by Ken Preston
Barry let go of the umbrella. “Fuck. Why do I let you do these things? All the time you treat me like shit and mouth off at me, and then—”
“And then I ask you to sit up and beg, and you do. With your tongue hanging out. Men are so fucking predictable, I haven’t met one yet who doesn’t think with his dick.”
“You’re a bitch, Emma.”
“That’s right, and you love me for it.”
Emma held up her hand and waggled her fingers at Barry in a cute little wave and walked away.
She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but there was nothing to be accomplished at the crime scene, and if anything came up, Barry could handle it. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt her to go for a walk, and she needed some time alone to process the events of the last few hours. Emma had left her bag in the car and tucked her mobile into her jeans pocket. The phone felt like a hot brick against her thigh, loaded with complication and threat.
There were all those unanswered messages from Nick, for a start. And there was the threat of Joe Coffin calling her, wanting to talk. He made it sound like they’d reached a significant milestone in their relationship, and in a way, maybe they had. He knew that she had been in touch with Steffanie before she got killed, and he’d want to know what that was all about. At least Emma didn’t have to live with the guilt that Steffanie had been murdered because their clandestine meetings had been discovered. Tom had planned on having her killed all along.
But Emma knew she would have to be careful what she said to Coffin. She had now seen first-hand the violence he was capable of. Would he do the same to her if he thought he had a reason? Emma wasn’t sure, but she didn’t like to think about it too much.
Barry was right, everybody was indoors watching Strictly. Emma could see the glow of the TVs through the windows, and she could imagine the flash of sequin, the judges, the faded celebrities doing their best to pull off a dance move.
On an evening like tonight, nobody was going outside.
Was there any point to this?
Emma stopped walking. There was a wide footpath between the row of houses, leading up at a slight incline. Emma was still on the same side of the street as the park which she had left behind a few minutes ago. Maybe the path lead back to the park, or the woods behind it?
Emma decided to investigate. Behind the houses the path narrowed and became muddier. Once or twice she slipped but managed to catch herself before she fell over. Scrawny trees drew in close on either side of her, and branches snagged at the umbrella. The path soon started descending again, and Emma struggled to keep from slipping as she walked down through the mud, battling with the umbrella and the branches.
Soon she was at the end of the path, her progress halted by a kissing gate, and on the other side of the gate, a canal. The surface of the dark water, usually flat and calm, looked like it was bubbling and boiling under the onslaught of the heavy rain.
Emma pushed her way through the gate and looked left along the towpath. The canal took a loop to the right, cutting through woodland. She couldn’t see where it led to, but there was a possibility that it ran behind the park. If that was the case, then the police would be extending their search down here very soon, had maybe even started already, further up the canal towpath.
Best get a move on, she thought. If there’s anything to be found, you want to be first, before PC Plod and the gang gets there.
At first she tried stepping around the large, muddy puddles in the towpath, but after slipping and almost falling into the cold, filthy canal a couple of times, she started walking through them instead. Her feet were soon soaked to the skin, and her shoes were ruined, but at least that was better than a full body dunking in the canal.
Five minutes later the towpath looped left again, and Emma saw flashes of light from between the dark trees up on the hill to her left. The police were still searching through the woodland, looking for clues, but they were steadily making their way down to the canal.
Emma carried on walking. The canal continued to twist and turn through the woods, and after a couple of minutes walking, the towpath looped around again, and Emma was confronted with a tunnel.
She stopped walking. The tunnel entrance looked like a huge, gaping mouth, swallowing the canal. Emma walked a little closer and stopped again. Inside the tunnel it was pitch black, and she could see no sign of the other side, not even a pinprick of light to indicate the end.
Emma considered the possibility of walking into that big, round mouth, water dripping from the old brickwork over the entrance. She discarded the idea immediately. For one thing, she had no torch, and would be blind in there, probably end up pitching herself head over heels into the canal water. And she had seen too many stupid women in too many stupid horror movies, entering old, dark houses all by themselves where they were chopped into little pieces by the film’s bogeyman.
