by Preston, Ken
‘I ought to take that knife off Stilts and shove it in your guts,’ Coffin hissed.
‘You’re not focusing on the right things, Joe,’ Gosling said. ‘Think about the money. Think about all that bloody money just waiting for us.’
Coffin held onto Gosling for a few seconds and then let him go. He took a step back, glanced at Gilligan and Stut standing on the lawn, behind Gosling.
‘You know how much I dislike your man here, but he’s right, we need to focus,’ Gilligan said.
Coffin held up his hand, palm out, and put a finger to his lips. Apart from the sound of cars on the road there was silence.
They were exposed right now, out in the open in the glare of the security lights. Were they being recorded by CCTV too? Maybe they had already triggered a silent alarm and that other private security firm was already on its way.
And even if they weren’t, it looked highly likely that there was already another outfit in the house. But who? And were they after the money too, or something else?
‘Are we going to stand here all night, Joe?’ Gosling said. ‘Because I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to feel like a rotisserie chicken in a supermarket under this spotlight.’
‘Hey, Joe!’
It was the Stig, walking onto the lawn from around the opposite side of the house, followed by Shaw.
‘He give you trouble?’ the Stig said, gesturing at the body slumped across the table, still leaking blood.
‘No,’ Coffin said.
Where was Stilts? He’d done another disappearing act and Coffin was afraid of what he would do next. Coffin had underestimated the little man. As well as all his other attributes he was obviously a psychopath too.
‘Where’s the other security guard?’ Coffin said.
‘We found him out cold around the back of the house,’ the Stig said. ‘Looks like somebody else had the same idea as us.’
‘Yeah,’ Coffin said. ‘You think they’re still inside?’
‘There’s a white van parked around the back. Might belong to the firm guarding this place.’
‘Or it might belong to the firm breaking in,’ Coffin said, scanning the outside of the house for any signs of a break in.
Duchess appeared in the glare of the security light, pulling at the black, stretchy Lycra around his backside. ‘Ooh, I’m goona ’ave plenty ’o skid marks in this thing afower the night’s out, I can tell ya.’
‘Where’s the dwarf?’ Coffin said.
Gosling wheezed with laughter. ‘Did you hear that? Joe’s about as un-PC as I am.’
‘We’re wasting time out here,’ Coffin said. ‘And for all we know we’ve been spotted already, standing out here under the spotlight.’
He shook his head and began walking up to the front door. Once on the patio he saw Stilts. The little man was standing at eye level with the lock, his lock picking tools scattered around his feet. He was absorbed in his work and paid no attention to Coffin.
The rest of the crew gathered on the patio and watched Stilts.
‘Fuck it, we’re wasting time,’ Coffin said.
He spotted a garden gnome and picked it up, raising it to shoulder height to throw at the window beside the door.
The front door swung open.
An insistent beeping started up in the cavernous hallway.
Gosling pushed past Coffin and into the house. He keyed in the number on the white keypad on the wall and the beeping noise stopped.
Coffin placed the gnome back on the patio. Stilts joined Gosling inside the house.
‘You think she heard all that noise?’ Coffin said.
Duchess pushed past him. ‘Quick, sumboddy show me weer the pisser is, mar bladder’s big as a beach ball.’
Coffin stepped over the threshold.
‘All right, let’s take a look around,’ he said. ‘And if we’re on our own, let’s go find that safe room, see if there’s anything left worth taking in there.’
you can't hurry art
The sweat was pouring off Stilts as he worked. His face was shiny with it and his shirt stained dark on his back and under his arms. He was standing in front of the safe room door, hidden behind a floor to ceiling bookshelf that swung out at the touch of an invisible catch.
Coffin had expected an old-fashioned dial on the front of the safe room door, had pictured Stilts twisting the dial one way and then the other as he listened to the mechanics of the bolts inside the door with a stethoscope.
It wasn’t anything like that. The lock was an electric one and Stilts had brought an array of cables and black boxes with him and a laptop. Coffin had no idea what he was doing, or if Stilts even knew what he was doing. By now Coffin was beginning to wonder if this whole thing was just a setup of some kind, a charade for Coffin’s benefit. It seemed like there was something else going on, and whatever it was Coffin was missing it.
