by Ken Preston
And there was that smile again, slightly coquettish, vaguely flirtatious. Tom’s stomach suddenly rolled over, and he ground his teeth together.
“Yeah, life’s one big fucking adventure, right?” he said.
Corpse was attacking his fries now. Sometimes he held one up, and examined it, but mostly he just shovelled them into his mouth, still grunting with pleasure. He hadn’t said a word since he started eating.
“We had best get down to business then, hadn’t we?” Stump said. “Which, exactly, of our many services, do you require?”
“I need someone taking out,” Tom said.
“Ooh, one of our most expensive services,” Stump replied, smiling. “Are you paying for this out of your own pocket?”
“You don’t have to give a shit how I’m paying for it, all you need to know is if I can pay. The question is, how much will you be charging?”
“For a personal job? Off the books? That would depend on many variables, Mr Mills. Let’s see, shall we start with the identity of the poor soul who has offended you so dearly, you feel the need to terminate that person’s existence upon the earth?”
Tom took another deep breath, wished he could smoke in here.
“Joe Coffin.”
Corpse coughed, and sprayed a revolting mixture of half chewed chips and ketchup across the table, and over Tom.
“Fuck!” Tom hissed, standing up and brushing lumps of wet food off his jacket. Any more time in the company of these two, and he feared he might actually throw up. The faint, but slowly growing stronger, whiff of piss and body odour didn’t help, either. This was another reason Tom had wanted to talk outside. Anytime he met with Stump and Corpse in the warm indoors, he always left with their familiar stink of rotting flesh and unwashed clothes stuck in the back of his throat.
Tom sat back down. There was a fat, glistening globule of chewed, soggy fries on the table. Looked like vomit, or something out of one of the Alien movies. Corpse scooped it up off the table and straight into his mouth and swallowed.
“Now, there’s an interesting choice for a hit,” Stump said, as though nothing unusual had happened.
“Fucking interesting or not, how much would you charge?” Tom said, concentrating on trying to keep the contents of his stomach right where they belonged.
He wondered, if he threw up on the table, would Corpse eat that, too?
Stump shuffled around in her seat, stuffing a hand down between her voluminous backside and the back of the chair. She had to lean forward, the table’s edge pressing into her soft, large stomach. She pulled a battered, stained notebook out of her back pocket. It was ring bound, and torn, and repaired in many places with Sellotape. She placed it on the table and opened the front cover. Then she licked her index finger and began flicking through the pages, each one covered with black, spidery writing, mostly numbers, written in thin columns.
When she found the page she wanted, she ran her finger down the numbers, stopped midway down a column, and pushed the notebook over to Tom, tapping at a particular figure.
Tom stared at the number. He had been expecting a high price, but not this high.
But if it could get Coffin out of his life, it would be worth it.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll pay it.”
“You’re not going to haggle?” Stump said.
“No, I haven’t got time for haggling.” Tom reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a white envelope, bulging with notes. “This is just over half your price. You get it done, we’ll meet again, and I’ll give you the rest. Okay?”
Stump took the envelope from Tom, had a quick glance inside. She gave the envelope to Corpse, who stuffed it inside his undertaker’s jacket.
“When?” Tom said.
Stump looked at her half-eaten burger. She didn’t really seem to like what she saw, anymore. But she picked it up anyway, took a bite.
“I’ll just finish my meal first,” she said, her voice muffled by the food in her mouth. “I don’t like working on an empty stomach.”
the cat's whiskers
Coffin woke up with hot spikes drilling into his brain, his mouth sticky, his tongue thick and covered with fur. His face and chest still throbbed from where Shaddock had closed up his open wounds last night. He considered sitting up, but the hot spikes drilled deeper, and into his eyeballs, at the thought of even trying. The room decor didn’t help with his hangover one bit, all reds and purples, hanging drapes and expansive, tastefully pornographic prints decorating the walls.
And then there was the bed.
Oh God, the bed.
