by Preston, Ken
* * *
The man on the door was big, but not as big as Coffin. He waved Coffin through, looking like he was trying to appear nonchalant, as though he didn’t give a shit that Joe Coffin had just turned up. Behind Coffin, through the doorway and outside, in the amphitheatre style shopping and leisure complex, a crowd had gathered.
‘You bring your fan club with you?’ the man on the door said.
Coffin turned and looked at the faces turned up to him. They all shifted back a little.
‘Looks like it,’ Coffin said.
‘What’s it like, being a celebrity?’
‘It’s a bloody nightmare,’ Coffin said. ‘Can’t go anywhere without being stared at. Even got asked for my autograph the other day.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I told him to get lost.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yeah, he went running back to his mates, big stupid grin on his face like me telling him to get lost was the best thing ever happened to him.’ Coffin looked up the stairs leading into the club. The walls were painted purple. Posters were stuck to the walls, all showing off Jim Gosling and advertising future dates.
‘Nobody else play here except that fat bastard?’ Coffin said.
The bouncer hesitated a moment, as though unsure how to answer. ‘I dunno man, I just work the door.’
‘How’s business?’ Coffin said.
‘S’all right,’ the bouncer said. ‘Got just the one type that comes here, though, y’know.’
‘No, I don’t know. Tell me.’
The man shifted slightly, looking uncomfortable like he wished he hadn’t said anything.
‘You can talk to me,’ Coffin said. ‘I won’t say anything.’
‘It’s just like, hard men, y’know? Hard men and their wives, or their girlfriends. I’ve worked the door in loads of places and everywhere has its own type of people who come to it, but still there’s, like, a bit of variety in them, you know what I’m saying? But here it’s just the one type and nobody else.’
‘Hard men,’ Coffin said.
‘Yeah, and their girlfriends.’
‘You ever hear of him before, Jim Gosling?’
‘Nah, he’s a new one to me. One of the lads said he was down London before this, working the clubs down there, but I never heard of him.’
Coffin looked at the posters again. ‘Seems a strange type of club that just employs the one act over and over.’
‘You coming in or what, girl?’ the bouncer said.
Coffin turned to see a young woman standing behind him. Petite little thing, dwarfed by the two men. She was holding a mobile phone.
‘You’re Joe Coffin, aren’t you?’ she said, looking up at Coffin and biting her bottom lip shyly.
Coffin grunted.
‘Can I have my picture taken with you?’ she said, eyes wide and round like a baby deer’s.
‘No,’ Coffin said, and turned his back on her.
He took the stairs two at a time. Turned left at the top, through a set of double doors and down a short corridor. No posters on the walls here. He could hear laughter now. Through another set of double doors and he was into the club. The lights were low apart from the stage which was illuminated, and one table which had a spotlight trained upon it. Jim Gosling was standing on the stage, holding a microphone in one hand and a half-finished pint of beer in the other.
The laughter died as everyone turned in their seats to see what Gosling was staring at.
‘Bloody hell, it’s Joe Coffin,’ Gosling said.
Coffin hesitated. This wasn’t what he had expected, to be the centre of attention.
Gosling lifted his pint glass to his lips and drained it of the remaining beer. He held the empty glass out and a small person hurried onto the stage and took it from him. Coffin thought it was a child at first. But no, it was a man, a dwarf.
The dwarf hurried off, disappearing to the side of the stage.
Gosling wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘We’re going to take a little interlude, folks,’ Gosling said. ‘Me and Joe have got a few things to talk about. Go and get yourself a drink at the bar, the first one’s on the house.’
Like a herd of sheep much of the audience obeyed, climbing to their feet and heading for the bar. Coffin stepped out of the way as they filed past, casting hostile glances at him.
Gilligan and Shaw remained seated at their table as Gosling climbed down off the stage. The fat man walked over to their table.
‘Come and join us, Joe,’ he said.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Coffin said.
‘Come and sit down, Joe, and we can talk about that,’ Gosling said.
Coffin walked over to the table and sat down. Looked at Shaw and Gilligan. They looked just as puzzled as Coffin felt.
