by Emmy Ellis
“Piss off?” Jimmy moved away again. “I can’t do that. Cassie wouldn’t like it. You know, you wouldn’t be here if you’d done as you were told, accepted her as the boss. I can’t believe you thought you’d get away with it.”
Jason focused better, forcing himself to see clearly, although his eyeballs had a strained feel to them. Had they bugged out at some point? He ignored the pain in his leg, which had been a steady throb lanced with spiky hurt so far, and concentrated. Ahead, an old bookcase. To the left, a window with the blackout blind drawn. Yellow wallpaper peeling from the top— so that was why the light was this weird mustard colour, it had reflected off the walls. A scabby carpet, beige that had once been dove-grey—he knew that as a certainty. And the smell… Dried piss, mould, and lavender.
It was all so familiar yet foreign at the same time—foreign because he didn’t understand why he was here, how he’d got here, or whether it was real or not. Yes, he was definitely in the squat, the house the old lady had left to Lenny as payment for whatever he’d done to help her out. The place where Jason had tortured many, loving the power.
How frustrating not to have any now. Maybe that was what the dream was teaching him. To give up his need to control the Barrington. Or was it saying that despite what he thought, he’d never have control, even if he took over running it for Cassie? She’d always be the boss, no matter what.
Jimmy stood by the open doorway, beside the bookcase, and became clearer. With that clarity, more pain seared Jason’s wrecked shin bone and infiltrated the surrounding muscles, a seeping heat that combined with a swelling sensation, his skin stretching, like it would rip any second.
He imagined a balloon popping. Tested out his dream state and moved his leg.
And was sucked under in a maelstrom of agony, Jimmy and the scabby living room disappearing, sending Jason into what he could only imagine were the depths of Hell, where flames devoured his leg, intent on suffocating him with the intensity.
* * * *
Jimmy relaxed, thankful Jason had blacked out again, although it was a bit bloody weird how his eyes had gone upwards, showing only the whites threaded with red veins. At least Jason hadn’t caused a problem; Jimmy wouldn’t have to punch him now. One, he wasn’t into violence, and seeing Cassie mete it out had churned his sensitive stomach, and two, his knuckles would come into contact with Jason’s mashed-up face. It’d be like thumping minced beef.
Cassie had wrecked it with her new weapon, the whip with barbed wire wrapped around it. Jimmy had heard of it via The Barrington Life, but to actually see it being used… Barbs had munched on Jason’s cheeks, ripping his skin, taking his eyelids and one eyebrow off, slicing through his bottom lip, cutting off a chunk of one nostril. Cassie 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 babys
itting—and that had to be split between him and Shirl. No, five for watching this prat he could handle, but murder? He’d want a hell of a lot more, despite there being no risk because Cassie would smooth everything over.
The thing was, did he have the balls to say that to a Grafton? Look, love, I need another twenty if you want me to shoot him, else I’m off.
He laughed at the stupidity of it.
Antsy, needing a breather before he wound himself up further, he checked Jason and, satisfied the bloke would be out of it for a while, he turned the living room light off and left the squat to stand outside and smoke.
It was hard to believe such bad things happened when presented with a white blanket of snow that reeked of childhood and going outside to play in it, cheeks cold, the tip of his nose chill-bitten. The air had a muffled quality, as though the white stuff suffocated any sounds, and there he stood, in the footprints of Balaclava Man on the front step, the door pulled to behind him, lighting up and inhaling, the frosty air going down along with the warm smoke.
He turned to his left, and a speck of orange-yellow in the distance caught his eye. A fire? It winked out, and blackness took its place. Maybe he’d imagined it; he was tired after all. He shrugged and finished his ciggie for five minutes or so, nipped back in to check Jason, made a coffee in one of the to-go cups Balaclava had brought, then came back out again, sparking up another fag.
The rumble of car engines sabotaged the silence, and he turned to his left once more. Headlights cracked slices into the night, one set low, the other high, as if belonging to a car and a lorry. They chuntered past and, as the snow lent extra light, he made out a small dark hatchback and a tow truck behind, a burnt-out vehicle on the back. So he had seen a fire. God, had there been an accident down the way a bit, the car blowing up after a crash? Would the police come along any second, spot him, and ask what he was doing here?
Jimmy shivered from the cold and dipped his head, anxious in case the drivers copped sight of him. The last thing Cassie wanted was people getting interested in the squat, a place that was supposedly empty, of no use to anyone. But if he dashed indoors now, it’d look well weird, bringing more attention.
That shiver was also from fear. He’d fucked up by coming out here, taken a risk. He’d forgotten to switch the living room light off again when he’d checked Jason, and it seeped into the hallway, probably turning him into a highly visible silhouette, seeing as he hadn’t shut the door behind him this time.
Shite. Should he tell Cassie or keep that to himself? Would she be angrier if she found out someone had seen him and he hadn’t said, than she would if he confessed straight away?
You said you didn’t want to get on her bad side…
The vehicles drove towards the Barrington, the taillights of the recovery lorry creepy rectangular eyes, glowing red, the Devil’s irises. That shiver came back, and Jimmy stepped inside, knowing what he had to do, no matter the consequences. He locked up, entered the living room, and closed the door.
Jimmy: I went outside for a fag. Might have been seen by someone in a car and a recovery lorry.
Cassie: Don’t worry about it. They’re my people. Too busy atm. Talk soon. [smile emoji]
Jimmy’s relief left him weak. That could have gone the other way if those drivers weren’t something to do with her. Luck seemed to be on his side, and that creature called Curiosity reared its head.
Why had a car been set alight, and what did it have to do with Cassie?
Chapter Four
Lou stood at the back door of the farmhouse as if Cassie’s knock had woken her. She’d nipped in to get her tartan blanket and wrapped it around herself, playing the role they’d planned.
