The Piggy Farmer (The Barrington Patch Book 3), Emmy Ellis [electric book reader txt] 📗

It wouldn’t be long, and someone would try to leave so they could have a fag, and shit would hit the fan once they couldn’t get outside. She turned to Lou, who’d moved back to a silent Codderidge, and Cassie’s monster smiled as the twenty-three nails sank into the officer’s neck.

* * * *

Coffee cake and champagne were an odd combination, the different tastes creating a revolution on Cassie’s tongue, both fighting to win the war. She abandoned the champagne—she’d be driving again anyroad—and finished the cake, wishing she didn’t have to go to the squat and burn the boilersuits, balaclavas, and gloves, not to mention the piece of wood and the baseball bats (the latter with blood on them, Mam’s coated more than Cassie’s from where she’d staved the front of Knight’s head in, and Lou had sawn them into smaller pieces in the shed not five minutes after they’d got back). Cassie had run the saw through the dishwasher because of the blood transfer on the teeth.

She’d managed another nap prior to Lou arriving after dinner but was lethargic from not only being tired but the drab and heavy feeling she always got once an adrenaline rush wore off. She was in need of a full night’s sleep, but that wasn’t on the agenda just yet.

Lou’s eyes had that mad gleam in them, and she necked back her champers. “Jess is happy.”

Cassie didn’t know what to say so glanced at Mam who shrugged.

“She’s giggling like she did in Gorley’s shed.” Lou poured more alcohol. “Everything’s better now.”

“Good,” Mam said. “You can finally move on.”

“Never. Not when you have a stalker on your mind.”

Cassie slumped. For fuck’s sake, was there more to deal with? Were they going to have to hold Lou’s hand again? “Stalker?”

Lou’s eyes deadened. “What?”

Mam frowned. “You said you had a stalker.”

“Did I?” Lou blushed and darted her eyes left then right. “Um, well, I don’t know why I said that. Just ignore me.” She gulped more champagne, flustered, appearing guilty.

Why?

Mam didn’t look too honest either, the dawning of a memory transferring to her face in the form of a frown.

Cassie swallowed the last piece of her cake and stood. That little conversation had unsettled and annoyed her. Lou might be Mam’s friend, but she was proving to be a pest they didn’t need. Why mention a stalker if she didn’t have one? What did Mam know that Cassie didn’t? Who was the stalker?

Fuck it. If those to want to hide shit, they can get on with it. “I’m going to the squat.”

The black bag of clothes and wood sat by the front door (they’d all stripped and showered). Lou had borrowed some of Mam’s leggings and a top, just in case any blood had seeped through her boilersuit, and she’d said she’d be telling Joe she’d got wet by lying in the back garden and creating an angel in the snow for Jess, drunkenness pushing her to do it. Personally, Cassie felt that particular lie was sick, but Lou had smiled, her eyes vacant where she was off in her head again. How she’d explain not getting her clothes back was anyone’s guess, but like Cassie had already thought, they couldn’t help the nutbag with everything.

“So soon?” Mam asked.

“Yes, I need some fresh air.” What Cassie didn’t say was: I’m sick of Lou, can’t stand to look at her. She’s changed, getting worse. Needs help. “Don’t wait up.”

Depending on how she felt once the cold had woken her up again, she might kill Jason, get him sorted and out of her hair once and for all. Then, if the residents behaved, she might have a few days where nowt happened.

That’s a joke.

With the February Fayre coming up, a large crowd forming, there was bound to be some aggro she’d need to step in to break up. Alcohol pushed people to do stupid things, and arguments would break out, slights from years ago dredged up:

What about that time you spilt beer on me in The Donny?

What? That was yonks ago. What about when you punched my kid for picking one of your missus’ flowers?

Fuck me, talk about holding a grudge.

Says you who’s still naffed off about a fucking pint. I bought you another one, didn’t I?

I think you’ll find you didn’t, pal.

Must be someone else I’m thinking of then.

She left the kitchen, grabbed the clothes bag, and went out to the car. The scrappy was dealing with the other one used tonight, stolen for her by her trusty little thief, and she’d slipped him and the scrappy a bonus. Money was a surefire way to buy silence, but she didn’t need to hand them extra: the men had never given her any reason to question or mistrust them. She’d done it out of appreciation.

The drive to the squat was easier than before, the middle of the road clear of snow, although the verges and surrounding fields still had a quilt over them, and some white clung to hedge tops in marshmallow clumps. She had her weapon in her briefcase in the boot and considered using it on Jason again to reopen all those hardened face wounds, but something else came to mind to finish him off, and that was not only more satisfying but in tune with farming the piggies out.

Jason was a pig, just a different kind. A traitor, someone who’d admitted what he’d planned, therefore she had proof. What did Lou have except suspicions that the officers hadn’t tried hard enough to find Jess? Lou had based this mission on her feelings, on what she thought the police had been thinking, and Cassie now realised she should never have agreed to join the bacon hunt.

She’d admit that Mam backing Lou up had swayed her, plus Mam would have helped her whether Cassie