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

by Sue Nicholls

  Paul’s body tensed and he shoved his face at Max. ‘You saying I’m to blame?’

  ‘It’s not for me to judge who, if anyone, is to blame. I’m simply stating that talking can untangle thoughts. In this room I will never criticise you, Paul. This is your life, your pain, I’m just here to help explore your feelings.’ Max cocked his head to one side. ‘If ever you decide I’m not helping, you are at liberty to stop coming.’

  ‘OK, I get it.’ Paul subsided into the chair, and Max continued.

  ‘While we’re together, you can say whatever you wish. I understand how you feel, I really do.’ Paul acknowledged with a nod that Max took to be permission to continue. He asked a little about Paul’s background, his childhood, schooling and relationships and got a picture of a stable family, with Paul, a beloved only child. His mum and dad had been proud of their son getting into grammar school. But Paul had not enjoyed school life and expressed a wish that he had gone to the secondary modern with his friends. Max jotted this down.

  As he did so, Paul fired, ‘Anyway, why don’t you tell me about your parents?’

  For a moment, Max had no words to reply, then he said, ‘We’re here to talk about you, Paul.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Paul muttered, and poked a finger in his ear, wiggling it around until Max had to look away. ‘But it’s difficult.’ He glanced up. ‘If you told me something about you, it would make it more mutual. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine, kinda thing.’

  Max had wrung out every aspect of his childhood during his counsellor training and did not plan to repeat any part of that experience. In a firm voice he said, ‘Sorry, Paul. That’s not the way it works.’

  After the session, Paul gave his grudging agreement to attend the following week.

  ~~~

  Paul’s sessions continued, and in time, Max teased from him the story of Fee’s leaving. It was bonfire night and on impulse, Paul had invited the couple next door and their children, who would make the evening more fun for his daughter, Kitty. It had surprised Fee when he arrived home with a carrier bag full of fireworks and broke the news of this invitation. He knew he had annoyed her, but she found sausages and French bread in the freezer. She was good at dealing with the unexpected. After a successful night, Paul was upbeat, until Fee made her announcement. Kitty had gone to bed, so Fee felt free to tell him she had found somewhere to live and planned to take Kitty away with her the following day. She had already packed her belongings and made up a bed in the spare room. When he tried to argue, she refused to discuss the matter further and locked herself into the room.

  With little Kitty asleep, he could not bang on Fee’s door, so he roared away on his motorbike, blind to where he was going, and narrowly avoided collision with a juggernaut.

  During his sessions with Max, Paul battled with his anger, and Max developed huge admiration for him. Max’s disdain for passionless Fee also grew, and he made careful note of the woman’s habits and tastes.

  In time, two other women joined Fee and Kitty in her house. Twitch and Millie brought four more children and left behind two hapless husbands. Max’s empathy for the three men, fuelled by his misogyny, grew until one day found him standing, as Paul had admitted to doing, on a bare patch of flattened earth behind a laurel hedge, watching Fee’s black and white tiled porch. He took a step forward for a better view of a cosy room, just visible between part closed curtains, and his foot came down on something soft. He cursed at the stink of dog shit.

  Useless boy.

  More details about the three wives emerged: Twitch looked after the children; Fee drove each day in her sleek Audi to further her technical career in Kingsthorpe. Millie had a new enterprise, a restaurant in Chelterton. Thumbnail images of each woman developed in his mind, and with each new detail, there grew in Max an obsessive and terrifying longing to screw them, in every sense of the word. Millie excited him most with her vivacity and love of food. She would be easy to seduce, passionate, funny. He would hurt her through her restaurant, maybe slide something unpleasant into the food.

  Then there was Twitch, the child stealer, infecting the children with her middle-class values to alienate them from their fathers. Paul’s description of her was vague until one day, he lost control during a visit to the house in Crispin Road and raped her. In an emotional hour with Max, Paul explained that she had led him on and changed her mind.

  Max was stern but could not blame the poor guy, and details of the assault provided him with an invaluable clue to Twitch’s vulnerability.

  But Fee became his principal target. Cold, no empathy, buttoned up, unable to love. With these inferred traits, Max saw his own mother, Claudine Owen.

  Standing behind the laurel bush among Paul’s discarded dog ends, he watched Fee swing her incredible legs into the footwell of her car. No smile blemished the perfect line of her lips. He would change that, then extinguish it.

  17 SAM

  When Kitty pushed open Sam’s door carrying a black helmet, he had his back to her, engrossed in a small watercolour. She coughed loudly, and his paintbrush swerved across the paper. He threw it down. ‘You made me jump. And you’ve ruined my picture.’

  Kitty grinned. ‘Sorry. You were away with the fairies.’

  ‘I was working.’ Sam raised his eyes in mock despair. ‘Some people have no respect for art.’

  ‘I do, but this is more important.’

  Sam took in the helmet and his expression grew wary. ‘What’s that thing for?’

  ‘It’s for you. I thought a ride would be nice.’ She advanced towards him, holding out the helmet, and he took a pace backwards with his palms raised,

  ‘There’s no way I’m going on the back of a bike with you. I’ve seen you on the road. You’re a madwoman.’

  ‘That’s a pleasant thing to say to a friend - not.’ Kitty tried to put it in his hands. ‘I won’t kill you. You’re being soft.’

  He folded his arms. ‘I have a very sensible attachment to my life - and my limbs, thank you.’

  ‘Come on. I’m paying the wages so do as you’re told.’

  Sam grinned. ‘I love it when you’re mistressful.’ He accepted the headgear. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘The theatre.’

  ‘The theatre? Isn’t this the wrong style of hat? Why the theatre?’

  ‘For coffee at a big clean table - and to bring back memories. Come on.’

  Sam tightened the helmet strap under his chin and shrugged into his Parka. The mottled mirror reflected his idiotic ensemble, and with a sigh, he followed his employer.

