Abomination Page 8

  43. Martha

  ‘Where did you go yesterday evening, Martha?’ Father, at the breakfast table. What a jolt. Somebody must have seen me so there’d be no use denying it. ‘Old Grange Lane, Father. It’s green and quiet.’ I was praying I’d been spotted alone and not with Scott.

  ‘Green and quiet.’ I was amazed by the softness of his tone. A year ago he’d have been round the table with the rod in his hand. As it was, he remained in his place and there was no sign of any cane. Mother was ladling porridge into three bowls. She didn’t speak, or even look at me. I nodded. ‘I had to get outside, Father. A walk. Sometimes this house . . . does my head in.’ It wasn’t an expression I’d normally use. His eyebrows went up. ‘Well, I’m sorry the home your mother and I work hard to provide is not to your liking, Martha. We do the best that we can, with the Lord’s help. Did you by any chance . . . meet somebody in Old Grange Lane?’

  ‘No, Father.’ It wasn’t a lie. Not quite. I’d bumped into Scott on Taylor Hill.

  ‘So this house doesn’t do your head in to where you can’t help discussing family business with outsiders. That’s good.’ He leant forward, hands clasped on the table. ‘Nevertheless you will not repeat last night’s excursion or leave the house for any reason while your mother and I are absent. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Good.’ He sat back as Mother placed a steaming bowl in front of him. ‘Abomination seems more than ordinarily restless lately and needs constant attention.’

  ‘Perhaps he needs his mother.’ God knows what made me say it. I shouldn’t have, because it was probably that which made Mother drop the bowl she was carrying. It smashed on the tiles, spattering globs of porridge all over the kitchen.

  Father froze, the spoon halfway to his lips. ‘He has no mother, Martha. She died a long time ago.’

  I forced myself to meet his gaze. ‘No, Father, she did not. Her name is Mary, she’s my sister and she sends postcards. And if she knew we’d kept her baby in our cellar for six years I don’t know what she’d do.’

  44. Scott

  ‘Is anything the matter, Scott?’ Mum over cornflakes, looking concerned. Dad was gazing at me too.

  I shook my head. ‘No, why?’

  ‘You were making funny noises in the night, dear. Shouting things. It was obviously a nightmare so I came and woke you. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘No.’

  She chuckled. ‘You spoke to me, but you must still have been asleep.’

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘You won’t believe me if I tell you.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘All right. You sat up, gave me a really earnest look and said, It explains the Pampers though, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘You certainly did. Goodness knows what you were dreaming about.’

  ‘Did I say anything else?’

  ‘Not another word. I said, Yes, dear, I suppose it does, and you sank back into your pillow, fast asleep.’

  ‘Huh.’ I gazed into my bowl. ‘Funny things, dreams. I don’t remember anything about it.’ I did though. A dark place. Somebody looking for me. Hunting me. A kid, horribly deformed, in a cage. Couldn’t tell Mum about that though, could I?

  She looked at me. ‘It’s just that sometimes nightmares are brought on by worry, Scott. Your dad and I have noticed you looking a bit preoccupied lately, and we wondered . . .’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong, Mum. Honestly, I’m fine.’

  ‘What about school?’ asked Dad. ‘Any problems there, son?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Coping with the work, are you? Making friends? No bullying or anything like that?’

  ‘No. I told you, I’m fine.’

  ‘Because you know you can talk to us anytime, don’t you? About anything? We’re on your side no matter what. Remember that.’

  ‘I will, Dad. Thanks.’

  If only.

  45. Martha

  They kept me off school. I wouldn’t have minded except it was the first of May. It was the deadline for Hanglands money, and Stamper and Linfoot and silly Pritchard would think I was wagging off because of that. I didn’t try to explain this to Father because I knew it would make no difference. The truth is, he was scared, and so was Mother. I could see it in their eyes. They were terrified I might tell their secret. It’s a good job they didn’t know I’d already shared it with Scott.

  That was the other bad bit. Scott. I was supposed to be telling him today whether to try reaching Mary on the Internet. I’d thought it over and over in bed and decided yes, and now I couldn’t let him know. I wondered whether he’d go ahead anyway, and prayed he wouldn’t tell one of the teachers instead.

