by Ken Preston
“Keep away from me!” Emma said.
“You shouldn’t have come up here,” Tom said. “You should have left, like I told you.”
“Yeah, that’s always been my problem, I never do what I’m told.”
Emma backed up, her bottom hitting the edge of the sink. The tap was still running, the water gurgling down the plughole.
Tom hadn’t moved from the doorway, as though he couldn’t quite decide what to do next. He looked dreadful, and his Adam’s apple kept bobbing up and down, like he was getting ready to throw up.
“You look like shit, Tom,” Emma said. Wasn’t this what they did in the movies, keep the bad guy talking while trying to figure out how to make an escape? “What happened to your car last night, you seen that scratch down the side?”
“What scratch?” Tom said.
“Oh man, you didn’t know? That’s one big, deep fucker, all the way down the driver’s side. You must have been shit-faced not to have noticed that. And is that Laura’s car you drove into? You punched a nice big dent in the passenger door. She’s going to go fucking ape when she sees that.”
Tom’s pinched face seemed to grow even tighter with anger. He took a step towards her. He was making a noise, too, a low growl in the back of his throat.
Shit, Emma thought, maybe keeping him talking was a bad idea. Maybe I should’ve just tried kicking him in the balls.
“Tom, what’s going on up there?” It was Laura.
Tom stopped moving. He looked unsure of himself. Like he wanted to kill Emma, but not here, in the house. Not in front of his wife.
“Nothing,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Everything’s fine. The reporter’s just leaving.”
Tom stepped out of the way, leaving the doorway free for Emma to walk through.
“Get the fuck out of my house,” he whispered. “I see you here again, I’ll rip your fucking head off. Understand?”
Emma nodded. As she walked past him, he grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her in close. His breath stank, and he had a blood-soaked plaster on his thumb. Emma felt sick, and she turned her face away, so she didn’t have to breathe in his foul stench.
“One more thing,” he said, and smiled. “I think we can assume our little chat is off the record, yes?”
Emma looked him in the eye. “Go fuck yourself.”
She twisted her wrist out of his grip and ran down the stairs. Pushing past Laura, Emma stumbled outside and over to her car. Cold drops of rain hit her in the face. Her hands were shaking as she pulled the key fob out and unlocked the doors. She threw the camera on the back seat, climbed inside, and activated the central locking system.
Emma took a deep breath and gripped the steering wheel. Raindrops and brown, wet leaves blew across the windscreen. Emma could feel the shakes coming on, as adrenalin coursed through her body.
Just got to let it pass, she thought. You’re safe in the car, but if you drive away now, you’ll crash.
Closing her eyes, still gripping the steering wheel, Emma took a few deep breaths. The shakes began subsiding.
She opened her eyes and saw Joe Coffin approaching Tom and Laura’s house. Although she had seen photographs of him, had heard the stories of his tremendous size, this was the first time she had seen him in the flesh.
The man was huge. Paint him green and rip his trouser legs off at the knee, and he’d be the Incredible Hulk.
Coffin cast a curious glance at Emma as he walked past, and then turned into the drive, towards the house. Emma watched as he knocked on the front door, saw Laura open it and show him in, watched as the door closed.
Okay, this looks like it might be interesting.
Emma backed the car up and round a corner, just out of sight of the house. Switching off the engine, she settled down in the car seat and waited.
* * *
Coffin held Laura whilst she cried softly, her face buried in his chest. This wasn’t how it was supposed to have turned out. Coming here to question Tom on what he knew about Steffanie’s murder had been a mistake. In his quest for justice, his eagerness to deal out death on those responsible, Coffin had momentarily forgotten that Jacob and his friend were still missing.
“I thought you had some news,” Laura said, her voice muffled against Coffin’s T-shirt. “It’s silly, I know, but when I saw you, I thought maybe you had found them, or that you knew where they were.”
There was a thud from upstairs, the sound of a tap running.
“No, I’m sorry.” Coffin stroked Laura’s hair, like he used to do years ago. “You haven’t heard any more from the police?”
