Letting out the Worms: Guilty or not? If not then the alternative is terrifying (Kitty Thomas Book 1)
Page 2
In a drizzling dusk, Claudine jerked the car to a halt outside her marital home. ‘Out,’ she snapped. Max landed on the pavement, and she sped away, the open car-door slamming shut with the momentum.
His father would be at work, so Max sat under the small porch, his legs stretched out and his back against the panelled front door, letting the rain soak his socks and fill his shoes. After about an hour, a Nissan pulled into the drive, and Sean’s surprised face peered through its side window.
‘What in God’s name has happened now?’ His father swung his briefcase over Max’s head and let himself in. Max scrambled to follow and caught the door as it was closing.
The warmth and unfamiliar aroma of roasting meat made Max wonder if they had arrived in the wrong house, but no. He took in the polished wooden surfaces glowing in the low light and realised this was his home but with a vastly different atmosphere.
A woman’s voice called from the kitchen, ‘Is that you, Love?’
‘Yes. We’ve got company,’ Sean called back.
A woman, plump, with short mahogany hair and an uncertain smile, appeared at the kitchen door, wiping her hands on a tea towel. At the sight of Max, her expression became fixed. ‘Hello.’
‘This is Max. Max - Sonia.’
Max raised his bandaged fingers. ‘Hi.’
Sean turned to Max with an imploring expression. ‘Son. You can’t stay here. When she left this time, I told your mum not to come back. Sonia’s moved in. We live together, now’
Max gave Sonia a pleading look, his stomach rumbling, but the woman threw the tea towel over her shoulder and turned away.
Max’s anger resurfaced. He had not asked to be born, and he was damned if he would apologise for his existence now. ‘I need some stuff from my room then I’ll go to Grandad’s,’ he said with a glare. ‘Have you got any money?’ Keeping strict control over his bottom lip and holding out his good hand, he accepted a wad of notes from his father’s wallet.
‘I’ll take you,’ Sean said.
Upstairs, Max surveyed his room. Most of his belongings were at the Waldorf, but he pulled a sheet from his bed and dumped a few books, the rest of his clothes and an old pair of trainers into its centre. Watched by his father from the bottom of the stairs, he humped his load from tread to tread until Sean leaned over and swung it over Max’s head and into the boot of his car.
When Grandad opened the door, Sean’s car was already vanishing around the corner. This was Max’s enduring memory. Of first his mother and then his father, skidding away from him in their cars.
‘Who’s this?’ Grandad demanded, taking in Max’s bundle. ‘It’s Dick Whittington. No. You got no cat.’
‘Grandad,’ Max grinned, ‘Can I come and live with you? Mum and Dad don’t want me anymore.’
Grandad’s face dropped to a scowl. ‘Bloody bastards.’ He stood back and relieved Max of his sheet with a wiry fist. ‘Get yerself to the table. I bet you’re hungry.’
Warmed by tomato soup and buttered toast, the world looked happier. Grandad was OK; he even seemed to like Max. The boy relaxed and yawned.
‘Come on, kid. Get yerself upstairs to bed. We’ll sort everything out tomorrow.’
The spare room in Grandad’s house doubled as a junk room. With Max watching in a fog of exhaustion, the old man stacked boxes of records, old clothing, and a pile of National Geographic in a corner and made up the bed with sheets, blankets and an eiderdown. Without brushing his teeth (Did he even bring a toothbrush?) Max climbed onto the creaking metal bed and was asleep in seconds.
At some point in the night, he stirred. He might have heard his grandfather’s raised voice bellowing something about responsibilities and money, but perhaps he dreamt it.
Max returned to school. He and Grandad rubbed along, 'Without bloody women getting in the way,’ and at last Max fulfilled his potential at school. Apart from a terrifying female maths teacher, who re-enforced his view that most women were a different and callous species, he had a contented time. He gained entry to grammar school, where he discovered an interest in science.
