Joe Coffin Season One

by Ken Preston

  “Listen to me,” Tom said. “Coffin and that reporter, Emma Wylde, they were both at the hospital, looking for me. It turns out Coffin didn’t kill your fucking boyfriend after all. He slaughtered two coppers at the scene, and now he’s done a disappearing act. My guess is, Coffin’s pissed off big time, and he’s had a think about my story and decided I’m full of shit.”

  “Shush, you’re all worked up,” Steffanie whispered, a sly smile playing on her lips. “Calm down, it will all be fine.”

  “Calm down!” Tom said, his voice pitched so high it was almost a squeak. “Are you fucking serious? I should fucking leave you two right now, while I can still use my fucking legs.”

  “So, the deal’s off?” Steffanie murmured.

  “Deal? The deal has never fucking been on! I’m like the fucking milkman, delivering your blood to your doorstep every day. But what have I got out of this mess so far? A fucking shitpile of grief, that’s all.”

  Steffanie draped her arms over Tom’s shoulders, her face only inches from his. She emanated waves of cold, like a block of ice, and her breath smelt of death and decay.

  And yet, she was beautiful. She was wearing a white, extra-large T-shirt, and nothing else. Her dark eyes glowed with a cold flame, exciting him with a dreadful, base lust. He wanted to push her away, yet he wanted to pull her to him, her cold flesh against his. Her lips against his lips. He wanted to run his tongue over her teeth, run his hands through her long, red hair.

  He wanted to escape, get as far away as he could. End this nightmare forever.

  “We need to get out of here, find somewhere else to hide out,” Tom said, his voice trembling. “We need to hide out, until, oh fuck, I don’t know, until your boyfriend takes Coffin out for good.”

  “But I’m so bored with running and hiding,” Steffanie moaned. “Can’t we have a little fun, first?”

  “Are you fucking crazy?”

  Steffanie ran a hand down his back, traced a finger around his waist, found his cock, already uncomfortably stiff, straining against the fabric of his pants.

  Why the fuck was it always like this? It seemed to Tom that he was like a dog, a pitiful fucking mongrel, and that all his life he’d just been lapping up Joe Coffin’s scraps. Ever since from when they were snot-nosed kids at school, he’d trail around after Coffin, trying to be his friend. Tom Mills and Joe Coffin had both been the awkward kids at school, the ones nobody wanted to be seen with. But that never seemed to bother Coffin as much as it did Tom.

  And then when Coffin started piling on the muscle, started getting really big, and got his own back on the bullies who’d given him grief over the years, things soon changed. Everyone wanted to be Coffin’s friend then. And still Tom trailed around after him, trying to be part of his gang.

  Steffanie brushed her lips over his, her tongue found his tongue, her sickly sweet breath in his mouth. Tom’s hands ran through Steffanie’s long, tousled hair as she kissed him, excitement and revulsion twisting together in his stomach, like two snakes.

  All these years later, Tom was still trying to be part of Joe Coffin’s gang, trying to fit in with the Slaughterhouse Mob, trying to get Craggs to see his potential, if he could just stop looking at Joe Coffin like he was his long-lost son.

  Tom was still having Joe Coffin’s cast offs.

  Like Laura. Tom had always fancied Laura at school, had a fucking hard on for her as long as he could remember. But she married Joe Coffin. And it wasn’t until they divorced that Tom got what he wanted. But by then, Laura was a fucking waste of space.

  Joe Coffin’s scraps.

  And now here it was, happening again. He knew what Steffanie was doing. It scared her he might run, leave her and the corpse in the hotel room. And she’d always known he fancied her. Tom had seen the looks she gave him sometimes, back at the club. She had always been a sly bitch, but that wouldn’t have stopped him fucking her if she offered herself up to him.

  That’s what she was doing now. Offering herself up, bribing him with her body to stay and help.

  But if she could remember that much about her life before she died, maybe she could remember where that USB stick was, after all. In which case, it was worth sticking around for a while yet.

  “Where’s the USB stick, Steffanie?” Tom whispered, as Steffanie pulled back, gazing up at him through her tousled hair.

