Abomination (11 page)

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.’

I shook my head. ‘No, I won’t. He’s the only friend I’ve ever had because of you. Because of the Righteous. I won’t forget him because I won’t go and you can’t make me. If you try, I’ll tell about the kid. I’ll tell Mr Cadbury, the police, everyone. I’ll tell Pastor Fenwick. You’ll be cast out of the congregation as sinners and you’ll both go to jail and I’ll be GLAD.’ My voice had risen and I screamed the word
glad
. Mother started towards me. I spun round to make a dash for the door and cried out. In the doorway, with a face like thunder crouched Father, his arms spread wide to catch me.

51. Martha

He locked me in my room. I kicked and wriggled all the way upstairs. ‘You can’t keep me locked up,’ I gasped. ‘Who’ll look after the kid when you and Mother are at work?’

It turned out we weren’t leaving till Tuesday. Something about the Bank Holiday weekend, but Father was owed some leave. He wouldn’t work again till he started at Wharton.

‘School,’ I tried. ‘You already kept me off Wednesday. If I don’t show up tomorrow, they’ll wonder what’s happening.

‘No, Martha, they won’t.’ He shoved me into the room. ‘I spoke to Mr Cadbury on the phone. Told him I was being transferred at short notice. You’ve left Southcott Middle, young woman.’

So that was that. He turned the key in the lock and went downstairs. I sat on the bed, dazed by the speed of events. Twenty-five minutes ago I’d said goodnight to Scott believing we’d meet first thing tomorrow. He was going to check the Net. Might have news in the morning, but now I wouldn’t be there. I’d never see him again.

Oh, I didn’t give up just like that. I tried to think of a way out. I’d heard of people picking locks and I searched for something to use. Something made of wire. I found a coathanger in my wardrobe, opened it out, made a little kink in one end and shoved it in the keyhole, but no matter how I jiggled and twisted it nothing happened.

I considered the window. It’s a skylight – a grubby little thing in the slope of the roof but it opens. I stood on the chair, opened it and peered out. All I could see was a patch of sky, slippery tiles falling steeply away to the gutter, and the roofs of houses across the street. I’d pictured myself climbing out and reaching the ground by way of a fallpipe, but as soon as I saw that slope I knew I wouldn’t go out there even if the house was on fire.

I fantasized briefly about scrawling messages and throwing them out.
Help. I’m locked in attic. Kid caged in cellar. Tell police
. I’d have to use pages from my Bible or tear off bits of wallpaper because they’d taken my postcards and magazines. I actually ripped a flyleaf out of the Bible, but then realized I’d nothing to write with.

My one hope now was that Scott would succeed in finding Mary through the Internet before we vanished next Tuesday. It was a slender hope. So slender that I curled up on the bed and cried myself to sleep.

52. Scott

Friday morning I kept telling myself,
There’s a million reasons people take a day off school. Sore throat. Sick in the night
.
Slept in
. But at break Thelma Rigsby and Tracy Stamper came charging across the yard to tell me Mrs Fawthrop was clearing Martha’s locker.

‘She’s expelled,’ gasped Rigsby, ‘for scruffiness.’

‘Lying cow,’ growled Stamper. ‘She’s been sent to a special school for disturbed kids. I heard Chocky tell Wheely.’ You could see they were both really pleased.

I hurried to the office. After a minute Mrs Fawthrop appeared with a bulging bin-liner under her arm. She’s the school secretary. ‘Yes, Scott, what can I do for you?’

‘Miss, it’s about Martha Dewhurst. I was wondering . . .’

‘
What
were you wondering, Scott?’

‘Miss, some of the girls are saying she’s left. Tracy Stamper says she’s gone to a special school.’

‘Tracy Stamper is talking out of the back of her head as usual, but Martha won’t be coming back after the Bank Holiday. That much is true. Her father’s work is taking him elsewhere and the family is leaving Scratchley.’

‘Where, miss? Where are they going?’

Mrs Fawthrop dumped the bin-liner on a chair and sighed. ‘I don’t think that’s any concern of yours, Scott Coxon. If the Dewhursts had wanted you to know where they were going, they’d have told you.
I
can’t.’

‘But, miss, it’s
really
important. Martha and me . . .’ Should I tell? About the kid and everything? How would he ever be rescued if they vanished with him?

‘Martha and you?’ She twinkled like grownups do when they think they’ve discovered some kid’s romantic secret. ‘Don’t you think you’re a bit young for that sort of thing, Scott? Both of you, I mean. Anyway.’ She smiled. ‘She knows where you are, doesn’t she. I expect she’ll write if she wants to keep in touch.’

