by Ken Preston
Which meant that once Tom Mills had finished his desperate pleading for forgiveness, Laura had little choice other than to accept his apology, and take him back. Coffin had already told her she shouldn’t take him back, and that he would support her, talk Craggs round.
But Laura took Tom back, and it wasn’t that big a surprise, really. Coffin felt bad for Laura, even more so for the boy, Jacob. He wasn’t going to let Tom hurt them again.
And Tom knew that.
But now, here he was, acting like Coffin’s best friend. It didn’t sit easy with Coffin.
Not at all.
Coffin read the rest of the story.
When he’d finished, he folded the newspaper up and stuffed it into a bin.
He stopped at a florist and bought some lilies.
Then he began the walk to the churchyard where Steffanie and Michael were buried.
* * *
Tom Mills gripped the edge of the white toilet bowl and threw up. He wiped a trembling arm over his forehead, slick with sweat, and spat into the toilet. Sitting down on the bathroom floor, his back against the bath, he tore paper off the toilet roll and dabbed at his lips. His head was pounding, and the morning light hurt the back of his eyes.
Reaching up to flush the toilet, Tom noticed his hand was black. He looked at his other hand. It was black too. He held both hands up in front of his face. His palms looked like a negative image, the tracery of fine lines running across the surface standing out in white against the black.
There were black smudges where he had been gripping the toilet bowl, and when he looked up, he saw a black handprint on the wall by the bathroom door.
What the hell was going on?
Tom lifted a shaky hand to his nose and sniffed cautiously. The palm of his hand smelt of soil.
Tom groaned and closed his eyes as he remembered finding the open grave last night. There were several large gaps in his recollection of events, fragments of memory only. But he remembered shovelling the dirt back into the grave with his bare hands.
And he remembered sobbing helplessly while he gathered up the mounds of earth and pushed them over the edges of the grave.
Tom struggled to his feet and gazed at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His face was smudged with black, and his shirt and trousers. He had no memory of how he got home, but he must have crawled straight into bed fully dressed. Still wearing his shoes.
He opened the bathroom window and looked outside. The car was parked at an angle, half on the drive and half on the front lawn. But there was no sign he could see of any damage to the car. Surely, if he had been involved in an accident last night, he would have known about it by now?
Wearily, Tom put the plug in the bath and turned on the hot water tap.
The room started spinning, another wave of nausea building inside his stomach. Tom sat down on the floor, beside the toilet. His head ached, along with his legs and arms and back.
Slowly, he began the laborious job of untying his shoelaces. He refused to think about last night, not yet at least. After a long soak in the bath he would go back to bed, get some more sleep.
And then, maybe then, he could try to think about what he had seen.
* * *
Joe Coffin stood beneath the shade of a massive Oak tree. Brown leaves floated gently to the ground all around him. From where he stood, Coffin had a clear view of the police, their vans and forensic crews, and the yellow scene of crime tape.
Now and then someone would stop, crane their necks to look, maybe see if there was a body still there. A policeman quickly moved them on. A reporter stood a little way off, talking into his mobile.
Coffin still held the lilies, forgotten, by his side. He’d been on his way to the graveyard when he saw the police vans, the crowd of onlookers. It didn’t take long to find out what was going on. A tramp had been found early this morning, the cold body lying half on, half off a park bench, his throat ripped open in a savage attack.
And now Coffin didn’t feel like going to the graveyard. Not if the murderer of his wife and son was still out there, still killing people.
At the sound of rustling behind him, Coffin turned around. A tramp, hunched up like a question mark, shuffled through the leaves towards him. As the beggar approached, Coffin saw long, white hair cascading from beneath an oversized deerstalker, and realised he was looking at an old woman. She wore a large, tattered winter coat, several skirts, and a huge pair of boots. Behind her she was dragging a battered shopping bag on wheels.
She stopped beside Coffin and peered up at him.
“I haven’t got any money,” Coffin said, and turned his attention back to the crime scene in the distance.
The old woman huffed and spat a gob of yellow phlegm on the ground. “Did I ask you for any money?”
“No, I don’t suppose you did,” Coffin said.
“Well then, what gives you the right to assume that I walked over here just to ask you for some spare change?”
“I apologise,” Coffin replied.
“That’s all right then,” the old woman said. “Now, what’s so interesting to you about all the fuss they’re making over there?”
Coffin sighed. Prison and life on the outside were sometimes very similar. Wherever he was, there always seemed to be somebody interested in his business.
“I don’t mean to be rude, old lady, but this is none of your business.”
“Seems it ought not to be any of your business either, otherwise why would you be skulking around under the shade of this tree, instead of up there talking to those officers?”
Coffin looked down at the old lady again. Even standing straight, she would still be tiny. Because of his size, most people gave Coffin a wide berth. But this little old woman seemed to have no fear of him at all.
“What about you?” he said. “What business is this of yours?”
“I knew old Alfred, long before he took to sleeping on that park bench, that’s what business it is of mine.”
“I’m sorry,” Coffin said. “He was your friend.”
The old woman stuffed a hand inside her jacket and scratched. “Wouldn’t say we were friends, necessarily, more like passing acquaintances.”
