Letting out the Worms: Guilty or not? If not then the alternative is terrifying (Kitty Thomas Book 1)

by Sue Nicholls

  She adopted a coquettish pose ‘What kind of girl do you think I am?’ You know what kind of woman I am, Maxy Darling.

  Max wanted to give her a smack, but he kept his expression bland. ‘Well I hope, one who doesn’t mind drinking from a bottle.’

  A quarter of the bottle disappeared down her gullet when he made his move. He expected no resistance and got none. She was hot for it. Girls were always hot for sex if you treated them with disdain.

  She was on all fours when he took her from behind, pinching her nipples so hard that she squealed, then forcing his finger into her anus. ‘Like a bit of pain, do you?’ he panted. She did not answer; her face was buried in a pillow and her buttocks spread wide. When she reached orgasm, her body thrashed and bucked, but he hung onto her hips and pumped hard and rough, faster and faster until he reached his own shuddering climax.

  The girl came again, screaming into the pillow, ‘Christ. Christ. Christ!’

  On his way to the bathroom, he glanced back. She was sprawled face down on the bed. ‘I’ve got work to do, so clear off now,’ he said and turned away.

  She left, and so did the bottle. Little thief. She would suffer for that next time.

  ~~~

  A person could gamble day and night. Horses first, dogs later. Max spent his mornings studying form and afternoons in the bookie’s or at Belle Vue Dog Track. He ignored telephone calls and notes from his tutors and his fluctuating but swelling overdraft and spent a frantic few months gambling and screwing the girl.

  Her name was Julia. Julia, a middle-class bitch with a satisfying appetite for punishment.

  But Julia ran away after he smashed off the bottom of an empty vodka bottle and stood over her body wondering where to put the jagged ends. Terror followed by disgust passed across her face. Then she kicked him hard in the balls and, as he doubled over, booted him in the gut. The vodka bottle thudded to the thin carpet.

  Useless.

  No! Not useless, you old cow. His teeth hurt as much as his body because he was clenching them so hard. He lay without moving, watching the room grow dark - the day wasted.

  ~~~

  In January, after a solitary Christmas, Max sat down and opened his statements from Barclaycard, Visa, and Access.

  Ha. ‘Maxed’ out. You’re useless.

  The telephone rang and a voice said, ‘Mr Rutherford? My name is Harry and I’m calling from Barclays Bank.’

  ~~~

  ‘It’s not the end of the world, Max.’ The woman in Student Services was brisk. ‘See each of your tutors and explain. Convince them you will work your back side off. They’ll help you; they’ve seen it all before. Get a job and make a financial plan, I can help you with that if you wish, and talk again to your bank. Is there anyone in your family who might bail you out?’

  ‘Probably not,’ Max grunted.

  ‘Think about that too.’

  On his way out of the office, Reg floated into Max’s mind.

  5 MAX 1981

  Helped by an open-ended loan from Reg, Max scraped into year three,

  It was time for his first one-to-one session. His counselling tutor, Constance, sat at a desk, surrounded by stacks of books and papers that teetered on chairs and took up most of the floor. At her invitation, Max sat and watched her writing and ignoring his presence. When finally, she snapped the gold-edged lid onto her fountain pen, she said, ‘So, Max. You wish to be a counsellor. Why?’

  ‘To help people.’

  ‘Well join the Boy Scouts then.’ Constance took up her pen and resumed her writing. Max did not move. After a minute, she looked up. ‘Was there something else?’

  Just give up. You can’t do this.

  ‘I want it because I was fucked up as a child. I need to understand why people behave the way they do, and yes,’ He thumped a fist on his knee, ‘Actually, I do want to help them. Is that a sin?’

  The tutor replaced her pen lid and appraised Max. ‘Absolutely not. It’s the most important part. We all have our demons, Max, and the first step to becoming a good counsellor is to face them. Are you ready to do that?’

  6 MAX 1985

  Max’s boss in Social Services was Karen - a grim faced professional. She had seen more than a human being should see. Her job demanded impossible choices about whom to help and who was most able to survive without. Her steely expression was born, not of cynicism but of resignation. She had learned from awful experience that it was impossible to help every person, or even a tenth of those who needed it. Sometimes, in private moments, she wondered why she carried on, but she knew the answer. If one child was saved, or one care home kept open, her job was worthwhile.

  She dropped a folder containing a list of local schools onto Max’s desk. ‘New initiative. School visits to educate staff about child abuse. I’d like you to arrange workshops. You know...’ She waggled her head, ‘Signs to watch out for, typical scenarios, past cases, that kind of thing.’

  Max took the file, thinking how much he disliked public speaking. But he said, ‘No problem.’

  A month later, he was at Riverdean Combined School in the village of Edfield. The school educated just over 300 children between the ages of five and eleven. The staff, mainly women, were full of attention after their half term break.

  ‘This is not a great start to the term, but we can’t escape the facts. Hopefully, when you understand the warning signs, you will be better able to spot the vulnerable children in your community.’ Max scanned the teachers and lunchtime supervisors. Some nodded solemnly, others shook their heads. He continued, ‘By community, I mean this place - your school.’

  It was probable that a child in this school was suffering at the hands of an abusive parent: an addict or even someone with no excuse, someone evil.

  In this middle-class village, most children would be well-behaved, polite, and easy to teach. This meant the conduct of the vulnerable ones might be distinctive.

  He detailed the danger signs to staff: erratic or extreme behaviour, bruising, broken bones, unusual sexual attitude, an unhealthy appetite and/or weight loss. As he related past cases, he noticed a restlessness in his audience and paused. ‘Is anything wrong?’

  A woman at the back raised her hand. ‘We have a child here. A girl in year three. Her parents are well regarded in the village. He’s chairman of the Parish Council and she’s a bit of a mover and shaker and on the Board of Governors here, at Riverdean. It’s difficult, actually.’

  Max said, ‘It often is.’

  Other members of staff nodded their agreement, and the Headmaster looked thunderstruck. Max gave the brave teacher a mental ten out of ten for sticking out her neck.

  After the meeting, he met with the Head, who agreed to report the details of Emily’s case.