And that was it. Subject closed. Interview over. I felt so mad I decided there was no point trying to explain to her. She probably wouldn’t believe me anyway. I turned and walked away, and when I got outside Rigsby and Stamper were parading round the yard holding hands, singing:

Raggedy-Ann, Raggedy-Ann
Ran away with Desperate Dan

Dan’s not the only one who’s desperate
, I thought.

53. Martha

They let me out Friday. They had to. The kid was playing up like never before – screeching and yelping and throwing himself at the bars. I reckon he knew something unusual was happening. They left me to cope with him while they got stuff ready for the move. I tried to divert him with talk and toys and grub but he wouldn’t settle. Everything I tried him with he chucked at me, and he kept trying to clamber out of the playpen. In the end Father came and screwed down his night-roof and we left him to it. Turned Classic FM to full volume and let him scream.

After that I had to empty my drawers and wardrobe and pack all my clothes in a big old suitcase. They didn’t lock my door, and when I’d finished I went down and helped Mother make a meal in the bare-looking kitchen. I was being really good, but it was just an act. What I wanted was a chance to slip outside if only for a minute, so I could leave a message for Scott.

I’d thought up this plan last night in bed. It was a desperate plan because it depended on three things. One, Scott had to have learned that I wasn’t coming to school any more. Two, he had to come up Taylor Hill to try to find out more. And three, I had to put a message somewhere he’d see it before he came up our path. I’d written the message in big letters with a red felt-tip on a sheet of wallpaper Mother had lined my drawers with. It said:
SCOTT. DON’T KNOCK. PARENTS IN. WE LEAVE TUES. IF NO MARY BY MON, TELL YOUR FOLKS, TEACHERS, ETC. BUT
WAIT
TILL MON. LOVE, M
.
It was folded in my skirt pocket, which also held four drawing pins. All I needed was a couple of minutes outside.

It was agony waiting, especially after half-three. Suppose Scott came up straight from school? He wouldn’t knock because he’d assume my parents were home. Most likely he’d walk past a few times looking sidelong at the house, trying to see if anything was happening. Hoping to spot me through a window, maybe. He’d go away eventually and come back after seven,
and this time he’d knock
. I didn’t dare imagine what would happen after that. I had to pin up that message somehow. I
had
to.

My chance came at half six. Mother had gone to work her last shift. Father, who’d been watching me like a hawk all day, had to slip upstairs to answer a call of nature. He must have thought the front door was locked or that I’d abandoned thoughts of escape, but he was wrong. The instant he was out of sight I was through that door and down the path, pulling the crumpled notice from my pocket. The blast from the radio masked any sound I might have made, but I knew I only had a minute. I ran a few metres downhill and pinned my notice to next door’s fence, praying some busybody wouldn’t rip it down and that it wouldn’t rain. If it rained, my words would dissolve to a meaningless blur in seconds. I pushed home the fourth pin, turned and raced back to the house. By the time Father reappeared I was back in the kitchen, wiping the few dishes we’d left unpacked. I’d done my best. Now I could only wait.

54. Scott

What I wanted to do was shoot straight up to Martha’s after school. I nearly did, but then I realized there’d be no point. If they’d left already there’d just be an empty house, and if they hadn’t her folks would be there. I told myself they couldn’t have left today or Martha would’ve known about it yesterday. More likely they’d go over the weekend. I decided to go home, check my e-mail, grab a bite to eat and get up there around seven.

Oh, I didn’t feel as cool as that sounds. No way. And it wasn’t just worry about the kid. I mean I
was
worried, obviously – a day or two at the most and there’d be nothing useful I could tell Mary if she
did
get in touch – but mostly right then it was Martha. Me and Martha. Yes OK, I’m admitting it. I was crazy about her. In love, as Mum would probably say.
Scott’s in love
. Big joke. It was no joke though. You’ll know if it’s ever happened to you. It tore at me all the way home.
She’s going away and I don’t know where. If I get to see her tonight she’ll tell me where, but what if it’s fifty miles away. A hundred. Two hundred. We’ll never meet again. Never. Will she write? Does she feel the same as I do or will she forget as soon as she’s in her new school, find some other guy
? I was nearly crying if you must know.

I went straight upstairs when I got in. Switched on, hooked up to AOL and selected e-mail.
You’ve got post
, goes Joanna Lumley. I swallowed, trying not to get excited. I’ve got five buddies who mail me. It was probably one of them. Only it wasn’t. It was Mary, e-mail address
ABAXT 779@ AOL.COM
.

The message read: