Joe Coffin Season One

by Ken Preston

  Rumour also had it that the mannequin hand sheathed a long, wickedly sharp blade, which had been surgically grafted onto Stump’s stump. With a single twist, Stump could pull the hand off her arm, and slice a man’s belly open. Before he knew what was happening, his guts would be spilling out across the floor.

  In her right hand she was holding a fat, heavy holdall.

  For as long as most people could remember, Stump and Corpse had been the ones you went to when you needed a job doing that was just too distasteful, or downright weird, that you couldn’t think of who else to ask. Nobody knew where they lived, who else they did jobs for, and how they got those jobs done.

  Stump and Corpse had no loyalty to anyone, simply working for the ones who paid them.

  Or sometimes, it was said, whoever Stump took a liking to.

  Tom snatched his money out of Corpse’s hand and paid the kid behind the counter, who now looked as though he would prefer to be anywhere else in the world than here.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Tom snarled.

  They walked outside, and Tom ripped open his cigarette pack and lit up.

  “What the fuck took you so fucking long? I’ve been standing around like a fucking whore waiting for a pickup.”

  “Now, Mr Mills, is that any way to talk to your good friends Stump and Corpse?” Stump said.

  “Anyonebody would ruminink he’s madderbaddery with us,” Corpse said.

  “Why the fuck can’t he speak English, like the rest of us?” Tom said.

  Stump sighed, as though she’d had this conversation many times over the years. With her sunglasses permanently fixed to her face, it always puzzled Tom how Stump could see well enough to walk across an empty room without falling flat on her face. But that sleepy looking, pudgy face was a lie. Stump was sharp and never missed a thing.

  “Shall we get down to business, Mr Mills?” she said. “We have another delivery for you, although, it has to be said, this latest batch was much more difficult to procure than the previous ones. We will be forced to cast our net much wider, if you require more supplies, with the unfortunate consequence of also raising the asking price. I’m sure you understand.”

  “The oldpolicebill is on the lookerouter for us nowabouts,” Corpse said, and stuffed a long, dirty finger up a nostril, and began rooting it around.

  “Yeah, well, that was unfortunate,” Tom said, trying not to look at Corpse. “The last lot you gave me should have lasted longer, but we had to get out fast, and left it behind.”

  Stump licked the sweat off her top lip. “Hmm, that was unfortunate indeed.” She dropped the holdall in front of Tom’s feet. “You have the money.”

  Tom produced a fat roll of notes, rubber banded together, and held it in front of Stump’s face. “Of course I’ve got the fucking money.”

  Stump sighed again, as though the world, and everybody in it, was a perpetual disappointment to her. “You really ought to try and relax a little more, Mr Mills. All this tension will do your health no good at all.”

  “Not good for your old tickerpumper, now, is it, Mrs Stump?”

  Corpse sounded as though he was talking with his mouth full of food. When Tom looked at him, he realised that was because he was sucking on the finger he had just been stuffing up his nose.

  He turned back to Stump, and said, “Thanks for the medical check-up, I’ll bear it in mind. Now, take your money, and do me the favour of fucking off out of my sight.”

  Stump licked her top lip again and smiled. Her teeth were crooked and brown.

  “Delighted to Mr Mills,” she said, and took the roll of notes. “I do hope we can be of service again.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll ring you on the batphone when I need you.”

  Corpse laughed, and the loud braying turned several people’s heads as they walked past.

  “You’re veryvery funsilly, aren’t you, Mr Mills, I like you now,” he said.

  Tom picked up the holdall and scowled at Corpse.

  As he walked back into the service station, and over the bridge, all he could think of was how much he hated dealing with Stump and Corpse. They both gave him a serious case of the chills. Especially Stump.

  Tom had the feeling that one day, Stump would simply decide she’d had enough of Tom Mills.

  And when that happened, Tom knew he would find out that the rumours were true, after all.

  the narrowboat

  Abel Mortenson lay on his back on the blood-drenched carpet. It had been a nice carpet, not so long ago. Clean. Soft to the touch. Patterned in shades of beige. A nice, ordinary, middle-class carpet.

  Just like the nice, ordinary, middle-class couple who owned it.

