by Ken Preston
Stump lifted the framed photograph off the wall and looked at it. She ran her mannequin’s hand over the glass, as though the yellowing, plastic fingers had the power of touch. Emma was amazed and appalled to see a tear form in the corner of Stump’s pudgy face and roll down her cheek.
“So sad,” she said. “What a lovely looking family. Who would have thought that Joe Coffin could have such inner beauty? Look at the love for his son, shining from that battered face of his.”
“The little sprogborn is looksing good enoughly to munchguzzle,” Corpse said.
Emma hoped he wasn’t being literal.
Stump gazed at Corpse, a look of tenderness on her face. “Mr Corpse and I would have loved a child, but it was never to be. We have had to settle for taking pleasure in other families’ children, which is some comfort, at least.”
“That’s nice,” Emma said, her stomach turning over at the thought of these two creatures taking off their clothes and having sex.
Corpse stuck his finger up his nose, shoving it up inside until half of it had disappeared, and Emma was convinced his fingertip must be scratching at his brains.
“Oh, Mr Corpse, you would have made a lovely father, I know you would,” Stump said, still gazing at her companion.
Then she tossed the photograph to one side, and the glass shattered when it hit the floor.
“Fuck!” Emma said, jumping out of the way of the glass shards.
Stump smiled. “What’s your name, young lady?”
“What the fuck’s it got to do with you?”
“I’m a concerned citizen, investigating a break in at a house.”
Corpse pulled his finger out of his nose and inspected the shining lump of green snot on his fingertip. Then he popped it in his mouth and sucked, his eyes rolling back in his head with pleasure.
“The fuck you are,” Emma said. “You see any signs of a break in? I came by to collect some stuff for Joe.”
Stump raised a bushy eyebrow. “Baby wipes?”
“Yeah, they’re good for cleaning stuff.”
Emma glanced at Corpse. He was still sucking on his finger, and there was a tiny trickle of blood from his nostril.
Stump wiped at her weeping eyes with her mannequin’s hand. “Where is Joe Coffin?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” Emma said. “I’m meeting him later, give him this stuff then.”
Stump stepped up close to Emma. She tried moving out of the way, but her back bumped up against a wall. Stump lifted her hand and ran the back of her plastic fingers down Emma’s cheek.
“Such soft, lovely skin,” she whispered. “Do you moisturise?”
“Okay, you need to get the fuck out of my face,” Emma hissed.
Stump continued stroking Emma’s cheek with her mannequin’s hand. Emma twisted her head, trying to keep away from the cold touch of the plastic. The yellow, stiff fingers stank of dried up bodily fluids.
“Such a shame if your soft, lovely face was to be sliced apart. Your beautiful flesh opened up and ripped into shreds. Are you as pretty on the inside, do you think?” She looked at Corpse, still sucking on his finger. “Go and take a look around the house. I doubt Coffin is here, but I do like to be sure of these things.”
Corpse grinned, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood dripping from his nose across his face. He walked up the stairs, his long legs taking the steps two at a time.
“Why are you looking for Coffin?” Emma said.
“I’ve been asked to deliver a message to him,” Stump whispered, her plastic fingers still running softly up and down Emma’s cheek. Her breathing had gone shallow, and her face taken on a slack appearance.
Emma tried shifting sideways, but Stump gripped her by the shoulder, pinned her against the wall. Stump was surprisingly strong, her fingers digging deep into her flesh, and Emma had to clench her teeth together to keep from crying out in pain. And those cold, mannequin fingers kept on rubbing softly against her face.
Corpse was stomping around upstairs, slamming doors open and shut. He quickly finished searching the rooms, and walked down the stairs, singing tunelessly to himself.
“No onebodies hereabouts,” he said.
“Search the downstairs,” Stump said, her voice low and guttural.
Corpse walked past them, his feet crunching over the broken glass.
Stump kept Emma pinned against the wall, stroking her plastic fingers up and down Emma’s cheek, in a slow, rhythmic movement. Stump’s eyes looked dull and unfocused. But Emma had the feeling that if she tried to make a bolt for freedom, Stump’s attention would snap back to the present moment straight away, and Emma would pay for her mistake.