Gosling sat down, the chair creaking under his weight.
‘I wondered if you might come on over and check me out tonight,’ Gosling said. ‘Especially when I saw Shaw and his Oirish friend sitting here.’
‘I didn’t appreciate your comedy tonight,’ Gilligan said. ‘A little old fashioned, and well past its sell by date.’
‘What can I tell you, I like the old jokes the best,’ Gosling said.
The dwarf approached the table carrying a tray of drinks. Beers for everyone except Coffin. The dwarf handed him a whisky.
Sitting down, Coffin was still a couple of inches taller than the dwarf, who was dressed in a black suit and bow tie, and a white shirt.
‘This is Stilts,’ Gosling said.
‘Stilts?’ Coffin said, looking at Gosling.
‘Yeah, that’s his nickname on account of how tall he is,’ Gosling said, and wheezed with laughter.
Stilts placed the rest of the drinks on the table and turned and walked away.
‘He doesn’t say much,’ Gosling said. ‘In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all. He’s a mute.’
Coffin watched Stilts as he walked to the bar, pushing his way through the crowd of punters, and then disappeared behind it. A moment later he reappeared at the top of the bar and started collecting empty glasses. Coffin guessed he had to be standing on a chair or a foot stool. A young woman in a pair of blue denim dungarees was pulling pints for the customers.
‘He’s got everything he needs to talk with,’ Gosling was saying. ‘He just chooses not to speak. That’s what the doctors say anyway. They’ve got a name for it . . .’
‘Elective mute,’ Shaw said.
‘That’s right,’ Gosling said. ‘Elective mute. Fucking hell, they’ve got a name for everything nowadays, haven’t they? Next thing you know they’ll be saying laziness is a disease and giving it some fancy arsed name.’
‘I had a cousin who was an elective mute, until she was about six or seven,’ Shaw said. ‘Nobody ever found out why she wouldn’t speak until then.’
Coffin picked up his glass, took a sip of the whisky. It was good. Smooth.
‘How did you know what I drink?’ he said.
‘You just look like a whisky man to me, Joe,’ Gosling said. ‘It’s a party trick of mine, my superhero power. I can look at a person and I can tell you what their favourite alcoholic beverage is, just by looking at them.’
Shaw held up his lager, condensation running down the side of the glass. ‘He got mine right.’
Gilligan looked at his Guinness, still sitting on the table. ‘The Guinness in this place is fucking awful. Fucking rancid.’
‘Now that’s a shame, that is,’ Gosling said, quietly.
Coffin shot a look at Gilligan and said, ‘Cut the crap, will you? We didn’t come here to argue about the Guinness.’
‘What did you come here for, Joe?’ Gosling said. ‘To check me out, right?’
Coffin took another pull on the whisky. ‘You open up a comedy club but you’re the only act. No one’s ever heard of you before but everyone knows you’re a hard man and your nightly audience is thugs and enforcers and their girlfriends. Of course I’m goin
g to check you out.’
Coffin glanced over at the bar. It was thick with customers.
‘Think I’m moving in on your turf, is that right?’ Gosling said. ‘The Slaughterhouse Mob is the only outfit in town these days, and yet I hear you’re in with the coppers right now. That’s a strange situation isn’t it?’
‘You’ve seen the news, you know what’s been going on.’
Gosling switched his attention to Shaw, and said, ‘How can you tell if a vampire has a cold?’
‘I don’t know,’ Shaw said.
‘He starts coffin!’ Gosling laughed. ‘Get it? Coffin?’
Shaw looked like he hadn’t got a clue what was going on.
A high pitched voice cut across the empty club. ‘I ay got a thing to weer, I ay!’
Coffin stood up, scraping the chair back along the floor, as he stared at the bizarre creature staggering onto the stage. Big hair, like nineteen-eighties era Dolly Parton, a huge, shocking yellow dress revealing hairy arms and legs, and feet in extremely high heeled stiletto shoes.
‘Well fuck me sideways, weer the fucken hell is everyone?’ His voice had dropped a couple of octaves now. He looked up from the half empty tables and at the crowded bar.
