Joe Coffin Season One

by Ken Preston

  “You all right, Joe?”

  “Sure, everything’s just dandy,” Coffin hissed, snapping his head back around to stare at Tom. “Here I am, fresh out of prison less than forty-eight hours, and I’ve executed two drugged up, lowlife snotwipes, and killed a deranged psychopath. Now, there’s probably a great many people might well want to line up to shake my hand for ridding the planet of three such dangerous degenerates, but the cops, nah, somehow I think they’ll be taking a different view. So yeah, I’m on edge a little right now, as the hospital isn’t the best place I could pick to hide out in.”

  Tom held up his hands, palm out. “All right, Joe. Fuck, I was just asking, is all.”

  “Yeah, well don’t ask anymore. This woman, at the house, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her before, parked outside your house earlier this afternoon.”

  “Ah, shit!” Tom said. “It’s that reporter, the bitch has been sniffing around, asking questions, thinks she’s Lois Lane, like she’s onto some big story. I thought I’d got rid of her.”

  “How did she end up at the house on Forde Road?” Coffin said.

  “Come on, Joe, how the fuck should I know? Maybe Superman flew over the house, saw what was happening with his X-Ray vision, and reported back to Lois!”

  “Or maybe she tailed you to the house?”

  “I already told you, I drove head on into a fucking brick wall on the way there!”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I don’t know, she never introduced herself. She works for the Birmingham Herald, I think.”

  A police car rolled past, pulling up in a waiting bay. Two policemen got out and headed for the hospital main entrance.

  “This place is getting too hot for me,” Coffin said. “Stay with Laura and Jacob, and don’t repeat anything I told you, okay? Especially not to the cops.”

  “Hey, I never would, Joe, you know that,” Tom said.

  With one more look around, Coffin set off at a fast-paced walk across the car park. Tom watched him until he disappeared from view.

  He let out a sigh of relief. That had been a close one. After hiding Steffanie and Rumpelstiltskin, Tom had come up with the excuse of rushing to the house, but crashing his car on the way. He’d known he had to make it convincing though, and that he actually had to crash his car.

  The hardest part had been sitting behind the wheel, his seatbelt off, psyching himself up to drive full tilt into the wall he had picked. Trusting in the car’s airbag system to stop him from taking a dive headfirst through the windscreen had been the hardest part.

  Once he’d committed to the idea, he had floored the accelerator, only closing his eyes at the moment before impact.

  It had worked like a dream.

  Even though his chest and head hurt like a bastard, now.

  bigger than ole king kong

  Joe Coffin walked back into the city centre. He stopped at the first newsagents he came to and bought the last copy they had of the Birmingham Herald. The Asian woman behind the counter looked at him wide eyed, like she wanted to ask him how come his face was bandaged up like that, and didn’t he know they were leaking blood? She decided against it and handed him his change instead.

  He stood outside the shop, underneath a street lamp, and leafed through the paper. He ignored the stories, concentrating instead on the by-lines. How many women reporters typically worked on newspapers these days? There was a female section in the centre pages, but Coffin did not bother looking in that. Whoever this woman was, she hadn’t struck Coffin as the type to be writing about nail polish and panty lines.

  Coffin searched until he found a story on Jacob and Peter. According to the story they were still missing, but that was yesterday’s news now.

  Emma Wylde.

  That was her, it had to be. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been out cold on the floor. That was several hours ago. If he hadn’t been so concerned with getting Jacob some medical attention, he would have stopped to check on her.

  But he didn’t owe her anything. He’d pulled that maniac off her once, and it had been her choice to hang around and watch the fight. Coffin had the feeling she could look after herself.

  Coffin shoved the newspaper into the nearest bin and headed for Broad Street. The Birmingham Herald offices were easy to find, they sat at the top of the tallest building in the city, the Metropole Tower. It was late, gone eight, but who knew how late reporters worked? Besides, if she wasn’t there, then maybe he could find out where she lived, pay her a visit at home.