“How long had you known him?”
“Oh, we’d been bumping into each other on and off for the last twenty years or so, I reckon. Used to be that we’d see each other in the homeless shelters, but in later years we seem to have spent more time sleeping rough, coming across one another in the backstreets, or heading for the same park bench after sunset.”
“Sounds like a hard life,” Coffin said, turning his attention to the crime scene once more.
“Well, maybe,” she said. “But I had a home once, and a husband, and money, and it seems to me that being homeless is just a different kind of hard life to not being homeless.”
“You could be right.”
“Take that poor woman and her boy got murdered, in their own home. That’s no different to Alf getting his throat cut open out here, in the open, now is it?”
“I suppose not,” Coffin said.
“It were like a fiend from Hell,” the old lady said.
“What?” Coffin snapped his attention back to her. “Did you see the attack?”
She shook her head. “No, but I know someone who did.” She scrunched up her face. “Used to know his name once, but it escapes me now.”
Coffin got down on one knee, like an adult in front of a child, so they could talk on the same level. “What did your friend see, did he tell you?”
The old lady pushed a few wisps white of hair out of her face. “He were down here, right where we are standing now. Said he was on his way up to the bench, could see Alf laid out on it already, could hear him snoring clear all the way over here.”
She fell silent, and Coffin waited. Eventually, he said, “And then what happened?”
“Don’t rightly know. My friend, he drinks a lot, and he’s seen a few things over the years that I know aren’t right.
But this time, maybe…”
“Maybe what?”
“Said he saw a dark shape drop from the tree over the bench. A shadow, fell on Alf, and the next thing he knew, Alf is screaming and thrashing, and fighting at this shadow, and before my friend could even think about what to do next, Alf’s screams had turned into gurgles, and he stopped fighting, and lay still.”
“And what did this…shadow do next?”
“It started feeding on Alf, and my friend doesn’t know any more, because he turned and ran, and as far as I know, he’s begging for enough change today that he can buy himself a bus ticket and catch the first bus out of here.”
“Do you believe him?” Coffin asked.
“No. Today’s Friday, and on Friday nights, there’s some church folk set up a soup kitchen down at the market, and you get a hot cup of tea, soup and a bread roll. He’ll be there.”
“I meant, do you believe him about what he saw, about how Alf got killed?”
“I don’t know,” the old lady said, quietly. “I’ve never had cause to believe any of his crazy stories before, but this time…this time I just don’t know.”
Coffin stood up, looked back at the police on the brow of the hill, then back down at the old lady.
“Here, have these” he said, handing her the lilies, and turned and walked away.
emma visits the bathroom
Emma yelped as a boy on a BMX shot past, narrowly missing her. She stared at his back as he raced down the street, laughing.
Shouldn’t he be in school? Today was a Friday, and still term time as far as she could remember.
But then what did she care?
Children had never interested Emma. The thought of another life form growing inside her body, swelling her belly until it grew so big it had to be removed, screaming and covered in filth, was repulsive enough. And then there were the shitty nappies, the vomit, the sleepless nights, the endless feeding and the responsibility…dear God, why would anybody want to do that?
She’d been clear with Nick right from the start, no kids. Kids just got in the way, and she had her career to think about. Emma had mapped out her life plan whilst still a teenager. First there was journalism school, and then a job on any old local rag, just to get her foot in the door. After gaining some experience, and several contacts within the industry, the next stage of her plan involved getting the scoop on a major story. Then, if the story was big enough, she could quit journalism to write a book about her sensational part in this major expose. Using her earnings from book sales, and her fame as an investigative journalist, she then planned to follow her ultimate dream of writing novels for a living.
And starting a family did not feature anywhere in that plan. Neither did having a relationship, if she was honest, but sometimes life took you on a different course. Still, the relationship with Nick changed nothing, and if he wasn’t happy with the plan, he knew where the door was.
At thirty-two years of age, Emma was pleased with how her plan had worked out so far. It had taken her a little longer than expected, and she had hoped to have been working on one of the national newspapers by now. But still for a local newspaper, the Birmingham Herald was pretty big.
Emma had hoped that Steffanie Coffin would be her ticket to that career making exclusive. They had only met three times, still at the point of sizing each other up, working out the deal. That last time they met, Steffanie had brought her little boy with her. And she had been jittery, convinced that someone was onto her.
They met in a country pub, The Fifth Lock, on the bank of a canal. As far away from any of the local haunts of the Slaughterhouse Mob as they could get. Emma had arrived early for their meeting. She parked her rusty, battered Ford Fiesta in a corner of the small, dusty car park, and waited for Steffanie to arrive. Twenty minutes later, Steffanie’s sleek BMW pulled into the car park. Emma watched as Steffanie dragged the buggy out of the gleaming car, along with a bulging mamas & papas rucksack, a bag with toys in, and finally the little boy, crying and waving his fists.
Emma had waited until she saw Steffanie walk inside the pub, and then she had waited another fifteen minutes, sitting in her car, watching out for anybody suspicious looking, or familiar to her from photographs of the Slaughterhouse Mob gang members.
