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) 📗

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Claudine’s face was distorted with rage. She grasped Max’s bandaged fingers, forcing silent tears from his eyes, dragged him from the police station and pushed him into the car. After ramming the vehicle into reverse, she skidded from her parking slot and into the road. Her jaw was tense, and her throat contracted with loud, dry swallows. The anger Max had felt in the hotel room still buoyed his indignation, so he folded his arms and frowned at the rain-blurred road ahead.

They travelled in silence; the only sounds were from the over-revved engine, the squeal of the inadequate wipers and the swish of passing vehicles. Then Claudine spat, ‘How dare you do that to me? Do you realise how much that hotel costs? I’ll never be able to go there again, and God knows how much the damage will set me back…’

Max squeezed his arms tighter and kept his silence.

‘And the humiliation. The police actually fetched me from rehearsals. Everyone will be sniggering behind my back.’ She made no reference to the telling off she received from the police sergeant before he handed Max back. Luckily for her, neither Max nor the charming hotel receptionist had shared the fact that Claudine had intended to be away for two weeks. Max was grateful for this. Although he didn’t spend much time in the loving arms of his family, the care system held more dread.

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