“Nobodies down insidering hereabouts, neithering,” Corpse said.
Stump blinked, her eyes focusing on Emma once more. She lowered the mannequin hand and let go of Emma’s shoulder.
“Well, how disappointing,” she said, stepping back and composing herself.
Emma scooted sideways, her back sliding against the wall. Stump made no move to stop her. Clutching the three packs of baby wipes to her abdomen, Emma sidled up to the front door.
“If you do see Joe Coffin,” Stump said, smiling, “please tell him that Stump and Corpse are looking for him. It’s been far too long since we last saw each other.”
Emma grabbed the front door handle and pulled it open. Her hands were shaking.
“Pair of fucking maniacs,” she muttered, and backed outside, keeping Stump and Corpse in view the whole time.
Once she had shut the door, Emma turned and ran down to her car. Fumbling with her keys, the packets of baby wipes fell to the ground, and then she dropped her keys, too. Emma clenched her hands into fists and took a deep breath. She grabbed the keys, unlocked the car and climbed inside. She reached out and picked up the packets of baby wipes and closed her door.
Gripping the steering wheel, she let out a long whoosh of air.
What did that pair of weirdos want with Joe Coffin? Emma had a feeling it wasn’t anything good. She wondered if maybe she should get in touch with him, let him know that a couple of nutjobs called Stump and Corpse were after him.
But then she decided against it. Just because they had spent time together yesterday, chasing Tom Mills up the M6, and earlier in the day when he’d pulled that psycho off her, didn’t mean she owed him anything.
Besides, if she had the USB stick now, and if Steffanie had been telling the truth and it did contain video footage of Coffin murdering Terry Wu, then Emma was about to send Coffin to jail for a long time.
So really, was there any point in letting him know that two more psychopaths were stalking him?
Emma looked out of her window at Coffin’s house. No sign of Stump and Corpse leaving yet.
Left alone in her car, on the quiet, suburban street, Emma wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t been dreaming the events of the last few minutes.
we're going to have to kill some people
The boy appreciated the darkness of the tunnel, Abel could see that immediately. The cloud cover was thinner today, the sun breaking through the grey occasionally, shining into the narrowboat’s cabin. When that happened, the boy went wild. He scrabbled around the cabin, screeching and howling, clawing at the floor, trying to find shade. Abel did everything he could to keep him out of the light and keep him calm. If anyone was to come and investigate the noises, Abel would have to kill them.
And there really wasn’t much more room for any more bodies. The cabin was littered with black plastic bags, containing the dismembered remains of Marge and Alf. Abel had intended getting rid of them, maybe throwing them into the dark, murky canal water. But the boy had needed blood, and so he had kept them. Like a dog with a juicy bone, the boy had sucked on the ends of the severed limbs, and the decapitated heads. The blood was cold and thick, but it was nourishment at least.
Abel had steered the narrowboat along the canal, searching for shade, until he had come across the tunnel. He moored just in
side. The tunnel was wide, with enough space for other narrow boats to fit past. But the canal system was quiet, and Abel hadn’t seen anyone else so far today. Once inside the darkness, the boy calmed down. He sat cross legged on the cabin floor, sucking happily on the spinal cord dangling from Alf’s neck. The boy had already sucked the juices from his eyeballs, and the old man’s sightless sockets gazed up at the ceiling, as the boy cradled the bloody head in his lap.
He looked contented now, sleepy even. His eyelids had begun drooping as he slurped and sucked at the old man’s cold flesh. His burial clothes were covered in dirt and splatters of blood. Abel wondered if it might be a good idea to find him some new clothes. This might prove to be a little more difficult than buying the saw and the rubbish bags from the hardware store, though.
Thinking of the store reminded Abel of the young woman who had served him. Her soft flesh, crying out to Abel to be despoiled by his touch. Just thinking about her stirred desire within him. Marge had served to satisfy his lust fleetingly, but her wrinkled old body was no substitute for young, tender flesh. The need was on him again, gnawing at his insides, as he imagined the girl, naked and defenceless. Abel saw himself soothing her sobs with a kiss on her lips, tasting her tongue as his fingers raked down her body, and his nails sliced open her flesh.
