Abomination (12 page)

I’m Mary Dewhurst. What about the child? Is this a joke? If so you’re sick, sick, sick. If not write ASAP, above address
.

I sat gobsmacked, staring at the screen while precious time ticked by. I couldn’t believe it. Such a long shot. The sender mentioned a joke. What if
this
was a joke? A flame? No way of knowing. I thought for a minute then wrote:

Mary this is Marfa. Come quick. M&F move to unknown location maybe today. Child has lived six years in cellar, answers to Abomination. Thanks for card of lady in fountain. Hope Annette well. Love Marfa
.

That ought to do it. My misspelling of Martha’s name, plus references to Annette and the postcard would tell Mary the message had to be genuine. I just hoped
ABAXT
would check her e-mail tonight and pass it on straight away. I suspected the address was Annette’s, so I was hopeful. In fact I couldn’t wait to tell Martha. I bolted my meal and shot out the door like a scalded lop. Mum and Dad must’ve thought I was barmy. Or in love.

55. Scott

Number one, Mary’s message. She’ll be so surprised. So
chuffed
, but we mustn’t forget number two, the new address. I can e-mail that to
ABAXT
tonight in case the mad Dewhursts flit before Mary can get here. And when that’s sorted there’s number three. The big one. I’ll have to ask her straight out, won’t I, ’cause I won’t get another chance.
D’you love me?

Oh come
on
Scotty – get real. There’s no way you’re gonna say that. Not face to face. No chance. What if she laughed? She doesn’t laugh much, old Marfa, but I bet she’d laugh at that. All right then, what about,
will you write? Postcards will do, like Mary, only more often if you can manage
it. That’s not too much to ask is it, after all I’ve done for you
?

No, I mustn’t say that. Wouldn’t be fair. She’s got to
want
to keep in touch. So, leave out the last bit and say
will you write, ’cause I’ll write to you
? Yeah, that sounds OK. I can manage that face to face.

This was the conversation I was having with myself as I trogged up Taylor Hill, and it turned out to be all for nothing because just before Martha’s place I saw this notice pinned to a fence. At first I thought it was one of those signs sad creeps put up when it’s someone’s birthday. You know –
HARRY SPACK IS FORTY TODAY
– but it wasn’t. It was for me. I couldn’t believe it.

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.

The word
wait
was bigger than the rest, but it was the word
love
that made my heart kick me in the ribs.
Love, M
. I stood gawping at this like a div instead of taking in the message. It was only when a Harley came roaring over the hill that I remembered what I was supposed to be doing and realized I couldn’t do it now. I got my brain in gear and tried to think.

Parents in
, so I can’t tell Martha that Mary knows the situation and might show up anytime. Not unless I knock and tell whoever answers the door. They’d flit straight away then, and they wouldn’t leave a forwarding address.

The police? No.
Wait till Mon
. That’s clear enough, isn’t it? Trouble is, the situation’s changed since Martha left this notice.
If no Mary
. But there
is
and she’s coming, and Martha needs to know this without her folks finding out. How, though?
How
?

One thing I could do was get rid of the notice before her mum or dad saw it. I tore it off the fence, folded it roughly and shoved it in my pocket. Luckily there were no nosy pedestrians about, just the odd car whooshing by. I crossed the road and walked past the house on the other side. Everything looked the same. Martha wasn’t at any of the windows. How the heck could I get word to her, tell her her sister was coming? Get her new address, ask her to write?

Suppose I hang around till Mary comes? There’s bound to be ructions, and maybe I’ll get a word with Martha in all the chaos. Slip her a note. Yeah, but she might not come till midnight, or tomorrow or even Sunday. Depends when
ABAXT
checks her e-mail. Can’t hang around till then, can I? Dad’ll have the police out.

There must be a way. Must be. I needed to think so why not do it here, in the shadow under this sycamore where I could keep an eye on the house? I could compose a note on a scrap torn from Martha’s notice, just in case. I leaned on the wall, pulled a biro out of my inside pocket and began with my favourite word. Martha.