  I had to show where the postcards were, and of course they found my other stuff too. Father lost his temper and slapped my face. Mother said something to him on the stairs and he came back. I was curled up on the bed, crying. He sat down and started dabbing my tears with his hanky, murmuring that he was sorry. I felt like saying, Bring my stuff back if you’re sorry, but I didn’t. I didn’t say anything. After a while he shoved the hanky in my fist and went away. I could tell by the slow way he walked that he knew the game was up. What he didn’t know was that I’d give anything if the child could be helped without him and Mother being hurt. That I loved them, and that’s what made it hard.

  46. Scott

  When Martha didn’t turn up at school I was worried. What if her folks knew she’d let me into the house, told their secret? Maybe she’s a prisoner in that poky attic? Beatings? Bread and water?

  The kids made it heavy for me too. ‘I notice Raggedy-Ann’s wagged off,’ whispered Simon as Wheely was collecting the last of the Hanglands dosh. ‘Couldn’t face the shame, I expect.’ He pretended he was talking to Tracy but he was watching my face. I kept it blank, fishing stuff out of my bag.

  Stamper nodded. ‘I bet if you could sew fivers her mum’d have made her some.’ The whole table laughed except me.

  ‘Right,’ spluttered Linfoot. ‘They’d be twice as thick as real ones, with loose threads and crooked edges.’

  ‘And nearly the right colour, but not quite,’ added Thelma Rigsby.

  Oh, they thought it was a great joke. Really funny. I ignored them.

  I hoped she’d show up at lunchtime but she didn’t. I’d brought sandwiches so we could talk and I ended up eating next to Felicity Wardle who said, ‘Girlfriend wagged off, eh, Snotty?’

  ‘Shut your gob, zit-features.’ Not like me, that. I don’t call people names, but I’d had enough and besides, I needed to think.

  I couldn’t get that kid out of my head. A kid in a cage. Still in a cage when a word from me would free him. Fools rush in, Dad says. In other words, mind your own business, but a kid in a cage – shouldn’t that be everybody’s business?

  I thought maybe I’d bump into her on my way home, but I didn’t. She’s locked up, I told myself. If she was free she’d have found a way to see me.

  Straight after tea I went upstairs and switched on my computer. I’d convinced myself Martha would have said yes, and anyway I’d no choice. People who’ll keep a baby in a cellar for six years might do anything, and Martha was at their mercy. I’d already posted a message on the TRAVEL message-board, but there’d been no response. I decided the cyber cafés offered a better chance. Mary’s last card had been posted in Birmingham and there was a cyber café – the Café Surf – in that city. Maybe someone who knew Mary was a regular there. Maybe.

  I wrote a new message:

  Will anyone who knows Mary Dewhurst, born in Scratchley but last heard of in Birmingham England, please ask her to e-mail SCOXON 881 @ AOL.COM for urgent news about a certain six-year-old child

  I hoped she was using her real name. I thought I’d better not put her child in case she didn’t want her friends to know she had a child. Six-year-old would do the trick – she’d know which child I was on about, if she ever got the message.

  Big if.

  47. Mar
tha

  ‘You know, Martha, we couldn’t get in touch with that . . . with Mary, even if we wanted to.’ Thursday morning, doing the breakfast things. Her washing, me wiping. Father had slipped out to call at the office. ‘She’s never let us have her address, as any decent daughter would.’

  ‘Can you wonder, Mother?’ I clattered teaspoons into the drawer. ‘You called her Jezebel, made her leave her baby, drove her out. This is the first time you’ve spoken her real name, and the kid doesn’t even have one – Abomination’s not a name.’

  ‘He’ll get a name when he’s baptized, Martha. We haven’t been able to arrange that up to now because . . .’

  ‘Because you daren’t let the Righteous know he exists.’ I folded and hung the tea-towel. ‘What about the truth, Mother? The truth shall set you free, but the three of us have been lying for years and years.’

  She tipped the washing-up water down the sink and wiped the drainer with the dishcloth. ‘You don’t understand, Martha. They’d have driven Mary out anyway. The Righteous, I mean.’