‘We’re having a break tonight, Duchess,’ Gosling said. ‘Come and join us, we’ve got company.’
Coffin watched as Duchess carefully navigated the steps leading down from the stage. The shoes looked impossible to walk on.
‘Ooh, is tha’ Joe Coffin I c’n see over theer?’ The high falsetto was back.
‘Sit down, Joe,’ Gosling said. ‘Relax, have your drink.’
Coffin sat down. Picked up his whisky glass.
‘I cor wait ter say hallo ter Joe Coffin.’ Duchess said, tottering towards them. The few customers still left sitting at the tables watched him, delighted grins on their faces.
Coffin drained the whisky glass. Thought about leaving.
He was aware of Duchess making a line straight for him at the last moment, just when it was too late. Duchess wrapped his arms around Coffin, enveloping him in the folds of the yellow dress, his big hair brushing over Coffin’s face, and planted a big kiss on his cheek.
Coffin shot to his feet, shoving Duchess away. The chair toppled over and fell on its back with a sharp crack against the floor.
Duchess tottered on his high heels, arms pinwheeling, and let out a high pitched shriek as he fell over.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Coffin snarled.
The crowd at the bar were laughing, enjoying the spectacle. Duchess lay on his back on the floor, knees bent and legs splayed, his wig sitting at an angle on his head. He was laughing too, his bright red lipstick smeared across his lips and cheek.
‘Oh, I just cor ‘elp meself. I ’ad ter gi’ yer a smacker I did, yow lookin’ soo ’andsome an’ all,’ Duchess said.
Shaw and Gilligan were both laughing too.
‘You’ve got lipstick on your cheek,’ Gilligan said, pointing.
Coffin wiped at his cheek. His fingertips came away smeared with red. Made him think of blood. Of vampires.
He pointed at Duchess. ‘Keep away from me.’
‘Calm down, Joe,’ Gosling said, still chuckling. ‘Duchess doesn’t mean anything by it.’
Coffin stayed on his feet. Watched Duchess as he stood up and adjusted his wig.
‘What the hell are you up to, Gosling?’ Coffin said.
Gosling held his hands out palms up. ‘Nothing, Joe. You’re the one who came to check me out, remember? You’re the one who sent your two goons here to take a look.’
Coffin kept his eyes on Duchess as he talked. ‘Yeah, and you’re the one who put a stop to the evening’s entertainment as soon as I walked through the door.’
‘True, I suppose. I thought you might want a little chat, that’s all. It must be difficult for you to get ‘me time’ when you’re a celebrity. Is that right, Joe? Is it difficult?’
Duchess was fixing his false eyelashes. Coffin couldn’t take his eyes off him.
‘Don’t fuck with me,’ Coffin said. ‘All this crap about you opening a comedy club, but you’re the only act, the place filled with hard men. It’s a setup, isn’t it?
Having fixed his eyelashes, Duchess fluttered them at Coffin and pouted. Coffin took a step towards to him and Duchess tottered away on his high heels, almost going over again.
‘You’re wound too tight, Joe, you need to relax,’ Gosling said. ‘Sit down, have another drink.’
Stilts was back at the table, handing out pints of beer off a tray. He had another whisky for Coffin. The girl was with him, but now she was up close he could see she was older than he had thought. She looked like she tried to keep in shape, but the weight had started gathering on her hips and backside. She looked vaguely familiar to Coffin, in her denim dungarees and her spiky hair, until he realised she resembled the members of eighties girl pop group Bananarama.
To Gilligan and Shaw, Coffin said, ‘Get up, we’re leaving.’
‘Already?’ Gosling said. ‘But we’re just getting to know each other.’
‘I know enough,’ Coffin said.
‘All right, Joe, don’t be so hasty,’ Gosling said. ‘Sit down and I’ll tell you what’s going on.’
‘Forget about it, I’m not interested.’
‘What about a cool two million in cash?’ Gosling said. ‘Would that interest you?’
Coffin hesitated.
‘Yeah, I thought so,’ Gosling said, and grinned.