  Now it was dark red, and sticky, and the tiny cabin was filled with the coppery smell of freshly spilt blood. Lying here, in the warm blood, with it smeared over his naked body, enjoying the gentle motion of the narrowboat rocking on the canal water, Abel felt at peace for the first time in weeks, if not months.

  Trapped in that house for so long, drinking cold, purified blood from plastic bags, had almost been enough to send Abel over the edge. His skin had crawled and itched so much at the need to prowl the night, to hunt for warm blood, that he had thought he might scratch his flesh off his bones. But they’d had to stay hidden, for a while at least. They had needed to wait until the Father was strong enough, when they could move on, start killing again.

  Having Steffanie there at the house with him had helped, had been an entertainment.

  When Abel had first found her, led to her by that fool, Tom, he had known instinctively that he had found a true companion. That night, in the home she shared with that brute, Coffin, he had invaded her body and mind. And, unlike so many others before her, she had given herself to him willingly, with complete abandonment. Abel remembered her, lying on the carpet, her neck arched back, the beautiful flesh taut, waiting for him to sink his teeth into her, the pulse throbbing just beneath the skin, teasing him. He ripped through her fragile flesh, her hot, scarlet blood pulsing into his mouth. She tried to scream, but he clamped his hand over her mouth, and her body stiffened beneath him, her hands clawing at his back, in pleasure or pain, he could not tell.

  A pity the boy had found them. Tom had told him to kill Steffanie and leave the boy. But the taste of hot blood had driven him wild with a need for more blood, more tender flesh to sink his teeth into. Tom should have done his own dirty work, but Abel knew his kind. He was weak. Tom had wanted Steffanie dead, but couldn’t do it himself. His sort never could.

  Abel knew she would come back. Not all of them did. Some remained in the grave, others returned too soon, like that boy, left to stumble around like sleepwalkers, aware of the desperate hunger for blood, but unable to function any more than a zombie would. The boy only had a day or two left at the most, and then he would be dead. The malformed ones, they all died, eventually.

  But the Steffanie woman, she was different. Abel could almost believe she had been waiting for that moment when he bit her, all her life. That she had been ready to be a vampire, that the calling came as no surprise. She was just like him. The pleasures of the flesh were all that mattered.

  A yearning ache stirred deep within Abel. Thinking of Steffanie, of her body, coiled around him like a snake, of her cunt, sweet with blood, opening up for him, the vampire desired her flesh.

  Abel rolled on his side. The hair at the back of his head was matted with blood and bone fragments, from when Coffin had smashed his head against the wall. But his skull, and his face, and the wounds on his neck, were all steadily healing. He always healed, given time, and enough blood. Always grew back to full strength.

  He gazed at the old woman’s body, stuffed beneath the narrowboat cabin’s bench. Her eyes, glazed over in death, gazed back at him from her slack face, a pool of blood beneath her head. She had been useful for satiating his lust before he killed her. She had tried to scream, her old woman’s voice harsh and shrill, hurting his ears. But stuffing that oily rag in her mo
uth had stopped her.

  And letting her husband live long enough to watch, as Abel fucked his wife, had intensified his pleasure.

  But still he wasn’t satisfied. The need was on him, his flesh crawling and itching, an army of ants teeming through his body.

  Abel reached under the seat and dragged the old woman’s body out to the middle of the cabin.

  One more time, and then maybe he would dispose of the bodies.

  * * *

  When Joe Coffin arrived at Angels, it was buzzing. The girls were up on stage, doing their thing, that thing that drove men out of their heads with naked lust.

  Why torture yourself, Coffin always thought. All that flesh on display, as toned and alluring as it might be, it was just eye candy. If Coffin couldn’t have a piece, he wasn’t interested. The single time it had been different had been back when Angels was Angellicit, and being run by Terry Wu. Coffin had decided to stay for a drink, that was all. Something to take the edge off the shitty way he felt after taking protection money from the families that ran the newsagents, and the tiny grocery stores and halal butchers.

  He’d also taken money off Terry Wu, but that didn’t bother him in the slightest.

