The Piggy Farmer (The Barrington Patch Book 3)

by Emmy Ellis

  It was simple to Doreen, the solution there if Lou had the balls to do it. “Why not just bite the bullet and ask Joe out? If he says yes, at least you can tell the weirdo you’re seeing someone. Who is he anyroad?”

  “That’s the thing, I hadn’t seen him before. He sounds like he’s from Yorkshire.” She paused walking and groaned. “For Pete’s sake, I’m getting a bloody blister.”

  “You should have put plasters on like I said before we went out. New shoes, sore feet.” Doreen shook her head. “Has he given you his name, the flower fella?”

  Lou set off again, limping. “See, this is where it gets even stranger. He writes the cards himself, right in front of me on the counter, and signs them as ‘S’ with a kiss and a love heart. Like, the first time, what he’d written was romantic—because I thought it was for someone else.”

  That was coming on a tad strong. Who drew love hearts for strangers?

  Doreen shuddered. “What did it say?”

  Lou snorted. “You’ll piss yourself. I’ll never forget it: Roses are red. Violets are blue. I’m in your life. And I will have you.”

  “Err, okay… I don’t find that funny. It’s creepy.”

  “And he’d underlined ‘will’. Like I said, I thought it was for someone else, but once he handed them over, that ‘will’ came off as sinister, like I had no choice but to go out with him in the end. Maybe I’m just being silly and he doesn’t know how to chat girls up, so he thinks that’s the way to go.”

  Doreen shivered, despite the muggy air. “Too right it’s sinister. How many times has he been in since?”

  “Five. Monday through to Friday this week.”

  “Bloody hell.” Doreen couldn’t imagine having someone being pushy with her like that. She had her eye on a bloke, but he was a bit of a lad, seemed to overly enjoy sowing his wild oats. She’d wait until he’d calmed down, then see if he wanted to date her. Then again, did she want someone who was the town stud?

  Lou swept her free hand through her hair. “And when I go for lunch at Sam’s Café, you know the one, around the corner from work, I swear I feel someone watching me. It’s that bad, I’ve been staying away from the window seats.”

  Doreen stopped and gaped at her friend. “Pack it in. That’s seriously not right. I’ve got bloody goosebumps.”

  Lou shrugged, unlinking their arms and clutching Doreen’s hand. “What do I do, though? I can’t go to the police and say I think I’m being followed. I’ve got no proof, just a stupid feeling. I’ve never seen him around or owt, only ever in the flower shop.”

  “Next time he comes in, tell him if he doesn’t stop it with the bouquets, you’re calling the police, whether Betty Bitch likes it or not. It’s harassment, that is.”

  “Betty would have a fit.” Lou tugged Doreen back to walking.

  “Fuck Betty. Stupid old goat.”

  Lou laughed. “She’s okay, just sees ‘S’ as being passionate.”

  “I wonder what that stands for. Sam? Simon?”

  “Spy.”

  “Yeah, or Stalker.”

  Lou squeezed Doreen’s hand. “Don’t. It’s even weirder when I hear footsteps on my way home, but when I turn round, no one’s there.”

  “What? Why didn’t you say something? Or wait for me outside the betting shop and we walk home together? Jesus Christ, Lou.”

  “Keep your hair on. I’ll do that from now onwards, okay?”

  “You’d sodding better. We’ll even get the bus if we have to. At least then if he gets on, we’ll know it’s him pissing about by walking behind you.” But what if it wasn’t? What if someone else was doing it? “Is he the only one acting off?”

  “Yeah. Everyone else is fine.”

  They’d reached the end of their street, and because there had been a lock-in at The Donny, it was late, and all the houses stood in darkness bar theirs, the streetlamps doing bugger all, dim as they were. They always left the outside light on beside the front door—Mam had given Doreen a long list of what to do, including looking out of the window before answering any knocks.

  “You just don’t know who’s out there, Dor,” she’d said.

  Nervous now Lou had revealed some extra-creepy information, Doreen scanned the area, freaked out by the hedges at the bottoms of the gardens, all potential hiding places for Stalker. He could be crouching behind any one of them, ready to pounce on Lou and make her his. Doreen imagined him breathing faster because he’d spotted them.