Coffin lay on a massive water bed. Every movement he made, no matter how small, set the bed’s surface undulating. Coffin had never been to sea, never even set foot on a boat moored in a harbour, but now he knew what seasickness felt like.
Water, that was all he wanted right now. A cool, clear glass of water.
Twisting his head, very slowly and carefully, Coffin spotted a glass and a pitcher of water on the bedside table. Somebody was looking after him. But it all seemed an impossible distance away. Even with his long arms, Coffin couldn’t see how he could possibly reach the glass, and the pitcher of water. And the thought of twisting onto his side, with all the rolling and heaving that that would set off in the mattress, started a sickening churning in the pit of his stomach.
Coffin closed his eyes.
How much whisky had he drunk last night?
He seemed to recollect Craggs opening another one of his aged whiskies, whilst Shaddock sutured Coffin’s wounds, which had opened up when Tom almost ran him over. When the repair job was finished, the three men had sat in Craggs’ office, talking, bullshitting each other, the two older men reminiscing over shared history. How Shaddock had been part of the Slaughterhouse Mob from the beginning.
Coffin had doubled up with laughter when he found out that Shaddock wasn’t a real doctor.
“Not a single fucking qualification to my name,” he gasped, between fits of laughter, and wreathed in cigarette smoke.
“It’s fucking true!” Craggs shouted, tears rolling down his face.
“And you let him sew me up?” Coffin said and cracked up again.
“And that Clevon kid,” Shaddock said. “He told me to wash my fucking hands, and so I asked him where his medical qualification was.” He paused, steeling himself to deliver the punchline. “I’m just fucking glad he didn’t ask me for mine!”
And they all collapsed into laughter again, Coffin gripping the sides of his chair.
Coffin vaguely remembered trying to go home, back to the flat over the Blockade, in the early hours of the morning. But Craggs wouldn’t let Coffin leave the club, said the police were looking for him, said the fucking rozzers had most likely staked his flat out, and that he should stay here the night.
“Besides,” he said, “look at the fucking state of you. You’re pissed.”
And so Coffin had wound up staying the night at Angels, in one of the Fuck Rooms, as Craggs liked to call them. The rooms weren’t advertised, or even talked about, but if a customer had been let in on their existence, and a particular dancer caught his eye, then for an undisclosed sum of money, he could spend the night with her in one of the five rooms.
When asked by the club manager, Addison Lightfoot, why he never advertised the service, Craggs had said, what do I fucking look like, a fucking Madame running a fucking whorehouse?
The subject was never discussed again.
And now here Coffin was, lying on a water bed, in a Fuck Room, trying to work out how he could get off the bed.
In the end Coffin did what he always did when faced with a difficult situation; tackled it head on. He gritted his teeth and hauled himself off the bed, the slopping and swooshing noises of the water in the mattress, not helping to settle his stomach. He landed face down on the richly carpeted floor, and lay there, steadying his breathing, letting his head clear.
Once he had stood up and taken a long drink of water, Coffin started to f
eel better. It wasn’t often that Joe Coffin suffered with a proper hangover. And once he put his mind to something, there wasn’t a whole lot that would stand in his way.
Not even a hangover.
Coffin took a shower, turning the water up as hot as he could stand it. Stood under the jet of water, let it beat against his skin. Shaddock had told him to keep his dressings dry, but what did he know?
Back in the bedroom, Coffin dried himself off with a large, soft towel, and wrapped it around his waist. He picked up his T-shirt, held it out and had a look at it. The white was dotted with small splodges of red, where his wounds had opened up, and there was a wide, dirty scuff mark where he had rolled over on the road, out of the way of the Mercedes. He put the T-shirt to his face. Didn’t smell too good, either.
First thing he needed to do today was get back to his flat, change into some clean clothes. Talk to Mort, see how he wanted to play this situation with Tom. Whatever he was up to, he wouldn’t stay away for too long, Coffin was sure. Tom Mills wasn’t any kind of leader, he was a hanger on, that kid at the back of the gang, always wanting to prove himself, full of talk and bluster, but never able to commit.
