Abomination Page 5

  I can never rescue a card in the morning, because I leave the house before my parents. What I do is, I wait till evening when I have the place to myself. By then, the card might have porridge on it, or fish-skin or gravy. It’s a messy job retrieving it, though not nearly as revolting as cleaning up after Abomination.

  This one was from Wolverhampton. It was a picture of a church – St Wulfruna’s – and it was addressed to me. This is what it said:

  Dearest Marfa,

  It seems ages since I wrote. No – I haven’t moved again, poppet. Wolverhampton is close to Birmingham, so Annette and I come here sometimes on Saturdays, for a change. Can I still call you poppet, by the way? You must be quite a big girl by now. I often wonder what’s happening to you, and to a certain other person, though I’ll never know about that. Are you happy, Marfa? It’s not easy to be happy.

  All my love,

  Mary

  It’s not easy to be happy. Does that mean Mary’s unhappy? I don’t see how it can. She’s free, and she’s got Annette. Like I’ve got Scott. If this card had come last week I’d have said, No, Mary, I’m not happy, but now the answer is yes, yes, yes. I lie on my bed, sending this joyful answer to my sister. She must be picking up my signals, or why would a card come just as I’m wishing I could tell her about Scott? I concentrate, sending I’ve got a friend, I’ve got a friend, over and over.

  I don’t go out. When I finish transmitting I clean up Mary’s card, mend it with sellotape and put it under the floor with the others. I’ve got thirty-two now. It’ll be a bit sad if she keeps sending them after I’ve gone, won’t it?

  24. Scott

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘You know that girl at school, Martha?’

  ‘Ye-es.’ She says it like I’m about to say we’re getting married. It’s Tuesday night. Dad’s out. I’ve been dreading talking to Mum about Martha, but there’s stuff I need to know and I can’t wait any longer.

  ‘Her dad beats her.’

  Mum looks up from the Radio Times. ‘Beats her? How do you know, Scott?’

  ‘She told me. And she’s not allowed out at night, and she daren’t bring anyone home.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Mum pulls a face. ‘I must say she looked a bit like that when I saw her through the window last week.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Downcast, I suppose. Thin and pale, and those clothes . . .’

  I nodded. ‘They pick on her at school, Mum, because of her clothes. She belongs to this church – the Righteous. She has a rotten time.’ I looked at her. ‘It’s against the law, isn’t it, beating someone?’

  Mum nodded. ‘Yes, Scott, I believe it is.’

  ‘So can’t we do something, Mum? Tell someone? I feel really sorry for her.’

  Mum nodded. ‘I can tell you do, darling, but it’s difficult . . . I mean, you can’t go barging into other people’s lives just because they’re different from yours.’ She sighed. ‘You see, Martha may be exaggerating, Scott. Dramatizing herself. Girls do, sometimes. If her parents belong to a strict religious sect, her life will be different from most kids’ lives and she may be unhappy about that, but this beating business isn’t bound to be true. It could be a story she tells to get sympathy.’

  ‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘No it’s not, Mum, I can tell. I’ve seen her folks – we drove past them on Wentworth Road. They’re seriously weird. They chucked her sister out of the house years ago, for practically nothing. Isn’t there anything you and Dad could do?’

  Mum looked at me. ‘Those scratches you came home with the other day. It wasn’t a game at all, was it? You got them defending Martha, didn’t you?’

  I nodded, staring at the carpet, feeling myself go red. How do parents know stuff like that? ‘Yes.’

  She sighed. ‘Well it was very brave of you, Scott, and I’m glad you’ve befriended this poor girl, but I don’t see how your dad and I can interfere. I mean – it might help if we could meet her. If you were to bring her home so we could talk to her. Get to know her a bit.’

  I shook my head. ‘I can’t, Mum. I told you – she doesn’t get out. And anyway she wouldn’t talk. She’s scared. Her dad doesn’t like her talking to people.’

  ‘How sad. Well.’ Mum shrugged. ‘You must go on being kind to her, Scott, and hope things sort themselves out.’ She smiled. ‘They usually do, you know, in the end.’

  Thanks, Mum. Thanks a bunch.