  “Bloody Nora, let’s run.” She legged it, dragging Lou along with her.

  They reached their house, Doreen taking the lead at the gate, peering into the garden to check for shadowy shapes in the form of a flower-buying, poem-writing man. It was clear, the light just enough to see by, so she led her friend up the path, Lou taking her keys out of her bag, judging by the tinkle.

  Inside, door shut, the chain in place, Doreen sighed with relief, feeling silly now they were safe. In the darkness of the hallway, the glow from outside coming in through the mottled glass panels, they stumbled and laughed while taking their high-heeled shoes off, Doreen banging her arse on the wall beside the telephone table.

  “Fuck me, switch the light on, will you?” Lou asked. “I want to see the state of this blister.”

  Doreen hung her bag on the newel post then reached out and flicked the nearby switch, and the hallway flooded, the bulb so bright beneath its clear plastic shade that she couldn’t see for a second or two. She blinked and turned to Lou, who stared ahead towards the kitchen, dropping her bag on the floor.

  “What’s the matter?” Trepidation seeped into Doreen’s bones, sending her cold all over. If Lou was messing about, Doreen would soon have something to say about it, especially after the Stalker story.

  “Someone just ran past the kitchen window from outside.” Lou gripped the mahogany ball on top of the newel post, the ends of her fingers turning red from how hard she held it.

  “Stop fucking around.” Doreen’s pulse banged in her neck vein, and she wanted to run, hide.

  “I’m not.”

  Doreen let out a short scream and grabbed Lou’s hand, taking her into the living room. They stood in the middle, clutching one another, Doreen’s heart rate going crackers.

  “What if it’s Stalker?” she whispered. It could be, couldn’t it? He could have definitely tailed Lou earlier after work and waited out there all night. The idea of that gave Doreen a jolt. He’d have to be well weird if he spent hours sitting on their wooden bench.

  “Don’t…” Lou’s face paled.

  “But it could be. You said you thought someone followed you home.”

  “Fucking hell… I’m scared, Dor.”

  “You and me both. Shall we phone the police?”

  “And say what? I saw someone in the garden? I didn’t even get a good look at them, just that it was a person.”

  “Was it like a man, though?”

  “I think so, but it was too quick. Like, they ran.”

  A scraping sound, similar to branches on glass, had Doreen and Lou screeching, holding each other tighter, a lump barging into Doreen’s throat. She dared to look over at the living room window. The thin curtains were drawn, a gap in the centre where they didn’t quite meet, and the distinct slice of someone standing out there filled the space, one side of them lit up by the lamp.

  “Don’t look at the window.” Doreen shook all over and made to guide Lou out of the room, back to the hallway where the phone sat on a table.

  They didn’t make it there.

  Lou looked, trembling in Doreen’s arms, and she sagged, her knees bending. “It’s him. The flower man.”

  Pure terror pushed another small scream from Doreen. What to do? She tried to remember Mam’s advice, but her mind was blank for a few seconds, then, “We’re definitely ringing the police.” She gripped Lou’s hand and stomped them out of the room, aiming for the phone.

  Glass shattered, fragments spewing inside to land on the lino tiles, showering onto Lou’s
handbag in chunks. Both of them screamed this time. A black-sleeved arm reached inside the hole in the front door, a gloved hand fumbling for the lock. Stalker snicked it down and pushed, but the chain prevented him from coming in. Doreen and Lou stood there, shocked, frozen, Doreen begging her legs to move, but they weren’t listening, the ignorant bastards.

  “Fuck off,” Lou shouted. “We’ve phoned the police, so you’d better get lost.”

  Laughter entered the hole, low and sinister and so very wicked, and the hand moved downwards, patting for the chain. Lou snatched the phone up and placed the receiver to her ear. She turned to Doreen, her eyes going wide.

  “There’s no dial tone.”

  More laughter.

  Had he cut the fucking wires?

  “The kitchen,” Doreen mouthed. She held Lou’s upper arm and pulled her along the hallway, praying someone had heard them screaming, the glass breaking, and would come to see what was going on. That wasn’t likely, though. They’d had a fair few parties since they’d moved in, and no one had nipped round to ask them to keep the noise down or complained to the landlord.

