Abomination Read online

  29. Martha

  I was home by five past eight. Nearly two hours to spare. It was dusk and everything looked the same. No fire-engines. Nothing stuffed through the letter-box. No neighbour waiting to ask about the peculiar sounds coming from our cellar. I could probably have stayed longer at Scott’s. I wished I had. I checked on Abomination, then continued my campaign of rebellion with an hour of Radio One. I danced to the music because I felt like it. Nothing – not even the fact that this house was a dungeon – could make me sad tonight. Just after nine I switched off, re-tuned the set and went up to my room. Nine’s my bedtime. If either of my parents comes home and catches me downstairs, I’m in trouble.

  Next morning Mr Wheelwright mentioned the Hanglands Expedition. It was a day I’d been dreading because there was no chance of Father letting me go. All the kids knew. I could feel them watching me as Wheelie told us the money had to be in by the first of May. Seventy pounds. ‘Hands up those who are definitely going.’ He did a quick count. ‘Right. Hands up those who think they’ll be going.’ Another count. ‘Uh-huh. Anybody definitely not going?’ Slowly I raised my hand. It was the only one. Wheelie nodded and scribbled something on his pad. Tracy Stamper kicked my ankle. ‘Never mind, Rags. You never know – your folks might win the Lottery.’ The rest of the table sniggered, except Scott, who gave Stamper a dirty look and me a quick smile.

  At break Scott said, ‘I wish you were coming to Hanglands, Martha. It won’t be the same without you.’

  I shook my head. ‘Nobody else thinks that, Scott. They’re glad I’m not going.’

  ‘They’d probably rather I didn’t, come to that.’ He pulled a face. ‘I’ve a good mind to drop out.’

  ‘No, don’t. Not for me. It’s nice of you, but I don’t want you to.’

  He shrugged. ‘Well, we’ll see.’

  I smiled. ‘It was great last night. Your mum’s terrific.’

  Scott frowned. ‘She’s OK I suppose.’

  ‘OK?’ I laughed. ‘You’re really lucky, Scott. Nice home, normal parents. I wish I lived at your house.’

  ‘Huh! You’d soon see the other side of Mum and Dad if you did, Martha.’ He grinned. ‘Nothing to stop you coming tonight though. We could finish those Kit-Kats.’

  I shook my head. ‘Better not, two days on the trot. Your mum’ll think I’m your girlfriend.’

  Scott nodded. ‘She does already, so you might as well come.’

  ‘I daren’t. Not tonight. I will come again soon though, I promise.’

  ‘Well, how about me coming to your house?’

  ‘My house?’ I shook my head. ‘It’s impossible. I told you – I’m not allowed to bring anyone home, let alone a boy.’

  ‘Who’d know, with your folks out working?’

  ‘It’s not just that, Scott. Our house is awful. Cold and dark, with no nice things in it. If you saw it you’d stop being my friend.’

  ‘Would I heck! I don’t care about your house, Martha. It’s not yours anyway, it’s theirs. I want to see where you live, so I can think of you there whenever I want to.’

  ‘Well . . .’ I sighed. ‘I’ll think about it, all right?’ He smiled. ‘Fair enough. And in the meantime I’m going to have a word with Dad about Hanglands.’

  I looked at him. ‘What about it?’

  He winked. ‘You’ll have to wait and see.’

  30. Scott

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘You know that girl at school – Martha?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Dad lowered his newspaper and gave me an amused look. ‘Your mother told me you brought a girl home. Starting a bit young, aren’t you? When I was twelve I was only interested in aeroplanes.’

  I should’ve known he’d say something like that. I shook my head. ‘She’s not my girlfriend or anything, Dad. We’re just friends, and I . . .’

  ‘Oooh ah!’ He looked across at Mum. ‘Heard that one before, haven’t we, love – just good friends?’ Mum chuckled.

  ‘Well, it’s true.’ They were getting to me, probably because I wasn’t sure myself that Martha was just a friend. I certainly spent more time thinking about her than any friend I’d had before. I tried again. ‘The thing is, she’s the only kid in Year Eight who’s not off to Hanglands and I don’t think it’s fair, just because her parents won’t give her the money, and I was wondering if we . . . if you could pay for her, Dad.’

