by Sue Nicholls
Kitty ran the edge of her spoon across the top of her sorbet, making a small butter-curl roll. ‘I enjoy it. I don’t suppose it’s everyone’s idea of an occupation, but I like to write and love to investigate. In other words, I’m nosy and opinionated.’
‘I don’t think you’re nosy,’ Anwen said. ‘You haven’t asked me about my mam and dad, or about my sister, who’s about to marry your father.’
‘Ah, well, no. That’s different, isn’t it?’ Kitty dipped her spoon in again. ‘I imagine you’ll tell me if you want to. It’s not my role to interrogate you about your life, or your sister’s.’
Anwen nodded but did not enlighten her. Instead, she pursued the matter of Kitty’s job, asking about qualifications and experience. It sounded like her kind of career, and she wanted something to work towards at school. A mentor in the family would be helpful too. She stopped at the thought: In the family. It sounded incredible. She was getting a new family, and Kitty would be her stepsister. Anwen was so overcome with optimism that once again her eyes filled.
Kitty’s face changed. ‘What is it? Is something wrong?’
Anwen pulled her face into a smile. ‘No. Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that I realised how lucky I am.’ Her throat was tight. ‘I haven’t been all that happy, and then I thought about you being my sister and…’ Tears flowed down her cheeks.
Kitty rested her hand on Anwen’s arm and waited for the moment to pass.
‘Sorry,’ Anwen gulped.
‘Don’t be. What you said was lovely. You can always come to me if you’re worried or upset. I’ll help if I can. If I’m around. My work means I’m often away, but you can usually get me on the phone. You don’t have a mobile, do you?’
Anwen shook her head.
‘I suppose the computer was expensive.’ Kitty nodded her understanding. ‘I bet most people at school have a mobile.’
It was Anwen’s turn to nod.
Kitty poked out her lip in thought, then broke into a smile. ‘You could get a job. You’re old enough.’ She put the spoon into her saucer. ‘Hey. Would you like to be my cleaner? I’m always struggling to keep my place up to scratch.
‘Well,’ Anwen considered the proposal with a mixture of feelings. Cleaning was something she had run away from, but then again, Kitty wasn’t Mam and she needed help. ‘I do have plenty of experience, but…’ She petered out and stared at her hands.
‘I think the going rate is ten pounds per hour,’ Kitty said, and Anwen’s head shot up.
‘I could come before or after school,’ she offered
They arranged for Anwen to go to Kitty’s flat every Friday afternoon. ‘I probably won’t be there on a Friday. If I’m not away, I tend to go into the office and say ‘Hi’, and we go to the pub. That’d be a good day. We won’t get under one another’s feet.’
Anwen’s thoughts charged ahead. If Kitty had offered her work, other people might need her help too. She raised the idea with Kitty, who was not so upbeat about it, worrying that the girl was too young to be working for strangers.
With a flash of rebelliousness that would have brought a frown to Cerys’s brow, Anwen determined to find another client. She thought about her new family. Perhaps there was some person among them who might need a cleaner. Her attention came back to Kitty, who had been talking.
‘… I need a break, but I haven’t decided where to go.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t catch what you said. Are you going on holiday?’
‘I might. I am tired. I haven’t taken any time off in ages, and now I have you to help,’ she grinned, ‘I can have some me time.’
‘Who would you go with?’
Kitty shrugged. ‘I’m short on flexible friends.’ She paused. ‘But there’s Sam.’
‘Sam? A man?’
Kitty laughed at Anwen’s look of disapproval. ‘Yes, he was a man last time I checked. Is there something wrong with that?’
Anwen looked at her ice cream. It was melting, and although delicious, it was making her feel a little queasy. She dropped her spoon into the glass coupe and as it sank through grey-brown gloop to the bottom, she planted her eyes on Kitty. ‘Do you love him?’
For a heartbeat, Kitty’s face was unfathomable, and Anwen worried she had said something wrong. ‘Sorry,’ she blurted. ‘It’s not my business. I said what Mam would have said. Well, actually, she would have belted you one and shut you in your room for saying you were going away with a man.’
Kitty gave a half smile. ‘Sam’s been in my life since I was about five. I meant he could come as a friend.’
