Joe Coffin Season One

by Ken Preston

  Nick popped his head out of the kitchen doorway.

  “There you are! I was beginning to…whoa! What the hell happened to you?”

  “What?” Emma said, confused. Had she injured herself in the collision and not realised? She remembered taking a tumble at the service station when Tom clipped her side in the Mercedes, and her left thigh was still protesting about that, but she didn’t recall taking any other injuries.

  And then she remembered head butting that psychopath at 99 Forde Road.

  “The bruises all around your eyes, and over your forehead, what the hell happened, Emma?”

  “Oh that, I feel so stupid. I walked into a fucking lamppost, can you believe it?”

  Nick held her by her shoulders, tilted his head down, examining her. “You walked into a lamppost? Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, of course I’m fucking serious. I was walking along, when I heard a car horn blaring behind me, sounded like there might be an accident. I turned my head to look, but kept walking. Just as I turned my head back, wham! I face planted a lamppost.”

  Nick smoothed a few stray hairs off her face, kept looking at her, like he knew she was lying, but couldn’t decide if he should ask more questions, or take the easier option, and pretend that he believed her.

  “All right,” he said, finally. “Have you put any ice on that, taken anything for it?”

  Emma nodded. “I’ve been popping paracetamol. It’s fine, really.” Then she noticed the dark shadows under Nick’s eyes, the stubble, his mussed hair. “Hey, have you been to bed, yet? You must be exhausted.”

  “I’ve felt a tad more alert than I do right now, it’s true,” he said, and smiled.

  “You catch the bad guy, yet?”

  Nick shook his head. “It’s like he’s disappeared off the face of the earth. But we’ll catch him.”

  Nick noticed the pile of books dumped on the coffee table. He squatted down and started picking them up, reading the titles out loud, one by one. “A History of Vampire Mythology, Tales of the Vampyre, Nosferatu, Hidden Subtexts: A Film Analysis, Dracula, Interview with the Vampire, True Tales of Modern Day Vampyrism.” He looked up. “Emma, what the hell?”

  Emma shrugged. “I’ve run out of books, needed some bedtime reading, that’s all.”

  Nick stood up, his face tight with anger. “You’ve been out looking for him, haven’t you? When I specifically told you to stay at home today!”

  “I’ve been at work, Nick!”

  “Don’t lie to me, Emma!” Nick jabbed his index finger in front of Emma’s face, a habit he had when angry, or if he felt he wasn’t being taken seriously enough. Emma hated it when he did that, wanted to lunge forward and snap her teeth around his finger.

  “I’m not lying!” she shouted.

  “Is that right?” Nick said. “So, Emma, where’s your car?”

  Emma sighed. “I had an accident. I was waiting at traffic lights, when this idiot in front of me decided he should be in the lane for turning right, so he reversed to give himself room to switch lanes, and backed right into me.”

  “Must have been quite a collision.”

  “What?”

  “I saw you walking from your hire car to the front door. You’re limping.”

  Anger flared up in Emma’s chest. “Are you fucking spying on me? I pulled a muscle while I was training, this morning, okay? You satisfied now, or is there anything else you’d like to interrogate me over? Maybe you could take me down to the station and read me my rights while you’re at it.”

  “Oh yeah, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? Give you something to write up for that shitty newspaper you work for!”

  “Shitty newspaper?”

  “That’s right, all this crap about the Birmingham Vampire, you’re just feeding this psychopath’s delusions, goading him on to commit more murders.”

  “Oh, so now it’s my fault all these people are dead, is it? It’s got nothing to do with the fact that the police are a bunch of corrupt, incompetent wank stains!”

  Nick raised his hands in the air, like he had finally given up on Emma, after years of promising himself he wouldn’t. “Oh, you’re something else, you are. You’re really something else.”

  He stalked past her, shaking his head, and slammed the door behind him in the study.

  “Fuck!” Emma hissed.

  She flung herself on the sofa and closed her eyes, resting her head against a cushion.

