The Piggy Farmer (The Barrington Patch Book 3) by Emmy Ellis (smart books to read .TXT) 📕

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