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

a bush at any moment. The dome of the sky sparkled with a mess of stars, and in the moonlight, frost stiffened and bleached the nearby grass. The adrenalin that powered her here had subsided, and now she was plain scared. She shivered. Nobody came.
From a small, frosted window above her head, a steamy yellow light struggled into the gloom. She kicked at the ground for something to throw and found an egg-sized stone and picked it up. Its icy surface numbed her palm as she tested its weight, worrying about its impact on the window above. But if she was not to die of hypothermia, it must be done. She launched it at the dim rectangle above her head, and a bullet-shot split the sheep-filled peace.
To her relief, the windowpane remained intact, and she was scouring the ground for another pebble when a halo of light burst from the small casement, followed by a glistening pate. ‘Anyone there?’
‘Me.’ Nerves strangled her voice, and she swallowed and called again a firmer voice, ‘It’s me. Anwen. From up the mountain.’
‘Hold on, Dear; I’m coming down.’
Light flooded the shop, and the rotund figure of Mr Davies, bare foot and rolled in a brown towel from armpit to shin, padded towards her. When he opened the door, the warmth from inside met her like a hug.
‘I’m sorry it’s so cold in here.’ The shopkeeper’s head shook, making his chin wobble, and he stepped back to let her in.
‘It’s not. It’s lovely.’ Anwen tried not to gawk at his fleshy shoulders. Her own parents were sinewy from hard graft and spartan living. This man appeared to lack any concern for the Lord’s opinion on greed.
The hairs on Mr Davies’s ample arms bristled, and he shivered. ‘Come on up, Dear. You might not be cold; but I am. My poor feet.’ They both studied the ten gnarled white toes, forced to uncomfortable angles by bunions.
Anwen hesitated. Should she be obedient to her sister and take Mr Davies up on his invitation? He was male - a person of danger. But she trusted Cerys and liked this kind man, so she gave a small smile and followed him.
With instructions to make herself comfortable in his living room, Mr Davies headed for the bedroom. Anwen sat in a deep armchair, clutching her carrier to her chest, and taking in the comfortable little space. Squashy seating, a carpet, velvet drapes; she was oblivious to their worn state. In her limited experience, they were the epitome of luxury. She wiggled her icy toes inside her shoes and flexed her fingers to help their feeling return.
In the corner, opposite her, was a small kitchen area and beside it, a table with two chairs. So easy to clean. Anwen could happily live in such a place.
A cheerful whistle preceded her host’s return, resplendent in bright blue pyjamas and an enormous plaid dressing-gown. ‘Hope you don’t mind, Dear. I always make myself comfortable after standing all day in that drafty shop.’
If Anwen was uncomfortable, she declined to show it.
The shopkeeper dumped himself into a nearby chair with a grunt and leaned towards her. Nervously, she curled tighter into the cushions, and he withdrew a little. ‘It’s OK. Don’t worry. Everything’ll be fine.’ He cocked his head. ‘Is this to do with your mam’s visit this afternoon?’
At her slow nod, Mr Davies dropped his own head and looked at the carpet between his knees. ‘Thought so. Scary woman your mam.’
She nodded again, and he jerked his head up and slapped both knees. ‘I’m forgetting my manners. You must be frozen. Have you eaten?’ She shook her head, and he crossed to the kitchen and pulled bread, soft margarine and ham from the fridge. ‘Mayo?’
‘Yes please,’ she whispered.
‘Hot chocolate?’
This was a puzzle; hot chocolate sounded messy. At her worried expression, he said, ‘It’s a drink. You know? Hot chocolate, drinking chocolate?’ He mimicked an old TV advert.
She feigned understanding. ‘Oh, yes. Yes, please.’
Another delectable sandwich soon arrived, and marvelling at the sweet and warming properties of a mug of hot chocolate, Anwen relaxed.

The shopkeeper watched the girl tuck into her meal and blow the surface of her drink. Every so often she would slide her eyes across the room to him and he would smile. When she had finished the sandwich, he produced a box of Mr Kipling apple pies, and Anwen demolished two and pressed all the crumbs into her fingertips, sucking them clean. Soon, her eyelids, despite her obvious efforts to prevent them, drooped into profound sleep, and Mr Davies picked up the telephone.
21 CERYS
‘Put your foot down,’ Cerys hollered at Paul.
‘Calm down, woman. You’re usually nagging at me to slow down.’
‘Yes. Well, this is important.’
‘I can tell, and I’ve done everything you’ve asked. So, what’s going on?’
Cerys had kept her secret for so long that her lies had become glib. The truth was hard to tell but tell it she must.
The weight of her young sister’s body pressed against fifteen-year-old Cerys’s leg. Anwen’s small hands clung to her skirt, impeding her movement. Cerys pushed the child behind her and faced their father, Owen, who was lunging across the kitchen towards them on the chilly flags. The buckle end of a coiled belt swung from his fist.
‘Don’t you dare touch her,’ Cerys screamed. ‘Hit me if you must, but she’s still a baby.’ A desperate note crept into her voice. ‘If you hurt her, I’ll leave, and I’ll take her with me.’ She fixed him with a glare. ‘Then who would do all your cleaning and mending, eh?’
Owen shot out a hand to grip Cerys’s upper arm in his bony fingers, his mouthwas an angry gash across his face. The pain of his grip, and his strength, forced Cerys downwards, and with Anwen screaming and clinging on, the two