“No.” Laura wiped at her eyes. “They want me and Tom to do a news conference today, appeal for witnesses, ask the public for help.”
“What about the other boy’s mother?”
Coffin thought he heard a small, bitter laugh.
“Brenda?” Laura said. “No, the police want to minimise her exposure in the news. For some reason, they seem to think having a drug addicted, alcoholic prostitute appealing for help on the early evening news might do more harm than good.”
Coffin continued stroking Laura’s hair. She still had her arms wrapped around him, her head snuggled into his chest. She didn’t seem in a hurry to disentangle herself.
There was another thump from upstairs, footsteps over their heads.
“Where’s Tom?”
“That’s him banging around upstairs. For the first time in his life, I think he might be attempting to clean the bathroom.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously. He’s made an awful mess up there, so maybe he feels guilty.”
Coffin grunted. “I’m amazed. I’ve known Tom a lot longer than you, Laura, and I’ve never known him feel guilty about anything before.”
“I know,” Laura sighed. “Maybe it was the reporter, I think she shook him up, got him all agitated.”
“Is that the girl who was sitting outside in the car?”
“Probably. Is she still there?”
Coffin twisted his head, looked out of the window. “No, she’s gone.”
They heard Tom walking slowly down the stairs. Coffin pulled Laura away from him, held her gently by the shoulders, and looked down into her eyes.
“Is he hitting you again?” he whispered.
Laura placed her knuckles against her lips, looked down, shook her head.
“Hey, Joe, I thought I heard you down here,” Tom said. He was dressed in jeans and a checked shirt. He looked from Laura to Coffin, eyebrows raised. “What’s going on?”
“Joe came to see you, Tom,” Laura said, wiping at her eyes.
“Yeah?” Tom pulled a squashed cigarette packet out of his back pocket, started patting his other pockets, looking for matches.
“It can wait,” Coffin said. “Finding Jacob is the priority right now.”
Tom put the cigarette in his mouth, still looking for matches, patting the same pockets all over again.
“You ask me, little bastard’s done a runner. He’ll be back, whingeing and crying, when he’s run out of spending money.”
Coffin ignored Tom, looked at Laura again. “He ever done this before, run away?”
“He’s not that kind of boy,” Laura said. “He’s quiet, keeps to himself, doesn’t really get into trouble.”
Tom walked off, presumably in search of matches.
Laura ran a hand through her hair. “The police have been all through our house, searching through everything, asking questions. They say it’s regulation, they do this with every missing persons case, but the way they go about it, you’d think they suspected us of taking Jacob.”
“Is that why Tom’s on edge? He’s like a caged animal.”
Laura glanced at the kitchen where they could hear Tom swearing and banging around, still looking for matches. “He’s been nervy for a while now, but he’s getting worse at the moment.”
Tom returned from the kitchen, sucking on a cigarette.
He let the smoke dribble from h
is nostrils and grinned at Coffin. “First one of the day, always hits that sweet spot, know what I mean?”
“Hey, Tom,” Coffin said, “Why don’t you and me go out for a walk, take a look around, ask a few questions?”
Tom said nothing. The cigarette drooped between his lips, as though he’d forgotten it was there. “Oh, shit.”
Coffin spun round to see what Tom was looking at. Through the window he could see down the street, the leaves blowing along the road, the cars parked on drives, everything quiet.
There was a child staggering along the middle of the road, towards Laura’s house. His head seemed to be set at an odd angle, and sometimes he clawed wildly at the air, and then let his arms hang loosely by his sides as he continued shambling onwards.
“It’s Peter!” Laura whispered.
Coffin yanked the door open and ran down the drive. The boy looked like he was about to fall down at any moment. Coffin bent down and scooped him up, cradling him in his arms. His face and hands were covered in blisters, his skin looked raw and painful to the touch. Peter’s head lolled back, and Coffin moaned as he saw the gaping wound in his neck.
The wound looked old, the edges of the torn flesh turning green and gangrenous. Coffin could see Peter’s windpipe, the tendons and the muscles, and he marvelled that the boy was still alive. He carried him up the drive, past Tom’s car, and up to the house.
