Abomination

by Robert Swindells

  The other cool place is the library, because on the top floor there’s a room where they sometimes shoot Nickelodeon. There’s a sign on the steps – GROWN-UP-FREE ZONE – and the room’s all done out with like posters and mobiles and giant fluffy toys. I was buzzing, but there was nobody around. Simon’s had free pencils and puzzles and lots of other stuff from there, and once they videoed him and he saw himself on telly. ‘We’ll check it out next week,’ he said.

  When we got hungry, we went back to the park and ate. It was warm and sunny so we sat outside. Tracy and her friend had gone. We ordered Cheesy Bigburgers with fries and drank Cokes while we waited, and it was not what you’d call fast food. You could have eaten at McDonald’s and been halfway to Australia by the time it came, but it was good.

  ‘Have you been told about the Expedition?’ asked Simon between bites. I shook my head.

  ‘Oh, it’s great. Year Eight goes every summer, after half-term. Three days. Place called Hanglands. Canoeing, caving, abseiling, you name it. It’s seventy pounds. See Killer Kilroy about it.’ Mr Kilroy was PE and boys’ games.

  ‘Does everybody go?’

  ‘Not everybody. Some parents don’t want their kid abseiling and stuff. They think it’s dangerous. And some can’t afford it.’

  ‘So what do the kids do for three days – those who stay behind I mean?’

  Simon shrugged. ‘They help kids in other years, or Chocky finds ’em jobs to do.’ Chocky’s the Head, Mr Cadbury. Simon grinned. ‘I bet I know someone who won’t be going.’

  ‘Who?’ I knew, but I wanted to prove she wasn’t on my mind.

  ‘I’ll give you a clue. She’s on your table.’

  ‘Martha?’

  ‘Correct. Have a House Point.’

  She was on my mind though. Had been all morning. What does Martha do Saturdays? Does she have fun? Does she know what fun is? And why the heck do I care ? I didn’t want to think about the sad spack, for Pete’s sake. In fact it was doing my head in, but I couldn’t help it. I kept seeing that pasty face, the hair that looked like it had been styled with a knife and fork, those big, awful eyes.

  Hey: maybe she’s a witch. Maybe she cast a spell on me by touching my ruler.

  7. Martha

  What do you do, Sundays? Sleep late, eat a big breakfast, go for a run in the car? Most people seem to, ending up at garden centres, Sunday markets, tourist spots. A few pop into church first, but not many. Nice day anyway – something to look forward to all week.

  Let me tell you about my Sunday. My Sabbath. The Sabbath of the Righteous.

  It kicks off at six, summer and winter. Rain or shine.

  My alarm goes off. I get up, wash my hands and face in cold water, put on the brown dress Mother sewed for me, make my bed and tidy my room. If it is winter, I do all of this in the dark. At six forty-five, I go downstairs. There’s no electric light, no heat, no breakfast. Just a candle burning at Father’s end of the table, where he sits with the big Bible. At the other end, in darkness if it is winter, sits Mother. Good morning, Martha, says Father. Good morning, Father, I reply. Good morning, Martha, says Mother. Good morning, Mother, say I, and sit down. The floor is of quarry tiles, and I take care not to make a screeching sound with the legs of my chair. The Bible is open at the page Father wants. After leading the two of us in a short prayer, he reads a story from the Old Testament. It might be the story of Esau and Jacob, or Gideon, or Samson, or Jonah, or some other story. I know them all. When he’s finished he says, The word of God, and closes the Bible. By this time it’s about seven fifteen. We can hear Abomination making noises in the cellar because there’s been no food, but nobody mentions this.

  We get ready for church. It’s a mile away and we walk. We’ve missed only once since I was born. It had snowed all night and there’d been a high wind. Some of the drifts were five feet deep. I was six years old. We set off, but had to turn back. Father had sent Mary away just a few days before. He said the blocked road was God punishing him for raising such a daughter. I remember thinking it might be God punishing him for turning her out of the house, but of course I didn’t say anything. Perhaps I didn’t think it – not at six. Maybe it occurred to me when I was a bit older. Anyway.