  ‘Would they? That’s not very Christian. I thought we were supposed to love one another.’

  ‘Love the sinner, hate the sin. That’s our way.’

  ‘Oh, you mean we show our love for sinners by turning our back on them?’

  ‘They have to repent, Martha. Express regret. Jesus said go, and sin no more. Your sister showed no regret, only defiance. She made it pretty plain she’d no intention of mending her ways. Refused even to name the child’s father.’

  ‘She might have had a good reason, Mother.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ She peeled off rubber gloves, stacked them behind the taps. ‘Your sister is no good, Martha. No good. You tell somebody about that child, and all that’ll happen is they’ll come and cart him off to some orphanage or other, and you’ll have to go too because your father and I will be in prison. Is that what you want?’

  I shook my head. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then keep quiet, child. It’s not lying, it’s keeping ourselves to ourselves. Your father and I have prayed about this, and the Lord has showed us how the child might soon be baptized and live a normal life.’

  ‘Normal?’ I looked at her. ‘You mean like you? Like me? Is that what you think of as normal, because I don’t. I’ve been bullied, Mother. Laughed at all my life because of the way we live. These stupid clothes. If that’s all he’s got to look forward to he might as well stay in the cellar.’

  ‘Martha.’ She held out her arms towards me but it was too late.

  I shook my head, turned away. ‘I’m off, Mother. Off to school. I don’t want anything bad to happen to Father or you but something’s got to be done and it will be.’ I stumbled, half-blind with tears, out into the bright May morning.

  48. Martha

  The buzzer went just as I came through the gate, so there wasn’t time to speak to Scott.

  ‘Where were you yesterday, Martha?’ goes Wheelwright.

  ‘Sir, my mother needed me at home.’

  ‘Have you brought a note?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Tomorrow, Martha, without fail. All right?’

  ‘Sir.’

  Stamper leaned across. ‘Mummy send you out collecting rags, did she, for your summer outfit?’

  ‘You’re ugly, Tracy Stamper,’ I hissed. ‘Your posh uniform can’t hide that.’ I was amazed to hear the words coming out of my mouth. I don’t know how I dared. The others were startled too, including Scott. His mouth fell open, then he gave me a look that made my heart soar.

  ‘That’s you told, Stamper,’ he chuckled, ‘and she’s right. You’ve a face like a bulldog chewing broken glass.’

  You should have seen her. Talk about furious. ‘You wait, Rags,’ she spat. ‘You just wait till break.’

  She didn’t do anything at break. Never came near, and we weren’t standing outside the staffroom window. Couldn’t get the gang to join her, maybe.

  ‘Scott,’ I said, ‘we’ve got to find Mary. I want you to use the Internet.’

  ‘I already have. I’m trying the cyber cafés, and if that fails I’ll post a spam.’

  ‘Spam?’

  ‘Yeah. Means posting the same message to loads of different newsgroups. You’re not supposed to do it but this is an emergency. I also wondered if the Beeb might put out one of those S.O.S. messages. You know . . . Will Charlie Farnsbarns, last heard of five million years ago in Outer Mongolia, please go to the Tracy Stamper hospital for the terminally ugly, where his mother . . .’

  ‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘Not the radio, Scott. My parents listen. Other Righteous. It’d get back. Better stick to the Internet – Righteous don’t surf.’

  He grinned. ‘Just walk on water, eh?’

  He wanted us to meet around seven. I shook my head. ‘I can’t. Somebody saw me, Tuesday night. Split on me to Father.’

  ‘What happened? Did he . . .?’

  ‘No. He’s stopped beating me, Scott. He’s scared I’ll tell somebody about the kid, but all the same I’d rather stay home evenings till we’ve got this sorted.’

  ‘OK. I’ll check the Net. What d’you want me to say if Mary gets in touch?’

  ‘Tell her it’s Martha, only spell it Marfa . . . M-A-R-F-A. It’s her pet name for me, so she’ll know it’s genuine. Say her kid’s in a cage in our cellar, and to come rescue him any weekday evening after seven or we get the police.’

