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Back Cut to the Bone Save as PDF
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

Daniel stepped forward. ‘The quicker the better with these.’ And he lifted his booted foot and smashed it down on the creature’s head.

22

Meg – Present day

Wednesday

I flipped my eyes open, heart pounding, breath coming in sharp bursts. I’d been dreaming I was trapped in a cage. It was so small I could barely move, like the pigs in Frankie’s first drawing. I’d been thrashing around, begging to be let out. Then the dream had morphed into me being bricked into a hole in a wall, unable to sit up or lie straight, like a display I’d seen at the London Dungeon as a child and never been able to forget. All I could hear were the screams of another prisoner.

I lay and let the relief wash over me. It was morning. None of it was real.

There was another sound. Also terrifying. Hamlet vomiting on my bedroom floor.

‘Oh God!’ I jumped up. ‘Come on, Hamlet. Downstairs.’

It was too late.

Hamlet sat washing his face and looking proud of himself, while I used toilet paper and an old sponge to tackle the furball on the wooden floor, and to stop the more liquid part of the contents of Hamlet’s stomach going down between the cracks. I hoped this wasn’t foreshadowing the day to come.

I checked my phone, and there were no significant developments. I had a feeling that Violet was alive somewhere and in need of our help, despite us finding her blood in the pig troughs and now confirming that the pigs could theoretically have eaten her. I felt I should be racing somewhere to save her, but I didn’t know where. The evidence pointed to her being dead, which put me in a similar category to the psychics. But I was relieved I cared. Talking to Hannah about Gran had clearly helped. I was moving back towards my reassuringly normal level of neurotic workaholism.

Noises were coming from the kitchen. Dad. Why was I so damn nervous about meeting my own father? My pukey cat and I walked downstairs and into the kitchen. Dad was sitting at the table with a newspaper laid out in front of him. He looked up and smiled. ‘Meg.’ He seemed older than I remembered, the creases deep on his forehead. And his eyes were open too wide, as if he’d recently had a shock and hadn’t yet changed his face back to normal.

‘Dad.’ I reached forward and gave him a hug. He smelled of clothes that hadn’t dried properly. ‘Sorry again I was so late. High-risk missing person.’

He stood up. ‘Don’t be silly. Hamlet welcomed me and I was fine. She even sat on my knee. I gave her some chicken.’