  Meeting starts at eight fifteen and usually goes on till eleven. Yes, that’s right – two and three quarter hours solid of praying and listening. The building is cold and bare. The seats are hard wooden chairs and we mustn’t fidget. Even the youngest kids have to sit absolutely still and pay attention. You want to try it sometime, in midwinter when you’re hungry and your feet are wet because the snow came over your boots. Tell yourself God loves you. It won’t help.

  The walk home warms us, and when we get in we’re permitted to return to the twentieth century. Father switches on the central heating and Mother microwaves a stew she made yesterday. I’m sent down the cellar to feed Abomination, which is horrible, but then comes the highlight of my day – I get to eat.

  In the afternoon I do my homework while Father studies the Bible and Mothers sews. At five we walk to six o’clock Meeting. Those chairs again, this time for about an hour. Then the walk home (normal people whizzing past us in cars at the end of their day out), a mug of cocoa, then bed.

  There’s this text in a frame on the dining-room wall. Six days shall work be done: but the seventh day is the sabbath of rest.

  That’s what it says, so why is it that when Sunday night rolls round I’m more shattered than I’ve been all week?

  8. Scott

  I spotted Martha Sunday afternoon. It was just after five. We’d been to Borley Water Gardens, and as we drove up Wentworth Road there she was, walking down with two wrinklies. Her parents, probably. You should have seen them. The sun was shining and it was still warm, but the guy was wearing a thick black overcoat that came nearly to his ankles and a black, wide-brimmed hat, and the woman was in a shapeless brown thing they’d be ashamed to hang in a charity shop. She wore a beat-up old hat that looked like a rat had crawled on to her head and died. Martha was in brown too, walking between her folks with her head down. If my parents looked like that, I’d walk with my head down. I waved as we zoomed past, but I know she didn’t see me because I asked her, Monday morning.

  Well, I felt sorry for her. Plus I wanted to know where she’d been off to at five o’clock Sunday afternoon. It was just before the nine o’clock buzzer. She was standing by herself as usual, near the staffroom window. I drifted over there, trying to make it look accidental. I’d nothing against her myself but I didn’t want it to look like I was seeking her company.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Oh . . . hello, Scott.’ She blushed. First time I’d seen her in colour.

  ‘Didn’t see me yesterday, did you?’

  ‘Yesterday? Where?’

  ‘Wentworth Road. Teatime. You were walking down. We drove past.’

  ‘Oh.’ She shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t see you.’

  ‘I waved.’

  ‘Did you? Thanks, but I’m afraid I didn’t notice.’

  ‘You don’t have to thank me; it was just a wave. Were those your folks?’

  ‘Yes. Mother and Father. We were on our way to church.’

  ‘Ah-ha. Which church is that, then?’

  ‘You won’t know it. It’s the Church of the Righteous on Hustler Street, but it doesn’t look like a church. No spire or anything.’

  ‘Right. What happens there – anything good?’

  ‘I . . . don’t know what you mean. It’s a church. You know what happens at church.’

  ‘No, I don’t. I’ve never been. I suppose it’s kind of like a school assembly, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit more . . . serious than that. And longer.’

  ‘But you see friends there?’

  She shrugged. ‘Sort of. They don’t bother with me much because I’m not allowed to invite anybody home.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because . . . my father says so.’

  ‘Do you al
ways do what your father tells you?’

  ‘Well, yes – don’t you ?’

  ‘Not always. Have you brothers, Martha? Or sisters?’

  ‘No, there’s only me.’ She frowned. ‘Why are you asking me all these questions, Scott?’

  ‘Oh, I was wondering, that’s all. I’ll see you later, OK?’

  I’d stood with her longer than I’d meant to. I moved on and she called after me, ‘Yes, Scott. Later.’ I didn’t look back.

  9. Martha

  ‘You’re looking happy, Martha. Have you had a good day at school?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ It’s half past six. We’re eating dinner. It’s liver but for once I don’t mind.

  ‘Did you win a House Point?’ asks Mother. ‘No.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘The new boy. Scott. He talked to me. Asked me things.’

  ‘What sort of things, Martha?’ Father’s tone is sharp.

