Joe Coffin Season One

by Ken Preston

  “Oh my, Terry. It’s filthy. And the best part? You get to do it with me.”

  The fat man looked like he was about to come to orgasm right there and then. “Can we do it now? Can we, can we?”

  Steffanie’s face hardened, the smile disappearing in an instant.

  “No, Joe’s coming round to see you, remember?” She glanced at the clock, a 40 inch plasma screen on the wall, the digital numbers filling the display. “I should go now, he’ll be here any minute.”

  “Fucking Joe Coffin,” Terry Wu grumbled. “I already told Craggs I don’t want to sell. I give him enough money every month, why he keep bothering me?” He looked at Steffanie. “You should leave the big guy, come live with me.”

  “I already told you, if Joe ever finds out about us, then we’re both dead.”

  “Maybe I should kill Joe Coffin.” Terry Wu giggled. “What would Craggs do without his pet gorilla then? Maybe I kill Craggs too, and then I don’t have to pay money every month. Then I could be boss of Slaughterhouse Mob. I am big guy then, right?”

  “You already are a big guy, Terry,” Steffanie cooed.

  “Oh baby, I just want to fuck you right now.”

  “Later, I promise,” Steffanie said, backing up to the door.

  After she had gone, Terry stared at the closed door for a few moments. Then he swivelled around in his chair to face his computer. He moved the mouse around, clicking a few times, and then tapped on the keyboard. When he had found what he wanted, he simply stared at the computer screen, his face going slack.

  He dropped a hand beneath his desk and unzipped his trousers. Soon his hand was going up and down beneath the desk in regular, rhythmic movements. The tip of his pink tongue appeared between his pudgy lips again, his breathing deepened, and his eyes took on a sleepy, trance like look.

  The door to his office opened and slammed shut. Terry Wu’s face snapped back alert and, hunched over his desk, he zipped himself back up again. He swivelled around in his chair.

  “You should knock before you come in!” he shouted.

  “My apologies,” Joe Coffin said. “Did I interrupt a conference call?”

  Terry Wu stood up. He didn’t look much taller standing than he had when sitting down. “I was doing very important work, very confidential work!”

  “Is that right?” Coffin said. “Funny that, because it looked to me like you were having a wank.”

  Coffin sauntered over to the computer. Terry scrambled for the mouse, moved it, closed a window down.

  Coffin stared at Terry Wu. “You’re a sick fuck, Terry. You know that?”

  “You got no business breaking in here and looking at my confidential work,” Terry Wu shouted. “I should call police, have you arrested!”

  Coffin pointed at the computer. “I’m sure the police would be very interested in examining your computer hard drive, Terry. You want to give them a call?”

  “You get out of my office now!” Terry Wu shouted. “I already told Mr Craggs, I not selling the club. I already told him, I pay too much money every month, he charge too much.”

  Coffin was wandering around the office, looking at the posters on the walls. “You could have been onto a good thing here, Terry. All Mort wanted was for you to get more punters in. It should be easy enough, right? You got girls wearing nothing but a smile who dance all night and look like they enjoy it, you got alcohol, shit, Terry, it’s a private club, the men can even smoke in here if they want. All Craggs wanted was for you to make this place a success. You make money, he makes money, everybody’s happy. But that isn’t happening, is it, Terry? The club looks like a graveyard out there.”

  “Business slow right now,” Terry Wu said. “I can’t help that.”

  “Sure you can. If you spent less time in here doing the five fingered shuffle, and more time working the club, business would soon be on the up and up.”

  “Is that what Mr Craggs sent you here for, to tell me to ‘up my game’?”

  Coffin was still looking at the posters, examining each one in turn, as though he was at an art gallery. “No, Craggs didn’t send me round here to say all that, Terry. That was me talking.”

  “Then why are you here, Joe? I already paid up this month. I can’t afford to pay you any more.”

  Coffin looked at Terry. “Have you been outside tonight, Terry? It’s a nice night. A clear sky, the stars are out, it’s too nice to be inside. I took the bike out for a spin before I came here. I needed some time to think. I’ve been doing that a lot lately, thinking about my life, about Steffanie and Michael. Thinking how maybe I don’t like it so much anymore, knowing that my wife is flaunting her naked body for those creeps out there.”

