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

‘Remember the time when you had complete power over her,’ said the man. He settled his hands on Michael’s shoulders again and gently pushed him through the door of the ice house. The ground sloped away ahead of them, and Michael felt his over-sized boots moving through a gritty kind of sludge. The daylight from the door revealed a dank room, the walls smeared with creeping black mould, and it was cold, much colder than outside. There was a shape in front of them, resting on a long, low stone bench. Michael looked at it. The man squeezed his shoulder.

‘Remember the power you had then, lad. Remember it.’

The shape was his mother. She looked small, curled in on herself. Her limbs were dark, as though her skin were one big bruise, and he could still see the flash of white bone poking through her arm where it had torn itself free. The yellow smock was no longer yellow. Her face was turned away from him, but he could see the jut of her jaw and her cheekbone, which looked larger than it had. He imagined her staring at the far wall, imagined her whispering into the dark. Dirty beast, filthy little shit. Michael made a small strangled noise in the back of his throat.

‘No,’ said the man, firmly. ‘Look at what she is now. She’s nothing. Do you see?’

He pushed the boy forward sharply, so that he almost fell onto the corpse. All at once Michael was inches away from the torn flesh of his mother, her rotten fingers like small brown sticks.

And he saw it.

He saw that she was a pitiful thing, a broken shape on the landscape of his rage.

‘That’s it, my lad. That’s it. When you are the wolf, the likes of her are just meat. Bad meat.’

13

Arriving at Belmarsh a good hour before she was needed, Heather had taken root in a greasy spoon in Thamesmead. She had a begrudging sort of affection for Thamesmead; like Balesford, it clung to the bottom of London like a sort of crusted canker, but it at least had the good sense to be cluttered with lots of brutalist Seventies architecture – looming grey concrete wherever you happened to look, and that vague sense that this urban landscape had once existed only on the design sheets of an extremely optimistic architect.