the more doubtful I felt about those calls. I mean, I’d no proof it was Scott. Father might be right – it could have been some sci-fi freak on alcopop. As time crawled by and nothing happened, this seemed more and more likely. And if it wasn’t Scott – if Scott hadn’t even been near – my notice would be on next door’s fence in the morning for all to see. For Father to see.
I prayed. Not my usual bedtime prayer. This was the prayer of a screwed-up kid who’s had just about enough. Dear God, I know Mother and Father will have spoken to you about this, but it surely can’t be right to keep a child in a cage. Maybe you told them and they misheard. I don’t want to get them in trouble and I don’t mean to be wicked. I just think a kid’s entitled to some love and sunshine, and how did that get into my head if you didn’t put it there? Please let Mary come soon. Amen.
I think I slept after that, because the next thing I knew it was light and I could hear a blackbird. I got up and straightened my clothes a bit, though my stuff always looks slept in anyway. I washed my hands and face, brushed my hair and went downstairs. My parents were at table. We said good morning. Mother served the porridge. The kid was kicking up a fuss below. It was just like any other Saturday morning. I wondered whether Scott would try Asda as usual.
‘Mother?’
‘What is it, Martha?’
‘Do you need anything from the supermarket this morning?’
‘I don’t think so, thank you. We can make do till we move, and shop in Wharton on Tuesday evening.’
‘Oh.’ My heart sank. I’d hoped to remove my notice and see Scott.
‘There’s something you can do,’ said Father. ‘When you’ve attended to Abomination, you can take a screwdriver to your room and free your furniture from the walls, ready for the removal men.’
‘Yes, Father.’ If prayers are answered, Mary’d have come and none of this dreary stuff would be happening. Prayers aren’t answered, I thought, as I trailed down those cellar steps for the two thousandth time. I was nearly crying.
A few minutes later I was wiping slop from round the kid’s mouth when someone knocked on the front door. Postman, I told myself, guarding against the cruelty of false hope. I dropped the cloth in the basin and reached for the pack of disposable nappies. I heard Father turn the key, draw the bolt. Some boring package, I thought. Tracts. A double glazing catalogue.
‘YOU!’ Father’s voice, startled and outraged at the same time. Who? Scott? No. A woman’s voice. Not . . . surely not Mary ? I rose to my feet, staring towards the steps. The kid, cold in his sodden nappy, began to grizzle.
‘I want my child,’ shrilled the voice. ‘Give him to me NOW!’
‘Child?’ spluttered Father. ‘Have you gone MAD? The child isn’t here. It was adopted, six years ago. We don’t even know . . .’
‘He’s there, in that cellar. Martha e-mailed. Let me pass, or I’ll . . .’
‘E-mail? Martha e-mail? Now I know you’re mad. There’s no e-mail here. Lizzy!’ He called to Mother. ‘Come here and tell this lunatic . . . this strumpet, that her bast . . .’
And that’s when something weird happened inside my head. Really really weird. I think it was the words my child that did it. I looked at the kid and it was like I saw him for the very first time as a kid. He wasn’t the monster I’d once believed him to be, and he wasn’t the nuisance I’d been saddled with. He was neither a chore nor a shameful secret; he was a child: a frail, beautiful, grey-eyed child who should be out in the sunshine with other six-year-olds, not cooped up and mucked out and fed through the bars like a battery hen. I gazed at him and knew at last the enormity of the wrong I’d helped commit.
I ran sobbing to the foot of the stairs. ‘MARY!’ My voice broke up. ‘HE’S HERE.’ Father growled an oath and there were sounds of a scuffle. Mother began to wail. I turned, scooped the kid out of the playpen and started up the steps. He was light. Almost weightless. Father was standing at the top with his back to me and his arms spread, blocking my progress and my sister’s view but the end was in sight and nothing was going to stop me finishing it now. Nothing. I twisted sideways and rammed my shoulder into the small of his back. He didn’t move much, but the woman got a glimpse of her child and that was enough. She flung Mother from her, sidestepped Father, snatched the kid out of my arms and half-ran towards the open door. The child covered his eyes with his hands and began to scream. It was the light streaming through the doorway. The sunlight. He’d never encountered such brightness. It seared him, and to find himself bouncing towards it in the arms of a total stranger must have been more terrifying than any of us can imagine. I was imagining what my parents would do to me after Mary had gone, when she paused and turned, her free hand held out towards me.
‘Come on, Marfa, quick!’
The thought that I’d be rescued too hadn’t entered my head but I didn’t hesitate, following this thin, dowdy stranger out the door and down the path to where another stranger sat in the driving seat of an ancient car whose engine was idling. The last thing I saw as acceleration slammed me back in the seat was Mother on the doorstep looking like someone beholding the end of the world.
59. Scott
I was halfway up the hill when this beat-up Mini came down, trailing smoke. It was the clapped-out noise that made me look, and for a split-second my eyes locked with Martha’s. I thought, They’re off. They’re taking her away and I don’t know where. I meant, her folks. It wasn’t till the car had passed and I was staring after it that I realized it wasn’t theirs, and that the three people I’d glimpsed were all women.
That was Saturday. It’s Monday now and I’m sitting on a bench in the park thinking about Martha, trying to cheer myself up counting the good things.
One, the kid’s not in a cage, he’s with his mother.
Two, Martha’s not in that awful house. She’s with the sister whose sad torn cards she hoarded all those years.
Three, it all seems to have happened without anybody learning the Dewhursts’ secret so they’re not in trouble, which is how Martha wanted it.
Four, she’s away from Pritchard and Stamper and all those other donkeys at school.