  25. Martha

  The kids weren’t bothering me as much now that Mr Kilroy was looking out for bullies, but there was one place he couldn’t go and that’s where they got me.

  The girls’ toilet, Wednesday afternoon. I was sitting in one of the cubicles, giving Scott time to walk past Killer without me when I heard whispering, then the sound of a tap running. Somebody counted softly: one, two, three, then GO ! and water came flying over the door and under it at the same time. I couldn’t dodge. One lot landed in my lap, the other drenched my socks and shoes. My gasp was followed by whoops of laughter and somebody started hammering on the door while several voices chanted, Raggedy-Ann, Raggedy-Ann, wet her knickers in the can! I leapt up and tried to dash the water off my skirt but it was no use. I was soaked. ‘Come on out, Ma,’ yelled Tracy Stamper, ‘unless you want another shower.’

  I had no choice. I slid back the catch and came out and they jeered and pointed and shoved me around. There were four of them. Stamper of course, and Thelma Rigsby and Gemma Horton and Felicity Wardle. Raggedy-Ann, Raggedy-Ann, wet her knickers in the can! A few stragglers had stopped and were looking at me, nudging one another and smirking. They hadn’t been there when the water was thrown. They thought it was true, what Stamper and them were chanting. ‘I didn’t!’ I cried. ‘It was them. They did it.’ I was nearly crying, but if anybody believed me they didn’t show it. They booed and guffawed and turned away, drifting out into the yard. Soon, only the bullies were left.

  ‘OK, Ma.’ Stamper grabbed the collar of my blouse and slammed me against the wall. ‘Say this after me. I’m a dirty little slut.’

  I shook my head. ‘No.’

  She tightened her grip till I was nearly choking. ‘Say it.’

  ‘No.’

  She turned her head. ‘Fliss – more water.’ Felicity Wardle filled a paper cup and brought it towards me, grinning. I struggled, but I couldn’t get free. Felicity slotted the cup into Stamper’s free hand and she stretched up and emptied it over my head. The water ran through my hair, down my face and into my blouse. Stamper let go my collar, stepped back and drove her fist as hard as she could into my stomach. It was like being hit by a truck. Everything went grey. I doubled up and fell to the floor where I lay like a comma, gasping and moaning. ‘Come on,’ growled Stamper and they walked away, leaving me to manage the best way I could.

  When I finally got up I had to be sick into one of the basins. I rinsed it round and trailed outside. The yard was deserted but Scott was waiting by the shelter. He stared.

  ‘What the heck’s happened, Martha? You’re wet through. Who . . .?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ My stomach still hurt like anything. ‘I’ve got to go. Listen.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Meet me tonight, seven o’clock.’

  ‘Where? I thought . . .’

  ‘End of Dinsdale Rise. Can you make it?’

  ‘Sure, but you look awful. I think I should walk you home.’

  ‘No.’ I pushed him away. ‘I’ll be all right. See you at seven.’

  I don’t know why I did it. Arrange to meet him I mean. Must’ve been a brainstorm. Or a message from Mary, carried on the wind. Be brave. Be brave. Be brave. Anyway I’d done it and that was that. I know it sounds like a lie, but I felt better straight away. The ache left my stomach, and by the time I’d walked up Taylor Hill my clothes were almost dry. I could hardly wait for dinner to be over and my parents to leave. Abomination seemed to be in a docile mood. I prayed it might continue.

  26. Scott


  I was there at ten to. I’d told my folks I was meeting someone, but didn’t say who. We were halfway through April and it was light till quite late. They weren’t worried.

  She was five minutes early, and had on the same shapeless grey dress she’d worn to Asda. ‘Hi,’ she smiled. ‘What d’you want to do?’

  I hadn’t really thought about it. Our meeting was her idea and I’d assumed she had something in mind. ‘Why don’t we just walk,’ I suggested, ‘and talk.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Well – you could start by telling me what happened at hometime.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ She pulled a face. ‘Stamper and her mates chucked water over me in the bog and I got a punch in the stomach. I threw up, but I’m OK now.’

  ‘That Stamper’s a total veg.’ I didn’t know what else to say. I turned into Old Grange Lane which is long and narrow with trees that meet overhead, like walking through a dim green tunnel. Couples like to park there after dark, but we had it to ourselves now.

