Joe Coffin Season One

by Ken Preston

  The three of them. Just take off and leave all this shit behind.

  “You two follow my lead,” Coffin said. “You’ve got no idea what you’re up against in there. If you’re not careful, you’re going to wind up dead, or even worse.”

  Stut and Rob glanced at each other. Coffin could tell what they were thinking, that he’d maybe lost the plot. He didn’t give a shit. All that mattered was cleaning up the mess in there, and disposing of Tom’s body.

  And Steffanie.

  But Coffin didn’t really know what he was going to do about Steffanie.

  The three men walked over to the back door of the club. When Coffin and Emma had left with Craggs earlier, the door had been open. Now it was shut. Coffin tried pushing at it, but the door wouldn’t budge.

  “Shall we kick it down?” Rob said.

  “That’s a f-f-fire door, you moron,” Stut said. “Who do you think y-you are, the Incredible Hulk?”

  “All right, you got any better ideas!” Rob hissed.

  As he said this, he swung around to face Stut, his gun pointing at Coffin for a moment as he turned. Coffin snatched the pistol off Rob and held it in front of his face.

  “You point this thing at me again and I will shove it down your fucking throat,” he snarled.

  He shoved the gun into Rob’s chest and let it go, and Rob grabbed it before it dropped on the floor, staggering under the force of the blow.

  “You two stay here,” Coffin said. “I’m going around the front, let myself in and come and open up the fire escape door for you.”

  “What if the front doors are locked, Joe?” Rob said.

  Coffin held a fistful of keys in front of Rob’s face. “I’ve got the key.”

  “Okay. Good.”

  Holding the shotgun close to his body, Coffin walked through the car park and out onto the street. The rain had eased off a little, and a few commuters had ventured out, but the streets were still mostly empty. Coffin was sure that he could keep the shotgun hidden long enough for him to get inside Angels without anyone spotting it.

  He unlocked the entrance doors and pushed on the angel wings door handles. The double doors swung silently open. Coffin pushed them shut and flicked on the lights.

  Clevon still lay on his back in a pool of his own blood, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling. Coffin walked slowly around him, careful not to step in the blood. A cold rage began to take a grip on Coffin as he looked at Clevon with his trousers and pants round his ankles, and his cock and groin a ripped mass of blood and mangled flesh. The thought of Steffanie humiliating and murdering Clevon sickened Coffin.

  Clevon hadn’t been part of the Slaughterhouse Mob proper, more of an employee at the club. Of course he knew who he had been working for, he hadn’t been stupid, but Coffin had the feeling that Clevon would have moved on at some point. Earlier this afternoon they had been playing pool, and Clevon had been talking about his plans for the future, but Coffin had only been half listening.

  He wished now that he had paid him more attention.

  A second body lay huddled on the floor. Coffin had noticed it earlier, but not investigated it. He had a feeling he knew who it was, though. He bent down and gently eased the body over.

  Addison, his throat ripped open.

  Coffin sighed, heavily. Addison had been part of Craggs’ crew for a long time. He was ‘solid’, as Craggs liked to say.

  Steffanie.

  No, that thing wasn’t Steffanie. Not anymore. She was a monster.

  Coffin straightened up.

  But how long had she been a monster? Had Tom been telling the truth about Steffanie and Terry Wu? And shopping him to the papers, setting him up to get nabbed by the police for Wu’s murder? Steffanie and Emma, conspiring together, only Emma was being used too.

  And Tom Mills, pulling all the strings in the background, until they started unravelling, anyway. But even he wasn’t the one who was ultimately behind it all. That was down to the Seven Ghosts. A Triad faction, something that Coffin had thought was simply a part of Terry Wu’s overheated imagination.

  Gripping the shotgun tight, Coffin walked through the foyer, towards the nightclub doors. If Steffanie and that ancient piece of shit that looked like a scarecrow were still here, he was going to take him out first. A shot to the head with both barrels of the shotgun should put him down. But knowing how much these things were able to get back up again, Coffin was going to tie him up, too. Then, when he’d dealt with Steffanie, he could make sure both of them never came back from the dead ever again.

