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) 📗

for what she did to you.’ Reg held out placating palms. ‘I’ll never forget the sight of you standing in that hotel. Never.’

~~~

Claudine sat at her mirror removing makeup. Used tissues littered the floor around her chair. Max stood just inside the doorway with Reg behind. He met her eyes while she appraised him in the reflection.

‘You’ve grown,’ she observed, ‘And you need a haircut.’

‘Fuck you; you old bat. Think I care about your opinion of me after the way you’ve treated me?’ Anger and hurt fed his venom. ‘You don’t look so great yourself. You’ve got more lines round your lips than an elephant’s arse. And I should know, I was in the front row, right under your nose. The super troupers really lit up your wrinkles. And your voice isn’t as good as it used to be, either.’

Claudine put her hands to her cheeks and shrieked, ‘Reggy. Get him out of here,’.

Reg fixed his eyes on the discarded tissues and said quietly, ‘He’s right, Claudine. You’re not getting any younger.’ His words seemed to surprise him, but after a pause, he threw up his head to face her and said, ‘You owe it to this boy to explain why you treated him so shamefully.’

With an icy expression, Claudine swung round in her chair. She stretched out her sinewy calves and high heeled shoes to rise and tower over them both. ‘Must I explain, yet again why I have sacrificed all for my career? How many more times must I tell you: my work is everything, everything?’ Her voice rose to a screech. ‘I never wanted children.’ she jabbed a finger at Max, ‘But his father insisted. I told him I would be a terrible mother, and I was right.’ She fastened her cold eyes on Max and fired, ‘I didn’t want you then. And I don’t want you now. Go away little boy and don’t bother coming back.’

Max swayed, and a hand gripped his elbow. Reg’s voice came from somewhere. ‘Steady. Come on now.’

Supported by his mother’s lover, Max tottered into the fresh air and stood, panting, in the alley. With Reg patting his back, saying, ‘That’s the way. Deep breaths.’

Across the road stood a typical city pub with black windows that implied beer and grease. Soon Max was coughing on a large Scotch while Reg sipped gin.

‘Mother’s ruin,’ Reg observed, and sniggered. ‘It’d take more than this to ruin that mother…’

‘Fucker,’ Max finished, and exploded into hysterical laughter.

After three more large ones, Max and Reg were best buddies.

Reg raised his glass to chest height. ‘A toast.’

‘It hasn’t popped up yet,’ pronounced Max and belched.

‘What? Oh yeah, toast. Ha. No, wait. I want to make a toast. This is serious.’ Reg arranged his face, and Max plonked his elbows onto the table and cupped his hands behind his ears.

‘OK. Let’s hear it.’

Reg lifted the glass higher. ‘To Claudine Owen, and all who sail in her, God help them. I won’t be boarding that deck again.’

Max raised his glass. ‘Claudine Owen and her dick,’ he slurred, and they both threw back their drinks and slammed the glasses down.

‘Did you say Claudine Owen’s dick?’ Reg asked, confused.

‘Dunno. Maybe,’ said Max, and slid under the table.

4 MAX 1980

Outside schools and on city streets, normal parents pushed normal buggies and clutched normal, grubby kids. Mothers and fathers wearing glazed expressions – a natural result of life with a young family. Max wondered what he might be like if he had grown up in a normal home.

He walked past the shop again. He was failing his degree. He would fail his degree.

Useless child, muttered his mother.

His bank balance was in the hundreds: his grant for the approaching academic term. But what was the point? He reached a decision and entered the shop. It was his first visit to a bookmaker’s.

To his relief, the interior was modern and inviting. This was not some seedy backstreet establishment. It was attractive (if you liked orange), and the people serving were cheerful and well dressed. Rows of chairs (orange) faced a TV screen surrounded by other, smaller screens. These displayed lists, not legible from where Max stood. Fixed to the back of each plastic chair was a ledge, wide enough for a notebook. A scatter of men studied newspapers or squinted at the screens and jotted down notes.

Max sat beside a man in jeans and a red and blue checked work shirt. A wispy fan of grey hair framed a pink shiny patch of scalp on top of his stooped head, and a potent smell of old ash tray emanated from his clothing. The guy was peering at a newspaper, penning notes in black ink in the margins and scrawling circles around some sections. Max squinted at the page. It seemed to list the day’s races for various racecourses and record the names of his chosen horses. He became aware that the pen had ceased its movement and realised that he was leaning against the stranger’s arm. He lurched away and met the man’s stony stare.

‘Something I can do for you, Sunshine?’ The man growled in a husky Mancunian accent.

With apology, Max expressed his desire to place a bet, and the man, Larry, was as delighted to help as he had formerly been to repel. In between coughs and wheezes, he prodded the newspaper with a nicotine-stained fingernail and explained its layout and how it recorded the predicted odds and details of the horses in each race. The odds changed regularly, and when you placed a bet, the cashier would note the current odds and the type of bet.

Larry knew what he was talking about, but the many types of bet and horse soon overwhelmed Max. His lecture over, the man was firm. ‘You’re on your own now, chum. I don’t want any copying. You make