Anwen said, ‘Will he understand that you are just friends?’
Kitty stared through the window at a passing bus, that made the windows rattle and blinked out the light. ‘It’s not a proper holiday, actually. We’re working together on a case.’
The group of mothers behind Anwen began strapping their babies into buggies. Amid their bustling, she pushed aside her ice cream and leaned her arms on the table. ‘What case?’
‘It’s a long story,’ said Kitty. ‘I’m not sure how much you’ve been told about my past, but my mum was murdered, and so was Sam’s mum. Basically, Sam and I are investigating that.’
‘Don’t they know who did it then?’
‘They do, yes. A man was released from prison a short while ago after serving time for their murders, but he says he’s innocent.’
‘So, you’re trying to prove he is?’
‘No. I‘m going to prove he’s guilty.’
Buggies and toddlers squeezed past as Kitty spoke. A mum in baggy dungarees, a long plait hanging down the centre of her back, threw them a curious look.
Kitty sat up straight and said, ‘Anyway, enough of that. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’ Her voice became business like. ‘Come on. Time to go.’
Anwen was fascinated. Why would Kitty want to prove this strange man’s guilt? The court had presumably done that already. She begged to hear more, but Kitty was firm. They slid from their seats and after settling the bill at the counter, Kitty said to Anwen, ‘I’ll pop you home on the bike, if you like.’
All thought of the investigation vanished at this exciting prospect.
33 ANWEN
‘How was school?’ Cerys called to her young sister.
‘Not bad.’ And this time, it was not a lie.
‘That’s good.’ Cerys, who was swabbing kitchen units, grunted as she bent to wipe splashes off a cupboard door. ‘Want a cuppa, Lovely?’
‘Thanks. I’ll be there in a minute.’ Anwen draped her coat over the banister rail and dropped her school bag against the wall in the hall.
Cerys came to the kitchen door and put her knuckles on her hips. ‘I see you’ve shaken off Mam’s influence at last, but,’ she bent towards Anwen, ‘Some things are still rules. Take the bag and the coat to your room, Anwen. Keep the place nice for Paul.’
‘Sorry.’ Anwen grabbed her things and ran upstairs. After throwing them into the bottom of her wardrobe, she flipped up the lid of her laptop and woke up Facebook. She had several notifications. Charlie and six girls - not ‘Popular Ones’ thank goodness - had accepted her friend requests. She sat down to explore timelines. Charlie’s was full of spelling mistakes, but it had a spirited feel, with links to YouTube videos of animals doing daft things, and pictures of footballers. On other pages, she scrolled through the owners’ selfies and read their boasts of intoxication. Less shocked now by the low morals of her fellow students, her principal worry was where she should draw the line herself. The straitjacket in which she grew up no longer existed. Cerys and Paul had a few slack rules, but it was tricky to work out how far to stretch them. Today, with Charlie, she had tried out the word fuck to see how it felt. He had laughed his socks off at her. ‘You can’t swear, Blod. It sounds all wrong.’
His use of her nickname made her hot with rage and she screamed at him, her body tense and shaking, ‘Don’t you dare call me that, you fuckwit.’
He stepped backwards. ‘That’s b
etter, girl. Now you sound like you mean it.’ Charlie patted her arm. ‘Sorry. It was meant to be a friendly name.’
She relaxed then, and a moment later shrieked with laughter. Soon the two of them were rolling on the grass with tears pouring from their eyes. ‘Fuckwit haha. Fuck, fuck, fucking fuckwit.’
Anwen closed her laptop and went to find her tea, wondering what her timeline would look like in twelve months’ time.
The kitchen shone, and Cerys was sitting at the table, fanning her face with a baby magazine. ‘Help yourself to tea,’ she said, flapping a hand at a mug next to the kettle. You can pour me one too, if you would.’
Anwen placed their two drinks on the table and sat, wondering how to approach what she wanted to say. With her hot mug between her palms, she said, ‘Kitty was helpful about the computer yesterday, I’m set up on all the things I wanted to be…’
‘That’s good.’ Cerys took a sip and flapped her magazine to cool her shiny face. ‘I shouldn’t have asked for tea. It makes me so hot.’