56. Martha

Nine o’clock. Starting to get dark and no sign of Scott. One half of me was relieved – the half that said he’d
wanted
to see me but had spotted my message. The other half kept whispering that maybe he hadn’t come because he wasn’t all that bothered. That half was desperate.

Mother was due anytime now, and I was dead scared she’d see my message. She shouldn’t – the bus would drop her off at the top of the hill and she’d turn into our gateway without even glancing at next door’s fence, especially in the dusk. But what if she did? What if the whiteness of the paper drew her eye and she got curious?

The phone rang. Father picked it up. I couldn’t see him because I was in the kitchen and the phone’s in the hallway. He hung up straight away so it must’ve been a wrong number. I went on fixing supper. It rang again. Again I heard Father pick it up. A couple of seconds and it went down with a bang. Father came along the hallway muttering, and just as he reached the kitchen it rang for a third time. He went back, picked it up and shouted, ‘WHO IS THIS? WHAT D’YOU WANT? I’LL HAVE YOU
TRACED
IF YOU BOTHER ME AGAIN.’
Slam
went the handset.

My heart was battering my ribs like the kid in his cage. Could it be Scott calling? Would he be that crazy? I swallowed, struggling to keep a hold on myself. When Father came in I said, ‘Who was that, Father?’ I hoped my voice sounded normal.

‘Never you mind,’ he growled. ‘Your mother will be here soon.’ Meaning
get on with it
. I lifted the kettle off the gas and poured boiling water into the teapot. My hand was shaking.

Mother came in carrying a bouquet which she flung on the worktop. ‘Can you believe it?’ she snorted. ‘
Flowers
, for someone who’s moving in three days. What do they think I’m going to
do
– pack them and take them with me?’ I bet she’d been a ray of sunshine at that factory, my mother. It’s a miracle they gave her
anything
. She obviously hadn’t seen my message though.

‘No brains,’ grunted Father. ‘Any of them. Like the idiot who phoned just now.’

‘What idiot?’ asked Mother, peeling off her cardigan.

‘Oh, some young yobbo with nothing better to do. Three times, he called. Three times. Bothering decent folk.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Nothing that made sense.
Contact established. Mother ship approaching
. Science fiction freak by the sound of it. Soon stopped when I threatened to have him traced, I can tell you. No brains and even less guts, that’s his type.’

I managed to act normal, I think, but I couldn’t eat much. As soon as Father had given thanks I excused myself and went to my room.
Contact established. Mother ship approaching
. It was Scott.
Had
to be. The calls were his way of letting me know he’d found Mary through the Internet and she was coming. So not science fiction, Father dear. Science
fact
.

Beam me up, Scotty.

57. Scott

Old Dewhurst, yelling down the phone like that. Very near shattered my eardrums. Only way I could think of to alert Martha, those three calls. I was pretty proud of it, to be honest.
Contact established. Mother ship approaching
. Not bad thinking for a stressed-out guy in a callbox at nine o’clock at night. Of course it might not work, I knew that. If he didn’t tell anybody, I’d have wasted my breath. That’s why I rang three times, so he’d remember the exact words and be mad enough to repeat them in Martha’s hearing. I didn’t doubt she’d know what they meant – she’s a sharp cookie, old Martha. So. I’d done all I could to tell her to expect Mary, but I hadn’t found out where her folks were taking her or if she’d write to me. It was nearly dark when I left the phonebox and I knew I had to go home. I wondered if she’d show up at Asda in the morning. It wasn’t likely, but I knew I’d be waiting there anyway.

I spent a long night picturing what might be happening up there on Taylor Hill. Mary descending on the family home like an avenging angel, battering good old Mum, throttling dear old Dad, snatching her kid and roaring away in a shiny red Porsche. Or maybe she’d do it a quieter way. Creep up the garden path, pick the lock with a credit card, tiptoe down the cellar steps. The Dewhursts wake in the morning to find the kid gone and no trace of how. I suppose I got
some
sleep but I didn’t feel as though I had.

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.