  Coffin pushed his way through the doors.

  The club was silent. The stage was deserted, apart from the chairs still lined up where Coffin, Emma and Craggs had sat. Some of the tables and chairs were still turned over, where there had been fighting. Apart from that, the club looked ready to open its doors. The bar was lit up in a fluorescent glow, the rows of pumps ready to dispense lager and cider, and the shelves filled with bottles of brightly coloured alcohol, some of them looking like they had come straight from a nuclear reactor. Coffin half expected a bartender might appear at any moment and start serving drinks. The empty stage was spot lit, the silver poles gleaming under the lights, waiting for the dancers to come on stage, and gyrate around them, and caress them like lovers.

  Coffin walked slowly through the club until he reached Tom. He was lying on his back, his head a pulped mass of blood and bone and brain. The police would have to check his fingerprints to identify him. But Coffin didn’t intend to give them that chance. Tom Mills needed to disappear forever.

  As far as Laura was concerned, it was better if she thought he had finally abandoned her and Jacob. Knowing that Coffin had smashed Tom’s skull in with the stock of a shotgun until it resembled a squashed tomato would only complicate matters.

  Coffin walked through the club and down to the back, where he opened the door and let Rob and Stut in. They both looked wired, Rob especially, and once more Coffin regretted bringing them with him.

  “Go get the roll of polythene sheeting out of the car,” he told Rob. “First thing I want you to do is get Tom’s body wrapped up and in the boot of the car. After we’ve got rid of him, we can think about what we’re going to do with Addison and Clevon, and then we can start cleaning up.”

  “Do you think we n-n-need more help, Joe?” Stut said.

  “No. We need to keep this as quiet as we can. It’s going to be a long night, but do the job right, and Craggs will look after you.”

  Rob was straining to look over Coffin’s shoulder into the darkened club. “Is there anyone else here?” he said.

  “Not that I’ve seen so far,” Coffin said. “While you two are getting that body out of here, I’ll check out the rest of the place.”

  Coffin checked the toilets first, going through every cubicle. His reflection, in the large mirror over the sinks, was pale and sickly looking under the fluorescent lighting. His wounds stood out red and raw looking, and they itched maddeningly. The surrounding skin had begun tightening up. Wasn’t that supposed to be a sign that they were healing?

  When Coffin had finished searching the ground floor, he took the stairs, slowly and quietly. Until he had searched the entire building, he couldn’t relax. Steffanie and her companion might have gone, but Coffin couldn’t imagine where. Did they have some sort of vampire lair somewhere in the city? Or was that what the house on Forde Road had been? If that was the case, then they had nowhere left to go.

  But then what about the Birmingham Vampire? Where the hell was he hiding out?

  At the top of the stairs, Coffin paused, the shotgun held out in front of him. The landing area was wide, with sofas around the edges, beneath large prints of tasteful nudes. Immediately to his left was Craggs’ office, the door closed. On the right were the Fuck Rooms.

  Coffin stood outside the door to Craggs’ office, waiting, listening, his body taut. If they had nowhere else to go, surely Angels would make a good base. A vampire’s lair.

  Coffin
turned the door handle and pushed the door open.

  The first thing he saw was Velvina, lying in a large, dark pool of blood, her mouth and eyes open, as though she was still astonished at being dead.

  But Coffin didn’t linger over her body and cast his eyes around the large office. He immediately saw Steffanie, sitting at Craggs’ desk, now clothed in an oversized, blood stained T-shirt. She looked as though she had been sorting through piles of documents on the desk, but now she was looking at Coffin.

  “I thought you’d be back,” she said.

  Coffin closed the door behind him.

  “I couldn’t stay away,” he said.

  Steffanie’s face had healed up somewhat, but her right eye was still an empty socket, and there were ragged holes in her cheek, and Coffin could see teeth, and part of her tongue there. Did she see something in his face? Some sign of the revulsion he could feel churning around in his stomach?

