by Preston, Ken
Chitrita continued circling Michael, trailing her hand over his shoulders, round his neck and then up through his hair. ‘One day soon I’m going to kill them for what they did.’ She paused, her hand resting on the top of Michael’s head. ‘Except, they did dig me up and bring me back. If not for them I suppose I would still be under the ground. When I kill them, I’ll do it quickly, I suppose I owe them that much.’ She looked down at Michael, placing a finger under his chin and tilting his head up so that he was looking at her, and she smiled. ‘Or maybe not. Maybe I will enjoy myself, let them suffer. Depends how I feel at the time.’
More screams and laughter from outside. Steffanie pulled back a heavy tarpaulin, crusted with plaster and dust, and looked out of the window. Two couples, the men in tight fitting, white shirts and jeans, the girls in short, low-cut dresses.
They were drunk, obviously. Daring each other to see who could stay outside the longest. A game, a stupid game. Trying to scare each other. Even from up here, Steffanie could see their fear. It would hardly take anything to send them scurrying inside the nearest bar.
‘And what about Joe?’ Steffanie said.
‘He most certainly needs to die,’ Chitrita replied. ‘All the time I hear people talking, saying Joe Coffin this and Joe Coffin that. So very boring.’
‘He’s hard to kill,’ Steffanie said, watching the couples wandering up Sheepcote Street towards Broad Street, still laughing. Still scared.
‘No one’s that hard to kill,’ Chitrita whispered, bending over Michael, her face only inches from his. ‘Shall I show you? Shall I kill the boy?’
Steffanie let the tarpaulin drop back into place and turned to Chitrita. ‘No. I like having him around. I told you, it rips Joe apart. When we kill Joe, I want him to be looking at Michael as we do it.’
‘Do you still have feelings for the boy?’ Chitrita whispered. ‘Don’t tell me there is still a tiny part of his mother left inside you.’
‘No, I told you. It gives me satisfaction to know that Joe is tearing himself apart thinking about Michael, wondering where he is, and how he can cure him.’
‘Cure him?’ Chitrita stood up straight and tossed her head back, her laughter echoing around the empty room. ‘There is no cure for this!’
‘Joe thinks there is. Merek told me about Leola and the Priest, about the tattoos and their faith in God.’
‘Leola is a silly little girl. She’s weak, pathetic.’ Chitrita spit the words out. ‘And the Priest is a deluded old man, nothing more.’ Chitrita began walking around the empty space. ‘We need to find somewhere else to stay. We are too vulnerable here.’
Steffanie followed Chitrita’s movements, watching her as she prowled through the shadows, like a large cat. The vampire moved beautifully, gracefully. Her flesh was white and unblemished, her limbs long and slender and yet containing such power. Chitrita was beautiful in a way that none of the other vampires were. Even Merek and Abel, although they had both exuded power and a hungry sexuality, a certain heat that attracted Steffanie, they hadn’t been beautiful in the way Chitrita was.
‘Where can we go?’ Steffanie said. ‘The house has been demolished and Joe is back in Angellicit.’
Chitrita stalked the perimeter of the room until she closed in on Steffanie once more. She ran her fingers through Steffanie’s long, tousled hair and over her face, over the ragged hole in her cheek. Steffanie embraced the naked vampire, sliding her hands down her back, over her buttocks.
Chitrita kissed her, and Steffanie opened her mouth, accepting the long, sinuous tongue, the heat rising once more in her belly.
And Michael watched them.
* * *
Once the meeting with Gosling and his gang of weirdos and freaks had finished, Coffin took off on the Fatboy. He told the others he was heading back for the club. Once he was on the bike, he changed his mind.
He headed out of the city, opening up the throttle and letting the bike take the lead. He had no destination in mind, nowhere to go other than back to Angellicit. The place wasn’t just his club now, along with the others scattered around Birmingham and the surrounding area, but it was his home. The house where he had lived with Steffanie and Michael had sold quickly. The opportunity to own a place where the notorious Joe Coffin had once lived, where there had been a gruesome murder, was too much to resist for some people.