When he studied for his A’ Levels, he was drawn to psychology. Fascinated by the way people acted and reacted in adversity, he read Sigmund and Anna Freud, Fechner, and Jung, and learned about human behaviour in all its complex manifestations. Before he reached university, he already understood something of the angry and anxious youth he had become.
3 MAX 1979
With a pencil spinning between finger and thumb, Max flicked through pages of a semi-autobiographical library book for a university essay discussing the impact of childhood neglect on adults. The Author was a teacher who worked with severely disturbed children. It was a sentimental read but provided relevant case studies to add to his own experience. He had reached the fourth case study, about a girl left abandoned in Manchester. A surge of heat flooded his body and his hands shook so badly he had to stop everything. Another attack. Still gripping the pencil and breathing heavily, he slammed the book shut.
Around him, the heads of other students were stooped in study. Beyond their desks Max could see a notice board plastered with posters advertising student parties, fundraisers, and sporting events. Gasping, he tried to focus on it, attempting to slow his breathing and relax his muscles. The pencil snapped, and two jagged pieces skidded to the floor, and he grasped the edge of the desk to push himself upright.
The notice board loomed before him and one bright poster caught his attention. In large lettering he discerned a name he recognised: The Manchester Opera House presents Songs from the Musicals Starring Claudine Owen and Dirk Rogers.
This local performance would be the first time Claudine had been physically close since she had dumped him at his father’s house. Claudine’s malevolent presence emanated from the poster, and Max made a decision.
~~~
At the box office window, Max met with disappointment. ‘I’m sorry, we’re sold out,’ announced a gum chewing youth, looking anything but regretful.
‘Not even one seat?’
‘’fraid not.’
Max swung from the ticket window and exited through the heavy double doors. Outside, he paced up and down, watching his feet crossing and recrossing the pavement. Half of him wanted to leave; fear and its comrade adrenalin encouraging him to run for it. But his intellect, his analytical, psychology-student brain, recognised the benefit to him of confronting his demons.
Just before the show started, Max pushed between perfumed shoulders to give the ticket office one last try. But no accidents or sickness had acted in his favour so he dropped into a seat in the busy bar, scheming to get backstage after the show and confront his mother.
Around him, people were knocking back the last of their drinks and checking their tickets for the correct door into the auditorium. He loathed them for their adoration and high spirits and turned his eyes towards the doors and people still turning up.
A man he recognised for some reason passed close by, and Max stared at his balding head, bobbing in the well-dressed crowd. As if he sensed the intensity of Max’s stare, the man turned his head and glanced without recognition at Max, and then Max remembered who he was.
‘What the…?’ The fellow scrabbled at Max’s fingers, trying to free himself from Max’s grip on his arm. ‘What are you doing for Christ’s sake?’
‘I’m Max, Claudine Owen’s son.’
Reg, that was his name, the dolt who trotted like a puppy after Claudine at the Waldorf.
‘Let me go,’ Reg muttered, ‘Whatever you want, I can’t help you.’
Max shoved his lips close to Reg’s ear and hissed, ‘I’m here to see my mother after thirteen years. Not much to ask, is it?’
Reg recoiled and wiped spittle from his cheek, and at the same time, a bell rang, and the remaining drinkers began to move towards the auditorium. Women in satin and men with white shirts and sedate ties cast inquisitive glances at the free drama being enacted before them.
Reg whined again, ‘Let go
or I’ll cause a scene,’ but Max clung on.
‘Go ahead. I’m sure the press would love to hear about the poor, abandoned son of the great Claudine Owen.’
Reg slumped his shoulders. ‘OK, OK. Come to the stage door after the performance and I’ll make sure they let you in.’
‘No thanks.’ Max murmured, ‘I’m coming in now. No doubt you have a concessionary seat for me at the front.’
