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Back Dog Rose Dirt Save as PDF
Chapters (52)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. Acknowledgements
  51. Also by Jen Williams
  52. About the Publisher

‘Up towards the school,’ said Lillian, before turning to Heather again. ‘Forgive me dear, but I must go – it really was a lovely service. I’ll pop by later and bring you some of the butternut stew I’m making.’

And with that she was gone. Shanice raised an eyebrow a touch, which Heather recognized as an extremely damning judgement on Lillian and the likes of Lillian, before heading back to her sister to make her report. Heather, her eyes caught by an unusually colourful bouquet, wandered down to the far end to read the card. To her surprise, she recognized most of the flowers, because they were the sort you saw growing wild – violets, dog roses, daisies, foxgloves – and they were all carefully bound together in the shape of a wreath. She knelt and touched her fingers to the card – this handwriting at least was legible.

I know what you are, and I think you do too.

Her stomach dropped away in a sickening lurch. The card wasn’t signed, and there were no other words on it – not even a little printed image of some flowers in the corner like most of the other cards. She snapped the card off the wreath and stood up, bile pressing at the back of her throat.

‘Hev? What’s wrong?’

She shook her head, unable to respond. Somewhere very distantly, a dog was barking, over and over.

I know what you are.

Someone out there – someone who knew all about her mother and the Red Wolf – was playing with her.

29

The wake was nightmarish. A dark back room in a pub, platters of sandwiches and cocktail sausages – far more than necessary for the meagre crowd – and glasses of sour red wine. Heather found that she couldn’t focus on any of the faces, or follow the threads of any conversations; instead, she kept returning to the card, and its bitter little message: I know what you are.

Nikki checked in on her periodically, appearing with a paper plate loaded with cheese or a glass of Coke, inserting herself into conversations that looked too painful or awkward, and Heather caught her eye more than once, surprised and touched by her friend’s thoughtful actions. However, when an old man she dimly recognized as a neighbour of her mother’s took hold of her arm and squeezed it, Nikki was on the far side of the room, having some sort of quiet argument with her aunt.

‘Very sad to hear about yer mum, very sad.’ The old man squeezed her arm again, as if for emphasis. He had big blunt fingers, with fingernails that had been cut too close to the quick. ‘Do you know why she did it?’