  Jesus Christ…

  In the kitchen, the door closed, Doreen snatched up a ladderback chair and propped it beneath the handle. It didn’t look like it’d hold, it wasn’t tall enough, but it would do for now, buying them time. Lou hammered on the adjoining right-hand wall in the dining area with her fists. Old Man Bodger wouldn’t bloody hear it, he was deaf as a post, and his wife, Gladys, wasn’t much better.

  “The garden,” Doreen said. “We’ll climb over the fence and get Robby Denzil to help us.”

  Lou went to the back door, her fingers turning to sausages in her attempt to twist the key. She sobbed, panicking, staring at Lou with fear-crazed eyes, and it ramped up Doreen’s anxiety. Key sorted, Lou wrenched at the handle, but the door remained closed.

  “Undo the pissing bolts!” Doreen hissed.

  Footsteps. The crunch of glass beneath shoe soles.

  “He’s coming!” Doreen wailed. “Fucking hell, fucking hell…”

  She grabbed a carving knife from the drawer and faced the internal door, sick to her stomach that the night had turned into this. The handle moved down over the top of the chair, and she slapped her free palm over her mouth. The chair wobbled, pressure applied from the other side, and the sound of one of the bolts raking across the back door gave her hope.

  Walking in reverse, the tip of the blade jabbed outwards, she stood by the window next to Lou, who’d gone down on her haunches to yank the other bolt. It had always been sticky, and tonight it was no different.

  “It’s bloody stuck,” Lou said, breathless, a sob tagging onto the end of her words.

  “Keep trying.” Doreen’s hands shook, the blade shivering.

  The chair shifted forward in slow motion, then he crashed in, kicking at it so it skittered towards the dining table, time speeding up. Doreen screamed behind her hand, and Lou shot to standing, pawing the handle to open it, desperate for an escape route.

  Stalker held a gun up, his gloved finger curled around the trigger. His eyes. God, they were such a startling blue she shuddered. They weren’t natural.

  “I wouldn’t leave if I were you,” he said, his Yorkshire accent thick. “Stay. With me.”

  Lou ignored him, so frantic she couldn’t grasp the handle. Doreen, out of her mind with panic, rushed forward, and in the split second it took for her to get to him, she asked a God she’d never given a shit about to stop Stalker releasing the bullet. His eyes widened as she sank the blade in his stomach, and he dropped the gun, the sound of it hitting the lino weird—not a heavy thud, not loud. She pulled the knife out, jumping back, horrified by what she’d done—she hadn’t intended on doing it, it’d just happened. But it would be classed as self-defence, so she wouldn’t get in trouble, would she?

  A terrible voice in her head whispered, “But it’s still murder…” and she lurched into the table behind, staring at the blood on the knife, then back at him.

  He clutched his stomach, blood pumping out, between and over his laced fingers, so much red. “Why don’t you love me?” he said to Lou, whining. “Flowers are supposed to make you love me.”

  “Oh God, you fucking weirdo.” Lou reversed to the wall, pressing her back to it. “Shit, Dor, what are we going to do?”

  Doreen didn’t think, just acted. She raced back up to him and sliced the knife across the side of his throat, blood spurting out and covering her face, hot, metallic. He sank to his knees then fell sideways, and she went down with him, watching the light fade from those wrong-kind-of-blue eyes that seemed to plead with her to help him. Doreen looked away, disgusted by the sight of him and the smell of copper, and gave the knife her attention, her hand, red splashes all over it, her wrist freckled, dots over the sleeve of her blouse.

  “Shit. Shit!” Lou came over and peered down, a hand clamped to her chest. “He’s still breathing. Oh God…” She held out her hand for the knife. “Give it to me.”

  Doreen passed it over, thinking Lou took it to stop her from slicing him again, but Lou knelt, held the handle in a double grip, and plunged the steel into his heart area. It stopped halfway up the blade, something resisting, so she leant all her weight on it until only the wooden handle was on show. She let go, watching him, her hands up as if that was proof she hadn’t stabbed him.

  Doreen, locked in this surreal world, scooted backwards on her arse, coming to a stop at the kicked-away dining chair, the end of a leg digging into her side. She stared across at Lou who’d bent her head so her ear was above Stalker’s mouth.

