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

Bex took a deep breath, then dragged her suitcase through the rusty gate and up the overgrown path. The rain and wind were so strong it was as if she was at sea, being thrown around by waves. She banged her fist on the door, but it had a dead feel, as if nobody had opened it for years. There was no bell. She kicked the base of the door, feeling her tears hot under the freezing rain. What kind of dad would do this? Not pick her up from the station, not even be at the door to welcome her.

She hauled the suitcase back to the lane and dragged it onto a path that led to the rear of the house. The weight of it felt monstrous and she had a fleeting memory of packing it, folding summer clothes and imagining herself spending mellow, warm days with her family. She swallowed a sob.

She’d expected to see a back door that she could knock on. It hadn’t occurred to her that anyone would be outside. But there were people in the back yard, visible through the drenching, buffeting rain. Three of them, encased in huge yellow waterproofs, pulling things around. They were piling up sandbags, trying to stop the torrent of water flowing off the rocks and heading for the house.

One of the people turned towards her. Kirsty, her older sister, her face half-hidden by a huge hood. Bex opened her mouth to shout a greeting, but Kirsty turned away again and carried on shifting sandbags. Had she not seen Bex? She’d stared right at her. Bex felt a flush of humiliation. Had her sister deliberately ignored her?

Bex couldn’t make herself call out. Instead she stood in the yard, invisible, rain bouncing off her stupid city coat, her case deposited in the river which gushed towards the house, her shoes engulfed in pig-shitty water, and let the tears flow.

8

Meg – Present day

Monday

I returned from creating a salad – or rather, pouring a bag of salad into a bowl – and found Hannah in my living room watching a cop drama on TV. Hamlet was sprawled over her lap, kneading exuberantly. I handed her a glass of wine and plonked myself on the sofa. My mind kept replaying the conversation with Tony Nightingale, but I tried to put Violet from my thoughts and focus instead on my evening with Hannah.

Hannah shifted Hamlet’s paws. ‘Good job I’m low on nerve-endings around there, Hamlet. Yay for spina bifida.’

‘Oh God, shall I move him?’ I could never tell how serious Hannah was being when she said things like that.

‘He’s fine. But do you need help with the food? Thai green curry. Home-made. I’m impressed.’