  Coffin walked on, through the city centre. He thought about catching a bus, but Broad Street wasn’t too far, and besides, Coffin hated buses. The ceilings were too low for him to stand up straight and after ten minutes he would have a crick in his neck. And the seats were too small for him to sit comfortably. And then there were the annoying kids, sitting at the back, playing their music too loud. If you could call that crap they produced these days, music. It was like they thought they were doing everybody a favour, letting all the other passengers listen too.

  If Coffin had his way, kids would walk everywhere.

  Quietly.

  Coffin also doubted that the bus driver would even let him on the bus, the way he looked at the moment.

  His face and his chest and abdomen were sore, but they were nothing compared to the pain in his right shoulder and forearm. Those long, wicked teeth had dug deep, and chewed up his shoulder in particular. Coffin couldn’t lift his right arm above shoulder height, and even doing that much sent bolts of pain shooting through his shoulder, and left him sweating with the effort.

  Doc Shaddock had told him there was muscle damage around the shoulder joint. He said he would always have some limitation of movement from now on, but other than that, it should heal up okay, given time and rest.

  Well, Coffin didn’t have time, or the time to rest. Despite what he had told Tom, Coffin still needed to know for certain who murdered his family. His money was on that crazy, blood sucking psychotic he left for dead back at the house, but he needed to know for sure. He also needed to know his name, where he came from, why he’d done it, and if there were any more like him out there.

  Emma Wylde might not know any more than Coffin did, but she’d been at that house for a reason, and Coffin intended to find out that much, at least.

  The Metropole Tower was lit up like a beacon against the night sky.

  The large glass door was locked shut. Coffin peered through the glass at the gleaming, cavernous reception area. A security guard sat at his desk, with his back to the entrance. Coffin rapped his knuckles on the glass, but the security guard did not stir.

  Maybe he was asleep.

  Or just ignorant.

  There were rows of buttons down the side of the entrance door, labelled up with company names. Coffin ran his finger along them until he found the Birmingham Herald.

  He pressed the button, and it buzzed.

  He waited.

  He was on the verge of pressing the button again, when a man’s voice, distorted through the tiny speaker set into the wall, squawked, “Hello?”

  “I’m here to see Emma Wylde,” Coffin said.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No. Tell her it’s Joe Coffin.”

  There followed a few seconds of silence, while the man on the other end of the intercom digested this startling piece of information. Perhaps he was wondering how to handle it, weighing up his options. He could always just switch off the intercom, and leave Coffin standing outside, and hope he would have left by the end of the shift. Or he could tell Coffin that Emma Wylde wasn’t there, or not available to talk to him.

  The intercom squawked back into life. “Hold on a moment.”

  More waiting. The security guard, still sitting with his back to Coffin, suddenly leaned forward and picked up a telephone. He listened for a few moments, swivelled in his chair and took a long look at Coffin, and then turned his back on him once more, and spoke into the telephone.

 
A long minute passed.

  “Come on up,” the intercom said.

  The speaker made a buzzing noise, and when Coffin pushed at the door, it swung open.

  Coffin strode past the desk, ignoring the security guard, and straight to the lifts.

  Coffin had never been inside a newspaper office before, had no idea what to expect. The Birmingham Herald offices occupied the entire top two floors of the Metropole Tower, offering stunning views across the city, through plate-glass windows covering three sides of the top floor. The city’s tower blocks glowed yellow lights from their windows, and other lights, like fireflies, snaked along the roads leading out of the city, to the surrounding suburbs.

  The office was open plan, desks laid out in rows across the vast space. Coffin would have at least expected the clatter of keyboards, the ringing of telephones, and the chatter of voices, a general hubbub as young, hotshot reporters rushed around, waving sheets of typed paper, or shouting across the room.

  But no, the room was entirely silent.

  Men and women were sat at many of the desks, others standing. All of them had one thing in common.

  They were all staring at Joe Coffin.