Coffin was glad to be rid of it. His memories of the time spent there were soured now. When he thought of Steffanie he thought only of her betrayal with Terry Wu, and who knew who else? And when he thought of Michael, he couldn’t see his son anymore. Only the monster he had been turned into.
The light from the bike’s headlamp cut through the darkness, illuminating the black tarmac of the road. He sped past the occasional car, but mostly the roads were clear.
Coffin’s head was filled with questions, the thoughts tumbling over one another, jostling for space in his mind. The voices crowded his head, demanding to be heard, wanting answers to questions until they turned into so much white noise. This was why he needed to get out on his own, away from everyone.
Seemed like everyone wanted a piece of him now. Stut and Shaw and the others, always looking to him for a decision on something. The cops wanting his help with the vampires, and the public looking to him like he was a celebrity. The Seven Ghosts were still after him, seeking revenge and a piece of the action in Birmingham. Stump and Corpse who he owed a favour to, and God knew what form that would take.
And Steffanie. Wherever she was right now, she wouldn’t rest until she’d put Coffin in the ground. Permanently.
Coffin let his unconscious take the lead as he rode the bike out of the city and then gradually back in again. Thinking over the events of the last few days he was only half aware of where he was.
But then he realised and pulled the bike over to the side of the road.
The graveyard.
Coffin climbed off the bike and removed his helmet. He walked into the graveyard, his boots crunching on the gravel path the only sound in the night. He found their graves quickly even though they weren’t there anymore.
Coffin stood at the spot where his wife and son had been buried. Where Michael had been there was now a new gravestone.
Ethel Wilkinson, Born 5th May 1932, Died 23rd June 2018. Rest in Peace Nanny Ethel.
Fresh flowers had been placed in a vase on the grave.
The other plot where Steffanie had been buried was an open grave, waiting for a new occupant. Yellow hazard tape cordoned off the hole. A spade, its blade thick with clumps of soil, lay beside it.
Did they still use spades to dig graves? Coffin thought they would have used mini diggers, or something similar.
Coffin leaned over the hole, looked down inside.
His chest tightened up at the thought of seeing Steffanie lying at the bottom, grinning up at him.
The grave was empty.
Coffin took a deep breath and looked around, at the dark shapes of the gravestones and angels silhouetted against the night sky. The air was cool on his face. He noticed a flurry of movement around the top of the church tower.
Bats.
Was it his imagination or were there more bats than usual around at the moment? Or perhaps he was just noticing them more.
What was he doing here? There was nothing for him in this place, apart from memories. Bad memories. The funeral, Steffanie and Michael being lowered into the ground. And then his return to this spot, with a spade, to dig up their graves. To prove to himself that they were still dead, still in the ground where he had seen them buried.
Coffin watched the bats spiralling around the church tower. He could just make out their winged shapes against the clear sky, tumbling and darting sharply around and between each other.
Coffin heard the movement at the last moment, just before his skull exploded with pain. At that instant where he had realised someone was approaching him, that they were in fact right behind him, he had begun moving. He hadn’t managed to get out of
the way of the blow to his head, but he had moved enough that it hadn’t fully connected.
From the force of the blow, Coffin was sure he would have been dead if he had received the full impact.
Coffin fell to the damp ground and rolled over. His assailant was standing over him. Clad in black leather biker’s gear and wearing a helmet, the visor obscuring his face. In his right hand he held a baseball bat. The end was dark with a splash of blood.
The biker bent down, raising the baseball bat above his head. Coffin kicked out, but the attacker moved swiftly out of the way. The baseball bat hurtled towards Coffin, his attacker driving all his force and weight behind the movement. Coffin deflected the blow with his arm and the bat smacked into the soft ground, throwing the man off balance.