Get out of here, she thought. Go back and reunite Barry with Jessica. The police will be here soon, and they’ve got torches, and they’re stupid enough to go into the old, dark house.
But the tunnel entrance fascinated her, held her rooted to the spot. She stood under the umbrella, the steady beat of the rain like a soporific, and stared at the dark chasm before her, inviting her in.
Emma flinched, snapping back out of a momentary dream state, when she saw the narrowboat emerging from the darkness of the tunnel. It floated silently towards her, seemingly of its own accord, like a monster from the depths. Longer and longer it grew as it revealed itself from the shadows and drew closer to her.
The boat changed course slightly, and angled in towards the towpath, towards Emma, who had to concentrate on dismissing the ridiculous idea that when it reached her it was going to eat her up.
The rear of the narrowboat emerged from the tunnel, and Emma breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the man at the tiller, the hood of his parka pulled up over his face against the rain. He waved as he drew closer.
Waving back, Emma scolded herself for acting like a silly little girl. But then, she reflected as the man drew closer, she had plenty of reasons to be jumpy at the moment.
The boat bumped against the side of the canal. Maybe the man had spotted something inside the tunnel, or on the other side, and wanted to tell her about it. Did he think she was a police woman? He couldn’t have noticed the Jessica Rabbit umbrella yet.
The man at the tiller drew level with Emma, and she raised her hand in greeting again.
Why hasn’t he got any lights switched on? It’s pitch black inside that tunnel.
“Hi, thanks for stopping,” she said.
It’s like he didn’t want to be seen, like maybe he was hiding in there.
“I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind answering a few—”
The man rotated his head and looked at her from beneath the parka’s hood. Emma recognised him immediately, but it was already too late.
Reaching out and grabbing her, Abel yanked her onto the boat. Emma smacked her head against the cabin as she fell, and she had a moment to see Abel looming over her, his teeth bared in a hungry grin, before she blacked out.
Jessica Rabbit fell into the canal with a quiet splash and began slowly floating away.
i like trouble
Joe Coffin headed back to his flat over the Blockade. He stripped off his filthy clothes and got in the shower, turning the water up hot, and scrubbed himself clean of graveyard dirt. He peeled the soggy dressings off his face and shoulder and torso and dumped them at his feet in the shower tray. Shaddock might complain that he was taking them off too early, but what the hell did he know? He wasn’t even a doctor.
After he had finished showering, he dried himself off and pulled on a clean pair of jeans and T-shirt, and poured himself a large whisky. He stood by the window and watched the rain pounding the empty street outside, relishing the warmth of the whisky as it spread through his stomach. His arm and shoulder ached, and he flexed his hand and rotated his shoulder, trying to loosen it up. A few tiny spots of bl
ood appeared on his white T-shirt, but nothing more. He was healing, growing stronger.
Coffin knew he needed to get back to Craggs, start planning their next move. They’d left a bloody mess behind at Angels, and they needed to clean up. Of course that was going to be a little complicated, considering who else was currently at the club.
Coffin’s grip tightened on the whisky tumbler.
Steffanie and Michael.
Vampires.
Even after discovering the two empty graves, seeing them for himself, Coffin was having trouble believing the truth. Halfway through digging up Michael’s grave, the ground had collapsed beneath his feet, and he had fallen into the empty coffin. Once he had cleared some of the soil out of the way, he saw why.
The lining inside Michael’s coffin had been ripped apart, and there were deep gouge marks left in the wood. The lid had been ripped open, long jagged splinters scattered in the base of the coffin. Michael had obviously turned while he was buried and furiously dug himself out of what should have been his final resting place. But then once he was out he, or somebody else, had filled the grave back in, hiding the fact that he was no longer there.
Coffin shuddered and took a long drink of his whisky.
Steffanie, on the other hand, appeared to have been set free. Perhaps the Birmingham Vampire dug her up, knowing that she would turn. But why did they leave the boy behind? Did they think that he was dead forever?