  “I don’t know,” she murmured.

  Tom swallowed. Tried to even out his breaths, coming in short, sharp gasps, his heart pounding like he had just run a marathon.

  “The USB stick, you remember?”

  She unzipped his trousers, slipped her hand inside.

  “The one with—”

  He gasped as she massaged him. Her touch was cold, but that only seemed to excite him even more.

  “The one with…” he croaked. Took a deep breath, tried again. “…the one with the video footage of Coffin shooting Terry Wu.”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered, her cold, lifeless lips caressing his neck.

  “Yes, you do,” Tom moaned. “Did you give it to that reporter? Or…or is it…still hidden somewhere?”

  Tom staggered, his back suddenly against the wall, supporting him.

  Steffanie sank slowly to her knees, her hand running down his torso. Her lips slid over his cock, her tongue caressing it. And her touch was cold, so cold, like the grave.

  Tom screwed his eyes shut, ground his teeth together. He tried locking his knees into place, not sure his trembling legs could support him for long. He reached out blindly, grabbed a shelf for support. He let out an anguished groan when he came, gripping the shelf so hard he thought it might splinter between his fingers.

  As the excitement drained from his body, a wave of revulsion washed over him. He jammed his fist against his mouth, and bit down on a knuckle, splitting the skin and drawing blood.

  Steffanie stood up.

  Licked her lips, that sly look on her face again.

  “There, now, don’t you feel better?”

  Tom nodded, mutely.

  In reality, he was completely overcome with self-loathing.

  * * *

  The Ford Fiesta circled around the service station car park, Emma looking out of her side window, Coffin out of his.

  “You sure he came in here?” Emma said.

  “I can’t think where else he could have got off the motorway,” Coffin replied. “We had him in sight until after we passed the last junction, and then we only lost sight of him a few seconds before we passed the exit for this place. Even in this tub of shit you call a car, we should have caught up with him again.”

  “Hey, I happen to love this little car of mine,” Emma said, turning to face Coffin. “Just because you’re so freakishly big you look like tuna packed in a can, doesn’t give you the right to insult my car.”

  “Aww, did I upset you?” Coffin looked at Emma, his expression one of mock sorrow. “I bet you gave your car a name, didn’t you?”

  Emma groaned, turned away, looked out of her driver’s side window.

  “Let’s see. Princess? Peaches? Sparkle?”

  “Fuck you, Coffin.”

  Coffin chuckled, looked out of his passenger window at the rows and rows of cars parked up. “Car park’s pretty full. Is that usual? I mean, what time is it? Seven-thirty? Eight?”

  “What, do I look like I spend my days and nights hanging around motorway service stations, gathering data on car park usage?” Emma snapped.

  “You’re not really a morning person, are you?” Coffin said.

  “Maybe it’s the fucking company I keep,” Emma muttered.

  “Let’s swing around the back, where the petrol station is, and where the HGVs park up. If Tom is here, he won’t want to be advertising the fact.”

  Emma left the car park and turned onto the exit lane. She swung a right into the petrol station. They had a good view of the service station’s service area from here, the skips overflowing with rubbish, black bags, and cardboard boxes stacke
d up beside them. Some of the bags had split, and plastic wrapping and food containers spilled across the ground. Emma thought she saw a rat scurrying between two mounds of bags.

  “Disgusting,” she said.

  “There’s Tom’s car, look.” Coffin pointed to a recessed area, just past the mound of rubbish. Parked inside, partially hidden by the towering black bin liners and cardboard boxes, was Tom’s Vauxhall Astra.

  They parked up behind Tom’s car, blocking it in.

  Emma got out of the Fiesta and walked around to the opposite side, stood and watched Coffin unfolding himself from the passenger seat.

  “Need any help there, big guy?” she said.

  Coffin heaved himself out and slammed the door shut. “If we’re going to do this again, you’re going to have to get a bigger car.”

  “Fat chance,” Emma said, and walked off, headed for the front of the service station.

  “What, that you’ll buy a bigger car, or that we’ll do this again?” Coffin called after her.