Whilst Stilts worked, Gosling had helped himself to whatever he could find in the kitchen, and was now sitting in an armchair eating a massive sandwich of ham and pickles and drinking a pint glass full of Coca Cola.
‘It’s well known the old biddy’s got a sweet tooth,’ he said, and let out a huge belch. ‘Bloody hell, it doesn’t half gas me up though. I’ll suffer with my IBS tomorrow, I bloody will at that.’
Stut was at the door, keeping a lookout. They had scouted out the ground floor and quickly determined that they were on their own. There was no sign of a disturbance of any kind, no sign of a forced entry. Coffin didn’t like it, not one bit. But they were here now. They needed to get the money and then get the hell out.
Coffin had sent Shaw upstairs to double-check there was nobody there and to make sure Mrs Ullman wasn’t going to cause any problems.
Now it was a waiting game while Stilts did his part.
Coffin looked at the unlikely safe cracker, at his sweat stained back, and said, ‘How much longer is he going to be?’
‘Relax, Joe,’ Gosling said, through a mouthful of ham sandwich. ‘Stilts isn’t just a safe cracker, he’s an artist, and you can’t hurry art now, can you?’
Duchess pulled at his suit around his bottom and crotch areas. ‘I’m tellin’ ya, I’m goona ’ave sum bluddy awful chaffin in mar nether regions termorra mornin’. I shoulda vaselined oop.’
‘We’ve been here too long,’ Coffin said. ‘And I don’t know if you’ve forgotten but we’ve got a dead body lying on the lawn. If anyone comes by we’re fucked.’
Gosling stuffed more sandwich in his mouth. ‘You worry too much,’ he said, his voice muffled through the half eaten food. ‘You should get yourself something to eat, sit down and take the weight off your feet. I’m sure I spotted some beer in the fridge too, have a drink, take the edge off.’
‘Bloody hell, Joe, you still think this is a good idea?’ Gilligan said quietly in Coffin’s ear. ‘This is like something out of a comedy, and we’re the butt of the joke.’
‘Speak up, Paddy, I can’t hear you,’ Gosling said, and belched.
Coffin saw a muscle twitching in Gilligan’s bruised jaw as he ignored the taunts.
Stilts started up a drill, the sound of its high pitched whining filling the room. He placed the tip of the drill against the metal door and began drilling into it.
‘What the fuck is this?’ Coffin shouted.
‘Do I look like the safe cracking expert?’ Gosling shouted back, spraying gobbets of chewed food over his belly. ‘Ask the man himself.’ He laughed. ‘Oh yeah, sorry about that, I forget sometimes he can’t talk.’
Stilts stopped drilling, plunging the room back into silence. He fed a metal probe attached to a black wire through the hole and then tapped at the keys on the laptop.
There was a beep followed by a muffled clunk from inside the door which swung open a fraction.
‘At bloody last,’ Gilligan muttered, casting a glance at Coffin.
‘Open her up, Stilts,’ Gosling said. The sandwich had disappeared from his hand and been replaced with a gun.
Stilts reached up and grasped the single metal handle and pulled. The door swung open easily and silently.
Coffin had the shotgun ready. If there was somebody in there, and Gosling said there always was, then they would have heard all the work Stilts had been doing on opening up the door, they would be ready and probably armed.
The door swung wide open and came to a halt.
The room’s interior was stark and plain, revealed beneath harsh lighting from ceiling lights. In the centre of the room was an upright metal cage on wheels. Inside the cage was a man. His wrists and ankles had been secured to either side of the cage with plastic ties, forcing him to stand in one position, his arms raised like he was a sacrifice. His mouth was hidden with a gag. His eyes bulged with terror as he stared at Coffin.
Coffin took a step forward, clutching the shotgun. ‘What the—’
‘Please, put down the gun, Mr Coffin,’ Stump said as she walked into view. She was holding her own gun, resting across her mannequin’s arm.
