by Ken Preston
“Hey, man, I paid good money for her,” the kid yelled, spittle flying from his lips. “The fuck you think you doin?”
Coffin strode up to the kid, towering over him, and smashed the cosh into his nose. The kid howled, blood exploding from his ruined nose, and staggered back a step. The other kid looked up, a flicker of interest passing over his stupefied face, before his chin dropped back onto his chest.
The pasty white boy fell to the mattress, holding his nose, blood dribbling between his fingers. He reached under the mattress and pulled out a gun. Coffin kicked the gun out of his hand and then stomped on his chest. The kid screamed, blood and spittle spraying from his mouth.
Coffin rolled him over onto his front, grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm up behind his back until he heard a snap. The kid screamed again and started sobbing.
Coffin picked up the gun and pressed the muzzle against the back of the kid’s shaved skull.
“You like pretending to be vampires, right?” Coffin said, his voice low. “That’s what I’ve heard. You enjoy drinking blood.”
“No, please!”
Coffin jammed the muzzle of the gun into the back of the kid’s head.
He screamed.
“Tell me,” Coffin said. “Tell me you enjoy pretending to be vampires. Tell me about the blood.”
The kid hung his head, snot and blood hanging in a long, thick string from his broken nose.
“Fuck, Joe, just shoot the bastard,” Tom said.
Coffin bent down, his mouth next to the kid’s ear.
“Tell me about it,” he whispered. “Tell me how you enjoy getting high and drinking other people’s blood.”
The kid nodded his head, still sobbing.
“Joe, come on!” Tom hissed, walking further into the bare room. “If I’d known you wanted to fucking interrogate the little piece of shit, we could have taken him back to the club. We haven’t got time!”
Coffin looked up at Tom, stared at him for a long second. Then, his mind made up, he turned back.
“This is for Steffanie and Michael, you sick bastard,” Coffin snarled.
“What?” he sobbed. “What are you talking abou—”
Coffin pulled the trigger, spraying the kid’s brains over an empty pizza box. He let go of his arm, and the body hit the floor with a solid thump, the kid’s face smacking into the bloody mess on the pizza box.
“What about him?” Tom said, pointing at the other one who looked like he had passed out.
Coffin walked over and shot him in the chest, pulling the trigger repeatedly until it just clicked, and the kid’s chest looked like a slab of bloody meat.
Coffin dropped the gun on the floor. “Let’s get out of here.”
Tom stepped aside to let Coffin out, who had to duck as he stepped through the doorway. Tom pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the gun clean of prints. He took one last look around, and his gaze settled on the record deck, lying upside down, the sound system and the huge speakers.
“Who the fuck buys records anymore?” he muttered.
Then he followed Coffin outside.
* * *
Coffin spent the rest of the afternoon getting drunk, in the tiny flat above the Blockade. He heard Lucy, the barmaid, opening up, putting a tune on the jukebox. Some crappy pop song by a faceless group of teenagers with long hair and pimples, no doubt.
Coffin stayed upstairs, sitting on the settee, his enormous bulk making it look ridiculously tiny. He swigged whisky from a bottle, and when he had drained it, he searched the kitchen for another, sweeping the tins of vegetables and stew aside until he found what he was looking for. He cracked open the seal, and upended the bottle, swallowing great gulps of whisky, hoping to lose himself, to obliterate his memories and every last trace of his life.
Today he had done what he set out to achieve, two months ago, after the murder of his wife and son. He had found their killers, and executed them, as they deserved.
Why then did he still feel so bad? So empty of anything resembling humanity? Coffin had killed before, and done a great many other terrible things, too. So why, today, did he feel as though he had crossed a threshold? Stepped beyond even his unfocused moral code?
Coffin took another swig from the bottle. The little shits deserved it. Forget how young they looked, how pathetic, their brains peppered with holes from all the shit they snorted. They were killers.
They deserved to die.