  A large, middle-aged man, his belly hanging over his waistline and his hair going grey, stepped forward, his hand held out in greeting.

  “Hi, I’m Karl Edwards, the Birmingham Herald editor. How can I help you, Mr Coffin?”

  Coffin took Karl’s hand and shook it. “I’m here to see Emma Wylde, is she around?”

  “I’m afraid not, she called in sick today.”

  “Sick?”

  “Yeah, sick. You don’t look so good yourself.” Karl pointed at Coffin’s face. “What happened to you?”

  “I cut myself shaving.” Coffin glanced around the office. “Any idea where I might find her?”

  “I’m sorry Mr Coffin, but I can’t help you with that. If I can do anything else for you?”

  “Yeah, you can get out of my way.”

  Coffin shoved past the editor and walked further into the newsroom. A couple of the younger reporters, gelled hair and sharp suits, jumped up from behind their desks and stepped in front of Coffin.

  “Hold it right there, mister,” the bigger one said. He looked like a regular at the gym, but probably spent more time preening in front of the mirrors than he did on the weight bench.

  “Yeah, where the hell do you think you’re going?” his friend said. He was smaller, but flabby, looked like he’d never set foot in a gym in his life. But enjoyed acting tough in front of his colleague.

  Coffin sighed.

  He had a powerful urge to grab them both by their ears and bang their heads together.

  Repeatedly.

  Instead, he picked gym guy up and threw him across his desk, scattering trays of paper over the floor, and tipping his computer monitor over on its back. Coffin whirled around to face the flabby guy, towering over him.

  Flabby guy turned and ran.

  Karl, the editor, stepped in front of Coffin and planted his hands on his chest. Karl was tall, but he still had to look up at Coffin.

  “You’re going to have to leave, now, or I’m calling the police.”

  “Emma!” Coffin roared. “Emma Wylde!”

  Karl pointed at gym guy, who was climbing back onto his feet. “Barry, call the police!”

  “No.” Emma Wylde stepped out of Karl’s office. “Don’t call the police, Barry, it’s all right. I’ll talk to Mr Coffin.”

  Karl stepped back from Coffin, looked over at Emma. “Are you sure?”

  She nodded.

  She looked dreadful. Bloodshot eyes, bruised face.

  “I’m sorry I left you,” Coffin said. “It was the boy, I had to get him medical help, quickly.”

  “Was that Jacob, one of the missing boys?”

  She hadn’t known. Jacob was not why she had gone to investigate the house. Coffin looked around the silent newsroom. Everyone was watching them, listening.

  “Let’s go in my office,” Karl said. “We can talk in there.”

  * * *

  Karl sat behind his desk, and Coffin sat on the leather sofa.

  Emma, when she first started at the paper, once asked him what the sofa was for. Karl said, for sitting on, of course. Emma said, don’t be an idiot, you know what I mean. Karl never said anything else, but Emma soon found out what it was there for.

  Some days, Karl worked so late, he just lay out on the sofa and took a nap, got up, and carried on working through the night.

  Or maybe Mrs Edwards had enough of him some days and threw him out of the house.

  Emma was never sure which.

  Emma was perched on the edge of the sofa, the newsroom first aid kit open beside her. She had removed one of the dressings off Coffin’s face and was dabbing gingerly at the wound.

  “Who did your needlework?” she said. “Sweeney Todd?”

  “Very funny.”

  “Seriously, you should go to hospital.” Emma peeled open a fresh dressing from the first aid kit. “That maniac almost sliced your face off. If you don’t see a plastic surgeon soon, you’re going to have some pretty bad scarring all over your face.”

  “Oh gee, I guess that means my career as a model is over,” Coffin growled.

  Emma pressed the new dressing into place and taped it down.

  “I’m going to have to change this one, too,” she said, pressing her index finger against his chin and rotating his head around. “All this blood seeping through the dressings, you look like Frankenstein’s monster.”

  “Yeah, well, some people might say that’s an improvement.”

