Roz Watkins - Cut to the Bone

Her dad and Kirsty had visited a few times – she’d last seen them a couple of years ago – but it had always felt unreal, like her dad wasn’t really her dad, her sister just a stranger. Surely a month together in Gritton would fix that? So why was the prospect so terrifying?

She’d written instructions to herself in her diary that morning, which now seemed childish and pathetic.

1. Pretend your dad wanted you to visit.

2. Get on well with Dad and Kirsty.

3. Make a friend in Gritton.

She smoothed her dress over her legs. She’d tried to look nice, so they’d be glad to see her. A new yellow coat, a dress instead of jeans, girly shoes. She peered out of the window. It was dark ahead, despite only being early evening.

‘Looks like a storm,’ the driver said, and the rain came pouring down, pounding the taxi’s roof. ‘You’re unlucky – it’s been dry for weeks.’

The taxi splashed through a puddle and the driver turned the wipers up to maximum. Bex saw the sign, Welcome to Gritton , but the surroundings were hidden by the sudden downpour. She closed her eyes. She had a picture of Gritton in her mind. The dark woods behind her dad’s farm, the rocks standing on the hill like prison guards, the reservoir that drew the light from the sky deep into itself. It must have come from photographs. She couldn’t possibly remember it from when she was three, and she hadn’t been back since.

The driver interrupted her thoughts. ‘You want me to take you right into the village?’

‘Yes please.’

‘Some people get dropped here.’

‘Could you take me to Mulberry Farm please, on the Bamford road?’ Why would he not want to take her into the village, when rain was coming out of the sky like bathwater down a plug? When Bex didn’t have a raincoat, and had a large case?

The storm had darkened the sky to graphite. A fork of lightning danced over the gritstone edge above the village, and Bex cringed, waiting for the thunderclap. It came a second later, making her jump even though she was expecting it.

The lane that led to her dad’s farm had turned to a stream, and the taxi churned up a wave of water on each side as they cruised down. The driver clenched his hands around the steering wheel. ‘This village,’ he muttered.

Bex told herself it was just the weather. The black skies, pounding rain and cascades of water gushing over the hillside. But she felt it. Something ominous about Gritton.

It would be okay. She pictured herself in her dad’s kitchen. He’d be delighted to see her, Kirsty would too. They’d drink mugs of tea and maybe have cake. There would be a reason he’d not wanted her to live at the farm with them. A reason she’d been too young to understand. A reason other than that he blamed her.

The taxi driver finally pulled up at the front of the house, by an old gate overgrown with brambles. He shouted over the noise of the rain against the windscreen. ‘Here okay?’

The front door of her dad’s house was covered in chipped green paint, edged with moss. The sight of it made Bex want to be sick. The old garden gate was rusting, and the paving slabs were cracked, dandelions thrusting through.

The driver jumped out of the car and darted round to open her door. She sat a moment. ‘All right, love?’ he said, a hint of nervousness in his voice, maybe wondering if she was going to sit there and refuse to move, rain hammering the roof of the car above her. He moved away, popped the boot open, took out her case and dumped it on the ground.

She dragged herself out and grabbed her case.

‘Do you need a hand?’ the driver said, already climbing back into the car.

‘No.’ She shoved a twenty at him. ‘Keep the change, and—’

The driver pocketed the cash and accelerated away as if he had wolves at his tail.

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.

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.’

‘I never said it was made in this home. I got it from the garden centre last week and stuck it in the freezer. I’ve no time to cook, not with a high-profile missing person case which I can’t afford to cock up.’

‘Oh wow, you mean that girl? The sexy sausage girl? Are you on that? I’m honoured you’re even here.’

Violet’s face flashed into my mind. A girl of contradictions. A girl who was starting to wriggle under my skin. ‘I nearly cancelled. Whatever you do, don’t let me get hammered – I have to be up super-early tomorrow.’

‘What’s happened to her? Missing from an abattoir? That’s seriously disturbing. Is it animal rights people? They hate her guts. I had a look at some of her videos. Strange girl. Why would you do that? I suppose she gets money from adverts.’ Hannah was having a conversation all on her own. I wondered if I could avoid answering.

‘So, what do you think’s happened to her?’ Hannah said.

Obviously not. ‘No idea, yet.’

‘Is it the animal rights people? The ones in the hideous meat suits? I mean, I might have said those little barbecue-dances she does are a hanging offence, but …’

I gave her a stern look.

‘Okay, I get the message.’ Hannah nodded towards the TV. ‘Have you seen this new American one? I couldn’t help noticing that the female detective is always beautifully made-up and conducts her investigations in a pencil skirt and high heels.’