Coffin had first seen Steffanie dancing at the nightclub, Angellicit. Terry Wu owned the club and he was paying protection money to Craggs. Rumour had it that Wu had been a notorious Triad gangster in China, and that his role as owner of Angellicit was cover for a drug smuggling ring.
Coffin saw no evidence of that on his rounds.
Terry Wu was a round blob of a man, squeezed into an expensive suit. His face was always shiny with sweat, and he was constantly mopping his forehead with a silk handkerchief. He smiled and laughed a lot, clapped you on the back like you were his best friend, said the drinks were on the house.
Coffin was never easy in Wu’s company. He knew you couldn’t trust a man like that, who tried so hard to be your friend all the time.
Coffin had been out collecting payments. Craggs said he wouldn’t always be doing that, being the muscle, the tough guy. Craggs said he had comprehensive plans for Joe Coffin, plans for a partnership. And then, when Craggs retired, Coffin would be the leader of the Slaughterhouse Mob.
“Playing at being a tough guy, that’s for the gorillas,” Craggs once said. “They like to use their fists and their feet, see how much damage they can do. But you know what, Joe? I worked something out a long time ago. Men like that, it’s all about their manhood, know what I’m saying? Stead of beating the crap out of some poor sod, they should get together and get their dicks out, compare sizes. That’s all it is to them, who’s got the biggest dick. It’s kinda queer, when you think about it. All these big, tough gorillas, making a lot of noise and pounding their chests, beating up the fairies for fun, when all the time, deep down inside, they’re just faggots themselves. But you, Joe, you’re better than that.”
So Coffin did the rounds, collecting the payments. The scuzzy lowlifes who ran the bars, and the clubs, and the massage joints, Coffin was happy to take money from them. After all, they were in the business. They already knew that the protection racket was part of the deal, something to be put up with. But it was the smaller businesses, the newsagents, the corner shops, run by families struggling to stay afloat, Coffin felt bad about taking their money. Sometimes he only took half of what they were supposed to pay. Before he got back, he would redistribute the cash, so that the lowlifes took the blame for the underpayments.
There was payback, and they protested, but it did no good. Coffin knew they thought he was pocketing the money himself, but that didn’t bother him. No one would grass Joe Coffin up.
It was well known in the clubs and bars in Birmingham that Joe Coffin was like a son to Mortimer Craggs. And although Craggs was an old man now, his reputation was still powerful enough that everybody who knew of him lived in fear of him.
So, Coffin had been out, and he collected his money from Wu, and decided to stay for a drink, check out the talent. Steffanie stood out from the other dancers. Sure, she had the long legs, smooth, tanned body, and the fiery, curly hair. But she also had a poise, and a look in her eyes, a defiance, an independence, which turned Coffin on.
Six months later, and they were married in a registry office, just the two of them and the registrar, and some poor guy they dragged in off the street as a witness. When they’d finished, Coffin stuffed a fistful of bills into his hand, and told him to get lost.
Five months after that and Michael was born. And when big, tough, Joe Coffin cradled his newborn son in his arms, he cried.
Coffin stood up, letting the whisky bottle drop to the floor, where it rolled across the carpet. He walked into the kitchen and turned on a tap, splashing the cold water against his face.
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br /> Now that Coffin had exacted his cold revenge, what else did he have to live for?
Drying his face on a rough, scratchy towel, Coffin heard a light knocking at the door.
He walked through the flat, kicking an empty bottle out of the way, sending it spinning across the carpet. He opened the door.
Laura Mills stood framed in the doorway, skinny arms pale like she never saw the sun, hands clasped in front of her mouth. Her lank, dirty blond hair framed her thin face and red-rimmed eyes.
“Hi Joe.”
Coffin said nothing. The whisky was making it difficult for him to think.
“Joe?” Laura said, in her tiny, vulnerable voice. “Can I come in?”
“Sure.” Coffin stepped out of the way, let her walk through the doorway.
He closed the door, watched her as she picked up the empty whisky bottle. She turned and looked at him, and he saw his own agonising pain reflected in her face. She walked in the kitchen, placed the bottle on the counter.