“Call an ambulance!” he shouted.
Laura stared in horror at the boy in Coffin’s arms.
Tom pushed past Laura and ran down the drive. Coffin swung around, saw Tom struggling to open the driver’s side door, all bashed up from where he had scraped into something.
“Tom?” Coffin said.
Tom ignored him, ran around to the passenger side and climbed into the driving seat.
Tom started up the car and reversed off the drive, spinning the car around, the tyres tearing at grass as he backed up onto the lawn. Coffin watched as Tom revved the engine, struggling to shove the car into first gear.
“Tom, what the hell are you doing?” Coffin roared.
The car lurched off the lawn, and sped erratically down the road, wheels squealing as Tom took the corner at speed, and disappeared from view.
As he turned back to the house, Coffin saw another car pulling out of a side street, and follow Tom’s car.
Inside, Laura was on the telephone. Coffin laid the boy down on the settee and knelt down beside him. Peter’s eyes were glassy, unfocused, and Coffin wasn’t sure he would live long enough for the paramedics to arrive. And his body had felt so very cold in his arms.
“Who could have done this to him?” Laura sobbed, looking at Peter over Coffin’s shoulder.
Peter twisted his head from side to side, moaning. With both hands he reached for his neck, and his fingers began exploring the wound, digging deep into the scarlet flesh.
“No, don’t do that,” Coffin said, grabbing the boy’s wrists and pulling his hands away from his throat.
Peter’s eyes suddenly focused on Coffin, and he lunged for Coffin’s neck, his teeth snapping shut, just out of reach. Coffin leapt back, letting go of the boy’s thin wrists.
Peter snarled and snapped at Coffin again, like a wild animal. There was a red splodge on the sofa cushion, and Coffin realised that the boy had a nasty wound to the back of his head. Before Peter could leap off the settee, Coffin pinned the boy back down again, taking care to stay out of reach of the wildly snapping jaws.
“What’s happening?” Laura said. “I don’t understand why he’s trying to bite you.”
“Un, un, unnn,” Peter moaned, and clicked his teeth together again, flecks of bloody spit flying from his mouth.
“Peter, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Coffin said.
“Un, nnn, nnii, unnn,” Peter moaned again.
“Peter, where’s Jacob?” Coffin whispered. “Where have you been, Peter? Where’s Jacob, can you tell us?”
Peter whipped his head around, leaving clots of blood on the upholstery. “Nnniii, unnniiinnu, nniiiiiiinnuuuh.”
“Oh, please!” Laura cried. “Where’s my boy, tell us where my boy is!”
“Nnnniiiinnnnuuuuuuuu, nniiiiinnnuh!”
“Nine,” Coffin said. “Is that what he’s saying? Nine?”
“Nine?” Laura cried. “What does that mean, nine? Why does he keep saying that?”
“Niiinnntuuuu, nnniiiiinnntuuu, unnniiiiinnnnuuuh…”
“What is it, Peter?” Coffin said, leaning in close. “What is it, what are you trying to tell me?”
The boy snapped at Coffin again, his teeth clicking together over and over, as he thrashed his head back and forth in a frenzy. Coffin jumped back out of the way, letting go of Peter’s wrists. The boy leapt up, suddenly galvanised with a burst of energy, and crouched on the settee, like an animal.
Coffin stood in front of Laura, saying, “Get out, Laura. The kid’s gone crazy, he’s trying to kill us. Look at his eyes, he’s lost it.”
Laura backed up towards the door, keeping her eyes fixed on the bloodthirsty creature that had invaded her home.
Peter leapt off the settee, screaming as he hurtled at Coffin, arms reaching out, clawed fingers ready to latch onto him. He smacked into Coffin, who rolled backwards, and threw the child off, using his own momentum to send him tumbling across the room.
Laura, standing in the doorway, screamed, as the creature that had once been her son’s friend scrambled to its feet and snarled. Coffin jumped up, facing the child, and wiped blood off his face. It was Peter’s blood, the blisters bursting, the skin sloughing off his face and hands.
