Letting out the Worms: Guilty or not? If not then the alternative is terrifying (Kitty Thomas Book 1 by Sue Nicholls (primary phonics .txt) 📕

the pane give under her heel and chime onto the path below. She dropped the curtain, and icy air whisked into the bedroom. Petrified with fear, she strained her ears for her father’s furious steps on the stairs, but all was quiet. After a kick or two more, the rickety catch gave way, and the window flew open.

Without a plan, she poked her head into potential freedom, then pulled it back in fear. But she was halfway to freedom. If she gave up now, her punishment for breaking the window would be several thrashes with the belt. The thought spurred her onwards.

With quiet but dogged grunts, she forced her ancient, flaccid mattress through the little opening. It landed on the ground and flopped sideways. Next, she lobbed out anything soft, and when satisfied that she had made the best possible cushioning, she clambered onto the chair and put a foot on the window ledge. Seized with terror and doubt, she hesitated. Was this a terrible mistake? Checking the road for her mother, she dropped her bundle of clothes onto the heap below and sat on the sill. The rough metal frame cut into her thighs, and she winced, peering down at the ground. Although the house was not tall, the distance to the ground was far enough to give her pause. With difficulty, she struggled onto her stomach and eased backwards, her ribs cut by the rough metal. Her arms trembled as her body hung from the frame and her knees grazed the rough wall of the house. A gust of freezing wind lifted her skirt, and with a silent prayer she let go. Despite her efforts to pad the ground, she missed the mattress and landed on the curtains and clothes. Pain burst up her leg from her ankle and she slackened her knees and threw herself sideways onto the mattress. Scrambling to her feet, she tested her ankle and found it sore but not broken. Her clothing had spilled onto the grit, and as she scrabbled to collect it, her eyes darted to the corner of the roadway in search of her mother. A plastic carrier bag blew at her face and she snatched it off, her heart thudding.

With her belongings secured, she made a quick plan. Mam would be on the road, but a track along the foot of the mountain ran in the same general direction past stone-walled fields of sheep. After a mile or two, she could drop from it to the shop.

She hobbled as fast as her pain allowed, with her load bumping against her legs. After a mile, she felt safe to slow down. Her lungs heaved under her sore ribs, but she marched on, keeping the mountain on her right. She crossed marshy patches, encrusted with ice and scrambled over rocks, aiming for the red phone box from which she would ring Cerys.

 

19 CERYS

At last, after four months of pregnancy, Cerys had regained her appetite and was ‘glowing’. Her hair shone under the kitchen light as she and Paul polished off their fish and chips. Friday had become take-away night since she became nauseous. It gave an excuse to put her feet up and let Paul cater. She saw no reason to change things now that she felt better, and Paul would never complain about fish and chips or curry. He showed tremendous enthusiasm for junk food, and she sometimes wondered why she bothered to cook at all.

From the work top her ringtone shrilled, and she lumbered to catch her phone before it vibrated off the edge.

‘Why do you leave the vibrate on?’ Paul complained through a mouthful of chips.

‘I like to feel it if the sound’s off,’ she said, as she had done many times before. It was a waste of breath trying to change Paul’s point of view.

She glanced at her screen and took in a sharp breath. ‘Anwen?’

Anwen’s voice was thin and distant, but her words were clear enough. ‘Cerys! I’ve run away. I’m by the phone box.’

‘What? Oh, my God. What have you done? I told you to wait for me to call.’

‘I couldn’t wait. I kept going over what you’d said. Anyway, you bought the wrong milk and Mam locked me up again. I climbed out the window. I think I’ve sprained my ankle. I’m cold Cerys.’ Anwen sniffed.

Cerys glanced at Paul, who had stopped chewing and was staring at her. She checked her watch. ‘Go to the shop, lovely. The shopkeeper will let you in.’ She weighed up the danger, then continued. ‘Tell him the truth. Explain about Mam and Dad…’ Cerys looked again at Paul; whose eyebrows had risen almost to the ceiling. ‘Ask if you can stay until I can get to you.’

‘How long will you be?’

‘I’ll leave now.’ She had no further need for cloak and dagger. ‘Paul can bring me. We’ll be there in about three hours.’

‘OK.’

Cerys softened her voice. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.’

Her fiancé’s face expressed disappointment at his loss of a Friday evening beer. ‘Who was that?’

‘My young sister.’

‘Your sister? And did you say Mum and Dad? Your dead Mum and Dad?’

‘My parents are dead - to me.’ She was already pulling on her coat. ‘Look, it’s a long way to Mynydd Hen. I’ll explain on the way.’ Her anxiety made the production of tears a simple matter, and Paul had soon threaded his arms into his jacket.

20 ANWEN

At this time of year, darkness fell early over the mountains, and as Anwen replaced the receiver, invisible sheep baaed and mehed from the blackness. A sign on the shop’s door announced that trade had ended for the day, so after letting her bundle fall from her frozen fingers, she hammered on the glass. The noise echoed off the hills, and she waited, stamping her feet, and looking behind her as though Mam might leap from