Anwen hurried on, ‘And she’s offered me a cleaning job.’
Cerys’s eyebrows shot into her fringe. ‘Really? Cleaning eh?’
‘Yes. two hours a week for ten pounds an hour.’
Cerys looked as if she was about to object, but when she heard the rate of pay she grinned. ‘That’s nice. You’ll soon be rich.’
‘Sis?’ Anwen ventured.
‘Yes?’
‘Kitty was telling me about her mam being murdered, like.’
Cerys sat up straight. ‘Murdered?’
At the astonished look on her sister’s face, Anwen faltered. ‘That’s what she said. Didn’t you know?’
Cerys stared for several seconds before replying in a tone that brooked no questions, ‘No, I didn’t.’
They sat for a while, and Anwen repressed her urge to reveal the other things she had discovered about the released convict. ‘Are you OK?’
Cerys sipped, with her eyes fixed on the wall behind Anwen. ‘I’m fine.’
~~~
Through the modern walls and floors of their house, Anwen listened to Cerys and Paul’s raised voices. Sitting in the middle of her bed, with her arms around her knees, the girl blamed herself for this falling out. She worried that it might end her sister’s relationship with Paul, and then what would happen? But outweighing her anxiety was Anwen’s longing to learn more of this fascinating story. She strained her ears for information about Kitty’s mother and gathered that her name was Fee. After divorcing Paul, she remarried. Anwen already knew from the internet that the husband’s name was Max Owen-Rutherford, and this was the person who pushed her off a cliff on their honeymoon in Mauritius. What a story!
Downstairs, in the living room, Paul was yelling at Cerys. ‘I didn’t want to talk about it. It was a terrible time. The police thought I’d killed her.’ Anwen cringed as he bellowed, ‘Why would I tell you? If I had, would you have wanted anything to do with me?’
‘So, you would have married me without mentioning it?’ Cerys’s voice was harsh and high, and Anwen pictured her with those knuckles on her hips again and her chin thrust at Paul. ‘That’s a fine way to start married life. And with this on the way.’ The lounge door slammed, and Cerys’s footsteps banged up the stairs. Then her bedroom door slammed shut and there was silence.
Anwen once again Googled ‘Paul Thomas’ and ‘murder’ and examined the picture of Max Owen-Rutherford. He was referred to in the article as Max Owen. He was a handsome man; fair-haired with an open, intelligent smile. It was easy to see how Fee might have fallen for him. He did not look at all like a murderer.
Anwen experienced a sense of unease, a feeling that she was sticking her nose where it should not be. She closed the page and as she did so, the stairs creaked - Paul coming up. His feet padded along the landing, then the bedroom door opened and closed quietly.
34 ANWEN
On Friday afternoon, Anwen let herself into Kitty’s flat with a newly cut key. Apart from the hum of the fridge and the drone of traffic on the road below, the place was silent. She dropped her coat and bag onto an armchair and went into the kitchen. In the sink, breakfast things were soaking in cold, scummy water. Kitty had eaten porridge with honey and drunk, Anwen sniffed a cup, tea maybe? She found the Earl Grey tea packet and put it to her nose with distaste. Yes, that was it.
In the bedroom, the double bed was a tumble of duvet and pillows, with a white cotton vest and soft pyjama-trousers thrown across the top. Anwen stood inside the door and appraised her surroundings. It was a sizeable room. She measured it: three strides one way and four the other. There was plenty of space for a laundry basket, two bedside tables with tissues, books and the wire lead for an iPad or phone. Against one wall stood a vast mahogany wardrobe. Anwen opened its double doors and riffled her hands across Kitty’s sparse collection of garments: Two sets of leathers, one scarlet and the other black. A black woollen skirt, jeans and a casual jacket. On the wooden bottom were a pair of biker-boots and a pair of flat ballet style shoes. Shelves held four tee-shirts and two hoodies. Kitty had even fewer clothes than Anwen.
The shower cubicle was still wet, and Anwen leaned across the basin to open the window. The supermarket branded shower gel and hair products, and a toothbrush and toothpaste tube in a plastic beaker on the ledge of the sink, were disappointing. Such commonplace toiletries did not fit with Kitty’s glamorous job.