Did Steffanie even remember she had a son?
And, more importantly, where was Michael now?
Was he also prowling the city, looking for victims, to tear open their throats and drink their blood? Or, being so young and physically small, had he died again, because he was too weak and inexperienced to go successfully hunting?
Coffin drained the rest of his whisky. He considered pouring himself another one, but he had the feeling that he wouldn’t be able to stop at a second whisky, and he wanted to stay sharp and focused right now. He needed to get back to Angels and clean up the mess, dispose of Tom’s body. But that involved facing Steffanie again, and Coffin wasn’t entirely sure how he would react the next time he saw her. Even just thinking of her tensed him up and hurt his head.
Maybe she had already left Angels. Her and that creepy old vampire. Coffin had seen Tom blast the old man in the stomach with the shotgun, but having experienced how indestructible these creatures seemed to be, Coffin suspected he was up and about again by now.
Then there was the problem of the video footage of Coffin murdering Terry Wu, and the files that Tom had downloaded from Craggs’ computer. If Tom hadn’t managed to recover them, and Steffanie didn’t have them, where the hell were they? Did Emma have them? But if so, why hadn’t she handed them over to the police?
Coffin’s mobile buzzed, shocking him out of his thoughts. He looked at the screen. A number he didn’t recognise, but then he hadn’t exactly advertised the fact that he now had a phone.
“Hello?”
“Joe? It’s Laura.”
Coffin turned away from the window and the rain, massaged the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension out of his head.
“Hey, is everything okay? How’s Jacob?”
“Jacob woke up.”
Coffin could hear the emotion in her voice. She was close to tears.
“He woke up, and now he’s asleep again, but the doctors say he’s doing well, he’s going to be okay.”
“That’s great, Laura,” Coffin said.
“Joe, have you seen Tom? I need to talk to him, tell him about Jacob.”
Coffin gripped the phone tight.
“No, I haven’t seen him at all.”
“That reporter was here, she said the police are after him.”
Had Emma told Laura about their involvement? About the chase up the motorway? What did Laura know about Tom and Steffanie keeping Jacob prisoner?
“But I don’t care anymore,” Laura said. “I’m leaving him. I’ve had enough of all the crap he keeps throwing at me. Maybe he deserves to know that Jacob is all right, but other than that, I don’t care anymore.”
“I think that’s the right thing to do. You don’t need him.”
“I spoke to Craggs, got your number off him. He said there had been some trouble at Angels, that you’d been in a fight. Are you okay, Joe?”
“I’m fine, it was nothing,” Coffin said.
More lies. But Laura needed to be kept out of this. If she knew the truth about Tom, and Steffanie, if she found out that Coffin had murdered Tom, how would she react? Even though she was leaving him, even if she found out the complete truth about what a loathsome bastard Tom Mills had truly been, did she need to know that Coffin had bludgeoned him to death? What would that do to her fragile emotional state?
“Laura, I need to go now, but I’ll be round tomorrow, come and visit Jacob, if I’m allowed.”
“Of course you are, I’ll make sure of that. Jacob would love to see you, I’m sure.”
“That’s great, see you tomorrow.”
“Bye, Joe.”
Coffin dropped the phone on the sofa and closed his eyes. He knew what needed to be done. The club had to be cleaned up, and all evidence of what had gone on tonight, including Tom’s body, needed to be disposed of.
And if Steffanie was still there?
Joe Coffin hadn’t got an answer for that one.
* * *
Craggs wouldn’t let Coffin go to the club on his own. He wanted Rob and Charlie Stutterer to go with him. That way, Coffin had reinforcements if he needed them, and he had two more pairs of hands to help with the cleaning up.
“What are you going to do on your own? Spend all night in an apron and a pair of fucking Marigolds, scrubbing the place down? And what about that bastard Tom? How are you going to get rid of his body? Strap him to the back of your motorbike and hope nobody notices his head looks like a squashed tomato?”
