BooksBarbecue
Back Dog Rose Dirt
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

‘The witch, you see, had cast a spell on all of the streams. The little sister said, “Oh, brother, do not drink from that stream, or you will become a tiger and eat me.” The brother agreed to wait, but when they came to the next stream, she heard the water again, and this time it was singing, “Whoever drinks of me will become a bear. Whoever drinks of me will become a bear.” Again, the sister told her brother not to drink, and this time he agreed reluctantly. “We’ll have to drink soon,” he told her, “or we’ll die.” Eventually they came to a third stream, a wide and welcoming one full of sparkling clear water, and they fell to their knees desperate with thirst, their lips all cracked and their mouths all dry. This time, the little girl heard, “Whoever drinks of me will become a wolf, whoever drinks of me will become a wolf.” She begged her brother, and pleaded with tears in her eyes, but there was no stopping him this time. The boy drank the water, and became a wolf, and he tore his sister into pieces.’

There were a few beats of silence, into which one of the guards coughed. Behind Heather, DI Parker sighed very quietly.

‘Huh. What a charming story.’ Heather cleared her throat. ‘Mr Reave, I’ll be honest, telling stories about little girls being eaten isn’t the best way to convince anyone of your innocence.’

Michael Reave chuckled, his face lighting up in apparently genuine amusement. ‘I know. Most of the old stories, the ones collected by the Brothers Grimm, sound like they were written by murderers. That story was called “Brother and Sister”, and it was one of the ones your mum collected. She had loads of them, copied out of old books or written from memory.’

‘My mum?’ Heather half smiled in disbelief. ‘There’s no way. Mum didn’t like me watching telly after 9 p.m. All the picture books I had when I was a kid were about flower fairies and their pet unicorns. You must be thinking of someone else.’

But even as she said it, she was thinking of the torn crumpled page on her mother’s dressing table. And the book, the old book she had rescued from under the sofa and discarded.