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

her palm over the carpet pile. So soft.
Beside her, a radiator warmed her arm.
‘That’s the last.’ Cerys’s muffled voice came from the under-stairs’ cupboard, and Anwen paused in her Sybaritic musings to regard her sister’s round bottom, reversing towards her. Cerys sat back on her haunches and brushed her fringe from her eyes. ‘Let’s get this lot onto the kitchen table. Paul said there’s stuff in here he hasn’t unpacked since he moved in, so I expect we can take most of it to a charity shop.’
While they toted the boxes, Anwen listened in astonishment to Cerys’s explanation of a charity shop. To throw things away or have so much you might not notice if something was missing was an unfamiliar concept. Her parents - their parents - owned nothing that was not utilitarian. If something broke, they fixed it. The kitchen at Mynydd Hen contained a clutter of mismatched chairs, drawers with odd handles and a table constructed from two sawhorses and an old door. If Anwen had ever heard of Heath Robinson, she would have wondered why he was considered unusual. Only broken china was irreparable, and if the person breaking it was Anwen, the result would be her chilly incarceration.
‘Does Paul know we’re going through his stuff?’ she ventured.
‘Not exactly.’ With an ‘oomph’ Cerys dumped the last box onto the table. ‘I mentioned that I planned to have a good sort out before the party though, so it shouldn’t surprise him.’ She brushed dust from her melon-ripe front and ran her fingers through her hair.
‘You should look in the mirror. You’re a proper mess,’ Anwen grinned.
‘I’ll have a shower after. Now… what have we got in here?’ Cerys sliced a knife through parcel tape on the first box. Inside, wrapped in newspaper, they found glasses and pictures, all new to Cerys. The unexceptional prints of white, metal garden chairs and straw hats in conservatories were not to Paul’s automotive taste and held no appeal for Cerys either. She propped them against the hall wall. The glasses would be useful for the party, and Anwen unwrapped them and stood them by the sink. At the very bottom of the box lay a pile of papers: bank statements, old bills and a small notebook with dog-eared corners. Cerys replaced the financial records in the box and wrote ‘Bank Statements’ on the side.
They found blankets and sagging, dribble-stained feather pillows, and a rancid collection of plastic ice cream containers that held nuts and bolts, cable-ties and batteries. Cerys screwed up her nose. ‘Disgusting. These can go straight in the bin.’
‘Don’t you think you should check with Paul first? He might find some of that useful.’
‘I suppose so. I’ll find new boxes for them.’
Two hours later, most of Paul’s under-stairs belongings had found a new home in the dustbin. In the hall, two boxes awaited his authorisation: one for the charity shop and one for the attic. The latter bore a list on its lid of contents such as photos (mainly of old bikes and cars), cuff links, and flying jacket - the jacket may have fitted Paul once, but Cerys doubted he could zip it up now, let alone move in it. However, she knew how much the garment meant to him, as he often talked about it with a misty look in his eye. It was US Airforce issue: leather with a fleecy collar. Paul had bought it from a retiring furrier in his early biking days. She did not need to ask if he would send it to a charity shop, so she pressed it into the depths of a box.
Leaving Anwen to vacuum the hall, Cerys laboured up to the bedroom. After rinsing her hands in the en suite bathroom, she pulled the tatty little notebook from inside her bra. With the Hoover droning downstairs, she perched on the edge of the bed and separated its mottled, yellow pages, with her perfect pink nails. The sheets were divided into three columns, each labelled in Paul’s careless scrawl: Date, Event, and Anger. An item drew her attention: ‘Fee called at house - complained about smell.’ The number in the Anger column was ten, the highest on the page. She flipped through the book. The maximum number on any page was ten, and she found few below five. Here, at last, was information about Paul’s past, but reading it brought her no pleasure. This anger record revealed a side of Paul she had not experienced. Yes, he could be grumpy, but this scale of fury presented her man in a new, unwelcome light. Furthermore, peeking where she should not, was uncomfortable, so after dropping her grubby garments into the laundry bin, she slid the notebook into her bathrobe pocket.
Grime from her hair ran in rivulets between her blue-veined breasts and streamed around her gleaming belly. She arched her neck in pleasure, letting the heat soothe the troublesome pain in her back. To distract herself, she put her mind to Anwen’s future. Their area had several schools, but the nearest had no space, so Cerys had secured a place at a school local to Maurice. This would mean a bus ride or a lengthy walk for Anwen. Not that the girl would mind. In North Wales she had traipsed miles for most things.
On the previous Saturday, the sisters had enjoyed a shopping trip. Cerys helped Anwen chose modern clothes: jeans, jumpers, tee-shirts and a skater dress. Next, they bought school uniform: a dark green blazer with yellow edging, and a pleated skirt and green and gold tie. The hairdresser transformed Anwen from waif to modern young miss, cutting her light brown hair into layers. When she saw her new self in the mirror, Anwen’s face lit up.
After her shower, Cerys flopped downstairs in her slippers and stuffed the old notebook into the recycling bin. As she straightened up, a key crunched in the lock and