BooksBarbecue
Back Cut to the Bone
Chapters (71)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise for Cut to the Bone
  3. About the Author
  4. Also by Roz Watkins
  5. Note to Readers
  6. Dedication
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. Extract
  67. Prologue
  68. Chapter 1
  69. Author’s note
  70. Acknowledgements
  71. About the Publisher

‘Could you take me to Mulberry Farm please, on the Bamford road?’ Why would he not want to take her into the village, when rain was coming out of the sky like bathwater down a plug? When Bex didn’t have a raincoat, and had a large case?

The storm had darkened the sky to graphite. A fork of lightning danced over the gritstone edge above the village, and Bex cringed, waiting for the thunderclap. It came a second later, making her jump even though she was expecting it.

The lane that led to her dad’s farm had turned to a stream, and the taxi churned up a wave of water on each side as they cruised down. The driver clenched his hands around the steering wheel. ‘This village,’ he muttered.

Bex told herself it was just the weather. The black skies, pounding rain and cascades of water gushing over the hillside. But she felt it. Something ominous about Gritton.

It would be okay. She pictured herself in her dad’s kitchen. He’d be delighted to see her, Kirsty would too. They’d drink mugs of tea and maybe have cake. There would be a reason he’d not wanted her to live at the farm with them. A reason she’d been too young to understand. A reason other than that he blamed her.

The taxi driver finally pulled up at the front of the house, by an old gate overgrown with brambles. He shouted over the noise of the rain against the windscreen. ‘Here okay?’

The front door of her dad’s house was covered in chipped green paint, edged with moss. The sight of it made Bex want to be sick. The old garden gate was rusting, and the paving slabs were cracked, dandelions thrusting through.

The driver jumped out of the car and darted round to open her door. She sat a moment. ‘All right, love?’ he said, a hint of nervousness in his voice, maybe wondering if she was going to sit there and refuse to move, rain hammering the roof of the car above her. He moved away, popped the boot open, took out her case and dumped it on the ground.

She dragged herself out and grabbed her case.

‘Do you need a hand?’ the driver said, already climbing back into the car.

‘No.’ She shoved a twenty at him. ‘Keep the change, and—’

The driver pocketed the cash and accelerated away as if he had wolves at his tail.