  “You be careful, Joe, you’ll be going to church next,” Terry Wu said, and giggled.

  Coffin smiled, but there wasn’t any warmth in it. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, Terry. I don’t care what people get up to. Sometimes think about buying one of these clubs myself. Run it right, you could make a killing. But my wife? It bothers me that she’s out there tonight, exposing herself like that, for money. It makes me feel bad.”

  “Steffanie’s my best dancer, Joe, you know that. I can’t let her go, I’d lose half of my customers.”

  Coffin nodded. “I know.”

  Coffin stopped when he reached the Samurai sword.

  “Is this for real?”

  Terry Wu nodded, suddenly smiling like a little kid. “Oh yeah, genuine 100% real Samurai sword. David Carradine gave it to me, look he signed it.”

  “Was he the Kung Fu guy, used to travel around the Wild West, having adventures? I used to love that TV series when I was a kid.”

  Terry Wu nodded again, still excited. “That’s him, yeah.”

  “To Terry, peace, David Carradine,” Coffin read out. “Seems a little ironic, signing with a message of peace on a weapon of death.”

  “Is that all, Joe? Are you finished?”

  “Not yet, no,” Coffin said, turning to face Terry Wu. “I told you I went for a ride on my bike, for a think. I was thinking about you, too, Terry. I’ve never liked you, always thought you were a smarmy, oily creep. But even so, I think I must be starting to develop a conscience as I grow older. Mort sent me here to kill you, Terry. He wants you out of the way, so he can buy the club.”

  Terry stepped back, bumped into the back of his chair by the computer. “But you’re not going to do that, are you, Joe?”

  Coffin regarded Terry, his eyes flat, dead. “I’d been thinking, maybe not. I’d been thinking, maybe I’m getting tired of the life, maybe it’s time for a change. Thinking I could get my family, and we could move out, maybe go abroad, somewhere nice, by the sea. I could open up a bar, kind of like retiring, you know?”

  “Sounds nice, Joe. You should do it.”

  Coffin sighed, like he was genuinely sad. “But then I came in here, saw what you were looking at on your computer. That’s really fucking sick, Terry. Even if Mort hadn’t told me to kill you, I’d do it anyway, after seeing that.”

  Terry held up his hands, started backing up, away from Coffin, away from the computer. “It’s not what it looks like, Joe, honest. These kids, they get paid good money, nobody forces them, they know what they’re doing.”

  Coffin pulled out a gun. “Don’t fight it, Terry. I can make it easy on you. Quick, painless.”

  “Joe, seriously, you don’t want to do this. You kill me and the brothers will hunt you down and avenge my death.”

  “Seriously?” Coffin said, grinning. “You sound like a character out of one of those Kung Fu movies you love so much.”

  Terry Wu stared wide eyed at Coffin. He looked like he was about to cry.

  “You shouldn’t laugh at the Seven Ghosts, Joe. If you kill me, they will hunt you down and catch you, and you will endure the horror of a thousand deaths, until they decide to kill you for good.”

  Terry Wu had backed up to another desk, a big, grand, dark affair, looked like it belonged in a castle, or something. With a sud
den movement, he reached underneath it.

  Coffin shot him in the shoulder, and he spun around and hit the floor.

  Terry Wu was lying on his back, clutching his bloody shoulder. He gazed wide eyed at Coffin, standing over him.

  “Please, Joe,” he said. “Please, don’t—”

  Coffin shot him in the head.

  He pocketed the gun and walked back over to the Samurai sword. After examining it a while longer, he pulled it off the wall, still in its presentation case, and closed the box. Tucking the long, ornate box under his arm, he walked over to the door, pulled out a cloth and wiped the door handle, the only thing he had touched in the office.

  After he had gone, the office was silent.

  Terry Wu lay on his back, on the floor.

  Bleeding into the carpet.

  a delication of maggoty scramps

  Tom Mills sucked hard on his cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, and exhaling slowly. Fucking things were killing him, but what did that matter? Once Coffin found out that he’d been shagging his wife, Tom was a fucking dead man, anyway. Except, Tom hadn’t been fucking Coffin’s wife, had he? Because that monstrosity wasn’t Steffanie Coffin. She looked like Steffanie, and she spoke like Steffanie, but she was a fucking nightmare.