The little boy could feast on her warm blood whilst Abel fucked her. And when they were finished, maybe he would leave her to turn, and then they could be a family together.
Mummy and Daddy, and their little boy.
How sweet.
* * *
“Oh, fuck.”
Tom shut the door behind him and leant against it. He was so fucking tired of all the blood, and the dead bodies, and the running. And, yes, he was tired of the sex, too. He could see the look in Steffanie’s eyes, the lust, the need to couple her body with his. But he was sick of it. And his dick was so fucking sore, felt like he’d taken some skin off it the last time she fucked him.
The dead body lying on the floor, leaking blood all over the carpet, kind of ruined the atmosphere, too.
Tom ran his hand through his short hair, took a deep breath.
“What the fuck happened here?”
A giggle burst out of his mouth. He clapped his hand over his mouth, but then another giggle erupted from between his fingers, and then another, and another, until he was doubled up, cackling manic bursts of laughter. He put the flat of his hand against the wall and leaned on it and clutched his stomach.
“Did you hear what I just said?” he gasped.
Steffanie gazed at him with a quizzical smile.
He pointed at the dead maid lying on the floor, the crimson streaks up the walls. “I asked you what happened, like it’s a fucking surprise!” Tom wheezed. “I should be fucking used to seeing dead bodies leaking blood all over the place by now.”
The old man was kneeling beside the maid’s body, bony backside sticking in the air, his hands on the floor while he lapped at the crimson pool of blood gathered by the woman’s head and left shoulder. Tom could see the reflection of the window in the dark, glossy surface, so smooth and shiny it could have been a mirror.
“She didn’t knock,” Steffanie said. “Aren’t the maids supposed to knock before they come in and clean the room?”
Tom slowly straightened up, his giggles subsiding. “I think so, yeah.”
“He was on her before I could stop him. I slammed the door shut, before she could scream, but he had already ripped her throat out.”
“The old bastard’s getting stronger, isn’t he?” Tom said. “I noticed it this morning, but I thought it was my imagination. But I’m looking at him now, and he seems younger, stronger.”
Steffanie gazed down at the skeletal figure, crouching on the floor, its grey tongue flicking in and out, as it drank the blood. It surprised Tom to see her like this. She looked scared, like this was something she had been waiting for, but never really believed was going to happen.
“What’s happening, Steffanie? Who is this ancient fuck?”
“He’s the Father of all vampires, everywhere. He’s the first one. Or maybe not the first, Abel told me, but the oldest vampire left.”
“And Abel dug him out of the ground in the cellar, didn’t he?”
Steffanie tore her gaze from the Father, and looked at Tom, her eyes bright and shiny, almost like she was the old Steffanie again. “Abel buried him down there over a hundred years ago, in a coffin filled with the blood of seven virgins.”
“Abel did? What the fuck for?”
“It was a ritual, a way of renewing him, before he died.”
“I thought vampires were fucking immortal,” Tom said, glancing down at the Father lapping at the blood.
“Abel said no, we’re not. He said vampires can live hundreds of years, sometimes over a thousand, but we age eventually. And then we die.”
Steffanie was regaining her composure, that sly look on her face again. Her eyes darkened once more. Tom didn’t like that look.
“So he buried him in a coffin full of virgin’s blood, and that was what, meant to make him young again? He’s never looked too fucking healthy to me.”
“He needed fresh, warm blood for the sacrifices to work, once he was out of the ground. Those bags of sterile, hospital blood were never good enough, they hardly did anything for him.”
“And that’s why you kept Jacob prisoner, kept slicing him open and bleeding him.”
“That’s right. We didn’t want to go hunting yet. Abel was worried about drawing too much attention to ourselves just then.” Steffanie smiled. “We’re almost impossible to kill, you know. We can heal from any wound, and only sunlight can do us any real damage. But if enough people knew about us, if enough men came after us, and hunted us down, how could we feed? How could we provide for the Father? And we would be killed, eventually. The boy gave us a steady supply of blood, even though in small amounts.”