  “He’s dead now.” She turned to look at Doreen. “We’re going to have to get rid of him.”

  “How?” Doreen swallowed bile then heaved, the stench of blood getting worse, clinging to the summer-thickened air. “We don’t even have a car, and he’s too heavy to carry far.”

  “Fuck.”

  Lou pulled the knife out and dropped it as though it burnt her hand. She came and sat beside Doreen, and they kept their attention on Stalker, Doreen convinced he’d get up any second, grab the gun, and shoot them. Hot tears fell. Lou sobbed. They were in a right mess, no doubt about it, and with no one to turn to, no one they could tell, Shit Creek was the waterway they floated on.

  Minutes passed, the only sounds their ragged breathing and the thud of Doreen’s pulse filling her head. How had this happened? She couldn’t process the events from when Lou had seen him run past the window to now. Her mind seemed to have erased it to protect her. Then it came rushing back, her brain regurgitating every terrible second.

  Doreen whimpered.

  “The well,” Lou said.

  And Doreen knew exactly what she meant. The one at the bottom of the garden, built with stone covered in moss from years of being outside, the little wooden roof a triangle, grey and faded from the sun. It had been there for over fifty years, according to the landlord, dried up, no use to anyone, just an ornament now. “And did you know, it goes down about a hundred and thirty feet?” No, they hadn’t known, and at the time hadn’t given a fiddler’s fuck, but now that information was gold.

  “It’s a long way down,” Doreen said.

  “So no one will know he’s there.”

  “What if he starts to smell and people complain to the council?”

  Lou went to chew on a thumbnail but stopped because of the blood on her skin. “We’ll wrap bin bags around him. Cut the bottoms off and down the sides so they’re long bits of plastic.”

  Doreen shifted her gaze to the gun. “We’ll need to get rid of that, too. And the knife.”

  Lou got up on her knees and pushed herself to her feet. Doreen stared at the blister on her friend’s heel. It had bled and appeared sore, but it was the least of their worries.

  Lou stooped over the gun. “It looks like a toy. Plastic.”

  “Oh my God, what?”

  Lou picked it up. “It is one.” She stared at Doreen, her eyes filling again. “I can’t believe t
his is happening. What if it gets out, what we did? What if someone sees us putting him in the well?”

  “They won’t. It’s late. And no one will bloody know. I won’t be saying owt. Will you?”

  “God, no.”

  A surge of cover-this-shit-up gripped Doreen. “There you go then. Come on, we need to get this sorted.”

  It took ages to wrap Stalker, the blood creating a slippery environment, and at one point, with a layer on him, they pushed him to a cleaner part of the floor and mopped up, wrapped him again, then moved him to the washed area, repeating this until all the rubbish bags were used, all the packaging tape finished, and nearly all the blood scrubbed away. He was a mummy in black bandages, the brown tape crisscrossed. No matter how much Doreen told herself he was a rolled-up carpet, it still looked like a body.

  He was heavy, cumbersome, but they managed, with Doreen gripping him beneath the armpits, praying her fingers didn’t split the plastic, and Lou holding his ankles, to carry him into the garden. As Doreen walked backwards, she checked the windows of the houses, all in darkness, no one watching. Hefting him over the lip of the well seemed an impossible task. They raised his feet, and he shot away, Doreen counting the seconds for him to hit the bottom.

  There were eighteen. Eighteen long ones, and a dull thud where he’d landed. The smell Lou had mentioned bothered Doreen—a rotting corpse, the reek coming through any possible gaps in his shroud—and she had an idea what to do. Back in the house, she shut the door and plonked onto a chair. Lou stripped out of her clothes. Ran the tap with cold water, filling the sink.

  “We’ll do the garden up,” Doreen said. “Order a load of bags of peat to be delivered tomorrow afternoon. Enough so we can tip some into the well and it’ll cover him. That should help with the smell. We’ll keep a bag or two, then turn the borders over, plant some flowers, and sprinkle peat on top so it looks to Janice when she comes back that we were busy while she was gone. Any nosy neighbours peering across at the garden won’t think twice about the peat delivery then either.”

  “That’s going to cost a lot. How much do you think we need to cover him? I don’t get paid that much, remember.” Lou put her dress in the sink. “Give me your clothes.”