  “Am I not beautiful anymore, Joe?” Steffanie said. “There was a time when I could turn you on, just by looking at you.”

  “Yeah, but you were alive, then.”

  “I’m alive now, Joe. More alive than I have ever been.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re a monster. A fucking evil monster, nothing but a blood sucking leech.”

  “Is that what you really think? Come over here, Joe, let me touch you, let me kiss you. You could fuck me, right here on Craggs’ desk. Wouldn’t you like that?”

  “No, not even if you were still alive. Is it true, what Tom said? That you were fucking Terry Wu?”

  “You always were so old fashioned, Joe. Even though you could never keep your dick in your pants when you saw a beautiful woman, you were so ... quaint when it came to marriage.”

  “Why did you do it? Was it for the money?”

  Steffanie threw her head back and laughed. “Of course it was for the money. Didn’t you ever stop to think why he paid me more than the other dancers?”

  “I thought it was because you were the best dancer he had.”

  “Terry didn’t care about that. He paid me extra because I sucked him off every night in his office. Sometimes two or three times. You should have seen the size of him, Joe.”

  The base of Coffin’s skull was throbbing painfully. “Did our marriage mean nothing to you?”

  “Listen to yourself, Joe,” Steffanie said. “Let me think, were you faithful to me? No. You were out fucking every little trollop that fluttered her eyes at you.”

  “That was different.”

  “I know,” Steffanie said, and smiled slyly. “I got paid, but you, you just gave yourself away.”

  “Was that all you ever cared about? The money? Is that why you set me up?”

  Steffanie stood up, made her way around to the front of Craggs’ desk, her movements slow and languid, the long fingers of one hand trailing across the papers on the desk.

  “You were always so stupid, Joe. You never could see what was right in front of that big, ugly face of yours. Of course it was for the money. That’s what it was always about, right from the moment I first saw you at Angels, watching me dance, your tongue hanging out of your mouth like a stupid dog. I thought you’d have money, I thought you’d be fun, and you were at first. We had some good times, didn’t we, Joe, in the early days? But then you started talking about marriage and having kids.”

  “You could have walked away,” Coffin said. “I didn’t force you to marry me.”

  The smile slipped away, and Steffanie frowned. “No, you didn’t. Not you, at least.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Slaughterhouse Mob. Mortimer Craggs. That’s what I’m talking about. That’s what I didn’t realise at the time, that I wasn’t just in a relationship with you, but I was in a relationship with the Mob, and Craggs, too. And it was so fucking suffocating, Joe. But once I was in, I couldn’t get out. Craggs thinks of the Mob as his family, and he’s the head of that family, the grand old man, sitting at the top of the table. But it’s not true. Being in the Slaughterhouse Mob is like being a prisoner. No, it’s like how a fly must feel when it gets caught up in a spider’s web. It struggles and struggles and tries to get free, but the more it struggles, the more it gets wrapped up in sticky strands of webbing.”

  “Are you saying Mort forced you to marry me?”

  “No, not directly, anyway. But Craggs had his ways, and you were always his favourite, Joe.”

  “So you decided to shop me to the newspapers, and the police.”

  Steffanie ran her hands through her long, red hair, pushing it back off her face. “But you were going to kill Terry, and what was I going to do without all the extra money he used to pay me?”

  “But Tom set you up, too.”

  Steffanie giggled.

  “What? What are you laughing at?”

  “I fucked Tom, too, and you know what, Joe? He was a surprisingly good fuck at first, before I wore him out.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore,” Coffin said. “Whatever the hell you are now, you’re not Steffanie. I’ve come here to kill you, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Can you do it, Joe?” Steffanie said, her mangled lips forming into a sly smile. “I don’t think you can.”

  “After what you’ve done these last few weeks? Keeping Jacob prisoner in that cellar? All those people you’ve killed? And that poor girl over there, and Addison and Clevon?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about them, they’ll be waking up soon, and they’ll feel fine.”