  ~~~

  ‘Remember this place?’ Kitty asked.

  The theatre foyer seemed smaller and scruffier than he recalled. ‘Yes.’ He nodded to his left. ‘We had drama lessons up there. I wonder if they still have art on the walls.’ He made as if to go upstairs but Kitty grabbed his sleeve.

  ‘Oh no you don’t. No time for art; we’ve got work to do. I’ve got pages of stuff from the siblishes and Liz to collate.’ She yanked Sam towards the smoked glass doors of the bistro. ‘Let’s see if this is still the same.’

  And there they were, straight back in their childhood. Same tables and chairs. Same smell. The pair looked at each other, and Kitty gripped Sam’s hand and muttered, ‘God. I can almost see them.’

  Sam swallowed and squeezed hers back. His eyes travelled across the restaurant to the table where his mother always sat with Josh on her lap, talking to Fee and Millie. Today, a solitary woman relaxed in Mum’s seat reading something on her phone. Oblivious to the ghosts keeping her company: their mothers, waiting while Sam, Kitty, and Livvie danced and prance. It was at that table in the corner that the women’s friendship began; the start of everything. ‘Good job they didn’t know what was ahead,’ he murmured.

  ‘Come on.’ Kitty said.

  At a different table, Kitty pushed a laptop at Sam. ‘Here, you record it all as we talk. I think a spreadsheet might be best.’

  A tangle of ‘speed-hand’ romped across the p
ages of her notebook and they worked through it and the notes from Liz, slotting in rough dates.

  ‘We need a lot more than this,’ observed Sam.

  There were very few events, and many of those had no date. Sam squinted at the screen. ‘Basically, we know when our mothers left our fathers, in autumn and winter 1991. Millie opened Feast, and we all celebrated in March 1994. We know roughly when Max first dined there, and that he came back on another occasion… We could try asking him for a more precise date. I wonder if he’d talk to us.’

  Kitty ignored that and distracted Sam by saying, ‘Then there’s our dads’ comings and goings. I’m not sure how relevant those are, as they happened a while before Millie died. The business when my dad battered the blokes next door. I seem to think that was spring.’

  ‘Which spring?’

  ‘Good question. Soon after we left, I think. So, I would have been about five.’

  ‘I’ll put spring 1993 then, would that be right?’ Sam tapped on the keys.

  Kitty did a quick calculation. ‘Yes. I was six in that November, remember? My dad came to my birthday party and got drunk. Mum chucked him out.’

  ‘I remember.’

  They sat in silence - Sam at a loss for words, Kitty trying not to be cross, even now, at the ruination of her birthday celebration. Then Sam propped his chin on one hand. ‘It’s bound to have been a bad time for everyone. Funny, I’ve never considered that before; how the grownups must have felt. First you and your mum lived at Crispin Road alone, then we all turned up. It got crowded. I bet that wasn’t what Fee had in mind when you moved in there.’

