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

had sewn it up, that lip—fucking hell!—acting like it was the most natural thing in the world to be doing that on a freezing February night.

Like she’d enjoyed it.

Jimmy would never get on her bad side.

Christ, this was a job and a half, wasn’t it, something he never thought he’d do. Babysitting a man pinned to the floor by an eight-inch nail, Jason Shepherd at that, Cassie Grafton’s right hand. Earlier, in The Donny, Jimmy had got Jason drunk during a lock-in and recorded a confession about taking over the patch. While Jimmy had known Cassie would go mad once she heard it, he hadn’t thought she’d go this mad.

Then again, he should have expected it. She’d made it clear she wasn’t going to take shit from anyone, and she’d proved that by including the one man she should have trusted the most, the one who was meant to have her back. Why did Jason think it was a good idea to take over the patch when he knew Cassie was a mental case? He must have seen her in action plenty of times since she’d stepped in for Lenny, and prior to that even, with Lenny taking a load off for six months before he’d died. On what planet was it wise to cross her?

None in this universe.

Jimmy stared at Jason. He might feel a bit sorry for him, to be honest. Jason had got too big for his fancy shoes, so much so they’d given him symbolic blisters, and maybe this punishment would teach him to get back in his place and forget the idea of ruling. Jimmy didn’t reckon he would, though, not really. Jason was intent on running the patch, and a shattered shin bone and fucked-up mush wouldn’t stop him.

Only death would.

“Don’t fucking think about that,” Jimmy warned himself.

Bloody hell, being here was driving him so crackers he was talking to himself. Someone had dropped bags of food and a telly off earlier, a bloke in black clothes, great stomping boots with thick soles, and a balaclava. The latter had shit Jimmy up, the eyes such a piercing green he’d know them if he saw them again. He had no clue who they belonged to and didn’t really need to. The least he was aware of the better. He’d just do as he was told and ask no questions. Unsettling, though, that whoever it had been knew who he was now.

“Maybe he had contact lenses in.”

Unable to stand it any longer, the pacing, the boredom—even hooking the telly up didn’t appeal—he took his personal phone out to tap in a message on WhatsApp to Shirl, his girlfriend. He’d already phoned to give her the gist of things but needed the contact for a sense of normality in this utter insanity, despite the time of night—or morning, as it happened. He didn’t think she’d be sleeping anyroad, not with the news he’d told her.

How their lives had changed. One minute they’d both had mundane jobs, eking their wages out, minding their own business, and the next, Cassie had come round and offered them another kind of job, five hundred quid a week each, to listen, be her ‘ears’.

Amongst other stuff.

Stuff like this task now, looking after a man who’d most likely be dead come the light of day. Jason’s leg had bled so much, a large patch of red had soaked into the manky carpet. If he didn’t die from the loss, he’d die another way.

And Cassie would be the murderer, because Jimmy didn’t fancy using the gun.

He sighed and got hold of Shirl.

Jimmy: I’ve been thinking. I don’t want you doing your shifts with You Know Who. It’s not something I want you involved in.

Shirl: Won’t C be upset about that? We can’t afford to piss her off, Jim.

Jimmy: I’ll talk to her. Say you’re ill and I’ll do all the stints. Sleep on the floor or whatever. It’s not nice here. I can’t even cope with it, so you?

Shirl: I have to be honest, I don’t want to watch him. Or watch her when she comes back, doing what you said she did. I knew there was something off about her when we were at school together. She always gave me the creeps. Always scared me.

Jimmy: Nah, it was the fact she’s Lenny’s daughter that scared you. She’s nice enough underneath it all, and I get why she’s doing this, even if it’s loony. Her old man worked hard, and she’s not going to let someone like Jason whip it away from her. But this place, it’s shite. He woke up but has gone back to sleep. It’s like he didn’t know where he was or why he’s here.

Shirl: What do you think she’s going to do with him?

Jimmy: I don’t even want to go there.

Shirl: Fucking hell.

Jimmy: I know. Listen, try to get some sleep. I’ll sort things with C. We’ll say you’ve come down with the flu or whatever. She’s not a complete monster, she won’t expect you to work if you’re ill. Just stay in the flat until this is over, so it looks like you’re holed up in bed.

Shirl: Okay. Will you be all right?

Jimmy: Yeah. Just got to hope I’m not here too long. I don’t think he’s going to last. It’s the blood, see. He’s still got booze in him, so when that wears off…

Shirl: That leg’s going to hurt.

Jimmy: Tell me about it. Night.

Shirl: Night xxx

Jimmy felt better now. Shirl having to use a gun on Jason didn’t sit well, even just threatening him with it, not for the amount of money Cassie had paid. Killing was about twenty-five grand in his book, not the five she’d handed over for babysitting—and that had to be split between him and Shirl. No, five for watching this