Letting out the Worms: Guilty or not? If not then the alternative is terrifying (Kitty Thomas Book 1 by Sue Nicholls (top e book reader TXT) 📗

car and take it to the tip when I’m next free.’ He rubbed his mucky fingers on his backside and said, ‘I need to wash my hands. Let’s have a cup of tea and find your calendar.’

‘OK. And I can show you the dating website.’

Sam halted in the middle of pulling down the door. ‘The what?’

‘The Dating website?’ His father poked his hands into his pockets and grinned. ‘You said I should join one, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, but…’ Sam stopped. ‘That’s brilliant. Good for you.’ He banged the garage shut and swept a Walter Raleigh bow. ‘After you, oh romantic one.’

With the kettle boiling, Sam pulled his chair beside his dad’s.

At the computer, Maurice gripped the mouse as though it might escape and said, ‘There are so many questions. I can’t decide how to answer them.’

Sam ran his eyes over the webpage and his hope plummeted. Was Dad romantic? Bloody hell, the mind boggled. Did he want a physical relationship? Don’t even go there. If Maurice answered these intimate questions truthfully, Sam doubted he would ever interest a woman? He decided this was not his area of expertise and stood to make their tea, saying, ‘You ought to do this on your own, Dad.’

‘But should I tell the truth, boy?’

Sam was tempted to tell his dad to lie, but then he thought, Twitch must have seen something in him, once. ‘Think back to when you met Mum. What were you like then?’

‘Well, I was more interested in sex for one thing.’ The phantom of a smile wafted over Maurice’s face and Sam wondered when his dad had last smiled twice in one day?

‘OK, but apart from that, did you take Mum out? Where did you go? What did you enjoy? How did you behave?’ He put a mug of tea on the table for his father and said, ‘Think, Dad. Your circumstances are different now, but you could do that again, couldn’t you?’

Maurice’s sat up straight and said in a doubtful voice. ‘I could.’ Then with more confidence, I could.’

Sam nodded. ‘I’ll leave you to it and take another stroll round the garden. Are there any tools?’

Maurice was already planting heavy fingers on his computer keys. ‘In the garage. On the right.’

Holding a garden fork out of sight of the kitchen window, Sam popped his head through the back door. His father was still engrossed in his task, frowning at his screen with the hint of a sparkle in his eyes. Maurice did not appear to be concerned about the buried item in the park, and for this, Sam was grateful. But he had to know if his instinct was correct, so he said, ‘I’ve remembered I need to get some food in for this evening. Kitty’s coming over for a bite. I want to avoid the school kids coming out, so I’ll pop off now. See you later.’

Maurice raised a hand without looking up, ‘OK Boy. See you in a while.’

With a garden fork over his shoulder, Sam strode to his car.

It was not a big hill, more a long slope, but the children, seated one behind the other, arms wrapped round waists and legs jutting out like herringbones, shrieked with terror and excitement as the long wooden trolley bounced over tussocks and slowed to a halt near the fence.

Paul, waiting at the bottom, groped between the wire-wheels for a rope and turned the cart in a wide curve. Seated behind Kitty, Sam looked up to see his dad grinning down at them. As Paul flexed his body and heaved his five excited passengers back towards the top, Maurice loped down to help.

 

The contraption lay exposed like an unearthed skeleton at an archaeological dig. Sam gazed down at it in its grave among severed tree roots. It had once been parcelled in black plastic sheeting, secured by tape, but now, the disintegrating covering lay beneath it like a slack cloak, exposing its wooden base, slimy with green algae. Sam propped his dad’s muddy fork against a tree and squatted at the edge of the crevasse. Leaning forward, he tried to spin a wheel, but although in reasonable condition, the axle was swollen with rust and the spokes remained fixed. Near his knees, a grimy, blue rope had been tied to the front. Was this the rope Paul had used to pull them up Little Callan Hill? Was that rope blue? Sam groped in his mind to recall the day, and to explain the cart’s appearance here. One of the adults of his childhood had told him it was stolen. He could not remember which adult; it could have been his father or Paul. That it was Mick, seemed improbable. Mick was around less than the other fathers because of the antisocial hours demanded by his job as chef in a big hotel chain.

Sam got to his feet, grasped the end of the rope and heaved. At first the vehicle only moved a fraction, and hoping it would not disintegrate on its way out of its hole, Sam turned his back on the hole and with the rope over his shoulder, clasped it in both hands, wedged his feet against a tree root and gave one massive heave. With a rush, the kart bounced from captivity, over roots and dead leaves, showering mud into the air and firing Sam onto his face.

He scrambled to his feet and brushed dirt from his knees and palms. Having got this far he was determined to get the thing to his car, and after that, up to his flat. He wanted a good look at it.

29 LUCAS

In recognition of a welcome warm snap, Lucas and Mick had arranged tables outside their restaurant. Saturday lunch-time shoppers occupied every seat. Inside and out, Churchills was alive with low conversation and the scraping of cutlery on china. And along the pavement