“That boy, as you call him, is my fucking son, you cunt,” Tom said.
A lock of red, curly hair fell over Steffanie’s face. “That never bothered you before, Tom.”
Tom’s head was filled with white noise, with static. He clenched every muscle in his body as he resisted the urge to leap at Steffanie, screaming, and punching and kicking her until she was a bloody pulp.
“Do you like being a vampire, Steffanie?” he said. “Do you enjoy being dead?”
Steffanie sucked on a finger, gazed up at him from hooded eyes. “It has its advantages.”
“Do you know who killed you, Steffanie? Do you know who turned you into this fucking sex mad, blood sucking nymphomaniac?” Tom stabbed his thumb into his chest. “It was me. I did it. I’m the one who’s responsible for this whole fucking mess.”
Steffanie’s smile slipped, and her forehead creased into a frown. “No. I remember Abel appearing at my window. He tapped at the window, and I let him in.” Her hand slipped to her neck, her fingertips sliding over the pink scar, so faint it was hardly visible. “And then he bit me.”
“You think it was pure chance he chose you? Just a random event that he came to your house?” Tom bared his teeth, but it was more of a snarl than a smile. “No. I fucking sent him. I sent him there to kill you. Not the kid, just you.” He shook his head, still grinning that crazy, sick smile. “I never for one single fucking moment thought he really was a vampire. Just some sick fuck, who liked to pretend. I saw him in that alley, and I was pissed, and he was chewing on that dead cat.” Tom leant the back of his head against the door, raised his eyes to the ceiling. “And I don’t know, maybe he fucking mesmerised me or something, but I had this idea that I could use him to kill you. All he wanted in exchange was the blood. That was fucking easy enough.”
Tom looked down at his hands, examined his thumb, the clean slice still visible where Abel had cut it open, and forced it into the Father’s mouth.
“It was only when I saw you again, after the funeral, that I realised he really is a fucking vampire. Shit, that was so
fucking freaky, seeing you again, I almost crapped my pants.”
The only sound in the room was the Father, licking the blood off the maid’s face.
Tom stared at him. “Vampires. Fuck.”
“Why did you have me killed, Tom?” Steffanie whispered.
“Because you’re a fucking stupid bitch!” Tom hissed. “Because you wouldn’t listen to a fucking word I said to you. We had a fucking plan, Steffanie. You were meant to give the USB stick to that fucking reporter, but you didn’t, did you? Coffin should be back in jail by now, along with Craggs and the rest of the Mob, but no, you had to fucking haggle for more money!”
“Oh God!” Steffanie groaned. “Will you stop going on about the USB stick? I can’t remember anything about it.”
Tom punched himself in the forehead. “I’m such a stupid bastard! All this time, I’ve been protecting you, providing you with blood, just waiting for you to remember what you did with it. Fucking Lois Lane can’t have it, or else it would have been all over the papers weeks ago. But if she doesn’t have it, and I can’t fucking find it in your house, then where the fuck is it, Steffanie? Where?”
“I already told you, I don’t know!” Steffanie snarled. “And I don’t care. I don’t remember everything about my life before, just fragments, bits and pieces. But that life is nothing to me anymore.”
“I need that USB stick, Steffanie. I need those files I copied from Craggs’ computer. I can’t get my hands on them again. I need them now!”
Steffanie ran her hands through her long hair, pushing it back off her face. “What’s so important about them, Tom? Why do you need them so much?”
Tom sighed, scrubbed his hands over his face. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. What we need to do now is get the fuck out of here, before the maid is missed. You’re going to have to cover up again, while we get to the car. Think Rumplestiltskin here can walk now?”
“I think so, yes,” Steffanie said, and gazed thoughtfully at Tom. “Why are you doing this? You could run now, leave us behind. Why are you still helping us?”
“I’ve been hoping you might still remember what you did with that USB stick. But if even if you can’t, I’ve got a Plan B now, and I can still use you for that.”