  ‘Oh – things about me. He saw us yesterday in Wentworth Road and waved. I didn’t see him.’

  ‘What did he ask you, child?’

  ‘I don’t remember exactly. If you were my folks. Where we were going. If I had sisters or brothers.’

  ‘And how did you answer that?’

  ‘I said there was only me.’

  ‘Good. Now listen to me, Martha.’ He sets down his knife and fork. He’s about to spoil it all. I know he is. ‘To have a friend is a pleasant thing. Mother and I want you to have lots of friends, but you must understand that we of the Righteous are different from other people – so different that they often find us strange. If you let yourself become too fond of this boy, you will be badly hurt when he finds he can’t relate to your way of life and drops you.’

  A lump comes to my throat. Does my father think I’m not badly hurt already? Can’t he see I just want to be like everybody else? I shake my head. ‘I’m not fond of him, Father. He talked to me, that’s all. Please say I can be his friend if he’ll let me.’

  He sighs, shaking his head. ‘I’m only trying to shield you from unhappiness, child. Be this boy’s friend if it pleases you, but be careful. Guard your tongue at all times, and don’t bring him home.’

  Don’t bring him home. They don’t know how I hate my home: that if I had my way I wouldn’t bring myself home, never mind anyone else.

  10. Scott

  I blew it with Simon, Tuesday morning. Lost my first friend at Southcott Middle, and all because of Martha.

  It was such a little thing, that’s what gets me. Old Wheelwright asked a question and Martha put her hand up and when he said, ‘Yes, Martha?’, Simon kicked her under the table so she went ‘Ow!’ ‘What on earth’s the matter?’ goes Wheelwright, and instead of splitting on Simon, Martha says, ‘Nothing sir,’ and Wheelwright says, ‘It didn’t sound like nothing, Martha,’ and lets somebody else answer. All I did was glare at Simon and growl, ‘Don’t you ever get fed-up, picking on the same person all the time?’ I don’t even know why I said it. Anyway, it didn’t go down too well. ‘Funny you should say that,’ purrs Simon, ‘because it is getting a bit boring. I reckon it’s time we had a fresh target, and you just volunteered.’

  I thought nothing of it at the time. Took it as a joke, but when break rolled round he wouldn’t talk to me. ‘Shove off, Coxon,’ he snarled, and walked away.

  Something worse happened at lunchtime. I was walking down the hall with my tray when Gordon Linfoot stuck his foot out. I sort of dived forward and my tray went up in the air. Everybody cheered as the two plates shattered on the floor, flinging gravy and custard far and wide. Chocky jumped up from the teachers’ table and came hurrying towards me as I staggered to my feet.

  ‘What the blazes were you playing at, boy?’

  ‘Sir . . .’ I nodded towards Linfoot. ‘He tripped me up, sir.’

  ‘I didn’t, sir – look!’ Gordon pointed to my shoe. ‘His lace is undone.’

  It was. Just my luck. Chocky made me fetch a mop and bucket and stood over me while I picked everything up and swabbed the parquet with practically the whole school watching. I was blushing so much it felt like my cheeks were on fire. When I’d finished, Chocky sent me to stand outside his door till afternoon lessons began. No dinner, and no chance to pulverize Linfoot in the yard, which is what I felt like doing. Never mind, I thought, it’ll wait till hometime. I’d no way of knowing things were about to get far worse.

  11. Scott

  Half three. Linfoot must’ve known I’d be after him, because by the time I got to the cloakroom he’d gone. I grabbed my jacket and ran outside and there they were in a half-circle round the door, waiting for me. Simon, Tracy, two lads called Gerry Latimer and Paul Mawson who always chase Martha, and Gordon himself. I pulled up and stood looking at them, wondering what they meant to do.

  Simon smiled. ‘Looking for someone, were you, Coxon?’

  ‘Yes, him.’ I nodded towards Linfoot.

  ‘Gordon? Why – what’s he done?’

  ‘He knows.’

  Simon looked at Linfoot. ‘What you done to Coxon, Gor?’

  Linfoot shrugged. ‘Nothing, Simon. Not that I know of.’