  Why did this always happen? Was she really such a cold-hearted bitch? Was it Emma’s fault they always ended up arguing? Maybe she wasn’t cut out for a normal relationship. Nick deserved better than Emma.

  Sighing, she opened her eyes and regarded the pile of books on the coffee table, wondering what on earth had possessed her to buy them all. Then she leaned forward, picked up Dracula, and opened it up.

  She started reading.

  * * *

  Coffin swallowed the whisky in one go, thumped the tumbler back down on the table.

  “Pour him another one, Velvina, he needs it,” Craggs said.

  Velvina poured more whisky into Coffin’s glass, looked at him, eyebrows raised, saying, is that enough?

  Coffin snatched the bottle off her, slammed it on the table beside his glass. “Just leave it here.”

  Craggs raised a hand, a fat cigar jammed between his index and middle fingers, and lazily waved it at her, dismissing her. “Go on, get out now. And send Doc Shaddock straight up when he gets here, all right?”

  Velvina stuck a finger in between her glossy, red lips, and pouted. Made out like she was about to cry, make a big fuss, but then thought better of it, and turned on her heel and sashayed out of Craggs’ office like she was on the catwalk in Paris.

  “What a fucking mess,” Craggs said. “Not only have we got to deal with this fucking psycho again, but now this shit with Tom, too?”

  “I told you he was involved, somehow,” Coffin growled.

  “You fucking told me you’d killed that sick bastard who held Jacob a prisoner.”

  “I did kill him,” Coffin said. “I smashed his skull in and damn near cut his head off. Next time I find him, I’ll bring him here and we can kill him together if you don’t think I’m up to the job.”

  Craggs sat down. “All right, Joe, I didn’t mean anything by it, you know that. I’m just all wound up, that’s all. I don’t understand what’s got into Tom, what his involvement in all of this is.”

  “No, the next time I see him I’m not letting him go again. Him or his two friends hiding in the back seat.”

  Coffin looked at the sheet, lying on the leather settee where he had thrown it when he entered Craggs’ office. After leaving Emma by the side of the motorway, waiting for a tow truck, Coffin had walked across the fields until he got back to the service station. From there, he had called a taxi to take him into the city centre.

  And he had held onto the sheet the whole way.

  Coffin wasn’t completely ready to accept Emma’s theory about Tom’s two mystery companions being vampires. He didn’t think Emma fully believed it, either. But given what had happened over the last three days, and what he had seen, Coffin wasn’t quite ready to dismiss it as total bollocks, either.

  The door opened, the steady thump of the club’s music growing louder. “Fuck me, Mort, didn’t I just sew this bastard up yesterday?”

  Shaddock stood in the open doorway, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and holding his large, black leather case in his right hand.

  “And you’ll sew him up again, tomorrow, if you have to,” Craggs snarled. “Isn’t that what I pay you for?”

  Shaddock slammed the door shut and sauntered over to Coffin. He dropped his case on the coffee table, and examined Coffin through one open eye, the other one closed against the cigarette smoke spiralling up to it.

  “What the fuck happened to you?” he said, eventually.

  “Someone tried to run me over,” Coffin said.

  “Yeah? Did you know the cops have been sni
ffing around outside, asking after you, Joe?”

  “What the fuck for?” Craggs growled.

  “Something about some poor bastard getting his face pulverised against his car at Hilton Park services. Seems you were spotted at the scene.”

  “Fucking coppers.” Craggs said. “Where are they now?”

  “That black bitch of yours, thinks he’s a qualified fucking doctor, he sent them away.”

  “You got a bad fucking attitude, Shaddock.”

  Shaddock grinned at Craggs. “That’s right, I’m, a miserable old fuck, aren’t I? But who the hell else are you going to get to put your boys back together?”

  Shaddock looked at Coffin again, examining his bruises and dressings stained with blood, with a wry amusement.

  “You ever think, maybe it’s time you quit the business, Joe?” he said. “You could stay at home, write up your fucking memoirs.”

  “That’s a great idea doc, I’ll think about it,” Coffin replied. “In the meantime, some of these wounds have opened up again, and I’d appreciate it if you could sew me back up.”