“What do you want, Laura?” Coffin growled.
She turned around, stared at him, her eyes round, like she was suddenly scared of him.
“I’m sorry, Joe,” she said.
“Yeah? What for?”
“I’m sorry about Steffanie, and Michael.”
“You already said that, at the funeral.”
“I know.”
Coffin nodded and sat down on the couch. Laura was still in the kitchen, and he couldn’t see her anymore. But then she appeared at the doorway, leaned against the door frame. He clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to focus all his nervous energy into that single, repeated action.
Killing those two kids had meant to be cathartic, the rough justice giving him a sense of finality, revenge. But in truth, it had done the opposite. Instead of sating his bloodlust, the killings had stirred the beast within, poking and prodding it in its cave. Coffin’s need to mete out more violence coursed through his veins like lava, his head pounding with its desire.
“Joe?”
Coffin looked up.
Laura’s eyes glistened, and a tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped at her eye, smudging her mascara, leaving a black smear across her face.
“Joe, I need you,” Laura whispered.
Coffin hung his head, his thick arms resting on his legs, still clenching and unclenching his hands.
“I know this is an awful time for you, Joe, and I’m sorry I came here, I’m sorry to ask you this, but you’re the only one I can turn to.”
Coffin remained silent, focusing all his energy into his fists.
“Damn you, Joe!” Laura shouted, and stepped over to Coffin and punched him on the arm. “Don’t you dare do this to me! Don’t you dare ignore me!”
She was sobbing now, and she collapsed into the threadbare chair opposite Coffin, plunging her face into her hands, the muffled sobs growing louder.
Coffin got off the settee, knelt down in front of her, putting his arms around her and resting his forehead on her shoulder.
“What’s wrong, Laura? Why are you here?”
“It’s Jacob!” Laura gasped, each word punctuated with another sob. “He’s gone missing, and I don’t know what to do!”
gyms are for wimps
Emma Wylde took the stairs two at a time, her trainers slapping against the metal steps, the noise echoing around the stairwell. She swung around in a tight, right turn, and then up the next flight as fast as she could go. She shouldn’t have been here, these were the fire escape stairs, but she had nowhere else to do her hill training. Bloody city was too busy with commuters and shoppers crowding the pavements to get any serious running in. And she didn’t have time in her lunch break to find somewhere she could run on the trails.
Emma knew she could have used the regular stairs, but then she would have had to dodge the office workers heading for their lunch break, or back to the office, put up with people staring, or colleagues laughing at her. Even today, in the age of the couch potato, when most people preferred taking the lift just one floor instead of walking, there were still far too many people on the stairs for Emma’s liking.
Not only did she need the stairs for the strenuous exercise, but she needed her space to help clear her head. Emma wasn’t a sociable person, happier with her own company than other people, which was ironic, considering she was a reporter.
She was puffing with the effort now, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. It was a cool day outside, the sky grey and overcast, threatening rain. Emma’s blond hair was tied back in a short ponytail, and she was wearing shorts and a black T-shirt.
She reached the top, shouted, “Twenty-four!” and spun around on the spot, ready to descend. Ten floors, back down to the ground and then a last sprint back up to the tenth floor, making twenty-five sets in total. Emma checked her stopwatch as she set off.
She picked up her speed, dangerously close to losing her footing and tumbling down the stairs. But she had to keep moving, if she was going to beat her personal best. The windows and doors became a revolving blur as she dashed around the corners and then down another flight of steps. She hit the ground floor and immediately turned around and began the sprint back up the stairs.
Spikes of pain shot through her chest, her breath coming in short gasps, calf muscles burning. The echo of her shoes hitting the metal steps pounded through her brain, like the sound was coming from inside her head, not from her environment. She ignored the temptation to sneak a quick peek at her stopwatch. It would only slow her down. Just had to concentrate on the climb, get back to that tenth floor as quickly as possible.