  Karl shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He opened a drawer and got himself a cigar, peeled the wrapper off it.

  Emma pulled the dressing off Coffin’s face, sticky with blood. She dropped it in a plastic bag and picked up a Steriwipe.

  “Once I’ve cleaned up your face, I think maybe you should take off your shirt, and let me have a look at your chest.”

  Coffin raised an eyebrow.

  “You’ve got a patch of blood seeping through your T-shirt. I’m not sure we’ve got enough bandages and dressings in this first aid kit to sort you out, another reason I think you should go to hospital.”

  Karl shoved the unlit cigar in his mouth and began chewing on it. “Hey, Emma, since when did my office turn into an episode of Casualty? Are you a reporter, or a nurse?”

  “You want him to bleed all over your sofa, Karl? Coffin’s leaking blood like a ruptured appendix, if I don’t change his dressings, he’ll have painted the room red by the time he leaves.”

  Karl sighed, heavily.

  “Karl?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You wanna go downstairs, see if they’ve got another first aid kit down there?”

  Karl sat up straight in his chair, yanked the cigar from his mouth. “Are you serious?”

  “Hell, yes, I’m serious! Remember that tie I got for you, yesterday? Pulled your fat out of the fire with Mrs Edwards?” Emma smiled at Karl. “Be a sweetie, Karl. Go get me another first aid kit.”

  Karl stood up and glowered at Coffin. “You okay in here with him?”

  “Sure I am,” Emma said, looking at Coffin. “Big Bad Leroy Brown here is a pussycat at heart, right?”

  Coffin looked at Karl, and said, “Miaow.”

  Karl huffed. “All right, but you need any help while I’m gone, just yell. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Emma watched him leave.

  Coffin said, “Is he going to light that cigar up, or just chew on it?”

  “Are you for real? You think anybody’s allowed to smoke in this place? No, he’ll just chew on it until it gets so soggy he has to throw it away.”

  “Seems like a waste of a good cigar to me.”

  Emma turned to look at Coffin once more. “Okay, I got rid of Karl, but he won’t be long. So spill, what the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Charming, I must say,” Coffin said.

  �
�Hey, next time, you want charming, bring me a bunch of fucking roses and a box of chocolates. But you come barging in here, and start throwing my colleagues over their desks, that’s not the best start to a relationship.”

  “And here I was thinking how me pulling that sex-crazed maniac off of you might have put me in your good books already. That wasn’t a tickling stick he was waving in your face, you know.”

  “Fuck you, Coffin. I was the one smashed him over the skull with that rock when he was about ready to sink his teeth in your neck. Although I suppose you’re going to tell me you had the situation under control, right?”

  “Well, I—”

  “And please, tell me that wasn’t your sock. Damn thing smelt worse than a plate full of mouldy cheese.”

  “What were you doing in that house, Emma?” Coffin said.

  “What the fuck were you doing there?”

  Coffin flinched as Emma placed a fresh dressing on his wound and pressed it down with a little more force than was necessary.

  “I asked first,” Coffin growled. “What were you doing at that house, Emma?”

  “Yeah, and I asked you right back. What the fuck were you doing there?”

  Coffin lunged forward, getting right in Emma’s face. She had that same feeling she’d had with Steffanie, that she’d pushed too far, stepped through a door she should have gone nowhere near. She tried leaning back, but Coffin grabbed her by the shoulders and held her in place.

  “We could play this game all night, but you and I know we don’t want to do that. What were you doing in that house?”

  “I was having a look around, I thought the place was empty,” Emma said.

  Gel haired guy opened the door and stuck his head through. He looked scared.

  “You want me to call the police, Emma?”

  Coffin let go of Emma’s shoulders, leaned back a little so he wasn’t in her face anymore.

  “No, we’re okay,” Emma said.

  Gel haired guy didn’t look convinced.

  “Really, Barry, it’s fine. Go back to work.”

  “What were you looking for?” Coffin said, when the door had closed.