  “Sure, Joe, sure.” Shaddock looked at Craggs. “Fuck, Mort, what’s a fella gotta fucking do around here to get a shot of fucking whisky?”

  Craggs scowled at Shaddock and then got him a glass from the cabinet. Back at the coffee table he poured three generous shots of whisky. Coffin downed his in one again, and then sat back and closed his eyes, waiting for the sting of the needle.

  Whatever Tom was up to, Coffin was reasonably sure he wouldn’t have gone far.

  Not far enough to escape Joe Coffin, anyway.

  the bat

  Despite his tiredness, the excitement of the hunt coursed through Abel Mortenson’s body. But tonight, he wasn’t hunting for a meal of fresh, warm blood. He was looking for one of his own kind.

  The rain had stopped falling, but Abel still wore the parka, with the hood pulled up. It was cold out, and the streets were relatively empty, and Abel felt confident he would hardly be noticed. He moved quickly, and with confidence, even through the darker parts of town, where there was less street lighting. Abel’s vision was as good at night-time as during the day. Better even, as daylight hurt his eyes.

  Abel arrived at the graveyard, a bulging plastic carrier bag in one hand, and weaved his way between the headstones, until he found the graves he was looking for. He squatted down in front of the little boy’s grave.

  It surprised him the grave looked undisturbed. Abel was convinced that Steffanie’s son must have been responsible for the death of the homeless man. The site of his killing being so close to the graveyard had only confirmed Abel’s suspicions that the boy had come to life in his coffin and dug his way out with a fury that would have been fascinating to see.

  Abel had expected to find an open grave, sharp lengths of splintered coffin scattered over the grass, along with mounds of soil. But no, the grave looked as it had when Abel had dug Steffanie out of her tomb, and birthed her into her new life.

  Except, now he looked closer, Abel could see there was a shallow indentation in the soil, and there were lumps of black soil ground into the grass.

  The boy had dug himself out, but then somebody had come along and refilled the grave.

  Abel stood up, cast his gaze around his surroundings. Wherever he was, the young creature would surely still be nearby. He would be scared, uncertain of this new world, and his new craving for blood. And his natural instinct would be to hide.

  Abel searched the graveyard, the church towering over him, a black monolith against the dark night sky. Gravel crunched under his feet, sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet night. A bat swooped past him.

  The church and its graveyard were situated on a small hill, the front of the church overlooking the rows of houses and shops. To the rear of the church, separated from the graveyard by a low wall, was parkland. During the day it was popular with dog walkers, runners, mothers with little children and babies. At night, it sometimes became a refuge for the homeless, especially recently, as more of the homeless shelters were closing, because of lack of funds.

  And it was just over this wall, on a park bench, that the little boy had enjoyed his first kill. Flapping in the breeze, yellow scenes of crime tape still surrounded the spot where the man’s butchered remains had been found. But the bench was no longer there.

  Abel had been right, the boy was somewhere nearby, not venturing far until he became accustomed to his new way of life. And how long had it been since that last kill? Almost forty-eight hours now. The boy would be hungry, desperate for hot, sweet blood.

  The heavy carrier bag swinging beside him, Abel walked around the church, as another bat swooped past him. He tracked its flight across the graveyard, flying low over the headstones and then up, where it disappeared into a ruined building right in the furthest corner of the graveyard.

  Abel followed the bat’s path. The ruin looked even older than the church, the stonework worn away by the elements, some of it so smooth it looked almost polished. Most of the roof had collapsed, but there was a section at the back remaining. The roof there was faded and weatherbeaten, but looked younger than the rest of the building. An attempt many years ago, to restore it, perhaps, but then abandoned.

  Abel stepped inside, walking deeper into the chapel. His eyes penetrated the gloom in the rafters above him, searching for any sign of movement.

  He stopped and smiled. “There you are.”

  A tiny figure, hunched in an alcove in the wall, hidden by the latticework of wooden beams and shadows. It stared down at Abel, not moving, its posture signalling its wariness of this intruder.