  ~~~

  Seven-year-old Emily MacIntosh, withdrawn and pale, was wasting away. Her mother seemed worried about her ‘baby’s’ health, always sending in little titbits to encourage her to eat something. The child’s lunch box rarely contained much because she, ‘Couldn’t eat too much because of her delicate stomach.’

  Later, Emily appeared at school with bruises all over her body. She was so weak she could not run and play outside. When her mother broke down with the terrible news that her baby girl had Leukaemia, and that Emily’s bruising was caused by chemotherapy everyone in the community was shocked, but at least, they thought, she had received a diagnosis..

  Max asked if the school had confirmed the diagnosis with the child’s GP. They had not.

  On enquiry, it emerged that the GP had no record of a diagnosis of Leukaemia. His examination of the child exposed the shocking truth: The mother had lied. She made up a complex story of her daughter’s illness, while starving and beating the child almost to death. Even her husband had believed his child to be dying of cancer.

  Emily entered the foster care system. Mr MacIntosh resigned from the Parish Council and Mrs MacIntosh received a fifteen-year sentence.

  ~~~

  Delighted her idea had
been so successful, Max’s boss patted him on the shoulder and said, ‘Good job Max.’ Her praise did not uplift him. The case of Emily and her mother, Vicky Mackintosh, reminded him of Claudine: basking in the public eye and adored by her fans, while (literally in Claudine’s case) behind the scenes treating her child like shit. Max shook off Karen’s hand with a shrug of his shoulder.

  7 CERYS

  Cerys’s manicured nails were blood-red, and hard as flint. She stared sightlessly at them then her eyes slid to the blue line crossing the small indicator screen and her stomach heaved. After throwing up into the lavatory, she lowered the lid to sit on it. Christ, how would Paul react to this? She dug her knuckles into a knot in her belly and took a deep breath, raising her breasts like a ship's figurehead, then, with her chin raised, she rose and clip-clopped across the tiles.

  At the table, Paul was tapping at his laptop. His dishevelled silver hair and oily nails contrasted with Cerys’s shining kitchen. She gestured at the computer, ‘You ought to keep that thing out of the workshop. It’s filthy.’ The criticism came out before she could stop it, but Paul, intent on his task, ignored her. She pulled out a chair opposite him and waited, and after a while, the crease of concentration between Paul’s eyebrows changed to a look of resignation and he pulled his eyes from his task. ‘Did you want something, only I’m…?’

  ‘Yes, sorry.’ Her North Wales accent was stronger than usual, and Paul narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  Cerys shuffled in the chair. ‘Well, depends how you look at it. It might be fantastic, but…’ She waved the pregnancy tester at him, and he stared at it.

  ‘You’re pregnant,’ he said without expression.

  Cerys’s fizz of hope spluttered and died.

  But then, a great grin split Paul’s face and he shouted, ‘You’re pregnant,’ and punched the air.

  She laughed. ‘You’re please then.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t in the plan but, yeah.’ He hesitated. ‘D’you think I’m too old to be a dad though?

  ‘You’ll be fine. You haven’t got a choice, anyway.’

  Paul nodded, then he studied her face. ‘How do you feel about it?’