Coffin used his assailant’s momentum to push him to the ground. Coffin got to his feet. Blood was running down the back of his skull and onto his neck. He felt dizzy and sick.
Coffin’s attacker had jumped to his feet. He crouched in front of Coffin, holding the baseball bat, the featureless helmet pointed Coffin’s way.
Coffin picked up the spade lying by the side of the open grave. The biker lunged for him, swinging the baseball bat. Coffin smashed the spade against the bat and it went flying from his attacker’s hand. It tumbled through the air, end over end, and disappeared in the darkness.
Coffin smacked the spade into the biker’s head. The impact made a loud crack and the biker’s head snapped sharply to one side. Coffin drove the spade into his chest and the man staggered and fell into the open grave. He landed at the bottom of the pit on his back.
Coffin jumped down after him, his feet crunching into the man’s chest as he landed on top of him. Coffin heard a muffled grunt of pain from inside the bike helmet. Slivers of dirt ran down the grave’s walls as the biker struggled to fight Coffin off.
Kneeling on his attacker’s chest, Coffin gripped the bike helmet with both hands and yanked it off. The man gasped with pain.
As Coffin had expected, the man was Chinese.
‘Stop struggling,’ Coffin growled, throwing the helmet to one side and picking up the spade. ‘Who are you?’
The Chinese man, eyes wide and face damp with sweat, spat at Coffin.
Coffin raised the spade. ‘Tell me what’s going on, or I’ll cave your head in.’
Coffin’s attacker started talking rapidly in Chinese.
‘Don’t you speak English?’ Coffin said.
The man jerked his head from side to side, still talking. Coffin thought he heard a couple of words he understood. Maybe not.
Coffin sighed.
He smashed the spade into the man’s face and silenced him.
He climbed out of the open grave.
He didn’t need answers, he already had them.
The Seven Ghosts were back, and they wanted Coffin dead.
put some clothes on
Archer sat in his car, the windows steaming up as he sipped at his coffee. The engine was silent, the lights off. He was parked half on and half off the pavement outside his house. He still thought of it as his even though he didn’t live there anymore.
A car sped past him. Had to be doing at least 45mph even though they were in a 30mph zone.
Archer picked up his mobile from the space between the seats and scrolled through his messages. Nothing. This was an annoying habit of his that he had developed in the last couple of months. Somehow he seemed to have got it fixed in his subconscious that Emma would have messaged him. He had no idea why she would message him, other than banal day-to-day stuff, but still.
He had this compulsive need to check his messages.
And once he had checked, and seen there was nothing from her, he had to steel himself against messaging her. What good would it do? He had nothing much to say to her.
Except that one thing.
About kicking Mitch out of the house.
Archer didn’t like him. Didn’t trust him.
Archer knew if it wasn’t for Mitch that Emma might not be alive right now. He knew that. But it didn’t make any difference. He still didn’t like the man.
Archer had had one of his people look into Mitch’s background. There was nothing much there. His excellent record as a soldier. The divorced wife. That dodgy website that was supposed to help people make life choices and win the lottery was about the most muck against Mitch that Archer’s colleague could scrape up.
Still, Archer didn’t like him.
Wasn’t even sure he trusted him.
Archer took another sip of his coffee, looked at the house through the partially steamed-up window. The light was on in the bedroom. Archer wondered if Emma and Mitch were in there right now, making love.
Archer shifted in his seat.
Nothing he could do about it even if they were.
Archer placed his coffee cup in the holder and placed both hands on the steering wheel. Just go, he thought. I don’t even know what the hell you are doing here in the first place.
Protecting Emma and Louisa May, that’s what. With all these vampires on the loose once more, Archer had thought it might be prudent to check up on Emma every night. Keep a look out for a while. Make sure they were safe.
Bullshit, Archer thought. You know why you’re here and it’s got nothing to do with vampires.
Archer picked up the coffee again and took another sip.
The light in the bedroom switched off.
‘Shit,’ he muttered.