Coffin sighed. ‘I don’t believe this.’
Stump smiled. ‘Oh, do believe it Mr Coffin. Now, put down your gun.’
‘No,’ Coffin said.
‘Oh I ruminink you should,’ Corpse’s voice came from behind Coffin.
Coffin’s shoulder blades tingled with anticipation of a bullet in his back.
‘All of you, lay down your weapons,’ Stump said. ‘I think we should have a little chat, but I can’t talk with all this weaponry pointing my way. It doesn’t do for a clear mind, not at all.’
Coffin said nothing.
‘Joe?’ Gilligan said. ‘The freak’s got his gun trained right on you. He’ll take your head off if you’re not careful.’
‘You got a chance to take him out?’ Coffin said.
‘Not a chance in hell, you’ll be dead before I can make a move.’
Coffin gazed at Stump the whole time he was talking. Gosling was on the periphery of his vision, but Coffin couldn’t tell if he was still holding his gun or not.
‘Gosling, what about you?’
‘I’ve put my gun down, Joe. I think you should do the same,’ Gosling said.
‘All right then,’ Coffin said, and lowered his gun slowly to the floor.
‘Now, isn’t this nice, everyone together,’ Stump said. ‘It’s like a family reunion.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Coffin said.
‘The same reason as you,’ Stump said. ‘The money.’
‘And you just happen to turn up the same night as us?’ Coffin said. ‘That’s one big coincidence.’ He looked at the man in the cage, and a memory stirred, of seeing something similar once. ‘What’s the deal with him?’
‘One of our playthings, Mr Coffin, we like to collect them,’ Stump said. ‘Unfortunately our last one had to be put down, as he had lost his usefulness to us.’
Coffin noticed the body lying on the ground behind the cage. A man, looked like he’d been beaten up pretty bad.
And then shot in the head.
‘You two freaks have been picking off Ullman’s security guards, haven’t you?’ Coffin said. ‘I remember now, when I had that fever, that infection, and you got that doctor in to treat me, I remember I went wandering at one point and I found someone, a man, in one of those cages. I thought it was a fever dream, but it wasn’t, was it?’
‘Bloody hell, Joe, there you go again making a speech,’ Gosling said, and chuckled. ‘I think you might have said more in the last two days than in the rest of your life.’
‘Hello Mr Gosling,’ Stump said, rotating her head to look at the fat man in the chair.
‘You know each other?’ Coffin said.
‘Only by reputation,’ Gosling said. ‘What’s the deal with taking Ullman’s security? Wouldn’t stamp collecting be easier?’
‘But a lot less rewarding,’ Stump said.
‘Stump and Corpse hate the Ullmans,’ Coffin said, talking to Gosling but not taking his eyes off Stump. ‘I thought you’d given up on your vendetta since I put a bullet in the old man.’
‘You know us better than that, Mr Coffin,’ Stump said, smiling.
‘So what now? Are you going to shoot us all and take your money? Seems like everyone has to stand around talking all the time rather than just getting on with the job.’
‘So impatient, Mr Coffin,’ Stump said. ‘But yes, of course, let’s get on with the main act shall we?’
‘Would you mind if I finished my sandwich first?’ Gosling said and took a bite. ‘Bloody nice piece of ham this is.’ His voice was muffled and thick with chewed food. ‘You should try some.’
* * *
Upstairs, Shaw stiffened when he heard the drill start up. Took him a moment to realise what it was. He relaxed a little. Not that his nerves were going to let him off the hook too easily. He was wound up tighter than he thought possible.
This whole setup stank to high heaven as far as he was concerned. And he knew the others, including Coffin, felt the same. The thing was, the potential payday at the end was too big to ignore.
Much too big.
Shaw opened the next door he came to along the landing. A bathroom, bigger than his living room at home. No toilet in here, simply a rolltop bath set in the middle of the bathroom, ornate brass fittings, shelves lining the walls filled with toiletries and pot-pourri. Stank like a whore’s boudoir.