  “Both!” Emma shouted.

  Coffin rotated his head, loosening his neck. It cracked a couple of times, and he rolled his shoulders, easing out the tension, and walked after Emma.

  The service station was busy, men and women in suits queueing for coffee, families buying breakfast, teenagers huddled around the video game machines. Coffin had been in a couple of motorway stops over the years, but hated all the noise, the bustle of the crowds, and the expensive food and drink.

  He scanned the building, his eyes roaming across the different branded service counters. You could get value burger meals, your choice from a whole range of coffees, a pizza, extra-large chocolate cookies, even a beer.

  What the hell was that all about? A bar at a motorway service station?

  Sometimes, Coffin wondered what was happening with the world. Did nobody have any common sense anymore?

  He watched Emma, wandering around the tables, head turning this way and that as she searched the building. She was a cool customer all right. Coffin headed for the male toilets. The lines of urinals were almost all occupied, the men standing side by side, studying the posters at head height, advertising car insurance, radio stations, and offering help with erectile dysfunction.

  Coffin drew a few curious glances as he walked up and down, searching for Tom. Nobody challenged him.

  Why had Tom pulled off the motorway so soon after getting on? Was he desperate for a piss? Perhaps he’d run out of cigarettes. Or maybe he had a sudden craving for a vanilla latte.

  Or maybe he was meeting somebody here?

  Coffin hung around until he had checked all the cubicles, waiting until all the occupied ones had been opened up, their occupants hitching up trousers and tucking in shirts as they left. One man walked out of a cubicle and straight out of the toilets without washing his hands. Coffin shook his head in disgust.

  Back outside, he met up with Emma.

  “No luck, huh?” she said.

  “Nope.”

  “He’s got to be here somewhere.”

  “Unless he switched cars,” Coffin said.

  “But that would mean he was expecting to be followed, that he’d prepared for this. He didn’t look very prepared earlier, when we were chasing him out of the hospital.”

  “Let’s take another look outside,” Coffin said. “Maybe he’s got a room in that Travelodge I saw.”

  * * *

  Tom zipped himself up, sank down on the bed, his legs weak and trembling. Scrubbing at his face with shaking hands, he let out a long sigh. He couldn’t think straight, his thoughts all tumbling over one another, chasing around and around, like a room full of excitable cats. It was hard to concentrate with Steffanie so close.

  She was like a fucking magnet for him. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop looking at her. Kept wrenching his gaze away from her as she prowled the room, but before he knew it he was locked onto her again, following her movements.

  Thinking how he wanted to grab her by the hair, drag her down onto her knees again. How he wanted to fuck her in the mouth. And then pull her to her feet, let her sink her sharp teeth into his neck, and suck at his blood. He imagined kissing her, tasting his blood on her lips, her tongue, as the blood pulsed out of an artery in his neck, and ran down his chest.

  Tom stood up. He couldn’t think, needed to get out, clear his head. He needed to come up with a plan, an escape route.

  “Get your stuff together,” he said, and laughed, a short, sharp, maniacal bark of a laugh. What did they have with them? A holdall of stolen blood? They weren’t exactly your typical holiday family, were they? “I’m going out, I’ll be back soon, and then we’re leaving.”

  Steffanie smiled. “Whatever you say.”

  She lay down on the bed, her long hair spread out across the pillow. His eyes followed her long, bare legs, up to her T-shirt. Those legs were fucking amazing, he’d always thought that. But she was losing her tan, looking paler. Looking less human every day.

  “Just stay put,” Tom said, opening the door and stepping out into the corridor. He slammed the door shut behind him, took a couple of deep breaths.

  Cigarettes, I’ll just get myself another pack of cigarettes, and then we’ll go. Find another fucking Travelodge to hide in.

  Tom walked down the stairs, the pastel-coloured walls and godawful paintings of dogs with doleful eyes, and little girls cuddling kittens making him want to puke.

  He arrived at the door leading to the reception and then outside, and stopped, his hand on the handle. Looking through the glass, through the fine tracery of squares designed to strengthen the window in the event of a fire, Tom was staring right at Joe Coffin.

