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

your own choice of horses and bets.’ This seemed fair, as Larry had studied form for years. Anyway, during their discourse Max had spotted a horse that caught his fancy. Its name was Maximum Effort, a kind of namesake, Max thought. The odds offered were ten to one, and Max passed his betting slip to a smiling, round-faced girl in an orange shirt and sat next to Larry to wait for the three thirty at Cheltenham.
~~~
Fifteen buff-coloured fifty-pound notes lay on the bed. Fifteen inscrutable faces of Queen Elizabeth stared at the ceiling. After standing Larry a pint, Max had danced back to his halls of residence, as high as if he had smoked a joint. Still buoyed up, he now stood at his window, jingling change in his pockets and watching a girl. She walked to the grass between his room and the building opposite and stepped over a sign urging students to keep off the grass. He had seen her before, confident (arrogant perhaps), beautiful. Her hair swayed from side to side as she swung her hips, making a commodious cloth bag over one shoulder, bounce off her body. Max leaned forward and watched her enter the stairway below and felt movement in his trousers. He smirked and opened the door. ‘Hello.’
The girl hooked the bag from her shoulder with a thumb and lowered it to the floor. Her key, on a metal ring, swung on her forefinger. ‘Oh, hi.’
Nice hair, nice body, a slight gap between her front teeth that gave her an air of Brigitte Bardot. Max gave a cool look. ‘I’ve been watching you.’
The girl flicked her hair over a shoulder and leaned the on the wall, facing him. ‘I’ve been watching you too.’
They studied one another for a few seconds.
I never wanted you.
The female swallowed, and the fine skin on her throat moved. Max jerked his head towards his room. ‘There’s a bottle of vodka here, looking for a girl.’
She grinned.
Max did not.
‘I may be that girl,’ she said. 'Give me a minute.’
He scooped up his winnings and hid them in the top drawer of his only piece of furniture.
With a soft tap on the door, she walked in. ‘Got any glasses?’
‘Nope. You’ll have to drink from the bottle.’
She adopted a coquettish pose ‘What kind of girl do you think I am?’ You know what kind of woman I am, Maxy Darling.
Max wanted to give her a smack, but he kept his expression bland. ‘Well I hope, one who doesn’t mind drinking from a bottle.’
A quarter of the bottle disappeared down her gullet when he made his move. He expected no resistance and got none. She was hot for it. Girls were always hot for sex if you treated them with disdain.
She was on all fours when he took her from behind, pinching her nipples so hard that she squealed, then forcing his finger into her anus. ‘Like a bit of pain, do you?’ he panted. She did not answer; her face was buried in a pillow and her buttocks spread wide. When she reached orgasm, her body thrashed and bucked, but he hung onto her hips and pumped hard and rough, faster and faster until he reached his own shuddering climax.
The girl came again, screaming into the pillow, ‘Christ. Christ. Christ!’
On his way to the bathroom, he glanced back. She was sprawled face down on the bed. ‘I’ve got work to do, so clear off now,’ he said and turned away.
She left, and so did the bottle. Little thief. She would suffer for that next time.
~~~
A person could gamble day and night. Horses first, dogs later. Max spent his mornings studying form and afternoons in the bookie’s or at Belle Vue Dog Track. He ignored telephone calls and notes from his tutors and his fluctuating but swelling overdraft and spent a frantic few months gambling and screwing the girl.
Her name was Julia. Julia, a middle-class bitch with a satisfying appetite for punishment.
But Julia ran away after he smashed off the bottom of an empty vodka bottle and stood over her body wondering where to put the jagged ends. Terror followed by disgust passed across her face. Then she kicked him hard in the balls and, as he doubled over, booted him in the gut. The vodka bottle thudded to the thin carpet.
Useless.
No! Not useless, you old cow. His teeth hurt as much as his body because he was clenching them so hard. He lay without moving, watching the room grow dark - the day wasted.
~~~
In January, after a solitary Christmas, Max sat down and opened his statements from Barclaycard, Visa, and Access.
Ha. ‘Maxed’ out. You’re useless.
The telephone rang and a voice said, ‘Mr Rutherford? My name is Harry and I’m calling from Barclays Bank.’
~~~
‘It’s not the end of the world, Max.’ The woman in Student Services was brisk. ‘See each of your tutors and explain. Convince them you will work your back side off. They’ll help you; they’ve seen it all before. Get a job and make a financial plan, I can help you with that if you wish, and talk again to your bank. Is there anyone in your family who might bail you out?’
‘Probably not,’ Max grunted.
‘Think about that too.’
On his way out of the office, Reg floated into Max’s mind.
5 MAX 1981
Helped by an open-ended loan from Reg, Max scraped into year three,
It was time for his first one-to-one session. His counselling tutor, Constance, sat at a desk, surrounded by stacks of books and papers that teetered on chairs and took up most of the floor. At her invitation, Max sat and watched her writing and ignoring his presence. When finally, she snapped the gold-edged lid onto her fountain pen, she said, ‘So, Max. You wish to be a