Finally she walked inside the cool, darkened pub, and found Steffanie sitting in a corner, a large glass of red wine on the table.
The boy had been in his buggy, and Steffanie had spent their whole time together constantly pushing the buggy back and forth, as though trying to lull the child to sleep. But even Emma, with her limited knowledge of children, could see the boy was too big for the buggy, too old be strapped in and sent to sleep.
He yanked at the straps, his fingers fumbling with the clips, his fine motor skills not yet developed enough he could undo them. Steffanie had given him books, and sweets, and brightly coloured plastic toys to shake and bang, or twist and chew.
The boy had thrown everything on the floor, except the sweets, which kept him quiet until he had eaten them all, his lips turned bright orange. He cried and yelled and struggled and kicked. Steffanie ignored him, but still kept pushing the buggy, up and down, up and down.
Emma ordered a cafetiere of coffee and took the opportunity to examine Steffanie whilst she was busy fussing with the boy. Emma knew all about Steffanie’s career as a pole dancer and had to admit she looked the part. Tall and slim, perfectly proportioned chest, tanned, and that shock of gorgeous red hair, all added up to the kind of girl that terrified Emma when she was at school.
“I’ve got something for you,” Steffanie said, leaving the boy alone to struggle and cry.
Emma had been plunging her cafetiere and stopped. “Really?”
Steffanie took a long swallow of her wine, perfectly manicured fingers holding the glass. “No, nothing you can use, but something to show you I’m serious, that I do have the goods.”
Emma finished plunging her cafetiere and poured the black coffee into her cup. She took her time, sipping at the coffee. It was good, strong and full-bodied, just the way she liked it.
“What is it then?” she said, finally. “Show me what you’ve got and we can talk more.”
Steffanie opened up the rucksack and pulled out a pack of baby wipes. The pack had a seal on the top, already open, to pull out individual wipes. Steffanie ripped open the entire plastic pack and dumped the wet baby wipes on the table. She leafed through the wipes until she found a square piece of clingfilm, with a sheet of folded paper inside, which she pushed across the table.
Emma wondered how long it had taken Steffanie to insert that piece of paper inside the folds of the baby wipes, through that small hole in the top.
Emma peeled the clingfilm apart and unfolded the paper. It was a photo. Printed off a home printer. It looked like a still from a surveillance camera, a wide angle view of an office, with a man sitting at a desk, holding a telephone to his ear.
“Is that Terry Wu?” Emma said.
Steffanie picked a rattle off the floor and handed it to the boy. He threw it at her.
“Yes,” she said. “Two minutes after that, Terry was murdered. I can get you a photo of that, too.”
Emma raised her eyebrows. “Are you fucking serious?” She put a hand to her mouth, glancing at the boy. “Oh, shit, sorry about that.”
“Don’t worry about it, he’s heard worse,” Steffanie said. “And yes, I’m serious.”
“And you’ve got a photo of Terry being murdered?”
“Better than that, I’ve got the whole thing on video. Complete with a perfectly clear view of the murderer.”
Emma leaned forward, her stomach suddenly doing somersaults. “Who’s on the video, Steffanie? Who pulled the trigger?”
“Uh uh,” Steffanie said, snatching the blurry photograph of Terry Wu from Emma’s hand. “You don’t get no more until we’ve got a deal.”
Steffanie pulled a gold lighter from the pocket on the rucksack and flicked it open. She touched the flame
to the print, the paper quickly catching fire, swallowing the photograph in a bright yellow flame. Steffanie stuffed the burning paper into her empty wineglass, jabbing at it with her perfectly manicured fingers, until there was nothing but curled, blackened paper left.
The pub landlady, all wrinkles and makeup, rushed over.
“What’s going on? Is everything all right?”
“Sorry about that, a little accident with my lighter.”
“Smoking’s not allowed in here, you know. If you want to smoke, you’ll have to sit outside, in the beer garden.”
“No thank you,” Steffanie replied. She slid the wineglass, the blackened paper curled up inside, across the table. “Could I have another red wine, please? And a fresh glass.”
“You’re pretty damn sure of yourself, aren’t you?” Emma said, as the old lady returned to the bar, the ruined wineglass in hand.
“Sure enough to know I want out of the life,” Steffanie said.
“Why?” Emma said. “Joe gets out of jail in another three months, will you be waiting for him? Or is it him you’re getting away from?”
Steffanie levelled her cool gaze at Emma. “I didn’t agree to meet you, just so I could answer your questions. Now why don’t you stop acting like a silly little girl, pretending to be a journalist, and we can talk about the deal?”
“You think I’m pretending, here?” Emma drew herself up a little straighter, tried to ignore that feeling of intimidation from her school years.
“I’m thinking you’re awfully young to be hanging with the big boys and girls. Shouldn’t you still be at home with mummy, playing dress up?”
Emma leaned across the table, her voice low. “Fuck you, Steffanie. You want, we can finish this right here and now, and you can waste another few weeks persuading another newspaper to pay you for giving them the scoop that will bring down Craggs and his mob. That is, if you actually have anything. So far, you’ve shown me shit.”
“Calm down, little girl,” Steffanie said. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
