He was an only child, that much was obvious. In a few of the pictures, Martin was posing with his mother, but there was no sign of a father. Was Mrs Cooper a widow or divorced? Divorced, Tracey decided. Otherwise, there’d be some indication of the other person who’d helped to produce Martin.
Pleased with the conclusions she’d come to by way of observation, Tracey was beginning to think she might make a pretty good spy. She followed Martin and his mother into a large, country-style kitchen.
‘Wait till you see the snack I have for you today!’ Mrs Cooper announced. She lifted the lid off a cake tin. ‘Chocolate with butterscotch icing! What do you say to that?’
‘Thank you, Mom,’ Martin said automatically, but there wasn’t a lot of enthusiasm in his tone. He allowed his mother to lead him to a chair at the kitchen table and practically place him on it. Then she stepped back and gazed at him worriedly.
‘You’re looking a little pale, darling. Have you got a fever?’ She placed a hand on his forehead. Martin flinched, but he didn’t push the hand away. Finally, his mother removed it. ‘No, I don’t think so. But I want you to take it easy today, dear. No running around, all right? You know how sport tires you out. You’re just not suited to it.’
Good grief, Tracey thought. This woman wasn’t just a little obsessive, she was a nervous wreck.
Martin picked up the knife that lay next to the cake tin and started to cut a slice of cake. His mother squealed.
‘Honey, be careful! That’s a very sharp knife. Here, let me cut the cake for you. There’s milk in the refrigerator.’
Martin relinquished the knife to his mother, got up and went to the refrigerator. Back at the table, he looked at the unopened carton of milk for a few seconds, and then touched the cap.
‘I can’t get this open,’ he whined.
‘You didn’t even try!’ Tracey exclaimed, forgetting that no one could hear her.
‘I’ll do it for you,’ his mother said.
She treats him like a baby, Tracey realized. So that’s how he acts. This was confirmed to her when his mother unfolded a napkin and actually tucked it into his neckline, like a bib. And Martin let her.
While Martin ate, his mother hovered over him and kept up a non-stop stream of chatter. ‘Now, when you’ve finished with your snack, we’ll go to the supermarket. Unless you’re too tired, of course. But we’re almost out of the cookies you like so much. And maybe we can stop at the hair salon — your grandfather keeps telling me your hair is too long.’ She leaned over and brushed a lock off his forehead. ‘Though I think it looks sweet. I remember your first haircut, when you were two. I cried!’
Tracey was beginning to feel nauseous. This was too, too sickening.
When he finished his snack, Martin made no move to take his plate and glass off the table. Why should he? His mother automatically took them away and began washing them at the sink. Without even thanking her, Martin got up and went into the living room. Tracey followed him.
He plunked himself down on the sofa, picked up a remote control from the coffee table, and pointed it towards the TV. Tracey was surprised to see that he surfed the channels all by himself, and didn’t demand that his mother do it for him.
He let the screen rest on what looked like a rerun of an old series. After a few minutes of watching it with him, Tracey recognized it — ‘The Incredible Hulk’. That figured. Martin would appreciate the story of an ordinary man who could turn into a violent superhero.
The front door opened, and a man came in. Martin’s eyes didn’t leave the screen, but Tracey looked at the newcomer with interest. He seemed pretty old, with hair that was almost completely white and a lot of lines on his face. But he looked like he was in good shape, and when he spoke, his voice was strong.
‘Can’t you even say “hello” to your grandfather, boy?’
Martin’s lips formed the shape of ‘Hi’ but Tracey couldn’t hear anything. Mrs Cooper came into the room.
‘Hi, Dad. Martin, are you ready to go to the supermarket? Oh dear, you do look tired. Maybe you should stay at home. Dad, could you watch Martin while I do some shopping?’
‘Good grief, Linda,’ the man said. ‘He’s almost fourteen years old! He doesn’t need babysitting.’
The woman gazed at her son fondly. ‘He’ll always be my baby. Well, I’m off — back in an hour or so.’
Once she’d left, the man took the remote control and switched the TV off.
‘Hey, I was watching that,’ Martin protested.
‘It’s too nice outside to be watching television,’ his grandfather replied. ‘Let’s go kick a ball around in the back yard.’
‘I don’t want to go outside,’ Martin said.
‘C’mon, it’s good for you.’
‘I’m tired,’ Martin whined.
‘Don’t give me that nonsense,’ the man barked. ‘You’re too young to be tired.’
‘But Mom said—’
‘I don’t care what your mother said! Get your lazy butt off that couch and come outside with me!’
Martin blanched, and Tracey flinched. She could sort of understand the man’s frustration with Martin, but he could have been a little gentler in his persuasion methods.
At least he’d scared Martin into getting up. Tracey followed them through the kitchen and out the back door. The grandfather jogged over to the ball lying on the grass, and kicked it in Martin’s direction. When it flew past him, Martin ducked and made no effort to go after it.
‘Kick it back!’ the old man ordered him.
Slowly, Martin ambled towards the ball.
‘Run!’ his grandfather yelled.
Martin may have picked up the pace a bit, but any increase in speed was imperceptible to Tracey. And when he reached the ball, he barely tapped it with his toe.
‘You call that a kick? Put some muscle into it!’
This time the ball actually moved a few feet. The man ran towards it, and gave it a fierce kick. The ball hit Martin in the stomach, and Martin let out an ear-shattering wail.
‘Ow, that hurt!’
Tracey couldn’t tell if Martin was really suffering or if he was just putting on one of his acts. In any case, it made no difference to the grandfather.
‘Stop complaining, you little brat! You’re a big baby. Grow up, you stupid child!’
Martin froze. The man continued with his tirade.
‘You know what? You’re pathetic! How did I end up with such a lousy grandchild? You make me sick!’
Tracey watched Martin in alarm. The boy was becoming flushed and his breathing had become so laboured she could hear it from where she was standing at the edge of the yard. Then his whole body began to tremble.
She knew what this meant. Martin’s gift was emerging, just as it always did when he was teased or taunted. Frantically, she turned to the grandfather. Was he aware of Martin’s ability? Did he know that any minute now Martin would be able to beat the man to a pulp?
And what should she do? How could she stop Martin, rescue the old man, put an end to this? Madame could control Martin with a sharp look, but Tracey wasn’t Madame. Besides, Martin wouldn’t even be able to see any sharp look Tracey could muster!
But to her amazement — and relief — Martin didn’t explode into a fury of super strength. She watched with interest as his face contorted into an expression of intense concentration. And after a moment, his complexion returned to its normal colour, his breathing calmed, and his body was still. Then he ran back into the house.