  Coffin and Emma Wylde were standing with their back to him, as they talked to the receptionist.

  Tom continued staring at them, his mouth hanging open.

  How the fuck did they find me?

  Coffin began turning around, as though he sensed something behind him. Tom stepped to the side, out of view of the door, his back to the wall.

  Fuckfuckfuckfuck!

  He took the stairs two at a time as he ran back up to the room. Pounded on the door with his fist.

  “Steffanie! Open the fuck up, we need to get out! Coffin’s here!”

  The door opened, Steffanie gazing at him, her head tilted down, hair falling over her face. That look in her eyes, the way you’d look at something that had been useful once, but you were rapidly losing patience with. Tom pushed past her, whipped the duvet off the bed, and then the sheet.

  “Here,” he said. “You’re going to have to wrap the old bastard up in this and carry him.”

  Steffanie pouted. “Can’t you carry him?”

  “Fuck no! If I had my way, we’d leave the fucker here for the cleaners to find.”

  Tom yanked the curtains open, grey daylight filtering into the room. The sky was heavy with dark, low clouds.

  “You’re going to have to take your chance outside, in the daylight. Doesn’t look too bad. Once we’re in the car, you can cover up again.”

  Tom glanced around the room, looking for anything they didn’t want to leave behind. The en-suite door was open, and something caught Tom’s eye. He flicked a switch, the bathroom flooding with light.

  “Oh, shit,” he whispered.

  The bath, the floor, the tiles, and mirrors were all smeared with dark streaks of scarlet blood, and bloody handprints.

  “What the fuck did you do in there?”

  Steffanie smiled, looked almost bashful. “We were drinking the blood from the bags. We didn’t want to make a mess in here.”

  Tom closed his eyes. “Okay, that’s good, that’s great.” He opened his eyes again. “Let’s forget about the mess, we need to get out of here, now.”

  Tom grabbed the holdall and zipped it up. The cadaverous old creature under the duvet moaned as Steffanie uncovered it and began wrapping the sheet around it. By the time she’d finished it looked like a giant, mummified baby. Steffanie scooped i
t up easily, cradling it against her chest. She was barefoot, still bordering just on the right side of decency in nothing but the T-shirt.

  There was nothing to be done about that. Even fully clothed, she would still turn heads, draw glances from everyone she passed.

  They left the hotel room, Tom leading Steffanie away from the stairs for reception. There had to be a fire escape around the back.

  They passed a young black woman, pushing a silent vacuum cleaner in front of her, holding the plug and curled electrical cord in her other hand. She stared wide eyed at the strange-looking couple as they passed her.

  At the end of the corridor was a sign pointing right and depicting a stick man running. Tom ran down the corridor towards a door at the end, Steffanie behind him. He shoved the door open, and it smashed against the wall.

  They ran down the cold concrete steps, the sound of their feet echoing around the stairwell. Even though he weighed hardly anything, the ancient old man slowed Steffanie down. Tom had to keep stopping, and waiting for her, hopping from foot to foot in his agitation, and hissing at her to hurry up.

  The stairs finished at a fire escape door. Tom pushed the bar and shoved the door open. The fire alarm wailed.

  Tom ran outside and looked back. Steffanie was standing on the threshold of the doorway, her face screwed up like she was in pain. Grabbing her by the arm, Tom dragged her outside.

  “We don’t have time to fuck around,” he hissed. “If Coffin doesn’t get us, the fucking fire brigade will probably block us in if we don’t get out of here now!”

  Steffanie let out a gasp of pain. Tom winced as he saw angry, red bruises blossoming under the skin on her legs and face and arms.

  “Come on, the car’s just around the corner, and then we can cover you up and get the hell out of here.”

  They ran across the gravel, between the sprouting weeds and scattered rubbish. Tom could hear the traffic on the motorway, just the other side of the scraggly, ugly bushes bordering the Travelodge.

  When he saw the Fiesta blocking his car in, Tom wanted to drop to his knees on the dirty ground and weep.

  “Fuck me, when am I going to get a fucking break, here?” he yelled.