by Preston, Ken
‘What do you think? Is that the place?’ Gilligan said.
Coffin lowered the binoculars. ‘Let’s find out.’
They climbed out of the Range Rover. Coffin gave the binoculars to Gilligan who tossed them onto the back seat and then shut the door. Coffin walked around the car to the back where Gilligan and the Stig joined him. He unlatched the rear door and lifted it up.
The boot was full of large, green jerry cans. Coffin and Shaw lifted them out one by one and placed them on the road. Once the boot was empty, Coffin dug his fingers down between the bottom of the boot and edge of the car. He pulled and lifted the false bottom, propping it up.
‘Take your pick,’ he said.
Inside the cavity below the boot floor space were four identical shotguns. After a quick glance in both directions to check for oncoming traffic, Gilligan picked up first. He snapped the gun open and pulled a box of shells out of the car’s hiding space.
Shaw reached inside the boot and did the same. While he slipped the shells into the chamber, the Stig pulled a shotgun out and examined it.
‘You ever fire one of these?’ Coffin said.
The Stig still had on his sunglasses and Coffin couldn’t read his expression. But he thought he caught the hint of a smile on his lips.
‘Once or twice, maybe,’ he said. ‘Don’t you worry about me.’
Coffin picked up the last shotgun and broke it open.
‘Load up and put spare ammo in your pockets. You’re going to need it.’
‘Aren’t you being a bit over the top, Joe?’ the Stig said. ‘After all, there’s four of us and only one of him.’
‘That we know of,’ Coffin said. ‘And besides, this is Shocker Stronach we’re dealing with. He’s a dangerous man.’
‘Aye, and a man I’ve been looking forward to meeting for a while now,’ Gilligan said. ‘I know what he did to you, Joe, that I do. But this here bastard murdered my good friend Brendan. So, we’ve both got scores to settle today.’
‘Let’s go,’ Coffin said.
the goldfish
They put the jerry cans back in the Rover’s boot and replaced the false bottom.
They split up. Coffin and Gilligan walked further down the road, Shaw and the Stig walked up. Coffin left the road when he was hidden from the cottage. He stepped from tarmac and onto the wet grass. His boots slipped on the ground, but he kept his footing. He swore quietly.
Gilligan took a different route. The plan was they would all approach the building from different directions.
The rolling landscape was littered with huge, dark rocks. As though God had simply thrown them from the heavens, scattering them across the landscape for people to puzzle over. Coffin moved up to one of the rocks and peered at the cottage from behind it. There was no more smoke trailing from the chimney. The house really did look empty now.
Except, from this new angle, Coffin could see a jeep parked behind the cottage. The jeep was squashed between the cottage and a small outhouse. Not an ideal parking space when there was so much more room at the front. As though someone had tried to hide it there.
Coffin saw movement further out.
The Stig, closing in. He was heading for the outhouse, getting in close. Between the outhouse and the Stig was a broad, open expanse of long grass. The Stig was running up the slope, clutching the shotgun to his chest.
Just as he reached the outhouse there was a rapid burst of gunfire from the cottage. The windows in the jeep shattered, shards of brick and mortar exploded from the outhouse wall.
Coffin ducked behind the boulder.
The gunfire stopped. Sounded like a semi-automatic assault rifle.
Apparently there was somebody home after all.
Coffin risked a look around the boulder, couldn’t see the Stig anywhere.
The explosion of a shotgun echoed around the hills followed by more rapid, stuttering gunfire. The Stig was still out there, pinned down behind the outhouse. Assuming Stronach was living on his own there and didn’t have a house full of his ex-SAS mates then now was the time to get up close to the farmhouse whilst Stronach was distracted.
Coffin left the protection of the boulder and ran for the cottage’s front.
A tinkling of glass, the high-pitched whine of a bullet passing close by Coffin’s left ear.
Two people in the house. Stronach on the rear with an assault rifle. One in the front with a handgun.
Coffin kept running.
He slammed into the front door and it shuddered in its frame. The walls of the stone cottage were thick and the front door recessed so that Coffin had some slight protection from the shooter at the window.