‘You’re bad news, Gosling,’ Coffin said. ‘I get involved with you and it’d be like giving you an invite to fuck me over and then some. I told you, I’m not interested.’
Coffin left, pushing his way past hard men carrying pints of beer back to their tables, Shaw and Gilligan scrambling to catch up with him.
that horse-faced bitch
Emma’s insides tightened at the sight of the Metropole Tower, home to the Birmingham Herald. It had been Barry’s suggestion that they meet here. Emma had wanted to tell him no, let’s meet somewhere else, somewhere I don’t have to face old ghosts. But she couldn’t get the words out, and then he had said his goodbyes and rung off.
So here she was, standing in the lobby, concentrating on steadying her breathing. Listening to the pulse thud in her ears and feeling the warmth of the morning sunlight on her back still as it streamed through the wall of window panes on the Metropole Tower’s front.
‘Can I help you?’ the man at the desk said.
‘No, thank you,’ Emma said. ‘I know where I’m going.’
If only that were true, she thought.
She punched the button to call the lift. Standing facing the metal doors she could feel the man’s gaze on her. As though he was checking her out.
You’re being paranoid, she thought. Of course he’s not checking you out.
But it wasn’t that silly an idea, was it? After the news broke of the vampires escaping last night, the city was back to living in fear. Seemed the respite from the vampire threat had been far too brief. And yet, for most people this was a completely new threat, something they had never had to fear before. Something they were struggling to get their heads around.
The lift arrived and the doors slid open. Emma stepped inside, pushed the button for the top floor.
As the doors slid shut, she thought back to the days when she worked here and she used to run up and down the stairs during her lunch break.
Why do you have to do your training here, anyway? Why the hell can’t you join a gym, like everybody else? Karl Edwards, the former editor of the Birmingham Herald, had said.
Emma smiled, remembering her reply.
Gyms are for wimps.
Her smile faded.
Karl Edwards was the reason she was back at the Birmingham Herald offices today.
The lift was fast and smooth and it was only moments before the doors were opening once more. Emma stepped out of the lift and into the open plan office space that was the
Birmingham Herald.
This place felt so familiar to her it was strange to be returning as a visitor. The clatter of keyboards being tapped, the electronic hum of printers spewing out paper, the constant stream of news from the massive TV monitor on the wall and over it all the chatter and hum of people talking.
Barry, sitting at his desk, waved to her and stood up.
Emma headed straight for him, acknowledging waves and nods of heads from staff members she remembered from her days on the paper. There weren’t many, lost amongst many more faces that she didn’t recognise.
‘Bloody hell, Barry,’ she said. ‘Who are all these new people? I hardly recognise anybody.’
Barry raised his eyebrows, glancing towards the editor’s office. ‘Yeah, our esteemed editor, Ms Lockridge decided to have a change of staff to liven things up, she said.’
‘Nice,’ Emma said. ‘She allowed to do that? Just sack whoever she wants?’
‘When you don’t have a permanent contract, yes,’ Barry said.
He pulled up a chair from a vacant desk. Emma sat down.
‘You doing okay?’ Barry said, sitting next to her.
‘Yeah, I’m good. How about you?’
‘Still got problems with rotating my right shoulder, but other than that I’m good too. The doctor who treated me at the hospital said I was lucky not to have broken my neck.’
‘Did you tell him you almost had it bitten off?’
‘No, I left that bit out.’
Emma placed a hand on Barry’s arm. ‘Seriously, I am never going to forget seeing you lying at the bottom of those stairs. I thought you were dead.’
‘I thought I was dead, too,’ Barry said. ‘You see the news this morning?’
Emma nodded. ‘It’s all starting again.’
Barry took a deep, ragged breath. ‘And I’m guessing that’s why you’re here, right? Thing is Emma, I can’t get involved again. I’m not too ashamed to admit I’m scared, and as soon as that big yellow orb in the sky starts setting I’m heading inside and locking the doors and windows and not coming out again until daybreak.’
‘No, it wasn’t the vampires I want to talk about. It’s Karl.’