A thin layer of dust coated all the surfaces and thick, filthy strands of cobwebs hung in corners and from the ceiling. The old biddy probably hadn’t used this bathroom in years. Probably too feeble to get in and out of the bath.
This was the second bathroom Shaw had discovered. The other one had a shower in it and a toilet and sink. That one was obviously still being used.
Shaw closed the door and continued his search. He needed to find the old lady. All the noise of the drill from downstairs could be waking her up.
He opened the next door he came to, taking it quiet and slow. Although with the sound of that drill downstairs he wasn’t sure why he was bothering.
A massive, four poster bed tried to dominate the room, but failed. There were too many other distractions. The scarlet drapes hanging from the walls and billowing beneath the ceiling for one. The paintings, portraits mainly and all of the same, stern, pompous man. Shaw was no art expert, his idea of culture was reading the Metro newspaper instead of the Sun, but he could see these paintings were crudely done.
Who the hell was the subject of those portraits? Stuart Ullman, perhaps? Shaw had heard of him before, back when he owned that string of nightclubs, but he’d never seen a photograph of him.
Shaw closed the door behind him. Got his iPhone and switched on the torch. Shadows danced in the corners as he walked towards the bed.
The thick carpet seemed to swallow his feet with each step he took. Either side of the four poster were two huge chests, like the old trunks he’d seen in those black and white films his mother used to watch.
Shaw approached the trunk nearest to him. The light from his mobile illuminated the objects placed on top. A skull, with a fat candle placed on top, rivulets of melted wax running over the pale bone. Another skull, black hieroglyphs carved into its features. An open book, small, illegible text on one page and an illustration of a horned, cloven footed naked man on the other, his impossibly huge penis standing erect and proud.
‘What the fuck?’ Shaw whispered.
The writing in the book was so tiny Shaw had to bend close to read it. The words were strange, a language he didn’t recognise.
He cast the light of the mobile over the bed. Mrs Ullman was a shrunken figure, outlined beneath the blanket covering her. Her long white hair was splayed across the pillow. The harsh light of the mobile’s torch cast deep shadows into the fissures of skin on her face.
Shaw couldn’t help but shudder as he looked at her. The sickly yellow of her flesh gave her the appearance of death. Only the slight rattle in the back of her throat gave away the fact that she was breathing.
Shaw
noticed the trunk on the opposite side of the bed. More skulls and candles on its top, and something else too.
Something that made Shaw shudder again.
Surely it couldn’t be.
His eyes had to be playing tricks on him in the light from his mobile.
Shaw walked around the bed. As he drew closer to the trunk, his feet seeming to grow heavier and slower as he approached it, he realised he had been right.
Lying between the skulls and the candles was a severed hand. It looked to be old, the flesh yellowed and dried out. In fact, Shaw was pretty sure it wasn’t real. Just some stupid prop or joke that was all.
Still, it gave him the creeps.
A memory of a story his mother told him surfaced. About the body of the woman found in the tree nearby here. Except for her hand, which had been removed and buried several yards from the tree.
The Hand of Glory, his mother had called it. Some sort of witchcraft ritual.
Shaw couldn’t take his eyes off the severed hand.
It had to be a prop.
Had to be.
He reached out and picked it up.
The flesh felt dry and repulsive, and it seemed to squirm in his hand. Shaw dropped it like it was a red hot coal.
It thudded on the trunk and Shaw glanced at the old lady in the bed. She mumbled a little, murmuring words he could catch the meaning of, and then she was silent again apart from that rattle in the back of her throat.
Shaw wiped his hand on his trousers.
He was creeped out good and proper now.
The drilling stopped.
Thank fuck for that, Shaw thought.
He backed up, away from the trunk and that hand lying on top, away from the bed and the old lady. He turned and opened the door. Once he was outside of the bedroom, back on the landing, he felt like he could breathe again.
They had to get out of this place. Just grab the fucking money and run.
Shaw took the stairs quietly even though he had seen the old lady sleeping though the noise of the drill. The house, everything he had seen, spooked him out. It was as if by moving as quietly as possible he could avoid disturbing something that was still sleeping.