On the dining table in the living room, the scattered papers from her previous visit had been neatened into a rough pile. Guilty and thrilled, she flipped through them. There was a spreadsheet of printed comments and additional handwritten notes at the bottom and she pulled it out, careful not to mess up the other papers. Kitty would have sat on this chair, carefully cross-checking data - or perhaps she sat on the sofa with the bundle of papers beside her and her laptop on her knees. Anwen lowered herself onto the chair and ran her eyes over the document. It must be about the case that Kitty had told her about. One remark on the page said: Paul spoiled Kitty’s party. She wondered what he had done. Some entries had dates against them, but there were gaps. Excited, Anwen made a mental note of the missing details. Then she checked her watch. Half an hour had passed, and she had not even picking up a cloth. She scurried back to the kitchen.
After two further hours, Anwen surveyed her work from the threshold of the front door. In the kitchen, taps and kettle reflected the late sun flooding the rear of the flat, and the lemon scent of furniture polish drifted from the sitting room. Kitty would be happy to come home to such order.
35 SAM
‘Hi Dad.’ Sam strode along the pavement with his phone against his ear. Against every expectation his father had found an amenable woman on the dating site, and yesterday afternoon they met in a tea shop.
‘Hello, Son’
Sam shifted his phone to the other ear. ‘How was your date?’
‘I’m fine thank you; how are you?’ Maurice retorted.
‘Sorry.’ Sam’s hope subsided a little, ‘I’m well. How was it?’
‘OK.’ Maurice’s voice was flat.
Not so good, then. ‘Was she not nice?’
‘I thought she was nice, yes, but I don’t think she thought much of me.’
Sam halted outside the corner shop and leaned against the wall by the door. ‘Why do you say that? What happened?’ then ‘Hang on a tick, Dad.’ A woman in wrinkled leggings was marching towards him with a boy, about fifteen, sulking behind. The lad’s face was lumpy with acne and as they closed in on Sam, the woman bellowed, ‘I’ve told you Mervin; chocolate gives you spots.’ Shoving past Sam, the distracted female almost stepped on Sam’s toes and he moved away from the doorway. ‘OK. Carry on,’ he said to his dad.
‘It was fine in the cafe. We chatted about all sorts. She’s a widow. We talked about her grandchildren and her house and garden. She’s keen on gardening. She was interested in you and Josh, too.’
A gardener? Even after Sam’s ministrations, Maurice’s lawn resemb
led a pasture. ‘Did you invite her back to yours?’
‘Well. I didn’t have much choice - she invited herself. I suppose she wanted to check me out.’
‘And?’
‘She wasn’t impressed. When I looked round, I wasn’t impressed either. I saw the house through fresh eyes.’
‘I did say…’
‘You were right. I’ve already started on the garden.’
The last time Sam was at Kitty’s, it was so clean he jokingly asked if she was expecting an estate agent. His reward was the usual thump on his tricep along with the secret of the flat’s new charm. He said to Maurice, ‘Cerys’s sister, the young one, Anwen. She does cleaning. I think she’d be pleased to come in.’
‘She would?’
36 ANWEN
The little gate that led into Maurice’s front garden was stiff to open. Anwen gave it a shove and stepped through studying the garden. The lawn was smooth and green, and there were signs of weeding and digging in the flower border that ran along next door’s fence. Its mate opposite was a different matter. A tangle of green nettles and bind weed punctured by the stiff brown skeletons of tall weeds from years past.
When she pressed the bell in Maurice’s flaking porch, no corresponding ring sounded inside, so she clacked the brown knocker and waited, staring at the faded blue door in its yellowing frame. One day soon, that knocker would shine to a gleaming bronze, but she did not feel qualified to tackle painting.
Maurice opened the door with a welcoming smile, and she took in a dingey hallway and an unpleasant smell of grease. Inside, he offered her a coffee, but she plumped for water. He picked up a grey tea towel and wiped his muddy hands, then still dangling it at his side, showed her around. She sipped her drink as she followed him, noting the grimy window ledges and the dusty tables with finger-pattern fringes. The margins of the beige carpets, where they met the scuffed skirtings, were thick with fluff. Cobwebs clung to walls and curtains and wafted from ceiling lights.