  Dad’s grin faded. He folded his paper, slid it on to the coffee table and looked at me. ‘Son,’ he said, ‘that’s not the way it works. People have reasons for the decisions they take, and they have their pride, too. This girl’s parents might have a perfectly good reason for not wanting her to go to Hanglands.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe they’re frightened she’ll have an accident, canoeing or abseiling or something. It might have nothing to do with the money and even if it has, imagine how they’d feel if some other kid’s parents offered to pay. If they couldn’t afford it they’d feel ashamed, and if they were just being stingy they’d feel angry.’ He shook his head. ‘There’s an old saying, Scott. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, and I’m afraid this is a case in point. It doesn’t do to rush in, interfering in other people’s lives. They won’t like you for it, and you may end up doing more harm than good.’

  I could have given him an argument. I could have said, I thought we were supposed to help one another, but I didn’t. I know my dad. Once he’s made his mind up, that’s it. I was just glad I hadn’t told Martha beforehand. That’d have been an even bigger bummer.

  31. Martha

  A favourite saying of Mother’s is Ask, and ye shall receive, so I decided to try it out. I wouldn’t have done it a few weeks ago but this was the new Martha. Martha, the sister of Mary and the special friend of Scott. Even so, I waited till Father had gone.

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘What is it, Martha?’ She was getting ready for work.

  ‘It’s the Hanglands Expedition soon, and Mr Wheelwright wants the money in by the first of May.’ I said it as though I fully expected to go.

  She stopped in the middle of buttoning her cardigan. ‘Why are you telling me about the Hanglands Expedition when you know full well we can’t allow you to go? Who do you think would look after the house, see to Abomination, while your father and I were at work?’

  ‘It’s only three days, Mother.’

  ‘Only three?’ She snorted. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t care to ask your father to take only three days off work so you can go, would you?’

  ‘I thought . . . you might stay home, Mother. Just this once.’

  ‘Oh you did, did you? You thought I might not mind losing twenty-four pounds in wages and forking out whatever ridiculous sum they’d want for teaching you how to paddle a canoe? It’s going to be really useful to you in your adult life isn’t it, knowing how to slide down a cliff? People will be queueing up to employ you.’

  I shook my head. ‘It doesn’t matter, Mother. I didn’t really expect to be allowed to go, even though you’ve often said to me, Ask, and ye shall receive. At least I know that’s a nonstarter, don’t I?’

  She turned drip-white. Screamed at me. ‘Don’t you dare quote scripture at me, young woman. Wait till your father gets home – you’ll receive what you’ve asked for then all right.’

  I didn’t though. I didn’t receive. Oh, he came stamping up the stairs, muttering. Working himself into a temper, but I’d shoved my chest of drawers across the door. You should’ve heard the language. Satan would’ve blushed. He stamped back down at ten past ten, growling about what he’d do to me in the morning, but when the time came he didn’t do anything. I think Mother’s sensed something about me. Some change. I bet she told him to lay off. Well, I know things don’t I? Secrets. And I’m growing up. They can’t pray that away, or beat it out of me either. Time is on my side. That’s not in the Bible but it’s true. I bet if I pushed hard enough I’d even get to Hanglands, but I’m not bothered.

  Would you want to stand on the edge
of a cliff with twenty-eight kids who hate you?

  32. Scott

  Friday we fixed up to meet outside Asda, same as last week. ‘Remember I might not come,’ she warned. I felt sure she’d be there, but at twenty to ten Saturday morning I recognized her mother stumping across the car park under the dead rat she wears instead of a hat.

  It really peed me off, because it was drizzling and I’d been there half an hour. I’d planned on taking Martha to the library to check out the Nickelodeon studio. I could still go of course, but it wouldn’t be the same.

  I had a sudden daft idea, which was to follow Mrs Dewhurst round the supermarket. Don’t ask me why. Maybe I thought I could learn something about Martha’s home life by watching what the old bat chucked in her trolley, or perhaps I was just bored. Anyway I tailed her and grabbed a basket from the stack.