  ‘I didn’t know this was here,’ she said. ‘It’s nice.’

  I nodded. ‘Yeah. Discovered it the day after we moved here. Leaves weren’t out then.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You . . . managed to get out, then?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes.’

  ‘Only you said you couldn’t. Ever.’

  ‘I know, and it was true. I’ll get in awful trouble if Father finds out, but I’m trying to be brave, like Mary.’ She smiled. ‘Mary sent a message, you see. Be brave.’

  ‘Didn’t your folks see it?’

  She chuckled. ‘It wasn’t that sort of message, Scott. It came through the air, from Mary’s mind to mine.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘No, I mean it. I’ve been sending to her since I was six. Now she’s sending back.’

  I shook my head. ‘You’re barmy, Martha, d’you know that?’

  She shrugged with a dreamy smile. ‘Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. Anyway I’ve decided to be more like my sister, if only to spite Father.’ She laughed. ‘Jezebel, he calls her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘After Jezebel in the Bible, of course.’

  ‘Why – what did she do?’

  Martha glanced at me. ‘She was a fornicator, Scott. Surely you know the story?’

  ‘No. Never heard of her.’ I grinned. ‘I know what a fornicator is though. They come here by the million at night, in cars.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘Seen ’em. Lovers’ Lane, the locals call it. They’ll start rolling up in an hour.’

  ‘We better go, then.’

  I nodded. ‘Why don’t I take you to my place, Martha? We could have a Coke and you’d meet my parents.’

  She shook her head. ‘I daren’t. They’d think I was your girlfriend or something.’

  ‘Would they heck. And what if they did? I don’t care.’

  ‘I do though. I’d die.’

  ‘Rubbish. You’ll like Mum, she’s really nice, and I think Dad’ll be out.’ I smiled. ‘Not that Dad’s not nice too. I’m not saying that. So why don’t we, Martha, eh? Say yes.’ I really wanted her to agree, so Mum could start helping her.

  We’d stopped. She stared out across a field that had cows in it. I waited. She was chewing her bottom lip. After a bit she nodded. ‘All right,’ she murmured, ‘I’ll come, but I mustn’t stay long. I want to be home by eight and it’s a fair way.’

  ‘Magic!’ We turned and began retracing our steps. Mostly I was glad, but I knew Mum and Dad would wind me up mercilessly afterwards for bringing a girl home. I tried not to think about it.

  27. Martha

  ‘Mum, this is Martha.’

  ‘Oh . . . hello, Martha. You and Scott are on the same table at school, is that right?’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Coxon. Yes, that’s right. He sometimes lends me his ruler.’ What a stupid thing to say, but I was really nervous.

  Mrs Coxon chuckled. ‘So the ruler brought the two of you together, eh?’

  ‘Oh, we’re not together, Mrs Coxon. Not like . . .’ I felt my cheeks burn. Goodness knows what I’d have said if Scott hadn’t interrupted.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ he said.

  Mrs Coxon frowned. ‘Martha and I are talking, Scott. Your dad’s gone over to Brian’s to look at his new computer.’

  ‘Sorry, Mum.’

  He’d got me off the hook though. Mrs Coxon took my jacket and showed me where to sit. Scott sat beside me at the kitchen table, but not too close. His mother hung my jacket in the hallway, then brought Cokes from the fridge and a plate of Kit-Kats. As the two of us sipped and nibbled she bustled about the kitchen, lobbing questions to keep the conversation going.

  ‘So, Martha, what do you like to do in your spare time? Are you a TV and computer freak like Scott?’

  ‘No. We haven’t got a TV or a computer, Mrs Coxon. I have jobs to do in the house, and I read quite a lot.’

  ‘Hmm. I wish we could get Scott interested in books.’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps your influence will rub off on him, eh?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I was looking round her kitchen. It was gorgeous, like a kitchen in a magazine. I’m going to have one just like it someday. Light, bright and shiny. No cold tiles. No dark corners.

  ‘What d’you read, dear? Point Horror, Sweet Valley High ? Or are you into fanzines?’ She was unloading the dishwasher. At our house, I’m the dishwasher. I shook my head.