He could imagine them in there right now, under the covers. Embracing, their naked limbs entwined with each other. Archer sipped more coffee. His hand was shaking. His teeth were clenched tight.
Putting the coffee down he laid his head against the seat back.
Closed his eyes.
Got to relax, he thought. Just take a moment, calm down and then get the hell out of here.
A knocking on the passenger side window broke through his thoughts and he snapped his eyes open.
‘Can I help you, Detective Archer?’
Mitch, leaning with one hand on the car roof, peering through the misty glass.
Fuck.
Archer stabbed at the button to slide the window down, forgetting that the engine was turned off. He twisted the key in the ignition to switch on the electrics and the window slid smoothly down. Once Archer could see Mitch clearly, without the steamed-up window obscuring him, he noticed the bruising and swelling on his face.
‘What happened to you?’ Archer said. ‘Get into an argument with someone?’
‘I’m more interested in knowing what the hell you’re doing outside . . .’ He paused, as though he had been about to say outside my house and thought better of it. ‘Surely it’s not good police protocol to be stalking your ex?’
‘I’m not stalking anyone,’ Archer replied. ‘But as a police officer I do need to ask you again, and you are required to answer. What happened to your face?’
‘Oh crap, you’re not going to pull this on me, are you?’ Mitch stood up straight so that Archer couldn’t see his face anymore.
Archer climbed out of the car, forcing Mitch to back up as the door opened. Slammed the door shut and stood in front of Mitch.
‘You’ve obviously been in a fight, which means someone else got hurt. You want to tell me about it here, or do I have to take you down to the station?’
‘Don’t do this, Detective Archer,’ Mitch said. He glanced towards the house.
Archer saw the glance. And all of a sudden it became totally and absolutely clear to him what had happened. Mitch had had a fight with Emma. He knew what she was like, had lived with her for long enough. That temper of hers was like a firework. It might spark and fizz for a long time, it might even go quiet enough that you could think it had gone out, but then she would explode. That was what had happened. They’d got into an argument and Emma had lost it big time.
And Mitch had hit her.
Emma wouldn’t have held back. That was where he got his bruises from when she hit him.
Then she kicked him out, and now here he was trying to worm his way back into her home, into Archer’s house.
The question was, how badly had he hurt her?
And what about Louisa May?
‘Turn around and put your hands on the car roof,’ Archer said.
‘Are you serious?’ Mitch said.
‘Just do it,’ Archer said, reaching for his cuffs.
‘What the hell’s going on? You’re arresting me?’ Mitch stepped up a little closer to Archer, puffing his chest out.
‘Turn around and put your hands on the car as I asked you, Sir, before you get yourself into more trouble than you’re already in.’
Mitch stood his ground for a moment longer, long enough that Archer wasn’t totally sure which way this was going to go. If Mitch wanted to fight this out, Archer wasn’t sure he could take him on. He tensed up, ready.
Mitch stepped down, almost seemed to deflate.
‘This is fucked up,’ he said, turning around and placing his hands on the car roof.
Archer frisked him, then said, ‘Put your hands behind your back.’
‘This is so fucked up,’ Mitch said.
He lowered his arms and placed his hands behind his back. Archer cuffed him, quickly and efficiently.
Pulling open the rear door, Archer said, ‘All right, in the car. We’re going down to the station.’
He placed his hand on top of Mitch’s head and guided him into the back of the car. Slammed the door shut and locked it.
Mitch looked up and glared at Archer at the sound of the central locking mechanism clunking into place.
‘Hey!’ he shouted, his voice muffled behind the glass. ‘What the fuck is this? You said you were taking me to the station!’
Archer turned his back on the car and walked up the drive to his house. Nobody was going anywhere until he had made sure that Emma and Louisa May were all right and unharmed.
It took over a minute of knocking on the door and waiting until Emma finally opened up.
‘What’s going on?’ she said. Her hair was wet, and she was wearing a dressing gown. Archer saw a trail of damp footsteps across the floor.