~~~
‘Tell him to go away.’ Claudine’s whimper reached Max through the closed dressing room door, and he experienced the familiar hollowness of rejection. He turned away, his soles squeaking on the linoleum floor.
The dressing room door opened and closed behind him and Reg shouted, ‘Max. Wait.’
Ignoring him, Max pushed open a door onto an alleyway.
‘If you leave now, she’ll never see you again.’ Reg called.
‘If I leave now, I won’t care. I’ll forget her and move on,’ Max called back without turning, and began to march down the passageway towards the main street
Behind him he could hear Reg following, his footsteps growing nearer. The pair dodged between bodies, both oblivious to the irony of their reversed roles. Close now, Reg gabbled, ‘I want you to know how bad I feel about her treatment of you. I should have left her then. She’s an amazing woman, but completely without a heart. She mistreats me too, believe it or not.’ He clutched at the shoulder of Max’s jacket, but Max wrenched himself away and picked up speed.
Reg panted, ‘I can take her unkindness, but you…’ He tailed off, out of breath. Then in an upbeat tone, he panted, ‘Come on, son. You need answers so you can move on, and I want you to have them so I can.’
The fight left Max and he stopped so that Reg almost ran into him. Turning around, he glared at the little man and shouted, ‘Leave. Me. Alone.’
In the lamp-lit street, Reg made a sad and vulnerable sight. Anyone would think he was the one suffering, not Max. Bloody man.
‘I think I’ve stayed with your mother as penance for what she did to you.’ Reg held out placating palms. ‘I’ll never forget the sight of you standing in that hotel. Never.’
~~~
Claudine sat at her mirror removing makeup. Used tissues littered the floor around her chair. Max stood just inside the doorway with Reg behind. He met her eyes while she appraised him in the reflection.
‘You’ve grown,’ she observed, ‘And you need a haircut.’
‘Fuck you; you old bat. Think I care about your opinion of me after the way you’ve treated me?’ Anger and hurt fed his venom. ‘You don’t look so great yourself. You’ve got more lines round your lips than an elephant’s arse. And I should know, I was in the front row, right under your nose. The super troupers really lit up your wrinkles. And your voice isn’t as good as it used to be, either.’
Claudine put her hands to her cheeks and shrieked, ‘Reggy. Get him out of here,’.
Reg fixed his eyes on the discarded tissues and said quietly, ‘He’s right, Claudine. You’re not getting any younger.’ His words seemed to surprise him, but after a pause, he threw up his head to face her and said, ‘You owe it to this boy to explain why you treated him so shamefully.’
With an icy expression, Claudine swung round in her chair. She stretched out her sinewy calves and high heeled shoes to rise and tower over them both. ‘Must I explain, yet again why I have sacrificed all for my career? How many more times must I tell you: my work is everything, everything?’ Her voice rose to a screech. ‘I never wanted children.’ she jabbed a finger at Max, ‘But his father insisted. I told him I would be a terrible mother, and I was right.’ She fastened her cold eyes on Max and fired, ‘I didn’t want you then. And I don’t want you now. Go away little boy and don’t bother coming back.’
Max swayed, and a hand gripped his elbow. Reg’s voice came from somewhere. ‘Steady. Come on now.’
Supported by his mother’s lover, Max tottered into the fresh air and stood, panting, in the alley. With Reg patting his back, saying, ‘That’s the way. Deep breaths.’
Across the road stood a typical city pub with black windows that implied beer and grease. Soon Max was coughing on a large Scotch while Reg sipped gin.
‘Mother’s ruin,’ Reg observed, and sniggered. ‘It’d take more than this to ruin that mother…’
‘Fucker,’ Max finished, and exploded into hysterical laughter.
After three more large ones, Max and Reg were best buddies.
Reg raised his glass to chest height. ‘A toast.’
‘It hasn’t popped up yet,’ pronounced Max and belched.
‘What? Oh yeah, toast. Ha. No, wait. I want to make a toast. This is serious.’ Reg arranged his face, and Max plonked his elbows onto the table and cupped his hands behind his ears.