  ‘I’m not allowed books like that, Mrs Coxon. Or magazines. I’ve got Arthur Ransome and Enid Blyton and a lot of school stories, and Little Women. When I was younger I read Alice in Wonderland. That was my favourite. And I read the Bible.’

  ‘Very good. I had Alice too, and Little Women, but I liked the Nancy Drew stories best. Did you ever come across her, Martha? Nancy Drew, girl detective?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I looked at Scott. ‘They’re not in the school library, are they?’

  He shrugged. ‘Dunno. They sound like girl’s books. I read Pete Johnson’s, when I read at all.’ He grinned. ‘The Internet’s my thing. Dead educational, though Mum doesn’t think so, do you, Mum?’

  His mother sighed. ‘I can’t see how talking to some lad in Florida about favourite rock bands is going to help with your GCSEs, Scott. There is educational material on the Net, but I don’t notice you downloading it.’

  ‘No, well, a guy’s got to have fun sometime, Mum.’ He chuckled. ‘Curling up with Nancy Drew just wouldn’t do it for me and anyway, was she the reason you got eight O-levels or whatever?’

  ‘It’s hard to say, dear, but going to sleep at half past nine after a chapter certainly made me brighter next day than if I’d sat up half the night surfing the Net.’

  She was really nice, Scott’s mum. Talked to us like equals, you know? Asked sensible questions and actually listened to our answers. Not like Mother, quoting the Bible every two minutes, showing no interest in anything that goes on outside the house or church. I could have sat there for ever but I left at twenty to eight. Mrs Coxon offered to run me home – she has her own car – but I didn’t dare let her, and I didn’t dare let Scott walk me either. I hurried away along Dinsdale Rise and it felt like leaving the real world behind and descending into the twilight zone.

  Because that’s what my parents’ house is. Their house, and their life. The twilight zone.

  28. Scott

  So, Mum – what d’you think?’ We’d watched Martha go out of sight before closing the door.

  Mum smiled. ‘I think she’s a very nice girl, darling. Bit shy, but that’s to be expected if she hardly goes out.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. D’you think she’s the sort to tell lies?’

  Mum shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Scott. She was only here forty-five minutes, for goodness sake.’

  ‘I know, but you must’ve got some idea. Can you see her lying to get sympathy?’

  ‘No dear, I can’t. As far as it’s possible to tell, I’d say she answered my questions with
the plain, unvarnished truth.’

  ‘So you’ll help her?’

  ‘Oh, Scott!’ Mum treated me to her exasperated sigh. ‘I don’t know what you think I can do. Obviously Martha’s unhappy at home and it’s easy to see why. She’s not allowed to do the sorts of things other children do. She doesn’t have the possessions most children take for granted. Most children in our society, I mean. And the poor creature must stick out like a sore thumb at school, if her uniform’s anything like that thing she had on this evening. Her parents must be deeply insensitive but you see, that’s not a crime, and unless they’re breaking the law there’s nothing anybody can do.’

  ‘Beating her’s illegal.’

  ‘I know, dear, but there’s no proof. If your dad and I went to the police and told them the Dewhursts beat their daughter, the first thing they’d ask for was proof. When we said we had none, they’d refuse to act.’

  ‘Well . . . would it be proof if Martha told them?’

  ‘I doubt it. She’d have to show the marks or something.’ Mum looked at me. ‘You see, that’s another thing. If she’s beaten as she claims, I’m surprised someone at school hasn’t noticed marks on her body. A PE mistress, perhaps.’

  I shook my head. ‘Doesn’t make her a liar. Maybe her rotten dad’s smart enough not to leave marks.’

  Mum nodded. ‘You may be right, dear, but the problem remains. Nobody can do anything without proof of wrongdoing, no matter how sorry they feel.’

  I was mad. Really mad. Mum’d asked me to bring Martha home and I had, and now here she was saying she couldn’t help anyway. I felt like going berserk. Smashing something, but I didn’t. I just looked at her and said, ‘I’ll find a way to help her, Mum. Proof or no proof.’ I wished I felt as cool as I sounded.