  ‘I’m fine. A bit shocked, like. I’m no spring chicken either.’ He scraped back his chair, and she was in his arms, blinking back tears. The stink of oil and petrol on his overalls made her shudder and she pushed him away. ‘Sorry. Got to run,’ she said and bolted to the downstairs cloakroom.

  Later, her feet tucked up beneath her, she snuggled into a deep armchair opposite Paul.

  ‘Not sure what Kitty’ll to think about this,’ Paul said.

  With her gaze on a still life above the fireplace, Cerys said, ‘Well, there isn’t much we can do about it, whatever she thinks.’ Paul’s blond biker-girl daughter with a tendency to speak her mind, did not have much time for Cerys. Paul was oblivious to the chilly edge to his daughter’s voice and her slight sneer when they all met. But Cerys worried that Kitty saw through her.

  Paul linked his fingers behind his head. ‘Yeah, but I want her to be pleased.’

  ‘She’ll be fine…’ She fixed her eyes on the picture, ‘Paul?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘I wondered if we ought to get engaged.’ In the corner of her eye, his body stiffened.

  ‘What’s the point of that? We’re OK as we are, aren’t we?’

  ‘Well, we were, but with a baby coming…’ she met his eyes and he stood up.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ He paced round the room. ‘It’s a big step.’

  ‘Having a baby is a fucking enormous step,’ she yelled and erupted into a storm of weeping. This was not in her plan, and she flapped her hand at him with a sob. ‘Sorry, my hormones are a mess.’

  Paul leaned over the back of the chair and patted her shoulder. ‘OK, OK. If it makes you happy, we’ll get a bloody ring.’ Then he ricocheted to the door, hollering, ‘I’m going to call Kitty.’

  Mission accomplished.

  ~~~

  ‘What did Kitty say?’

  Paul swallowed a mouthful of sirloin steak before replying, ‘No answer. I’ve tried a few times, but she must be out of battery or something.’

  ‘That’s not like her.’ Cerys jabbed a chip with her fork and observed it without enthusiasm ‘She’s a journalist. You’d think she’d be available at all times.’

  ‘She is, usually. I’ll keep trying.’

  Cerys put a chip into her mouth. It was lukewarm and tasted of metal. ‘I was thinking of throwing an engagement party. Just your relatives and friends. I’d love to do that for you. I have nobody, so it would help me feel part of the Thomases.’

  ‘I hardly have anyone either,’ said Paul, drawing a pout from Cerys. ‘But I’d be happy to share Kitty with you; and Mick and Maurice, they’re almost relatives after all the years I’ve known them.’

  Mick, a broad black fellow with greying curls and laughter lines, and Maurice, pallid and nervous, often met Paul in the pub. But he would never invite them back, or Cerys along. ‘It’s a boys’ night out,’ he would tell her. And that was meant to be explanation enough.

  ‘That’s settled then,’ she said. ‘Leave it to me. All I need from you is their contact details. We can invite the neighbours too. It’s time we got more involved in the community now we’re having a baby.’

  ‘I’ll try Kitty again,’ Paul said.

  ‘You worry too much about that girl,’ Cerys called after him.

  ~~~

  ‘Look. I’m not having any party until I’ve spoken to Kitty.’ Paul was once again patrolling the lounge carpet.

  ‘I understand you’re worried, Love, but she’s a big girl, and no news is good news isn’t it? She’s probably fine. Could she be on holiday?’

  ‘Without telling me? No. I do know my own daughter.’

  ‘I’m sure you do, but you also worry too much. Parties take a great deal of planning. Look - I’ll send her an invitation. She’ll be there. Trust me.’

  From his silence she inferred compliance and grabbed a pen and her notebook, ‘Now then, what’s her address?’