A shout from inside. ‘Bastard!’
A woman.
Coffin stepped out of the recess and to one side. The door thudded and splintered with the impact of bullets fired from the handgun. Coffin lifted the shotgun and discharged one barrel at the door’s lock. The wooden panels exploded, and the door swung inward.
Coffin stepped inside, using this moment while the shooter was confused and disoriented from the noise and the smoke.
A small entrance hall, empty. The woman was gone already.
To his left, through an open door, Coffin saw a kitchen. To his right, through another open door, a lounge area. A couple of steps led down to it. Flag stoned floor, coffee table, sofas, a television. At the opposite end of the lounge was an open staircase. Coffin saw feet running, disappearing up through the space in the ceiling.
He cracked open the shotgun as he stepped down into the lounge and replaced the discharged shell.
More rapid gunfire from upstairs.
Where the hell were the others?
Coffin approached the stairs cautiously, careful not to step in an attacker’s line of sight from the first floor. Cast his eyes around the lounge once more. Saw a sideboard of dark, polished wood. A vase of yellow flowers sitting on top.
The interior of the cottage looked nice, well-kept and looked after. Someone was a homemaker.
Coffin doubted it was Stronach.
The shooter upstairs had stopped. The silence after the gunfire was heavy, startling almost, and broken only by the sound of muffled sobs. A woman.
‘Hey, Joe!’ came an urgent hiss.
Coffin spun round, raising the shotgun.
Gilligan, entering the lounge. Hands up, palms out.
Shaw followed him.
Coffin turned back to the stairs.
‘Stronach! Are you up there?’ he shouted.
‘Aye,’ came the reply.
‘Are you coming down?’
‘What do you think, Coffin?’
‘I think you’re a fucking dead man!’ Gilligan shouted.
Coffin motioned for him to be quiet.
‘Who’s up there with you?’ Coffin said.
Silence, apart from the muffled sobs.
‘My wife, Mary,’ came a reply, eventually.
‘I’ve got no argument with her,’ Coffin said. ‘You know that. But if you insist on keep firing that gun at us, I’m not going to be selective about who I shoot and whether or not anybody’s getting in my way. You understand what I’m telling you?’
In answer the ceiling erupted under more automatic gunfire. Shards of plaster and dust exploded over Coffin and Gilligan as a hail of bullets smacked into the sofas and the flag stoned floor.
Coffin hit the ground hard and crawled behind a sofa. He had no idea where Gilligan or Shaw had gone.
The vase with the yellow flowers exploded, showering Coffin in ceramic fragments and yellow petals. A window smashed, a photograph fell from the wall, and the bullets made hard thudding noises as they hit the stone walls.
Coffin kept his head down and waited. Stronach had to run out of bullets soon and Coffin wasn’t worried about the sobbing woman, she was too scared to come down with her handgun whilst her husband distracted them with his hailstorm of bullets. And Coffin was sure there was nobody else in the house.
The sound of gunfire
suddenly stopped.
Coffin climbed to his feet and ran for the stairs. The wooden risers shook under his boots as he pounded up the steps.
Stronach was there, right in front of him with the assault rifle. He didn’t even look at Coffin as he shoved a fresh magazine into the gun.
Coffin raised the shotgun and fired both barrels.
Stronach did a backflip, spraying scarlet blood over the walls as he smacked into the bedroom door behind. The door rattled in its frame as he hit it. Stronach crumpled to the floor, leaving behind a smear of red on the bedroom door.
Gilligan and Shaw arrived at the top of the stairs.
Coffin opened the shotgun and replaced the shells.
He snapped the chamber closed and walked over to Stronach who was lying on his back in an expanding pool of blood, his arms and legs twisted out of shape, his head propped up against the door. He was taking fitful, halting breaths, his eyelids fluttering as he struggled to look up at Coffin.
Coffin placed the muzzle of the shotgun barrel against Stronach’s knee.
‘Where’s your friend, Stronach?’ Coffin said.
‘Fuck you, Coffin,’ Stronach gasped.