Coffin noticed the boy’s fingernails, some of them were hanging off, attached to his fingers only by raw tendrils of flesh.
What was happening to him? He looked like he was disintegrating in front of them.
The boy leapt at Coffin again, but this time there was no power behind it. Whatever demonic strength the boy once had seemed to be quickly evaporating. He landed at Coffin’s feet, and Coffin saw the back of his head for the first time.
The skull looked like it had been flattened, beneath a tangled mess of hair and blood. Like he’d fallen, or slammed against a wall. He crawled towards Coffin, grunting and moaning, his teeth snapping at Coffin’s feet.
Stepping out of the way, Coffin watched as a bloody tooth dropped from Peter’s mouth, and another, and another.
Coffin joined Laura by the door, placing an arm around her shoulders. A siren sounded in the distance.
“The paramedics will look after him,” Coffin said. “They’ll take him to hospital, they’ll find out what’s wrong with him.”
Laura shook her head, crying, as they watched the boy squirming on the floor, moaning.
“Is this what’s happened to Jacob?” she said. “Where is he, Joe? Where’s my boy?”
“He kept saying nine, ninetuh. What does that mean? Nine, ninetuh.”
The siren grew in volume, the ambulance pulling into Laura’s street. Coffin looked out of the window. There was a police car behind the ambulance.
The last thing Coffin wanted right now was an encounter with the police.
“Laura, I’ve got to go, the police are here,” Coffin said.
Laura looked up at Coffin, her tear-stained eyes suddenly round with comprehension. “Ninety-nine!”
“What?”
“Peter, he was trying to say the number ninety-nine! I know he was.”
The ambulance pulled into the drive. The police were right behind it.
Coffin headed for the kitchen at the back of the house, Laura following him.
“What’s that got to do with anything, Laura?”
“Number Ninety-nine Forde Road! You remember, don’t you, Joe?”
Coffin paused. Sure, he remembered.
“We had a call, a child, injured?” The paramedic stood in the front doorway, holding a kit by his side.
“Oh thank God!” Laura said and pointed to the living-room. “He’s in there, plea
se hurry!”
Laura herded Coffin into the kitchen and to the back door. “It’s not locked. Number Ninety-nine, Jacob’s there, I know he is. He was fascinated by the place, I told him not to go snooping around, but he’s there.”
Coffin squeezed Laura’s hand. “I’ll find him.”
He opened the door and sprinted across the garden. He stopped by the side of the house and waited. Once he heard both of the police inside the house, he ran.
joe coffin removes his sock
The car skidded as Tom braked, gravel shooting out from beneath the tyres, hitting the chassis like gunshots. Whatever he had hit last night had bent the driver’s side door out of alignment and jammed it shut. Forgetting he’d had to climb through from the passenger side when he got in the car, he kicked and pulled at the door, screaming in frustration.
Remembering it was jammed shut, Tom scrambled over the handbrake and passenger seat, opening the door and falling on his face onto the gravel drive. He ran up to the front door.
Locked.
Fuck!
How long before that kid Peter told Coffin where he’d been kept prisoner?
If Coffin comes here, and finds Steffanie, if he sees the creature she’s become…oh fucking shit.
Why the fuck did they leave Peter to wander around the house like their fucking pet mascot?
Tom ran down the steps, almost tripping and landing on his face again. He dashed around the back of the house. He’d forgotten to bring the key with him, but he had to get inside. If he had to break in, he would. They liked to stay out of the daylight, he knew that much. Probably upstairs in the bedroom, fucking each other’s brains out, like a pair of fucking animals.
Using his elbow, Tom punched a pane of glass out in the rear door. He reached through and found the key, still in the lock. He fumbled with it, his fingers shaking, until he got the door open.
He stumbled inside, hands against the walls to steady himself. Abel and Steffanie had to get out of here before Coffin arrived. Perhaps Tom could persuade them to leave Jacob behind, if he was still alive. As much as Tom hated that fucking kid, the memory of him lying in that chair, looking like death, had been gnawing at him ever since.