  I read once that the music they play in these places sort of hypnotizes customers so they pick things up without meaning to. They’re supposed to wander up and down the aisles in a trance and arrive at the checkout with a trolleyful of stuff they don’t remember choosing. I don’t know if it’s true but if it is, it certainly didn’t work on Martha’s mum. She shot through the place like a dose of salts, missing out the interesting aisles and grabbing maybe one item each from the boring ones. I could hardly keep up with her and I wasn’t buying. When she screeched to a halt at the checkout, her stuff only just covered the bottom of the trolley. Flour, sugar, lard, bag of spuds, washing powder, Pampers, oatmeal and soap. That was it. I’d dropped a bar of choc in my basket so I could queue behind her. Her coat was about four million years old and ponged of mothballs. To pay, she clawed coins out of a beat-up purse and counted them one by one into the girl’s hand. She had very thin legs, with sticky-out veins like worms hibernating in her stockings. When I got outside she’d gone.

  I didn’t go to the library. We’ve got a modem and surfing’s cheap at weekends, so I went home and wound up some woman in Florida. Told her I was a twenty-two-year-old brain surgeon with a Roller and a mansion in the country and she said how fascinating. Her name was Scarlett and her brain was OK, but she thought maybe I could help her in another way, because she was lonely. When I said I was really twelve she went off line without a goodbye. I sat gazing at the screen, wishing Martha was on the Internet.

  Fat chance.

  33. Martha

  Sunday morning, Pastor Fenwick preached to the text That every man should bear rule in his own house. It’s in the Book of Esther, and I don’t believe it was coincidence made him choose it right after my little rebellion. I suspect Father’d had a word in his ear. Anyway I had to sit for three quarters of an hour between my parents while the Pastor slagged off kids who disobey their fathers. There were other kids in church, but it felt like every word was aimed directly at me. When we got home, Father carried his tool-box up to my room. I could hear him banging and scraping about up there as I helped Mother prepare the meal. I was scared. I thought he might be prising up floorboards looking for my books, my Girl Talk mags and – especially – Mary’s postcards. I couldn’t even imagine what he’d do to me if he found I’d been hoarding those for the last five years.

  When he came down he put his tools away, rinsed his hands, blessed the food and started eating. I was pretty sure he hadn’t found anything, but anyway I went up there as soon as I could. The floor was OK and at first I couldn’t figure out what it was he’d done. Then I noticed the chest of drawers had been fixed to the wall with two L-shaped brackets. I checked and found he’d done the same to my wardrobe, my bedside unit and the bed itself. He keeps the key to my door lock, so there was now no way I could prevent his coming into my room. I didn’t mention it, either then or later, and neither did he, but it made me more determined than ever to leave this miserable dump the minute I turned sixteen. That this was four years in the future depressed the hell out of me, but perhaps as time went on things would get easier.

  Like they did for Esther.

  34. Martha

  An awful thing happened on Monday night. Mother had been gone about ten minutes and I was washing the dishes to the sound of Radio One when there was a knock at the door. I dried my hands on the tea-towel, switched off the radio and when I opened up Scott was on the step.

  ‘Surprise!’ There was a sheepish look behind his smile. I didn’t smile back. I was shocked for one thing, and for another he didn’t deserve a smile.

  ‘I told you not to come here,’ I hissed. ‘How’d you know I ’d answer and not Father?’

  ‘I watched him drive off, Martha. Saw your mum leave too. I’m not daft.’

  ‘You are, Scott. You are daft, or you wouldn’t be here.’ I glanced up and down the road. ‘You better go before somebody sees you.’

  ‘Nobody’d see me if I was inside, would they?’

  I shook my head. ‘I can’t . . . I’m not allowed to ask anyone in.’ I started to close the door. It was the last thing I wanted, to shut it in his face, but I was scared. It only needed someone from church to come by and that’d be that.

  He stuck his foot out. The door bounced off his Nike. I didn’t dare let him go on standing there. I stepped aside. ‘Come on then, quick.’ He came in. I closed the door, leaned my back against it and looked at him. ‘OK, you’re in. Now what?’