  ~~~

  To Cerys’s relief, Paul announced his plan to meet up with Mick and Maurice that evening.

  ‘OK, darling. That’s a good idea. Why not invite them in afterwards, and I’ll make you all coffee?’

  He opened his mouth, then closed it. ‘OK,’ he sighed, and after a beat, ‘Thanks.’

  After he left, Cerys washed up their dishes then trailed from room to room, straightening pictures and stroking furniture. She had a job to do tomorrow. A secret mission. As far as Paul knew, she would be at a wedding fair in Birmingham. She checked her watch. Eight twenty-five in the evening.

  At eleven o’clock, she set out a tray for the men’s coffee. Alone in the kitchen, she allowed her face droop with exhaustion. But a key in the lock acted like a switch. ‘Hi Darling,’ she called. Then in a bright voice to the beer-buoyant voices, said, ‘Make yourselves comfy, I’ll be right in.’

  Mick and Maurice smiled up at her from the sofa. Nearby, slumped in an armchair, her future husband looked as if his evening’s consumption had exceeded the recommended volume for an entire week. He waved his arm above his head. ‘Mick, Cerys, Cerys, Mick,’ and after a belch, ‘Ditto Maurice.’

  Mick stood to take the tray then engulfed her hand in his. ‘Good to meet you, Cerys, and well done for pinning this man down. I thought he’d end his days alone.’

  ‘Not alone,’ Paul slurred. ‘Got Kitty.’

  ‘Yes, but she’s got her own life. She doesn’t want you cramping her style, you old fool.’ The twinkle in Mick’s eyes took the sting from his words.

  ‘Bugger off Mick,’ was Paul’s only response.

  ‘Paul!’ Cerys said in a shocked voice.

  ‘Don’t worry, Cerys,’ Maurice interjected. ‘We’ve known each other long enough.’ He shuffled forwards on his cushion and offered her his hand, but the plate of biscuits held his eye. ‘Homemade? The best Pa
ul can usually rustle up is a what’s it? Custard Cream.’ He fed a biscuit into his mouth, and Cerys threw him a wide grin. Maurice winked at Paul. ’You’ll need to watch that waistline, my friend.’

  Cerys looked delighted. ‘I’m glad you said that Maurice. I’ve been telling him to cut down on beer for ages now.’

  Paul glared, and Maurice had the sense to zip it.

  ‘So, Cerys, is that a Welsh accent I hear?’ Mick received a nod of thanks from Paul.

  ‘Hard to hide, isn’t it?’ Cerys’s smile widened.

  ‘Where about do you hail from?’ Mick helped himself to a biscuit and sipped from his mug.

  Near Flint. North Wales. Have you been there?’

  ‘Sorry, no. I’m a London lad, although I used to hang-glide and climb when I was younger, so I’ve been to Snowdonia.’

  ‘Really? It’s beautiful up there if you catch a cloudless day.’ Cerys leant forward to rest her arms on her knees. ‘I miss the hills. You ought to…’ She halted in mid-sentence and changed the subject. ‘We’re hoping you can both come to our engagement party, and your children - young people. I don’t imagine they often get together now they’re all working. Kitty’s coming, I know she’d love to see everyone.’

  ‘She hasn’t said she’s coming.’ Paul had sunk down in the armchair until his knees almost touched the low coffee table.

  ‘She’ll come,’ Cerys reprimanded. ‘She wouldn’t miss her own father’s engagement party.’

  ‘She’s vanished.’ Paul squinted at his friends.

  Cerys sat on the arm of Paul’s chair. ‘She’ll turn up. Stop fussing.’ She stroked his head as if to tidy his cropped hair, ‘She’s only been out of contact for a week. What a naughty girl, making you worry. She has no idea how lucky she is to have you.’

  ‘Do you have family?’ Mick asked Cerys, helping himself to another biscuit.

  ‘My parents and younger sister died when I was young.’

  Mick looked stricken. ‘I’m so sorry, how terrible for you. We understand loss.’ His eyes flickered to Paul and Maurice. Paul shrugged, and Maurice looked vacant.