  He nodded. ‘OK. We’ll talk some more at lunchtime. And hey?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was terrific, the way you came back at Stamper. I really enjoyed it.’ He grinned. ‘Marfa.’

  49. Scott

  When someone’s e-mailed you, Joanna Lumley’s voice says you’ve got post. It didn’t happen that Thursday teatime so I switched off and went out for a think. It was a warm, sunny evening and there were about a thousand people in Old Grange Lane so I went to the park and walked beside the river. There were plenty of people there too but I sort of screened them out. I felt like my head might burst with all the stuff going round and round inside it.

  Mostly it was Martha. I think I loved her. I mean, it was obvious I liked her a lot, but surely you don’t think about somebody every minute of the day and night just because you like them. I’d left good friends in Birmingham and, yes, I thought about them sometimes, but not like this. This was getting to be kind of an obsession. I’ll tell you what I mean. I was by myself right now, walking along the riverbank thinking, and all the time I was talking to Martha. I don’t mean aloud. I wasn’t walking along talking to someone invisible like crazies sometimes do, but I was imagining her there beside me and we were having this silent conversation. I was talking to her in a way I’d never dare do if she were really there. Martha, I’ve fallen in love with you. I know you’re going to say we’re only twelve, but it’s true. I just think about you all the time. I want to look after you. Stuff like that. It made me groan to think what Mum and Dad would say if they knew the state I was in. Life wouldn’t be worth living.

  Then there was the kid. Six years old and still in Pampers. What did he look like? He sounded like a wild animal the night I heard him through the door. What did Martha have to do when she looked after him? What, exactly? I’ve got a vivid imagination and I made myself feel sick thinking about it.

  Why had I got involved anyway? If I’d joined everybody else in chasing Martha instead of making her my friend, I wouldn’t know anything about her. Or Mary. Or the kid in a cage. I’d be off somewhere with my mates, enjoying myself, not traipsing along the riverbank like a loony, talking to someone who wasn’t there. Fools rush in, Dad said. I was beginning to think he was right.

  There was one bright spot. Tomorrow was Friday, and next Monday was the May Bank Holiday. Three days without school. I might see her Saturday at Asda, and Monday she might be able to . . .

  There I go again. Oh, heck.

  50. Martha

  Any weekday evening after seven. God. We were talking about a kid’s life,
and it sounded like one of those notices you see when someone’s selling a house. I thought it’d save hassle if our parents weren’t there when she came, that’s all.

  Talking of selling houses, there was a shock waiting for me when I got home. I walked in the kitchen and there was Mother shoving stuff in cardboard boxes. Knives. Ornaments. Pots and pans. Boxes all over the floor. I said, ‘What . . .?’

  ‘Moving.’ She slid a full box aside and stooped for an empty one. ‘Thanks to you.’

  ‘What d’you mean, moving?’ I could hear Father crashing about upstairs. ‘How can we? What about . . .?’ I nodded towards the cellar.

  ‘We’ll manage.’ She was stuffing oven-gloves and tea-towels in the box. ‘We’ll have to, and it’s all your fault. You and that . . . what’s his name . . . Scott.’

  ‘Scott? Why Scott? He hasn’t . . .’

  ‘You’ve been getting far too close to him, Martha. Your father tried to warn you but you wouldn’t listen. We’re different. Chosen. It doesn’t do for us to mix with those who don’t understand our ways. They make trouble for us. We have to go, now, before it’s too late.’

  ‘N . . . now?’ Dread gripped me. ‘You mean today? We’re off today ? What about school? Father’s work? Where will we live ?’

  She swung the box on to a stack, grabbed another. ‘It’s a pity you didn’t ask yourself all these questions a few weeks ago, child. Father’s transferred to his company’s Wharton branch and found a house to rent, so we’ll live in Wharton. As for school . . .’

  ‘But Wharton’s miles away. Fifty miles at least. I can’t be fifty miles away from . . . away from . . .’

  ‘That boy?’ She scoffed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Martha. You’re twelve years old. A little girl. When I was your age I played with dolls and crayons, not boys. You’ll forget him in a week, and quite right.’