  But then he had seen Steffanie, and she moved like nobody else he had ever seen. She had an exquisite, hypnotic litheness about her, as though she was half cat. And, unlike the other girls, she danced like she was dancing for herself, not the sexually frustrated knuckle heads, with their mouths hanging open and their eyelids at half-mast.

  For a little while, Coffin forgot about everything.

  After she had finished work, he bought her a drink, and they got talking. It soon became clear to Coffin that she wasn’t typical of the dancers in the clubs. She was smart, for starters. And she knew her own mind, would not take any shit off anybody.

  Unlike the other dancers, this wasn’t something she was doing while she waited for a better job offer to come along, or for the right bloke to sweep her off her feet and marry her, so she could spend the rest of her life cooking, washing, cleaning and letting her man fuck her whenever he wasn’t getting enough of it elsewhere.

  Steffanie knew what she was doing. She had made a conscious decision to become a pole dancer, had trained for it, had pursued it as though she was working towards becoming a doctor, or climbing Everest.

  And when she got bored with pole dancing, she would move on, do whatever else took her fancy at that moment.

  Looking at the girls on the stage now, wearing only silver, sparkly panties, and shimmying up and down the poles like they were making love to them, Coffin was aware of a dull ache in his chest, a sense of keen loss. Steffanie and Michael had been his life. He would have done anything for them, given anything.

  If not for that idiot who’d come on to Steffanie that night in the pub, maybe none of this would have happened. A few of the guys, they’d been out with their wives and girlfriends. They had naturally split into two groups, men and women, and it had been late in the evening, when one of the men nudged Coffin, pointing across the crowded bar.

  “Looks like some gorilla’s trying to hit on your wife, Joe.”

  Coffin turned and stared. Some square-jawed, athletic type in a muscle T-shirt had sidled up to Steffanie, showing off his perfect white teeth, and cooing in her ear. The other women, they’d left them, were standing in a separate group, giggling and whispering, casting nervous glances at Steffanie.

  Coffin walked over, pushing through the crowded pub, all the while working on keeping his cool.

  He’d explain to muscle man who he was, that Steffanie was his wife. Muscle man would understand, apologise, and leave.

  Hell, Coffin wasn’t even that bothered about an apology. The guy just needed to walk away.

  But he hadn’t walked away, had he? Muscle man had to live up to the signals he was sending out. I’m a tough guy. I can handle this.

  Just like the crowd in Angels tonight.

  The girls on stage, and the girls serving the drinks, were the only female element to the club. The crowd was all men, some of them still suited up from their day at work. Ties had been discarded, jackets slung over the backs of chairs. Lots of back slapping and hearty handshakes, big shit-eating grins on their faces, and loud laughter, all signifying, I’m the man here, I work hard and I play hard, and you’d better be on my side, cos you don’t want me as your enemy.

  But Coffin had learnt a long time ago, that all you had to do was look in their eyes. This was one of the few things Coffin’s father had told him that had been worth listening to and remembering. His father’s gym had been a place where men liked to strut and pose, jostle for position to be top dog. They would preen in front of the mirrors, talk the talk, and show off their muscles.

  But Jim Coffin didn’t even have to wait to see who could bench-press the heaviest weights, or who could do the most squat thrusts. He looked into the eyes of a newcomer to the gym, and he knew right away whether he had a poser on his hands, or if he was the real deal.

  “The eyes, they don’t lie to you, Joe,” he once said, in a rare moment of bonding between father and son. “Some big bastard can tell you all sorts of shit, have you eating out of his hand, believing all the crap about where he’s been and what he’s done, but not if you’re looking into his eyes. Keep eye contact, Joe, and they can’t lie to you.”

  Jim Coffin had been drunk when he gave Joe that nugget of wisdom. Perhaps he’d been trying to make amends for all the crap he’d put Joe through, trying to build a bond between father and son.

  Or maybe he was just scared, because his son was piling on the muscle at that point, transforming from a gangly, skinny teenager into a huge, powerhouse of a man.

  The bonding session failed.

  Two weeks later, Coffin bludgeoned his father’s skull in with a 20kg dumbbell.

  “Hey, Joe, it’s good to see you.”