Which leaves me. I can’t pretend I’m happy, because Martha’s gone and I love her. Oh, I know what Mum’d say. You can’t be in love, Scott. You don’t even know what it means. Well, she might be right in a way. Maybe I don’t love Martha the way Mum loves Dad or I love Mum, but I love her just as much. There’s different sorts of love that’s all, and the more sorts the better if you ask me because you can’t have too much love.
Are you thinking about me, Martha?
60. Martha, Mary, Jim, Annette
Thin, dowdy stranger. That’s Mary all right. Nothing like the swashbuckling adventuress I’ve pictured all this time. Turns out she’s been just as miserable as me. Moving on from town to town, working long hours at deadly jobs for bad pay, always looking for something without knowing what.
She knows now, or so she says. It was Jim. Jim, who used to be called Abomination. Annette reckons Mary’s a different person now she’s got Jim. He’s absolutely gorgeous, but he’s hard work. He can only do baby things so he’s not at school yet, but all sorts of people are helping him. Mary’s teaching him to talk. She reads him about ten stories a day and chats to him by the hour, and he’s starting to chat back. What kills me is the way he lets me cuddle him as though I never was his gaoler, but that’s how little kids do love, isn’t it? Unconditionally. He even cuddles me back, which is far more than I deserve.
I’ve started at a new school but it’s dead easy ’cause I wear bought clothes like everybody else. I don’t get Raggedy-Ann any more. Some of the kids call me Ma, but in a friendly way. There’s not much money so I’m not going on the school trip here either, but I’m not the only one and anyway I don’t care.
I miss Mother and Father. I know that sounds like a lie but it’s not. They did a wicked thing but they thought it was right, and now they’ve lost everybody. They’ve never tried to make me go back and I wouldn’t go if they did. I expect they know I’m all right with Mary, that the pair of us will sin our way through this world and spend eternity together, somewhere a bit warmer. I sent them a card with my love and no address but I expect it’s in the bin, torn in two.
I’m looking forward to Wednesday. It’s Annette’s half day off and she’s promised she’ll show me how to surf the Net. You know – the Internet.
Guess who I’m going to e-mail first.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robert Swindells left school at fifteen and worked as a copyholder on a local newspaper. At seventeen he joined the RAF for three years, two of which he served in Germany. He then worked as a clerk, an engineer and a printer before training and working as a teacher. He is now a full-time writer and lives on the Yorkshire moors.
He has written many books for young readers, including many for Random House Children’s Books. Room 13 won the 1990 Children’s Book Award and Timesnatch won the Junior Category of the 1995 Earthworm Award. Abomination was shortlisted for the Whitbread Award and won the Sheffield Children’s Book Award. His books for older readers include Stone Cold, which won the 1994 Carnegie Medal, as well as the award-winning Brother in the Land. As well as writing, Robert Swindells enjoys keeping fit, travelling and reading.
NIGHTMARE STAIRS
by Robert Swindells
I’m falling - falling down steep, narrow stairs - if I hit the bottom asleep, I know I’ll never wake.
Every night Kirsty wakes up screaming. Every night she has the same terrible nightmare - of falling downstairs. But does she fall? Or is she pushed?
Then Kirsty discovers that her grandma died falling downstairs and she begins to wonder: is the dream hinting at a dark secret in her family? She has to know the truth. But tracking a murderer is a dangerous game, and as she delves into the past, Kirsty uncovers a secret more terrible than anything she can imagine.
A terrifying read from one of today’s master storytellers.
WINNER OF THE SHEFFIELD CHILDREN’S BOOK AWARD FOR BEST SHORTER NOVEL
‘Cleverly put together - funny as well as gripping’ Sunday Times
ISBN: 978 0 552 55590
Table of Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Other titles by Robert Swindells
1. Martha
2. Scott
3. Martha
4. Scott
5. Martha
6. Scott
7. Martha
8. Scott
9. Martha
10. Scott
11. Scott
12. Martha
13. Unlucky for Some
14. Martha
15. Scott
16. Martha
17. Scott
18. Martha
19. Scott
20. Martha
21. Scott
22. Martha
23. Martha
24. Scott
25. Martha
26. Scott
27. Martha
28. Scott
29. Martha
30. Scott
31. Martha
32. Scott
33. Martha
34. Martha
35. Scott
36. Martha
37. Scott
38. Martha
39. Scott
40. Martha
41. Scott
42. Martha
43. Martha
44. Scott
45. Martha
46. Scott
47. Martha
48. Martha
49. Scott
50. Martha
51. Martha
52. Scott
53. Martha
54. Scott
55. Scott
56. Martha
57. Scott
58. Martha
59. Scott
60. Martha, Mary, Jim, Annette
About the Author
Table of Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Other titles by Robert Swindells
1. Martha
2. Scott
3. Martha
4. Scott
5. Martha
6. Scott
7. Martha
8. Scott
9. Martha
10. Scott
11. Scott
12. Martha
13. Unlucky for Some
14. Martha
15. Scott
16. Martha
17. Scott
18. Martha
19. Scott
20. Martha
21. Scott
22. Martha
23. Martha
24. Scott
25. Martha
26. Scott
27. Martha
28. Scott
29. Martha
30. Scott
31. Martha
32. Scott
33. Martha
34. Martha
35. Scott
36. Martha
37. Scott
38. Martha
39. Scott
40. Martha
41. Scott
42. Martha
43. Martha
44. Scott
45. Martha
46. Scott
47. Martha
48. Martha
49. Scott
50. Martha
51. Martha
52. Scott
53. Martha
54. Scott
55. Scott
56. Martha
57. Scott
58. Martha
59. Scott
60. Martha, Mary, Jim, Annette
About the Author