  ‘I suppose not. I haven’t thought about it, either. I remember how my dad felt because he went to pieces, but I always imagined our mums had it under control. I bet they didn’t, though.’

  ‘Do you think they felt guilty?’ Sam’s fingers toyed with his napkin.

  ‘Well, we can’t ask them now, can we?’ Kitty snapped.

  Sam disregarded her irritation. ‘We could add seemingly irrelevant details in a new column. Might come in handy sometime.’

  ‘OK, so what have we got first?’

  ‘Your mum leaves your dad. Not much we can add to that.’

  Kitty screwed up her eyes. ‘What was the woman next door called - with Charlie, Finn and Annie… Victoria?’

  ‘Nicola,’ said Sam.

  ‘That’s it. I need to see what she remembers.’ She made a note, and Sam added this detail to the spreadsheet. ‘OK. What next?’ he asked.

  ‘Your Mum moved in.’

  Sam typed something.

  ‘What have you written?’

  ‘Just that she had no job and was our primary carer.’

  ‘I wish I’d thought about all this before.’ Kitty’s brow creased. ‘I’m trying to put myself into Twitch’s shoes now. Imagine having all of us on her hands. One minute she had two children and suddenly three more arrived.’

  ‘And we didn’t respond well to leaving our dads behind. It would have been tough for everyone,’ said Sam. He squinted at the laptop. ‘I’ve got your birthday next. We don’t need to put about your dad.’

  ‘It might be relevant. Can’t think why, but we’re trying to build a full picture of their lives.’

  ‘OK.’ Sam typed for a while, then read out his words: ‘Paul got drunk. Fee chucked him out. Nicola there. House newly painted. Egg sandwiches.’

  ‘Egg sandwiches? That’s stupid.’ Kitty met Sam’s grin and chuckled. ‘You are a bugger sometimes.’

  ‘Made you laugh, didn’t I?’

  Kitty kicked his shin.

  The light from the laptop gave Sam’s face a blueish hue as he read, ‘Millie moved in.’

  ‘It was one long series of arrivals…’ Kitty paused, ‘And then leavings.’ Seeing Sam’s face, she hurried on. ‘OK. What can we say about when Millie came?’

  ‘We kept moving bedrooms.’

  ‘True, and more furniture arrived. On the day you and Josh moved in, Nicola brought us kids to her house to play with her two.’

  Sam keyed this in and said, ‘So, when did our fathers move to their new places?’

  Kitty frowned. ‘Not sure. Easy enough to find out.’

  ‘Not without telling them what we are doing.’

  ‘We’ll find a way. There must be records somewhere.’

  Cerys had been like a tornado since she moved in with Paul, organising, boxing and filing paperwork, and cleaning and sorting cupboards. Kitty imagined there would be a labelled box in the attic or the office.

  Sam said, ‘It must have been before the spring, if that’s when he beat up the two guys next door.’

  ‘Mm. I wish I had an accurate timestamp for that. The police should have a record.’

  ‘Do we need an exact date? It doesn’t seem that important if we’re only building a picture.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. OK. Leave it for now. Anything else?’

  ‘The restaurant, before Millie died.’

  They trawled through more events, while around them, the coffee shop emptied and filled again, this time with theatre goers. The rise in noise level and scent of perfume caught Kitty’s attention. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Half past six.’

  ‘We should go.’

  Sam saved the spreadsheet which now had events from their childhood through to Max’s imprisonment. Many without detail or date.

  ‘I’ll have a word with Seth, see if I can get firmer dates for some of these things,’ Kitty said. Seth was one of Kitty’s police contacts. A civilian, he was responsible for taking calls and entering data into the police database. Kitty continued, ‘Would you take a squint at death records - find out when our mothers were pronounced dead? At least it’s something precise to start us off. Check the housing records too, see if you can find out when our homes were sold, and new ones bought.’

  Sam sighed. ‘OK. Shame we don’t have anyone’s diary, it would save so much time.’

  ‘Sam!’ Kitty thumped the table, ‘I’ve remembered something. My mum’s old Filofaxes. They’re in the loft at Dad’s. I didn’t have room in my flat, so I asked if they’d store some boxes for me. He’s got no idea what’s in them.’