  Half the fucking night she’d kept him up, shagging him dry. His stomach turned at the thought of it, now. Her flesh against his, so fucking cold he thought he was going to be left with fucking frostbite. Even her cunt was like a fucking ice pack, thought his cock would shrivel up and disappear when he stuck it in her, but no, the opposite happened, and he got so hard it hurt. And her breath, dear god, her breath, sweet as death and putrefaction. And those teeth, brushing against his neck, and suddenly he’d needed her to sink them into his flesh, begged her to bite him, and suck at his blood.

  She only giggled and teased him with the pointy tips of her teeth.

  Tom took another deep drag on his cigarette, ran a trembling hand across his forehead.

  The doors to the service station slid open and shut as travellers drifted in and out, in ones and twos and little family groups. Quieter than it had been yesterday, the coffee bars and food areas were still relatively busy.

  After escaping from Coffin and that reporter yesterday, Tom had driven the Mercedes another twenty miles up the M6. Not wanting to attract any more attention, he had left the hard shoulder at the first opportunity. Tom had stopped at the next service station and booked himself a room. Once he’d smuggled Steffanie and the Father into the room, he had taken the Mercedes, leaving the motorway at the next junction and dumping the car in a supermarket car park. He caught a taxi back to the service station.

  Tom flicked his cigarette butt away, and it landed on the wet ground in a shower of sparks. A woman, followed by a sullen teenager, scowled at Tom as she passed him. Tom placed another cigarette in his mouth and lit up. Standing smoking under the canopy at the entrance to the service station probably wasn’t a good idea. The anti-smoking police would probably turn up soon, get him to move on, tell him he was causing problems smoking in a public place.

  But the more immediate danger was that he might be recognised. After assaulting that Mercedes driver and stealing his car earlier in the day, Tom’s name and photo were all over the news. Along with Joe Coffin. Fucking gorilla couldn’t go anywhere without being recognised. If it hadn’t been for Coffin, then Tom might never have been pegged for the assault. But with enough of a description of Tom from the onlookers, and his known association with Coffin through the Slaughterhouse Mob, it was inevitable that Tom had been identified by the police.

  Tom should have stayed in his room, kept out of sight, but he couldn’t stand it in there, watching Steffanie and her corpse friend sucking blood from those IV bags. And, as much as that had turned his stomach, he was hungry.

  He’d risked being out in public, bought himself a hat, a new jacket, and the weakest pair of reading glasses he could find. Couldn’t see shit when he wore them, but at least it changed his appearance a little. He bought a burger and fries, and once he’d eaten them, washing them down with a coffee, he stepped outside for a smoke.

  Except it was fucking raining, which was why he was sheltering under the canopy at the entrance, risking being spotted.

  Fucking motorway service stations. Was this going to be his life from now on, moving from one bland hotel to another, driving up and down the M6? Fuck it. If Coffin had a mobile phone, Tom would be tempted to call him now, confess all, let him come over and rip his fucking head off.

  Anything was preferable to living with that creature called Steffanie Coffin, and her friend the fucking zombie. It was like living in a horror movie.

  Bloody hell, that had been a close thing with Coffin, earlier. Another second later and Coffin would have seen Steffanie lying on the floor in the back of the car.

  Fuck. That would have been bad.

  A gust of cold wind blew across the forecourt, driving rain in under the canopy. Tom shivered. Took another drag on his cigarette.

  Looked up and saw Stump and Corpse approaching him.

  “About fucking time,” Tom muttered.

  The rain didn’t seem to bother either of them. Corpse was still wearing his undertaker suit, his arms sticking out from the sleeves of his jacket, and the hems of his trousers flapping around his shins, revealing his dirty, white sport socks. Walking beside the tall, stick thin Corpse, Stump looked even more ridiculous. Short and fat, she was wearing a long, black leather coat and sunglasses, obviously styling herself after Neo in The Matrix. Tom’s eyes were immediately drawn to the plastic left hand, thinking about that razor-sharp blade grafted to her stump.

