Page 24 of Cuts Like An Angel: Part 3

“Yes,” she crooned at Rosie. “It is all your fault. Putting these ideas into his head. Hussying yourself out to him like an American whore.”

“Mother …”

“Don’t mother me. Help me to the table.”

He’d help her out the fucking door in a minute. The skin on her arms was soft, saggy and warm, and awful. Like someone had put a piece of wet flab against him. But he didn’t let go, guided her to the kitchen table. His brain marked out where she’d touched him, where he’d need to clean later. The sickness of her winding itself up his skin, infecting him.

“Your tea,” Rosie said, setting the cup down in front of Maria. Maria did the lip curling again, but there was no time for William to dwell on it. He rushed to the sink, turned on the tap and washed his hands and where his arm had touched her. He did keep his eye on Rosie, ready to warn her if she got too close. But it made him lose what he was doing, and he couldn’t remember if he had used soap. He gave the pump another couple of squirts, lathered his hands again, but it was too much, too late. He could already feel the dirt there, crawling along his skin like a pack of dancing ants.

“Fucking piss watter,” his mother said, slamming her cup down, the tea sloshing out of it and onto the table. He hated when she said watter, and not water. He bit his lip not to correct her.

“Never trust an American to make a decent cuppa. All that instant shit.” She spoke about Rosie as if she wasn’t there, as if she wasn’t standing right beside her. “We can fix that now I’m home. We can go back to how …”

“Mother …” he said again.

“Mother?” She turned on her seat to face him. If she’d have been able to stand, she’d have probably done so with her hands on her hips. “Mother?” She narrowed her eyes, set her sights on Rosie, seeing her this time. “This is you, isn’t it? I know your kind, little hussy.”

“Stop it,” William said. Rosie stood back, keeping herself silent. William stepped in beside her. He slid an arm around her back. “Give us a minute,” he said in a low voice, even though sending Rosie out of the room was exactly what Maria wanted, but he needed her out of there … out of the path of fire. Maria would never calm with Rosie there. If anything, she’d get worse. Her insults would get worse and she’d not stop until Rosie fled the room in a bucket of tears.

“You could always pack,” Maria offered, a slight victorious smile cracking across her chapped lips.

No. This was victory for him. Because for the first time, as he saw Rosie and nodded at her, he felt strong. He felt good, and God help him, Maria was not going to take this from him.

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