  He shrugged. ‘I dunno. I don’t have to stay long. I just wanted to see you . . . you know, where you live.’

  ‘Yes, well.’ I gestured at the dim hallway. ‘This is it. I told you it was horrible.’

  ‘It’s not horrible.’ He looked at me. ‘Do I get to see any more, or are we going to stay out here till it’s time for me to go?’

  ‘We can . . .’ I nodded towards the kitchen. ‘I was washing up. You can wipe if you want.’

  He glanced around the kitchen and nodded. ‘Nice. Sort of . . . old fashioned, you know – like a kitchen in a movie?’

  ‘Sure.’ I handed him the tea-towel. ‘The Addams Family.’ He didn’t contradict me, just looked embarrassed. I shoved my hands in the suds, wishing he hadn’t come.

  35. Scott

  I wiped the last item and hung the tea-towel on the rail. Martha was drying her hands. I could tell she was mad at me and I was embarrassed. The house – the bit I’d seen so far – was really grotty. Not dirty. I don’t mean that. I’m talking about dark paintwork, drab wallpaper and out-of-date fittings. There were no houseplants or flowers and yet there was an impression of clutter, of things chosen without care, crammed in corners and littering every surface. I knew that if I lived here I’d be seriously depressed without the bullying and the weird parents. No wonder she hadn’t wanted me to come.

  ‘D’you want to see my room?’ Her tone was leaden with resentment. I felt like saying no, it’s all right, I’ll leave now, but I didn’t want her to think I couldn’t wait to get out so I smiled and nodded.

  It was up two flights of stairs, the second flight dark, narrow and creaky. It was the sort of place where women get bludgeoned to death with brass candlesticks in old black and white movies and you don’t see the actual murder, just shadows on the wall. It smelled of damp.

  ‘This is it.’ I’m not kidding, the door squealed as she pushed it open. I saw a threadbare carpet and a grimy little window in the slope of the roof. The heavy furniture was fastened to the wall.

  ‘Cosy,’ I said. Well, what can you say?

  ‘Yeah, right.’ She indicated a wooden chair. ‘Sit down if you like.’ She sat on the bed and stared at the carpet.

  There was an awkward silence, which I broke by saying, ‘You don’t have posters or anything, then?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not allowed, unless you count that.’ I looked where she nodded. It was a framed text done in needlework. Thou, Lord, seest me.

  ‘Did you sew it yourself?’ I asked, for something to say.

  ‘No, my gran did, when she was a little girl.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I didn’t know how to keep the conversation going. Martha was ashamed of h
er home. I’d have felt the same if it were mine. I couldn’t comfort her.

  After a minute she brightened a bit and said, ‘I know – I’ll show you my secret stuff.’

  I frowned. ‘Secret stuff?’

  ‘Ah-ha.’ She got up and crossed to a corner of the room, where she knelt down and turned back the thin carpet. There was a loose floorboard. She lifted it, set it aside and started pulling stuff out of the hole. Four books. Some magazines. A rolled-up poster with a rubber band round it. A wad of postcards. She held up the postcards. ‘From Mary. She’s been everywhere. D’you want to look?’

  I didn’t. Not right then. I’d just remembered something from Saturday. Something odd. I shook my head. ‘Not just now. Martha?’

  ‘What?’ She twisted round to look at me, still on her knees.

  ‘Who were the Pampers for?’

  She turned away and began putting things back in the hole. ‘Pampers? I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Your mum bought Pampers at Asda.’

  ‘Disposable nappies?’ She was really busy, crouching over her hidey-hole. ‘She can’t have. And how would you know anyway?’

  ‘I tailed her, stood right behind her at the checkout.’

  She turned, the floorboard in her hands. ‘Why, Scott? Are you spying on my family or something?’

  I shrugged. ‘Not spying, no. I was curious, that’s all. And bored.’

  ‘Weird thing to do, follow somebody round Asda. I hope she didn’t notice you.’

  ‘Why should she, Martha? Your mum doesn’t know me from Adam.’

  ‘It’s just that if she thought . . . if she suspected I was seeing somebody at Asda, that’d be the end of my shopping expeditions.’