Coffin could see the sense in what Craggs was saying, but he still didn’t like the idea. Rob was striding up and down, his gangly, tattooed arms swinging wildly, and yammering his head off at full speed like he’d just snorted a line of cocaine, or popped a load of ecstasy. Stut, on the other hand, was slouched in a chair, working hard at looking cool in his denim jacket, black hair slicked back in a rockabilly quiff, and a cigarette hanging from his mouth.
As far as Coffin was concerned, they were a disaster waiting to happen.
The problem was, nobody ever said no to Craggs.
“And what are you going to do if that bitch is still there?” Craggs said.
Coffin clenched his teeth together. ‘That bitch’ had been his wife not so long ago.
“I don’t know. I’ll talk to her.”
“Talk to her! Bloody hell, Joe, listen to yourself. She didn’t seem in much of a talking mood earlier.”
Craggs doubled over in a coughing fit. Coffin and Stut watched him hacking and coughing, and even Rob stopped striding up and down and stared at the elderly Slaughterhouse Mob leader. When it finally subsided Craggs sat up straight again, wiping flecks of spit from his mouth.
“We should get you to a hospital,” Coffin said.
“No,” Craggs wheezed. “Last time I was in a hospital, I had to sit and watch as my beloved Patsy died in front of me. That was twenty years ago, and I said to myself, I’m never setting foot in one of those places again. I’d rather eat a bullet than that.”
“Yeah, b-b-b-but, Doctor Sh-Sh-Shaddock said, y-y-y-yyyyyyy—”
“I know what Frankie said,” Craggs snarled, rounding on Stut, and cutting him short. “If I’ve got internal bleeding, we’ll soon find out, won’t we? And then you fucks can take it in turns to stick a bullet in my head, but until then, I’m in charge, and I’m saying I’m not going to no fucking hospital!”
Stut pulled out a comb and ran it through his perfectly neat hair a couple of times. He put the comb away and sat with his elbows on his knees, studying the floor, no longer working hard at looking cool.
Rob re
turned to striding up and down, filling up the space with his movement.
Coffin held up his hands. “All right, no hospital. Not yet, anyway. But I’m going back to the club, and I’m not taking these two fuckwits with me.”
“Yes, you are,” Craggs said, quietly. “There’s no argument, Joe.”
Stut pointed at Coffin and looked at Rob. “Did he j-j-just call us f-f-f-f—”
“Shut up, Stut!” Rob hissed.
Coffin glared at Stut. He was a newcomer to the Slaughterhouse Mob, brought in on Rob’s recommendation, because Craggs had been running short on the ‘muscle’. Stut had been warned off indulging in any extra-curricular activities that might bring the cops down on them, but even so, Coffin had been unhappy. Someone like that, with no respect for women, liked using his knife at the slightest provocation, Coffin knew he would be trouble.
Right now, from the look on his face, Stut had maybe realised he was overstepping the mark. He looked like he might try and out stare Coffin, but then dropped his gaze, his cheeks flushed with anger and embarrassment.
“All right then,” Coffin said, but not liking it, not one bit. “You two are going to have to arm yourselves. If Steffanie and the old man are still there, we’ll be in trouble.”
Stut looked up at Rob and grinned. “I l-l-like trouble.”
“Not this kind, you don’t,” Coffin said.
a guard dog from the depths of hell
Someone was crying. Not big sobs, not helpless wailing, or anything like that, just a quiet series of snuffles and tiny little sobs. Reminded Emma of herself as a child, after a massive blow out of screaming and yelling. Finally she would calm down and have to endure a ‘talking to’ from her father about her behaviour. All the while she would be aware of the anger and resentment bubbling just under the surface, ready to explode again. And so she would stand there, quietly sobbing tiny little hiccups, eyes wet, snot streaming from her nose, as her father talked and talked, about good and bad, and Jesus on the cross, and the example of her sister, and blah fucking blah. And she knew that she had to keep in control, because if she lost it again, she would have to endure even more of the ‘talk’ from her father.