  Simon turned to me. ‘Says he didn’t do anything to you, Coxon.’

  ‘He’s a liar.’

  ‘Hear that, Gor? Coxon here reckons you’re a liar.’

  ‘Naw. It’s him who’s the liar, Simon. Telling Chocky I tripped him.’

  ‘Oooh!’ Simon shook his head. ‘Lied to Chocky, did he? That’s serious. That reflects on the whole class, as Wheely might say. I don’t know about you guys, but I reckon he deserves to be punished for that.’

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Gordon, ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ murmured Tracy. The others indicated agreement. Simon gazed at me, smiling and frowning at the same time. ‘Question is, how?’

  ‘I know.’ This from Tracy.

  Simon looked at her. ‘What d’you suggest, Tracy?’

  ‘I suggest he deserves his own song, same as Raggedy-Ann.’

  ‘Hmm – got anything in mind, have you?’

  ‘I might have.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Well, how about, Snotty Scotty, Snotty Scotty, brain is dead and clothes are grotty ?’

  A chorus of enthusiastic noises greeted Tracy’s suggestion, and it was then I realized the whole thing must’ve been thought up and rehearsed at lunchtime. I mean, it wasn’t a brilliant song, but it was too good for Tracy Stamper to have made up right there and then. Anyway, before I knew what was happening Simon darted forward and pulled me into the middle of them and they were dancing round me, kicking and punching and singing the song. I swung my bag, trying to break out of the ring, but somebody grabbed it and jerked and I went sprawling and shoe leather started coming from all directions, thudding into me. I thought, this is it, they’re gonna kick me to death, but then I heard a shout and the kids scattered and next thing I knew Killer Kilroy was squatting next to me and Martha looking over his shoulder. Turned out she saw them laying into me and ran to get a teacher. Didn’t boost her popularity I can tell you. Or mine.

  12. Martha

  I only saw because I’d decided to hang back. I thought, I’ll wait till everybody’s gone, then walk home for once instead of running, so I locked myself in the toilet and waited. After ten minutes it was dead quiet so I came out. I was tiptoeing across the porch, listening, when some kids started chanting. I could hear thuds and cries as well, and I knew somebody was getting beaten up.

  I nearly went back to the toilets. I don’t know why I didn’t. Something stopped me, that’s all I know. I crept to the doorway and peeped out and it was Scott, surrounded by all these kids. As I watched, he fell down and they started kicking him, and I knew it was my fault. He’d spoken up for me when Simon Pritchard kicked me in class, so they’d turned on him.

  I didn’t know what to do. If I was brave, I’d have charged at them, punching and kicking to rescue my friend, but I’m not so I turned and ran back, heading for
the staffroom. As I crossed the hall, Mr Kilroy came out of the PE store and yelled, ‘Walk, girl, don’t run!’

  ‘Please sir,’ I gasped, ‘there’s a gang beating a kid up in the yard.’

  I don’t like Mr Kilroy because he’s sarky to kids who’re useless at PE but give him his due – he didn’t hang about. ‘Show me,’ he rapped, so I ran and he followed. When the kids saw him coming they ran like rabbits. Scott was lying on the ground. Mr Kilroy knelt beside him and talked to him and sort of examined him and I wouldn’t have believed it, he was so gentle. All I could do was stand like a lemon, watching. When he’d made sure nothing was broken he helped Scott to his feet and steered him inside. I trailed after. They went in the First-Aid room where Killer used cotton wool and antiseptic to clean the cuts and grazes on Scott’s face and hands. I stood in the doorway. Scott knew I was there but he wouldn’t look at me. I wondered if I should leave. I was about to when Mr Kilroy turned.

  ‘Do you two live in the same direction?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, though we don’t. Scott frowned but didn’t contradict me.

  ‘Good,’ smiled Killer, ‘then you can walk the patient home, Martha. It is Martha, isn’t it?’

  I nodded. If you’re no good at games, Killer doesn’t know you.

  ‘Splendid. Off you go then. Oh . . .’ He looked at Scott. ‘I shall want the names of your attackers, lad. First thing in the morning, OK?’