As soon as Emma’s feet stumbled onto the tenth floor landing, she hit the stop button on her watch. Sitting down on the floor, breathing hard, and blinking sweat out of her eyes, she stared at the digital display.
“Fuck, shit, fucking bastard!”
That was her third time now, unable to get near her personal best, let alone beat it. What the hell was wrong with her? Her times were getting worse, not better. Emma hung her head between her knees, watching beads of sweat drop from her forehead and land on the metal grill below.
Once her breathing had calmed down, Emma climbed unsteadily to her feet, and pushed open the fire escape door. She retrieved the folded piece of cardboard she had used to wedge the door open, so she wouldn’t get locked out, and let it swing shut behind her. The clatter and hubbub of the newsroom suddenly replaced the silence of the fire escape stairs, where the only sounds had been her feet hitting the steps, her breath, and the thud of her blood rushing through her head.
Row after row of desks and cubicles stretched across almost the entire top floor of the Metropolitan Tower. Large windows on three sides offered views across the city. Across the fourth wall were a row of large screen televisions, all tuned into different news stations, subtitles rolling across the bottom.
“Hey, Ems, nice sweat you got going there,” called a voice from the chaos of the newsroom. “Anytime you wanna rub that sweaty body up against mine, just let me know!”
“Fuck you, Rick!” Emma shouted back, giving him the finger.
“Tell me where and when, I’ll be there!” Rick shouted, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands behind his head, a huge grin on his face. The man at the desk opposite stretched across, and they high-fived each other.
“Bloody hell, Emma, look at the state of you,” Karl Edwards said, standing outside his office, arms folded over his round stomach. “I thought it was you I could hear, making all that noise.”
Emma swiped her arm across her forehead, wiping the sweat away. “You ever think about wearing a bib, when you eat lunch, Karl?”
“Huh?”
Emma pointed. “Either you cut yourself shaving this morning, or you got ketchup on your tie.”
“Oh, shit.” Karl pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and scrubbed at the red splodge.
“I thought Mrs Edwards had you on a diet? I swear to God I saw you eating a salad yesterday.”
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�Yeah, you saw right. I should’ve been eating salad today, but I chucked it in the bin when I got in this morning, and bought myself burger and chips.” Karl scrubbed at his tie some more, but only succeeded in spreading the red splodge further out. “Hell’s teeth, I’m going to have to buy myself a new tie now.”
“It’s worse than that, Karl,” Emma said. “You'll have to buy yourself the exact same tie, unless you want Mrs Edwards to find out you’ve been cheating on her with the burger van man.”
“She’s been nagging at me about my lifestyle for a while now,” Karl said, spitting on his handkerchief and then scrubbing some more. “Says I need to cut down on my fats, drink less alcohol and coffee. Says she’s concerned about my cholesterol, and my free radicals.”
“Free radicals?” Emma said, grimacing as Karl spit into his handkerchief again.
“Don’t ask me,” Karl grunted. “I thought they were a pop group when she first mentioned them.”
“I’m going to freshen up,” Emma said.
“Soon as you’re done, I want to see you in my office.” Karl gave up on his tie and yanked it from his collar.
“Okay, Boss.” Emma walked away.
“Hey, Emma,” Karl said. “What do you do, go in the toilets and have a strip wash over the sink?”
“Yep.” Emma kept walking.
“Well, that’s not hygienic, you know? Besides which, the rest of us, we don’t like it when you lock us out of the toilets while you’re washing yourself down.”
“If you put a shower in, I could have a proper wash, and you and the rest of the monkeys around here could take a piss whenever you wanted.”
“That right? You think we’re made of money? Why do you have to do your training here, anyway? Why the hell can’t you join a gym like everybody else?”
“Gyms are for wimps,” Emma called over her shoulder as she walked off, to catcalls and whistles.
* * *
After freshening up and stowing her running gear in a gym bag, Emma met with Karl in his office. She wore trousers, shirt open at the collar, and a jacket. The men sometimes tried teasing her, said she looked more like a guy than they did. She said that wasn’t possible, not without a beer gut.