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

tumbled to the frigid floor.
The little man hauled Anwen to her feet, and Cerys screeched her objection. From the floor, she reached up to the dresser for some kind of projectile. Her groping fingers met an earthenware jug, and with every gram of strength, she sent it flying.
It bounced off Owen’s shoulder and crashed to the tiles, and he howled, still clutching Anwen. His eyes swept the room for a means of retaliation.
Meanwhile, Cerys was on her feet. She snatched a huge meat plate and raised it high above her, bearing down on him, prepared to crash it onto his head. He hunched his body and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the impact, but the door opened, and Mam strode in.
‘What on earth?’ She halted. ‘Cerys. No!’
Cerys glared, her face suffused with sightless fury, and the little woman drove at her, shouting in her reedy voice, ‘Cerys. Calm down… Calm down!’
Cerys’s arms slackened, and she lowered the plate. With a drooping head, she replaced it on the dresser and wrapped her body in her arms.
Dad released his hold on Anwen, and the child threw herself on Cerys, sobbing and rubbing her arm.
‘Go to your room. Now!’ her mother snapped at Cerys.
Cerys tried to take Anwen’s hand, but Mam batted it away. ‘Leave her here,’ she ordered.
With brimming eyes, Cerys threw her little sister a helpless look and dragged herself up the bare wooden staircase.
Their shared bedroom was the very one fifteen-year-old Anwen had, until this morning, still occupied. Nothing in it had changed in the intervening years: The tallboy, the yellowing paint and the drab curtains. Hunched on the bed now, teenage Cerys concentrated every ounce of hatred on her father and plotted her escape. Soon Anwen’s piercing scream echoed from the kitchen, followed by the clop of her father’s feet, and the sobs of Anwen being dragged up the stairs. Cerys positioned herself beside the doorway with a flimsy wooden chair poised in the air.
The door exploded inwards, and Anwen flew over the threshold. Dad had time for a flicker of surprise before Cerys brought the chair down hard on his head. The edge of the seat met its target with an ugly ‘thunk’ and the little man dropped onto the landing without a murmur. Cerys grabbed hold of Anwen and covered her small, snotty mouth with a hand. The two crouched, frozen, straining their ears for Mam’s arrival, one eye on Dad, who was out cold on the floor. But the noise Mam was making below must have blocked out the sound, and Cerys released Anwen. ‘Come on Lovely, we’re leaving. You and me. We’ll find a new home.’ She swept Anwen up and stepped over her father. He groaned which, although terrifying, was a relief. At least she was not a murderer.
With Anwen in her arms, Cerys slogged her way down the stairs, her eyes fixed on the front door and freedom. While Mam laboured out of sight, she shot from the house and, with Anwen jolting on her hip like a sack of bones, pelted away.
They made it to Mold before Cerys realised that she could not meet her sister’s needs. The child was hungry and frightened, and they had no money. With Anwen slowing her down, they would both be caught. In deep sadness she dropped to her knees and hugged her sister tightly. ‘I can’t take care of you, baby girl. I have to leave you. But listen.’ She put her forehead on Anwen’s and held her gaze. ‘I promise to come back for you. You hear me? I promise.’
Anwen’s small face crumpled, and Cerys hugged her tight, combing her mind for a way to protect the only person in the world she loved.
When they entered the cottage hospital, she had a plan. In one hand she held a note, written with a stolen pencil on a scrap of rubbish from a bin. Anwen’s small hand held hers with a trust she did not deserve. A straggle of outpatients, including a youthful woman in a wheelchair, waited with various degrees of patience for two solemn females behind a counter. Cerys hesitated, wondering whether to join the queue, but then an efficient-seeming nurse hurried past.
‘Please help us.’ Cerys whispered, and the nurse paused. Cerys pressed the note into her hand and pushed Anwen at her before running at the exit shouting to Anwen, ‘I love you, Anwen. Don’t forget what I promised.’
Outside, she pelted past a blur of ambulances and wheelchairs, into the car park.
The note told their story. Their violent parents and Anwen’s vulnerability, and that she, Cerys, could not yet care for her little sister, but hoped the authorities would find a place to keep her safe. After some thought, she added her parents’ address and the contact details of the local shop. She asked that someone keep her informed via Mr Davies but begged that her parents should only know that Anwen was safe. Under no circumstances must she return to them.
As she ran towards freedom, Cerys offered a silent prayer that Mr Davies would not mind helping. He seemed like a kind man.
 
‘So, what happened? How did she end up back there?’ Paul eyes were on the motorway and his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
‘I’m not sure. I was on the streets for a while. That was frightening, and I had to look after my own safety. Eventually I got a place in a hostel, and they helped me into a job. Once I had money, I could find a place of my own. I moved into a bedsit and bought a mobile phone. All that took time. Occasionally I rang Mr Davies, but he’d heard nothing. Then one day he rang to say Anwen was