Coffin nudged his knee with the shotgun. ‘Now come on, Stronach, we both know you’re going to die, right? Why make it any more protracted and painful than it has to be?’
Stronach ground his teeth together, and for a brief moment his eyes rolled back, disappearing beneath his eyelids.
Coffin glanced back at Gilligan standing at the top of the stairs. Gilligan walked over and picked up the assault rifle, weighed it in his hands.
‘This the bastard who murdered Brendan, is it?’ he said, pointing the rifle at Stronach.
‘One of them,’ Coffin said. He nudged Stronach’s knee with the shotgun again. ‘Tell me where your friend is. Shanks Longworth.’
Stronach shook his head jerkily, baring his teeth.
Coffin pulled the trigger.
Stronach screamed as his leg kicked out and his knee disappeared in a cloud of blood and bone.
Stronach passed out.
‘Go find a bowl or a pan and fill it with cold water,’ Coffin said, not taking his eyes off Stronach.
Gilligan passed the Stig as he hurried downstairs.
‘You’ve made a lovely mess up here, Joe,’ he said. ‘Is he dead?’
‘No, passed out.’
‘You going to kill him?’
‘In a minute.’
‘Anyone else in the house?’
Coffin gestured to the door that Stronach’s head was propped against. ‘His wife’s in there. Might be a good idea if you go in and check it out.’
‘Yeah, be careful, I think she’s armed,’ Shaw said. He was standing well out of the way. He looked a little pale, like maybe this was getting too much for him.
The Stig ambled over to the door and stood beside Stronach, doing his best to keep his feet out of the blood soaked patch of carpet. He turned the door handle and pushed the door open. Stronach’s head hit the carpet with a soft thump.
‘I’m coming in and I’m armed,’ the Stig said. ‘I don’t want any trouble now.’
Holding his shotgun out, the Stig stepped over Stronach’s head and into the bedroom. Coffin watched from the doorway as the Stig searched the bedroom.
‘No one in here,’ he said.
Gilligan arrived clutching a big glass bowl full of water and greenery to his chest. A goldfish darted around and around inside the bowl.
Coffin looked at the fishbowl and then at Gilligan. ‘Really?’
‘There’s a fucking ton of water in here, Joe,’ Gilligan said. ‘Almost went arse over tits carrying this bastard up here.’
‘Pour some of it on his head, over his face,’ Coffin said. ‘But not all of it.’
Gilligan shuffled up to Stronach. His feet slipped on the blood soaked carpet.
‘Oh, shit!’ Gilligan said, as he struggled to stay on his feet.
Some water slopped over the edge of the bowl, and the goldfish swam round and round in frantic circles.
Shaw, watching Gilligan, giggled.
Gilligan stayed upright.
He bent at the waist, tilting the bowl until a stream of water began pouring over the lip. Stronach coughed and spluttered as the water splashed over his face.
‘Fuck!’ he gasped.
Gilligan leaned back. The stream of water stopped.
‘Yeah, we’re still here,’ Coffin said, nudging Stronach’s other knee with the shotgun. ‘Sorry about that.’
Stronach blinked water out of his eyes. His breathing sounded harsh and jagged.
‘Fuck you, Coffin. Fuck you, I’m not fucking telling you anything.’
Coffin discharged the second barrel. Blood splattered across the wall as Stronach’s kneecap disintegrated. Stronach screamed, but this time he stayed conscious. The scream turned into a wail.
Coffin cracked the shotgun open. ‘It will be your hands next and then maybe your elbows, your feet, your shoulders. We can go on like this for a long time yet, Stronach.’
‘Can I pour more water over him?’ Gilligan said. ‘Maybe drop the goldfish in his mouth, now that would be something to see.’
The Stig was standing in the bedroom doorway, watching everything. Coffin happened to glance at him, saw his eyes grow wide, his mouth drop open. Before he uttered a noise the fishbowl shattered, showering Coffin in glass and water. Gilligan fell down on his back.
Coffin turned to see a woman charging at him from another bedroom doorway. She was holding a handgun.