  “You must be hungry,” Abel whispered. “Look, I’ve brought you food. It’s not warm, I’m afraid, nor is it very fresh, but it’s blood.”

  He reached into the carrier bag and pulled Marge’s head out, lifting it by its grey, matted hair. He held it up for the boy to see. The head’s mouth hung open, the skin slack and blackening in patches. A glob of congealed blood fell from the severed neck and hit the stone floor with a wet splat.

  The boy leapt from his hiding place and swung from a rafter. He landed against the wall and scurried down it headfirst like a giant, malignant spider. On the stone floor it snatched the head from Abel’s hand and sucked eagerly at the severed neck.

  Abel reached out and ruffled the boy’s dirty hair. “There, doesn’t that taste good?”

  The boy stopped sucking on the head, and gazed up at Abel with big, round eyes.

  “Daddy,” it said.

  EPISODE THREE

  terry wu

  Terry Wu sat at his computer, tapping one fingered at the keys on his keyboard. His face was all screwed up, and he took his time searching for each particular key that he needed to depress. The act of writing looked like it might be hard work for him at the best of times. The tip of his tongue was sticking out from between his swollen, baby’s lips. His face looked like a round balloon sitting on top of a round balloon body, and his tiny eyes were hidden inside the rolls of fat in that face. He had short, black hair, back combed and held in place with wax, or gel. He was dressed in a white shirt, the collar open, and a clip-on bow tie hanging askew from his neck.

  His office was large, the walls covered with framed movie posters, a haphazard mixture of Chinese and Japanese fantasy and action movies, and Hong Kong gangster films: Hard Boiled, A Better Tomorrow, Infernal Affairs, Mob Sister.

  In pride of place was a Samurai sword in an open presentation case. The sword had an inscription on it.

  Terry Wu finally finished typing. He sat back in his chair and giggled. Whatever he had been working on, he was obviously very pleased with himself and the finished result. He picked up a bottle and swigged straight from it. The label said it was Tsingtao Beer.

  When he took the bottle away from those pudgy lips, he had a dribble of spit glistening on his chin. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He was still looking at the computer monitor, smiling. Almost as though he knew he was
being filmed and was proud of the way he looked.

  Steffanie Coffin walked up behind Terry Wu and bent down. He raised his face to hers, and she kissed him on those fat lips.

  “I should go outside and start dancing,” she said.

  Terry Wu’s smile faded.

  “Aw, come on, baby,” he said. He sounded like he was trying to act tough, like one of those gangsters in the films he obviously loved so much. He just sounded pathetic. He looked down at his groin. “Little Terry Wu is going to get jealous, you dancing for all those men with hardly any clothes on.”

  “But dancing without clothes is what you pay me for.”

  “I could pay you extra tonight, baby, just dancing for me,” he said.

  “Without any clothes on?”

  “Oh, definitely,” Terry Wu murmured, and giggled. He kissed Steffanie again. A long, lingering kiss.

  Steffanie stood up straight, ruffled his perfectly gelled hair. Ran a finger down his fat, smooth cheek. Terry Wu turned his head, and her finger slipped inside his mouth. He sucked on it, closing his eyes, going “Mm, mmm,” as though he was eating the most gorgeous slice of cake he had ever set eyes on.

  “You’re such a naughty boy, Terry,” she whispered, throwing her head back, letting out a little gasp, like she was having an orgasm whilst Terry sucked on her finger.

  She slipped her finger from his mouth, her red nail varnish glistening with his spit, and bent down and kissed him passionately. Terry Wu grabbed her hand and stuffed it against his groin, rubbing it up and down.

  Steffanie pulled free and stepped back. Terry Wu swung around on his high-backed swivel chair.

  “Aw, baby! I was just getting warmed up!”

  Steffanie gave him a sly little smile, gazed at him from hooded eyes. “You’ve got me hot all over, Terry. I want to strip off and do that dance for you right now. A special little dirty dance, I’ve been saving just for you.”

  Terry Wu grunted, jumping up and down in his chair. “Is it really dirty?”