Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Ross Raisin is the author of Out Backward, winner of the Sunday Times Young Writer of the Year Award, a Betty Trask Award, and other honors. He lives in London.

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Sam Marsdyke is a lonely young man, dogged by an incident in his past and forced to work his family farm instead of attending school in his Yorkshire village. He methodically fills his life with daily routines and adheres to strict boundaries that keep him at a remove from the townspeople. But one day he spies Josephine, his new neighbor from London. From that moment on, Sam's carefully constructed protections begin to crumble—and what starts off as a harmless friendship between an isolated loner and a defiant teenage girl takes a most disturbing turn.

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Out Backward

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Ramblers. Daft sods in pink and green hats. It wasn't even cold.They moved down the field swing-swaying like a line of drunks,addled with the air and the land, and the smell of manure. I watchedthem from up top, their bright heads peeping through the fog.Sat on my rock there I let the world busy itself below, all mannerof creatures going about their backwards-forwards same as always,never mind the fog had them half-sighted. But I could see abovethe fog. It bided under my feet, settled in the valley like a sump-poolspreading three miles over to the hills at Felton.

The ramblers hadn't marked me. They'd walked past the farmwithout taking notice, of me or of Father rounding up the flockfrom the moor. Oi there ramblers, I'd a mind for shouting, whatthe bugger are you doing, talking to that sheep? Do you think shefancies a natter, eh? And they'd have bowed down royal for methen, no doubt. So sorry, Mr Farmer, we won't do it again, I hopewe haven't upset her. For that was the way with these sorespect-minded they wouldn't dare even look on myself for fear ofcrapping up Nature's balance. The laws of the countryside. Andme, I was real, living, farting Nature to their brain of things, partof the scenery same as a tree or a tractor. I watched as the last oneover the stile fiddled with a rock on top the wall, for he thoughthe'd knocked it out of place weighting himself over. Daft sods theseramblers. I went toward them.

Halfway down the field the fog got hold of me, feeling roundmy face so as I had to stop a minute and tune my eyes, though Istill had sight of the hats, no bother. They were only a short wayinto the next field, moving on like a line of chickens, their headstwitching side to side. What a lovely molehill. Look, Bob, a cuckoobehind the drystone wall. Only it wasn't a cuckoo, I knew, it was abloody pigeon.

I hadn't the hearing of them just yet, mind, but I knew their talk.I followed on, quick down to the field bottom and straight overthe wall. Tumbled a couple of headstones to the ground as I heavedmyself up, but no matter. Part of Nature me, I'd a licence for that.They couldn't hear me anyhow, their ears were full of fog. I was inthe field aside theirs and I slunk along the wall between, until theywere near enough I could see them through the stone-cracks,bobbing along. I listened to them breathing, heavy, like townsalways breathe when they're on farmland. Weekend exercise forthem, this was, like sex. Course they were going to buy a pink hatto mark the occasion.

A middle of the way down the field and they stopped. Theyparked down in a circle like they fancied a campfire but insteadthey whipped out foil parcels and a Thermos and started blathering.I've got ham. Who wants ham?

I'll have ham.

Oh, wait a moment. Pink Hat inspected the sarnies. We have achoice ham and tomato, or ham and Red Leicester?

He gave them each a parcel, then stood the Thermos in themiddle of the circle.Nasty old day still, he said. Wish it would perk up a little.Doesn't look too promising, though, said one of the females.I teased a small stone out the wall and plastered it in sheep shit.

That is such nice ham.

Isn't it? Tesco, you know.

Crack. I hit the Thermos bang centre, tea and shit splashing upthe fog.

They hadn't a clue. It was a job to keep from laughing as theyskittled about and scanned the sky as if they were being bombed.Or maybe they feared they'd pissed the cuckoo off upset Nature'sbalance, sitting in a field. Didn't think to look over at me crouchingbehind the wall. So down I went for the shit pile and I threwanother stone, but it missed and hit a female on her foot. I might'veflung a headstone at her and she'd not have felt it through themwalking boots but that wasn't going to stop her screaming herlungs out her windpipe. Behind the wall, there's someone behind the wall, quickly let's go. Quickly! They were all on their feet soonenough, grabbing up the picnic and escaping down the field. Runfor your lives, towns, run for your lives. When they were out ofrange, Pink Hat turned and blabbed something about a peacefulday out, they meant no harm please leave them alone.

But I couldn't be fussed with them any more. I waited for themto scarper then I started back to the farm. The pups would beneeding a feed, and I was rumbling for a bite myself.Near the top the field I looked round to see how far they'd got,likely they were halfway to Felton by now, they were that upshelled.So I was fair capped when I saw they'd come back. I couldn't rightlymake out what they were up to at first, all I could see was theirheads huddled behind a wall and Pink Hat galloping up the hillside.He snatched something up off the ground and it glinted an instantbefore he put it in his rucksack. They'd left the tin foil behind.

In the old stable the pups were asleep, the four of them piled upsnuffling against Jess's side. She had an eye awake, looking on whileI took a plate of chopped liver off the shelf and lay it by for whenthey were ready. Then I went in the kitchen, and there was a smelldrufting about that got in my nostrils and reached down my gullet.Biscuits. I opened the oven, but it was empty. Door was warmish,mind, like a cow's underbelly, and I pressed my hand against it atime, letting the heat slug up my arm before I stood up and wentfor the cupboards.

Excerpted from Out Backwardby Ross Raisin Copyright © 2008 by Ross Raisin. Excerpted by permission.
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