No, he’d be back soon enough, his tail between his legs, ready with some pathetic explanation for his actions over the last couple of days. But Coffin wasn’t having any of it. How could he have known where Jacob was being kept prisoner and not told anyone? The bastard didn’t deserve to live. Mort wanted to hear Tom out, give him a chance to explain what’s been going on. All Coffin wanted to do was put a bullet through his brain.
That’s what Mortimer Craggs would have done once. The old man was growing soft in his old age.
There was a knock at the bedroom door.
“Yeah?” Coffin growled.
“Joe? It’s Laura, can I come in?”
“Sure.”
Coffin opened the door.
Laura’s eyes flicked over his naked torso, at the white dressings turning pink after Coffin’s shower, and the purple bruise down his side.
“Shit, Joe,” she whispered.
Coffin stood back, extended his arm into the bedroom. “Welcome to the Fuck Room.”
Laura giggled and stepped inside.
She was carrying a rucksack, held it out for Coffin, said, “I stopped by your place, got you some fresh clothes, thought you might need them. Looks like I was right.”
Coffin took the rucksack. “Thanks. How’s Jacob?”
“The doctors are still keeping him under sedation, they say his body needs the rest. They might try waking him up later today, or maybe tomorrow.”
“You shouldn’t have left him,” Coffin said. “Especially not to go and get me some fresh clothes.”
“I needed to get out of that hospital, just for a little while. I’ve been sat by his bedside since the day before yesterday, sleeping in the chair. I needed a break.”
“Sure,” Coffin said. “You need to look after yourself, Laura. Jacob will be home soon, you’ll need to be strong to take care of him, help him get over this.”
Laura looked up at Coffin with tired eyes, gave him a faint smile. She reached up, stroked his cheek with her fingertips.
“You’re a good man, Joe. Why the hell did we ever separate?”
“I don’t know,” Coffin replied.
He studied her drawn, pale face. She seemed to have aged the last couple of days. But he could still see that young girl he had first been smitten with. The first time he’d noticed her, he’d known he had to have her. Pursued her with a single minded determination until she gave in. They were married too young. That had been part of the problem.
And Coffin’s inability to keep his hands off any beautiful woman that crossed his path. That hadn’t helped, either.
“Laura,” he said, brushing his fingers through her hair, “you should dump Tom, get rid of him. He’s no good for you, or the boy.”
“I know,” she whispered.
Coffin considered telling her what he knew about Tom, about his involvement in Jacob’s imprisonment.
Not yet.
Laura ran her hands down Coffin’s chest. “You’re going to have so many scars.”
“Don’t worry, I have the most eminent plastic surgeon in the world looking after me,” Coffin said.
“You mean that grumpy old bastard, Shaddock?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my God!” Laura said and rested her head against Coffin’s chest.
Coffin placed a hand against her back. “You remember the first time we met?”
“We were in that awful nightclub, what was it called?”
“The Cat’s Whiskers.”
Laura giggled. Coffin liked that giggle, liked the feel of it against his chest.
“I was out with my sister Lucy, and her boyfriend, ‘Shocker’ Benson. Why, Joe, why was he called ‘Shocker’?”
“Because whenever anyone touched him, you got a shock.”
“Oh, I remember. Didn’t he used to run around, touching people, giving them static electric shocks?”
“That’s right, and he introduced us.”
“God, I thought you were so ugly when I first saw you.”
“And I thought you were beautiful.”
“I know, you spent the rest of the night following me around like a lost puppy.”
Coffin laughed. “That is a lie. I spent maybe half the night following you around like a lost puppy.”
“You’re right. And then you spent the other half of the night snogging my face off.”
“Not bad for an ugly bastard like me, huh?”
Laura smiled, he could feel it against his chest. “You’ve got something special, Joe, makes people look past you, past that screwy face of yours. The women could never keep their hands off you, could they?”
