Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

     The children crucified Martin in the wood.  They spreadeagled and impaled him on the trunk of an oak tree with a big nail through each hand and foot.  Emma had earlier abstracted these nails from her father’s toolbox.  Martin did not cry or struggle, but hung gazing down on them with his usual air of mute bewilderment.  A hastily plaited loop of bramble did service for a crown of thorns.

     They gathered round him like satisfied workers.  Frowning in concentration, Emma adjusted the bramble crown’s tilt.  A tricky job well done, was the general verdict.  It looked almost like the lovely big Jesus in the garden up at Sacred Heart.

     Then it was time for tea.  The children drifted amiably apart, with few backward glances at their victim.  Tea was serious, and lateness for it a punishable offence.

     The family was already seated at table when Emma arrived home and clambered into her usual place between father and big brother.  Mrs Prentice, who had just filled the teapot and was covering it with a cosy, stopped short on catching sight of her small daughter’s hands.  ‘Emma!’  she exclaimed in horror, ‘Those hands are filthy!  Go and wash them this minute’.

     Emma hesitated.  A nugget of guilt had begun to form in her head.  Her father leaned over to inspect the suspect palms.

     ‘I think you do need to wash them, darling.  Did you hurt yourself?’  His voice was warm with concern.  ‘How did you get these awful scratches?  They look ever so sore’.

     ‘Brambles’, muttered Emma.  She did not at all wish to have to wash.  Her mother, whose notions of propriety harked back two if not three generations, treated hand-washing time after a meal had officially started as a form of lateness, punishable by withholding of trifle.  She was not one to wait for the next world to see sin avenged.

     ‘Off you go, like a good girl’, encouraged her father.  ‘Your tea’ll still be here when you come down’.

     Mrs Prentice objected.  ‘I’m not sure all of it will be.  Little girls who are late shouldn’t be allowed trifle-with-cream’.

     ‘Oh, go easy on the kid’, said her husband indulgently.  ‘It’s not as though she’s done anything really serious, like stealing’.

     The telephone rang as Emma dragged herself upstairs.  That augured trouble.  Her mother, who answered, loathed being disturbed at mealtime and would be in a worse mood in consequence.  Her muffled exclamations reached Emma through the splash of water and rustle of towels.

     Back at table, riveting news had pushed aside all other considerations.  ‘That was Jill Banks’, Mrs Prentice announced.  ‘You know the poor little autistic boy she adopted?  Well, he’s gone missing - slipped away after lunch and hasn’t been seen since. Jill’s quite distracted, and no wonder’.

     The family expressed horror and disquiet.  Emma toyed silently with her spoon.  The nugget of guilt had moved to her throat, making it hard for even trifle to pass.  Meanwhile her brother was vigorously disclaiming sight or sound of the lost infant.

     ‘What about you, Emma?’ her mother demanded.  ‘Have you seen anything of the poor boy?’

     The nugget now made speech impossible.  A downcast shake of the head was all Emma could manage.  Mrs Prentice pounced on these signs like a terrier.

     ‘Emma!  I’m speaking to you!  Look at me’.  Slowly the wretched child raised her head.  ‘Do you know anything, anything about this?’  No reply.  ‘Well, you certainly know something.  I can see guilt written all across your face’.

     Alarmed, Mr Prentice turned to his daughter, who ran from her chair and buried her now tearful face in his jacket.  Muffled words became lost in a convulsion of sobs.

     ‘What is it, sweetheart?’  her father said urgently.  ‘Come on, you can tell Daddy.  I shan’t be angry with you’.

     ‘It’s just’, Emma whispered, ‘I stole something this morning’.

     ‘What?’  Worry made her mother snap.  ‘Stole something?  What did you steal?  What’s it got to do with the missing boy?’

     ‘What did you pinch, darling?’  Her father grinned in relief, but his wife admonished him with a frown.

     ‘What was it, Emma?  Tell Mummy at once’.

     ‘Nails’, Emma gasped.  ‘I took some nails from Daddy’s box’.

     ‘What did you want nails for?’  Even Big Brother, who rarely deigned to notice, far less speak to Emma, became interested.  Whatever would a soppy girl want with nails?

     In misery, Emma surveyed her accusers.  The only way to lose that nugget was to spit it out.  In a whisper barely audible she began her confession.

     ‘We .... crucified .... Martin .... in .... the .... wood’.

     ‘You what?’  let out her father after a pause.

     ‘We crucified Martin.  On a tree.  That’s why I .... took .... the nails’.  Now the offending stone was expelled, words came tumbling.  ‘We wanted to make a Jesus, like the one at Sacred Heart’.

     A silence followed, broken only by the thump of Emma’s heart.  At length Mrs Prentice spoke.

     ‘I think that was very shocking of you’, she said.  ‘Martin was a nice old teddy bear.  Still, none of this helps us find little Alan Banks’.