Coffin snapped the shotgun closed, pointed it at the charging woman and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked on the empty shells.
The woman was pulling the trigger on her gun, over and over. Coffin hit her in the face with the stock of the shotgun and she went down, hard.
Gilligan got up on his hands and knees, wiping water off his face. The Stig was pointing at him and laughing. Shaw was laughing too.
‘You’ve got fucking seaweed in your hair!’
Gilligan pulled at the green stuff stuck to his head and started laughing hysterically.
‘Shut up, both of you,’ Coffin said.
The woman, lying on the floor, wailed.
Stronach was silent. He was dead.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Coffin said.
‘What are we going to do about her?’ the Stig said. ‘She’s seen us. She’s seen you. And you’re on the fucking TV all the time now. She’s got to know who you are.’
Coffin looked at the woman, lying crumpled on the carpet drenched with water and blood. She lifted a shaking hand to her face as though to cover her eyes. As though to blot out the sight before her.
Gilligan stood up, picked up the assault rifle and shot a single bullet through Mary’s head.
‘There, problem solved,’ he said.
Movement, behind them.
All four men turned as one, swinging around, guns raised. Gilligan strafed the area with a firestorm of bullets, punching holes in the walls. A body flipped back beneath the force of the bullets, hit the floor.
Gilligan stopped firing.
Coffin walked over to the body.
A young boy in pyjamas lay on the floor, eyes closed, his body ripped apart and bloody.
‘Oh shit,’ Shaw said, standing beside Coffin. ‘You killed a little kid, Gilligan. You fucking killed a little kid.’
* * *
The Stig walked back up the lane to the car and drove it down to the cottage. The four men pulled the jerry cans out of the boot and doused the bodies inside the cottage in diesel. They poured more diesel over the carpets and the beds and the sofas. They emptied all the jerry cans and tossed them to one side.
Gilligan lit a match and dropped it onto the fuel soaked carpet. With a soft WHOOMPH! the diesel ignited, dirty yellow flames springing into life and running rapidly across the carpet.
They got out of the house and into the car.
They drove up the lane and o
nto the road. As the Stig drove back down the road, navigating the twists and turns with practised ease, Coffin gazed out of his window at the cottage, at the black smoke pouring from its shattered windows.
The men in the car were silent.
The next morning they were back in Birmingham.
naughty girl
Her name was Chitrita.
It had taken her a long time to remember that, for her name to come back to her. No one else here knew her name. She’d had to remember it, to fight to recover it on her own.
But she knew it now.
She knew other things too. She knew that she was growing stronger each passing day, and with each fresh mouthful of blood. And she knew that she had been waiting, gathering her strength, biding her time until she could make her escape.
She pressed the flat of her hands against the cold wire cage of her prison.
She knew that she had once been in love with a vampire named Merek Guttman. She knew she had been asleep for a long, long time. Over a hundred years. The sleep of rejuvenation, buried in a coffin filled with the blood of virgin girls. She knew she had been asleep for too long.
Were the other vampires still asleep, waiting to be pulled from the ground and restored to their former selves?
The ones who had dug her up, they hadn’t told her that. They hadn’t told her much at all.
They had pulled her from her coffin of blood and brought her here. Put her in this prison.
Prisons couldn’t hold her. They didn’t know that, but they would find out soon enough.
Today?
Yes. Today.
She was strong enough.
She would escape today and join the others.
Her brow furrowed as she thought about this.
The others. Were there still any others?
Guttman. Guttman was dead. Murdered by the man they called Joe Coffin. They had told her that much, her captors.
How wonderful, that name. She would be the one to put him in a coffin. Bury him deep underground, maybe while he was still alive. Wouldn’t that be fun? Joe Coffin in a coffin.
A Coffin in a coffin in the ground.
Alive.
Just.
Holding her hands up before her face, Chitrita balled them into fists and began squeezing, squeezing. Her long fingernails cut into the soft flesh of her palms, drawing blood. The blood ran down her arms and dripped off her elbows and onto the bottom of the cage and through onto the floor. Chitrita opened a hand and licked at her palm.
