Read Online Abomination by Robert Swindells - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Swindells
Tags: General, Juvenile Nonfiction, Action & Adventure, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Horror & Ghost Stories
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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,
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,
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