‘OK. Let’s hear it.’
Reg lifted the glass higher. ‘To Claudine Owen, and all who sail in her, God help them. I won’t be boarding that deck again.’
Max raised his glass. ‘Claudine Owen and her dick,’ he slurred, and they both threw back their drinks and slammed the glasses down.
‘Did you say Claudine Owen’s dick?’ Reg asked, confused.
‘Dunno. Maybe,’ said Max, and slid under the table.
4 MAX 1980
Outside schools and on city streets, normal parents pushed normal buggies and clutched normal, grubby kids. Mothers and fathers wearing glazed expressions – a natural result of life with a young family. Max wondered what he might be like if he had grown up in a normal home.
He walked past the shop again. He was failing his degree. He would fail his degree.
Useless child, muttered his mother.
His bank balance was in the hundreds: his grant for the approaching academic term. But what was the point? He reached a decision and entered the shop. It was his first visit to a bookmaker’s.
To his relief, the interior was modern and inviting. This was not some seedy backstreet establishment. It was attractive (if you liked orange), and the people serving were cheerful and well dressed. Rows of chairs (orange) faced a TV screen surrounded by other, smaller screens. These displayed lists, not legible from where Max stood. Fixed to the back of each plastic chair was a ledge, wide enough for a notebook. A scatter of men studied newspapers or squinted at the screens and jotted down notes.
Max sat beside a man in jeans and a red and blue checked work shirt. A wispy fan of grey hair framed a pink shiny patch of scalp on top of his stooped head, and a potent smell of old ash tray emanated from his clothing. The guy was peering at a newspaper, penning notes in black ink in the margins and scrawling circles around some sections. Max squinted at the page. It seemed to list the day’s races for various racecourses and record the names of his chosen horses. He became aware that the pen had ceased its movement and realised that he was leaning against the stranger’s arm. He lurched away and met the man’s stony stare.
‘Something I can do for you, Sunshine?’ The man growled in a husky Mancunian accent.
With apology, Max expressed his desire to place a bet, and the man, Larry, was as delighted to help as he had formerly been to repel. In between coughs and wheezes, he prodded the newspaper with a nicotine-stained fingernail and explained its layout and how it recorded the predicted odds and details of the horses in each race. The odds changed regularly, and when you placed a bet, the cashier would note the current odds and the type of bet.
Larry knew what he was talking about, but the many types of bet and horse soon overwhelmed Max. His lecture over, the man was firm. ‘You’re on your own now, chum. I don’t want any copying. You make your own choice of horses and bets.’ This seemed fair, as Larry had studied form for years. Anyway, during their discourse Max had spotted a horse that caught his fancy. Its name was Maximum Effort, a kind of namesake, Max thought. The odds offered were ten to one, and Max passed his betting slip to a smiling, round-faced girl in an orange shirt and sat next to Larry to wait for the three thirty at Cheltenham.
~~~
The girl hooked the bag from her shoulder with a thumb and lowered it to the floor. Her key, on a metal ring, swung on her forefinger. ‘Oh, hi.’
Nice hair, nice body, a slight gap between her front teeth that gave her an air of Brigitte Bardot. Max gave a cool look. ‘I’ve been watching you.’
The girl flicked her hair over a shoulder and leaned the on the wall, facing him. ‘I’ve been watching you too.’
They studied one another for a few seconds.
I never wanted you.
The female swallowed, and the fine skin on her throat moved. Max jerked his head towards his room. ‘There’s a bottle of vodka here, looking for a girl.’
She grinned.
Max did not.
‘I may be that girl,’ she said. 'Give me a minute.’
He scooped up his winnings and hid them in the top drawer of his only piece of furniture.
With a soft tap on the door, she walked in. ‘Got any glasses?’
‘Nope. You’ll have to drink from the bottle.’