“What’s the matter?” she said, sounding worried. Loud.
Oh, she’s good at this.
“Sorry to bother you again so soon, but we need to feed the pigs.” Cassie said that in case Joe had woken up and listened in.
This had to seem authentic. Lou was insistent he couldn’t know what she’d been up to—or what she’d be getting up to in the future. She’d said something in Mam’s kitchen, regarding having to keep another secret about murder, and she couldn’t handle Joe knowing who she’d really been before they’d started seeing one another. Mam had given Lou a look: Don’t say a word.
So she was in on whatever had gone down, and Cassie was to remain in the dark, was that it?
Maybe it’s better I don’t know all the details.
Lou sniffed. “Hang on, let me just get Joe. He was asleep the last time I looked in on him.”
She disappeared inside, and Cassie turned to Mam, who stood beside her, bundled into a padded black parka, her hands stuffed into the pockets. Thick flakes of snow flurried down, dancing in front of her face, one landing on her cheek and dissolving.
Mam had fed Bob’s body into Marlene, Cassie helping her to lift him, then Cassie and Lou had cleaned the mess out the back of the factory, scraping the bloodied snow up where the brain and blood had spattered. Together, they’d washed the tyres, dug up blood from the compacted snow tracks Lou had made when driving off. Once Bob was minced and Marlene cleaned, they’d hauled the plastic box containing his remains onto the trolley and transferred it to Cassie’s boot.
They just had to hope Joe hadn’t roused while Lou had been absent, off killing a bloody copper, for fuck’s sake. He hadn’t phoned or texted her, so maybe he was still dead to the world, and anyroad, Lou would use that excuse of going for a drive, insomnia sending her out into the white night. However, if he had woken up, Cassie wasn’t in the right frame of mind for any questions being aired while she was there. Lou would have to deal with them by herself behind closed doors. Yes, Cassie and Mam were helping her to become The Piggy Farmer, but that didn’t mean they had to do so with every aspect.
No, Lou had to cover her own arse with her husband. Cassie would only step in if it was absolutely necessary, if it had the potential to bring hassle to her or Mam.
“I’m so knackered,” she whispered, her eyes gritty, bones weary. Her bed was calling, but she wasn’t likely to see it much before five a.m. at this rate. She might not even bother going to bed at all.
Mam chuckled. “It gets you like that, killing. I remember how I used to feel as though I’d been run over once the adrenaline wore off. A murder hangover.”
Cassie held her breath for a moment so she didn’t respond like a spoilt brat—Mam being involved in murder wasn’t something she’d known about until the last few hours, but they’d discussed it, and there wasn’t any sense in bringing it up again. The past was the past, and Cassie had more than enough in the now to deal with without raking up old stories and kept secrets, no matter how much it rankled.
She ploughed on with the news she hadn’t told Mam yet, what with Lou being at their house earlier, Bob’s death interrupting the flow. “Jason’s in the squat, pinned to the floor by a long nail. I used my weapon on him. He doesn’t have any eyelids.” It was so awful said out loud, and she was well aware of how detached she sounded. A coping mechanism?
Mam’s laugh was ominous and had a creepy cadence to it, like she relished the image that had probably perked up in her head, Jason unable to move, blood everywhere, his smug face wrecked. “No more than he deserves—he knows what you’re like and was stupid to think he’d be immune to any punishment. That’s his ego again, that is. So, you properly cottoned on in the end then, agreed with me. I knew he was dodgy. Didn’t I say he was right from the night your father died? I told you I wanted it on record how I felt.”
Cassie kept her voice low. “All right, no need to rub it in.” She pushed on so that train of conversation didn’t continue. “Jimmy recorded him in The Donny for me. Jason was definitely trying to take over the patch.”
“What a sly little bastard. What are your plans for him?” Mam’s cloud of breath floated past the open back door. “You know what I’d opt for.”
Cassie hugged herself for warmth. “Well, he can’t live, can he. Not a
fter this.”
“Exactly my thought.”
Footsteps prevented them from discussing it further. Joe appeared, his cheek red from being pressed to a pillow. He’d dressed hastily by the look of him, his shirt done up wonky, the collar sitting wrong, higher on one side than the other, his canvas-type trousers open at the button. He fixed that and came towards them, socked feet whispering on the lino then deadening as he stepped onto the bristly mat.
“Another one?” He shook his head. “I don’t even want to know.”
“No, you don’t.” Cassie smiled. “So, shall we get on with it then?”
“I’ll need to get my wellies on.”
Joe ambled to the right of the mudroom, scratching the back of his head, and Lou came outside, her blanket wrapped even tighter around her.
Cassie wondered why Lou had insisted on waking him. Perhaps it was to secure her alibi in his eyes, her earlier mention coming into play of him not needing to know her secrets, that she’d been outside while he’d slept on, oblivious. Or maybe he’d said he should be present every time the pigs got an extra feed. Or Lou, although hiding the fact she’d killed a copper from him, and God knew who else, didn’t like to lie to him by letting Cassie and Mam into the barn without his knowledge. It was, after all, his farm. Whatever, the sooner they dumped Bob’s remains the better. Mam would return to the factory to wash out the plastic tub—she’d brought her own car—and Cassie had to nip to the squat to burn Bob’s clothes.
It didn’t take long to dispose of Mr Plod, the pigs gorging on the clumps of flesh, and afterwards, Lou disappeared into the farmhouse, Joe remaining on the doorstep.
“Fair warning, I’ll be bringing Jason here at some point.” Cassie stamped her feet to chase the chill off. “Might be tomorrow night, might be the one after, depending on how long I want to string things out. There’s shit I need him to admit first.”
“Jason?” His eyebrows arched.
“Yes.”
“Right. I don’t have to say I’ll be keeping that to myself.”