“I never tried too hard to fight them off.”
“No, I don’t suppose you did.” She had her arms around him now, fingers interlaced behind his back. Tilted her head back, looked up into his face. “Come here, Joe. Give us a kiss for old times’ sake, why don’t you?”
Coffin bent down. Their lips touched, briefly.
When Coffin pulled back, he could see Laura’s eyes were bright with tears.
“You almost died, getting Jacob back to me,” she whispered.
“Nah, I’m fine, it looks worse than it is, that’s all,” Coffin said.
Laura shook her head, on the edge, close to crying. “Don’t make a joke of it, Joe. The police, they told me, they said that man who held Jacob in that cellar, they said he’s still alive, he escaped.”
“Don’t worry, Laura, he’s not coming anywhere near you or Jacob.”
“But you, Joe, he might be after you. And if you couldn’t kill him the first time—”
“I’ll kill him the next time.”
Laura kissed Coffin on the chest. “Always the same, Joe. Always ready just to confront all your problems head on.”
“No other way of doing it.”
Laura looked up at Coffin again. “What did you say this room was called?”
“A Fuck Room.”
Coffin felt Laura’s fingers tugging at the towel wrapped around his waist, loosening it.
“I never did say thank you for bringing my son back to me,” she said.
merv, looking the part
Emma sat in her hire car, and watched the workmen in their high-viz jackets erecting a tall, panelled fence around Number 99 Forde Road. Signs were being attached to the fence: POLICE - NO ENTRY. Slowly, the house was disappearing behind a blank wall.
Was it to protect the crime scene from disturbances by curious thrill seekers? Or perhaps the fence was being put up to protect the city from the house itself. Help the people of Birmingham forget that a child had been kidnapped and held prisoner in a cellar, whilst he was cut open and drained of his blood.
To erase the memory of that house from the city’s imagination.
If only they knew what else had happened. If only they knew that one of
Birmingham’s most notorious criminals, a man fresh out of jail for assault, had been the one to rescue Jacob. And almost got himself killed in the process.
Emma popped the tab on a can of coke and took a long swallow. This was her third can. She had been feeling sick all morning, and the cokes were helping settle her stomach.
Emma didn’t know why she was sitting here, watching the fence go up.
Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that she had almost died in that house.
One of the men glanced in her direction, the second time he had done so in the last few minutes. He spoke to a colleague who glanced in her direction too. What were they? Policemen, or contractors hired to do the work?
Contractors, Emma decided, but she didn’t want to take the chance of one of them coming over and asking her what she found so interesting about their work this morning. She finished the coke, dropping it in the passenger side footwell, and drove away.
The windscreen wipers swooshed across the rain spotted glass, cleaning it away, giving her a clear view of the road. Emma wished she could clear away the fog surrounding Tom Mills and his involvement with the Birmingham Vampire. They had got so close yesterday, to finding out who Tom Mills was ferrying around in his car.
But he was gone now, and Emma had other concerns for the moment. Like, where the hell was that USB stick with evidence of Terry Wu’s murder? And, if Steffanie was to be believed, files linking Craggs and the Slaughterhouse Mob to the city’s drug trade, extortion, smuggling immigrants into the country, and gangland executions going back fifty years or more.
Steffanie had said Joe Coffin was the man who pulled the trigger on Wu. Said that it was all captured on video. If so, that was a shame, after seeing the way in which Coffin had fought the Birmingham Vampire to rescue Jacob.
Still didn’t absolve him of murder.
Emma slowed the car to a halt outside the home of Steffanie and Joe Coffin.
Nice house. Semi-detached, in a nice, leafy, quiet residential area. Not exactly the home that Emma had pictured for a pole dancer, and her gangster husband. The Birmingham Herald had done a feature on the Slaughterhouse Mob a couple of years back and interviewed the neighbours about Joe Coffin. They all had nice things to say about him. Polite, quiet, a good neighbour. Couldn’t believe all those things that were written about him.