  “What fucking kept you?” Tom said.

  Stump smiled, and for a single, horrifying moment, Tom had the sickening feeling that she was flirting with him. “Oh, Mr Mills, that mouth of yours, so filthy.”

  “Like a delication of maggoty scramps, hmm, lovely tastering wormies,” Corpse said.

  “Another call, so soon after our last meeting?” Stump said. “Not more blood, I hope, at such short notice too.”

  “No, no more blood,” Tom muttered. “I’ve got another job for you.”

  “Oh, good, Mr Corpse does like a little variety in his life.”

  Corpse’s cracked lips stretched back, in what Tom supposed was an attempt at a smile, and revealed two rows of brown, chipped teeth, and gaps. “Mrs Stump, she’s manking smashioned.”

  “Let’s step inside, shall we?” Stump said. “It would be nice to get out of this cold wind.”

  Tom glanced back through the windows at the families and couples sitting around the tables, eating burgers, drinking coffees and cokes. He shuddered at the thought of taking Stump and Corpse inside, at sitting with them at a table. Would they want a drink? Something to eat?

  No, he couldn’t go inside with them.

  “Well, wouldn’t it be better if—”

  Too late, the odd couple were already pushing past Tom and walking inside. Tom took a last, deep drag on his cigarette and dropped it on the floor.

  “Oh, fuck,” he whispered, the smoke billowing around his face.

  Stump took her time choosing a table, finally selecting one between a family of squabbling children and a young couple with a baby. The young mother watched, wide eyed, as Corpse sat down on a seat nearest to her. He grinned at her, his index finger rooting around up his nose.

  “Well, I do believe I’d like a scone with cream and blueberry jam,” Stump said, “along with a cup of herbal tea.”

  “We’re on the M6, not in the fucking Cotswolds,” Tom said. “I’ll get you both a cheeseburger and fries.”

  “Hmm, delicional,” Corpse said, sucking on his finger.

  One of the three arguing children, sitting next to them, screamed. His older brother was tormenting him, snatching at the crappy, plastic toy he’d got with his burger. Stump turned to the family and lifted her yellowing, shiny plastic hand to her lips, and said, “Shhh.” />
  The entire family stopped eating and talking, and stared at Stump, and her mannequin’s hand.

  The three children burst into tears.

  Tom escaped to the queue for the food. By the time he got back, the family with the arguing children, and the couple with the baby, had left.

  He didn’t blame them.

  Corpse attacked his burger like he hadn’t eaten for several days. As he chewed, he continued shovelling more of the burger and bun into his mouth, accompanied by wet snorting noises and grunts of pleasure. Stump took her time, first of all taking her meal apart, sifting through the fries and the contents of the burger meal with her plastic hand. Tom watched her, trying to block out the sound of Corpse eating, and wondering what she was looking for. Did she think the meal was poisoned, or contained stray fingernail clippings or mouse droppings?

  Finally satisfied, she put every element of the meal back the way it had been, and began eating.

  Very slowly and delicately.

  “Right, if you two are fucking satisfied with your meal, maybe we can get down to business?” Tom said. “Did you bring me a car?”

  Stump dropped a car key on the table. “A Ford Mondeo, quite a few years old, won’t be missed for at least another couple of days.”

  “Good, good,” Tom said, picking the key up, and pocketing it. “Now, I’ve got another job for you.”

  “Of course, Mr Mills, please carry on,” Stump said, through a mouthful of food. “How can we be of help?”

  Tom took a deep breath. This was the part he hadn’t been looking forward to. “All right, I’ll be honest with you, I’m in a shitfuck load of trouble, and I need you two to do something for me.” He paused, tried concentrating on Stump, tried to keep his voice level. “Off the books, as it were.”

  Stump stopped eating, gazed at Tom with a mild look of surprise on her fat, splodgy face.

  “Yeah, you heard me,” Tom said. “This is just between us, right? I’m willing to pay above the odds for this one, because I know it’s not how we usually do things.”

  Stump lay her burger down and dabbed at her pudgy, ketchup smeared lips with the paper napkin. “Really, Mr Mills, you do surprise me.”