  Addison Lightfoot grasped Coffin’s hand and shook. Addison was the manager of Angels, brought in by Craggs as the only man he could trust to turn the ailing club’s fortunes around. He had an infectious grin, and a way of charming everyone who entered the club.

  Coffin leaned down and slapped Addison on the back. “Hey, Addison, it’s good to see you, too.”

  “I heard you got the sick bastard who murdered Steffanie and Michael,” Addison said, his mouth close to Coffin’s ear.

  “Yeah,” Coffin said.

  “That’s good, Joe. Steffanie and little Michael, they were like family to me, I’d do anything to have them back.”

  “Yeah, thanks, Addison,” Coffin said.

  Addison stepped back and looked up at Coffin. “Everything’s on the house for you, Joe. Everything. Don’t even think about insulting me by trying to pay for something, all right?”

  “All right, thanks,” Coffin said. “I’m here to see Mort. Is he around?”

  “I’ll go get him for you,” Addison said.

  Coffin grabbed a table in a corner. He didn’t have a particularly good view of the stage but, more importantly, he had a good view of the club, and anybody who might approach him. Coffin didn’t like surprises.

  Addison Lightfoot was true to his word and quickly delivered a drink and a bowl of almonds and pistachio nuts to his table. Coffin ignored the snack bowl and sank his beer instead.

  A few moments later and Coffin saw Mortimer Craggs heading towards him. The old man looked strong and in control as he strode through his club. He might be in his eighties now, but no one would be foolish enough to mess with him.

  “Joe, how are you?” Craggs said, taking Joe’s hand and pumping it up and down. He pointed at Coffin’s face. “You here to see Doc Shaddock again?”

  “Nah, I’m okay.”

  “Someone change some of those dressings for you?” Craggs said. “You’ve not been to hospital, have you, Joe?”

  A girl appeared, put a glass of whisky and ice on the table, with a white, folded napkin. The cut crystal whisky glass looked heavy enough you could use it in a figh
t, knock someone out.

  “Don’t worry, Mort, I haven’t been anywhere,” Coffin said. “A concerned citizen noticed my dressings were soaked through, offered to change them.”

  Mort sipped at his whisky, raised an eyebrow.

  Coffin explained about his trip to the Birmingham Herald to see Emma Wylde.

  “Seems risky to me, Joe,” Craggs said. “You should be keeping a low profile, especially after taking out those two kids yesterday. One single fuck up, and the police are going to be on you like a ton of bricks.”

  Coffin regarded his empty beer glass, couldn’t remember finishing it. A girl appeared with another drink, placed it in front of Coffin, took his empty glass.

  “Yeah, I know. It’s just, I’ve got too many unanswered questions, Mort.”

  Craggs leaned forward. “What the fuck are you talking about, Joe? You got the sick bastard who murdered Steffanie and Michael, that’s all that matters, right? What the hell else do you need to know? Wait for the papers to write it up, by the time they’ve finished you’ll know everything, including the fucker’s inside leg measurements, and how high his balls rode.”

  Coffin allowed himself a tiny smile. “I think I already know the answer to that one, Mort. The thing is, we don’t know why he was keeping Jacob alive. Him and Peter Marsden, breaking into that house for a look around, yeah, I can see that, we all did it as kids. Jacob was just unfortunate that he broke in when that sick bastard was hiding out there. But why did he keep him alive? And did you see Peter? The poor kid’s throat was split wide open, but he could still wander around. And he tried to eat me!”

  Craggs took another sip of his whisky. “I don’t know, Joe, you’re right, there’s plenty we don’t know. But let the coppers deal with it. You’re not a detective, it’s not your job. You’ve got to let Steffanie and Michael go, get on with your life. It’s what they’d want.”

  Coffin drained his glass and sighed.

  “I don’t mean to be hard on you, Joe. You know how I feel about you, you’re like a fucking son to me. And Steffanie and Michael, they were family too. When I heard about what had happened to them, I wanted to go out and find the murdering bastard and blow his head off. And I would have done it too, but I knew that wasn’t the right thing to do. You had to be the one to execute the sick fucker, and that’s what you did, Joe. You’ve got to let it go.”