  Sam’s face brightened. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. Mum was meticulous about everything. Anal, to be honest. I bet she kept detailed records.’

  ‘You’d better get over there then.’

  18 ANWEN

  The walls of the grey house on Mynydd Hen carried the scars of decades of battering by wind, rain and frost. Anwen sat upright on her bare bed, a prisoner in her room. She hugged her upper body for warmth.

  This was her punishment for slipping out. She had not mentioned Cerys, but her mother noticed that the brand of milk she brought home differed from that sold in the shop. When questioned, Anwen could not or would not provide a satisfactory explanation, so here she was, wrapped in a coat in her frigid cell. Instructed to pray for forgiveness, and the strength to tell the truth.

  Although accustomed to such treatment, her earlier conversation with Cerys had unsettled her. The promise of comfort and love taunted her. How cruel, to tell her all that stuff and expect her to wait for permission. But then it struck Anwen that she did, perhaps, have options other than obedience.

  She eyed the window. Its ancient metal frame, with its once elegant, curved catches, was black with mildew and years of grime. A layer of yellowing paint sealed the casement shut. Never had Anwen hung over that sill to breathe in the warm fragrance of grass cuttings or the iron scent of rain. In fact, the possibility had not occurred to her until now. Downstairs, the front door banged and Anwen pressed her forehead to the pane to see her mother, buttoned to the neck in a brown woollen coat, her feet encased in sturdy boots, marching along the scrubby path to the road. Anwen followed the wiry form with her eyes as it turned left at the end of the track and strode to the bend in the road before disappearing - her purpose, no doubt, the interrogation of Mr Davies the shopkeeper.

  O
n this bleak, gorse encrusted land, it took time to warm the ground. In winter, snow would linger for weeks in sheltered spots. But there was no snow now, instead there was, what people round here called, ‘a lazy wind’, meaning one that travelled through, rather than round you. In his shop, Mr Davies would often tell Anwen this, regarding her pinched features with sympathetic eyes. Then he would throw back his head and laugh as if he had never made the joke before, and she would nod and smile, watching his tonsils wiggle in his glistening, pink mouth.

  Against her bedroom wall, a creak-doored tallboy housed Anwen’s few items of clothing, along with household linens such as tablecloths and towels. On many a night had she wrapped these around her body and dozed in the scent of mothballs and mildew. Now, she spread an old shawl on the boards and pitched her clothing into its centre before bundling everything into a parcel. Next, she pulled the chair to the window, and with an old curtain over her arm to protect her from broken glass, stood on its seat. There was still no sound from downstairs, so with a grunt, she kicked hard at the glass through the heavy fabric. After many attempts, and with her arms shaking from the strain of the curtain, she felt the pane give under her heel and chime onto the path below. She dropped the curtain, and icy air whisked into the bedroom. Petrified with fear, she strained her ears for her father’s furious steps on the stairs, but all was quiet. After a kick or two more, the rickety catch gave way, and the window flew open.

  Without a plan, she poked her head into potential freedom, then pulled it back in fear. But she was halfway to freedom. If she gave up now, her punishment for breaking the window would be several thrashes with the belt. The thought spurred her onwards.

  With quiet but dogged grunts, she forced her ancient, flaccid mattress through the little opening. It landed on the ground and flopped sideways. Next, she lobbed out anything soft, and when satisfied that she had made the best possible cushioning, she clambered onto the chair and put a foot on the window ledge. Seized with terror and doubt, she hesitated. Was this a terrible mistake? Checking the road for her mother, she dropped her bundle of clothes onto the heap below and sat on the sill. The rough metal frame cut into her thighs, and she winced, peering down at the ground. Although the house was not tall, the distance to the ground was far enough to give her pause. With difficulty, she struggled onto her stomach and eased backwards, her ribs cut by the rough metal. Her arms trembled as her body hung from the frame and her knees grazed the rough wall of the house. A gust of freezing wind lifted her skirt, and with a silent prayer she let go. Despite her efforts to pad the ground, she missed the mattress and landed on the curtains and clothes. Pain burst up her leg from her ankle and she slackened her knees and threw herself sideways onto the mattress. Scrambling to her feet, she tested her ankle and found it sore but not broken. Her clothing had spilled onto the grit, and as she scrabbled to collect it, her eyes darted to the corner of the roadway in search of her mother. A plastic carrier bag blew at her face and she snatched it off, her heart thudding.