  Coffin’s grip tightened on the shotgun. If what Steffanie said was the truth, then he had to get out, get Rob and Stut out before they were overwhelmed. Four hungry vampires? Coffin didn’t like those odds at all.

  Wait, not four. Five. Fuck. The old man, where is he?

  nick ruins his shoes

  “Hey, Barry, have you seen Emma?”

  Nick Archer joined Barry, sheltering beneath the open boot of his car. The rain, after easing off a little, was pouring from the sky like a sheet of water over the edge of a waterfall. Nick was wearing a long raincoat, with the collars pulled up. Emma always said that he just needed a pork-pie hat, and he would look like Popeye Doyle in the French Connection.

  Barry was perched on the edge of the boot, looking morose. “She was here earlier, but she scooted off over half an hour ago, left me all on my own here.”

  “Space for me there?” Nick said.

  Barry shuffled sideways and Nick sat down next to him. It was good to get out of the rain, even for a moment or two.

  “Any idea when she’ll be back?”

  Barry shook his head. “Nope.”

  “I’ve been trying to call her all day, but she’s not picking up her phone or answering her messages. She say anything to you? Am I in the doghouse over something I’ve said or done?”

  “I’ve hardly seen her myself. You know what she’s like, she prefers working solo, couldn’t bear to have anybody else cramping her style, or sharing credit for a story with her.” Barry glanced at Nick, the realisation of what he had said spreading over his face. “Uh, that is, I didn’t mean—”

  “Forget it,” Nick said. “I know exactly what Emma’s like. I bet she’s a royal pain in the arse to work with, right?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”

  “I would, and I don’t even work with her. I’ve got it worse, I have to live with her.”

  Barry looked at Nick, obviously unsure how to respond.

  Nick clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Listen, if you see her, tell her I’m looking for her, okay?”

  “Sure,” Barry said.

  Nick stood up, stooping beneath the hatchback door.

  “But if you find her first,” Barry said, “tell her I want Jessica Rabbit back.”

  “Jessica Rabbit?”

  “Yeah, my umbrella. She took my Jessica Rabbit umbrella with her, which is why I’m sitting under here, trying not to get wet.”

  “Jessica Rabbit, the
cartoon hussy with the big melons, from that movie ...” Nick snapped his fingers as he tried to remember.

  “Who Framed Roger Rabbit,” Barry said.

  “Oh yeah, I remember. Isn’t that a kids’ film? You got children, Barry?”

  “No.”

  “I suppose you borrowed the umbrella, rushing out here in the rain, right?”

  “No, the umbrella’s mine,” Barry said, a sullen note creeping into his voice.

  “Don’t you think that’s a bit strange, a grown man who owns a child’s umbrella?”

  “It’s not a child’s umbrella. It’s a big golfing umbrella, with a picture of Jessica Rabbit on it.” Barry shifted position uncomfortably and looked up at Nick. “What’s this all about, anyway?”

  Nick grinned, held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, sorry, sometimes I forget who I’m talking to. You spend most of your time interrogating lowlifes and murderers and rapists, you wind up talking to everyone like that. If I find Jessica, I’ll send her straight back to you.”

  Nick was still grinning as he left Barry with his car. Emma had often scolded him for the way he spoke to people, treating casual conversations like police interviews, ending up intimidating them, making them feel like they needed to confess to a crime. But back there, with Barry? That had just been fun.

  Jessica Rabbit. What was that all about?

  Collar turned up and shoulders hunched against the wind and the rain, Nick ran through the park, towards the wavering beams of torch light cutting through the gloom in the trees ahead. At least he knew that Emma was around here somewhere. He needed to check in with the officer in charge first, and then he would try Emma again.

  He was starting to wonder if she was avoiding him, and not just because they’d had an argument last night. This morning Nick had received a call from Malcolm Sanderson, in the Staffordshire Police, saying that Emma had been identified as having been on the scene at Hilton Park services when Tom Mills had assaulted that man and stolen his car. As a courtesy they were holding off bringing her in for questioning for the moment and letting Nick know so that he could choose how to deal with it.