Joe Coffin Season One

by Ken Preston

  “If I was a superhero, wouldn’t I be wearing a cape, and flying alongside the plane? I could wave at you through the window.”

  “Not all superheroes can fly,” Stone said. “Spider-Man can’t.”

  Leola laughed again. “Spider-Man’s a pussy. I could eat him for breakfast.”

  “I bet you could.”

  “I could eat you for breakfast, too.”

  “Now that would be fun.” Stone took a moment, thinking maybe he should change the conversation. Get back on safe ground. “But you still haven’t told me what you do for a living.”

  Leola leaned in close, and Stone could smell her musky scent, and he gripped his arm rests tight.

  “If I tell, you’ve got to promise to keep it a secret,” she said, her voice low.

  “Sure,” Stone said. “Cross my heart and hope to die, as we funny English people like to say.”

  Leola leaned in even closer, her lips brushing his ear, her breath warm on his face.

  “I organise sex parties,” she whispered.

  * * *

  Stone grabbed Leola by her shoulders and flipped her over, on her back. He straddled her hips, and pinned her wrists to the mattress.

  “I prefer being the one on top,” he said.

  “Making you nervous, was I?” Leola whispered.

  “I was just feeling a little claustrophobic, and besides, I prefer the view from up here.”

  “You can drop the corny dialogue with me, mister, I’ve heard it a thousand times before.”

  “I’ll bet you have,” Stone murmured.

  A bar of sunlight from the hotel window had fallen across Leola’s breasts, and Stone let his gaze linger on the tattoo. The red and black lines curved around her breasts in a dense pattern, curling in on each other and out again. It made him a little dizzy if he looked at it for too long. The design closed in as it encircled her nipples, standing erect and still glistening with his saliva.

  Stone had guessed right. The tattoo was one complete design. It covered her torso, both front and back, and crawled down her arms and over her thighs. It made him feel dizzy and faintly nauseous if he examined it for too long. Almost as though the tiny shapes and swirls came to life and started dancing and jumping across her flesh.

  “Are you going to tell me about this tattoo?” Stone said.

  Leola began undulating her hips against him. “Maybe. Depends.”

  “On what?” Stone said, as he released her wrists and stretched himself out across her body.

  “On whether or not you manage to satisfy me.”

  Stone raised an eyebrow. “Really? You seriously think there’s a chance I can’t do that?”

  Leola smiled. “Oh, you men, you’re all the same.” She ran a hand down his back, her fingers tracing a line over his buttocks, and round under his hips until she found him, hard and tight. She gave him a squeeze. “Think all you have to do is shove your little friend inside me, and wiggle him about, and I’ll be screaming with pleasure in no time.”

  “Oh, I think I can do better than that,” Stone said.

  He began kissing her, and licking her brown skin, as he moved down her torso, and over her abdomen, and down between her legs. The tattoo seemed to be at its densest here. A distant part of Stone’s mind wondered if it extended beneath the triangle of dark hair between her thighs.

  But then Stone forgot all about the tattoo as Leola arched her back, presenting herself to him. He started licking her, his tongue playing with her. Leola gripped his shoulders, shivers of pleasure undulating through her body.

  Stone ran his hands up over her stomach and down again, stroking her thighs. She was rubbing her hands over his back, caressing him as her breathing grew shallower and faster. Suddenly she dug her fingers into his back, her fingernails sinking into his flesh.

  Stone yelled and pulled away.

  “What the fuck?” he hissed.

  “Don’t stop,” Leola growled.

  Stone grabbed her wrist and yanked her hand around in front of him. The tips of her fingernails were red with his blood, and the sight of it excited him. Letting go of her hand he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head back. He thrust himself inside her, clamping his mouth over hers, his tongue exploring hers. He could feel her hands running down his back again, but he was only dimly aware of the sensation, and the thought that she might scratch him again only served to build up his excitement even more.

  Stone let go of Leola’s hair as he came to climax, and he screwed the bed sheets up in his fists. He pulled back, his mouth leaving Leola’s as he gasped.

  Leola’s head snapped forward. Through the roar of his blood in his head, every nerve ending in his body exploding, Stone realised she was sinking her teeth into his neck.

  * * *

  Leola stood at the hotel window, her naked flesh bathed in sunshine, stretching like a cat. Running her hands through her hair, she watched the cars navigating traffic islands, edging into the stream of traffic on the dual carriageway. A river of tourists and frequent travellers, heading out of the airport, towards the motorways.

  It had been a long time since she had been in England, and she was looking forward to seeing how much had changed.

  Leola ran her hands down over her breasts and her abdomen, enjoying the sensation of her fingers on her skin. Her nerve endings were still sensitive and alive. Tiny sparks of pleasure coursed through her body at the touch of her fingers.

  Leaving the window, Leola lay down on the bed, smoothing out the rumpled sheets with the flat of her hand. Her movement paused when her fingers reached the spots of red blood, and she rubbed lightly at them with her fingertips. They were dry now. Such tiny spots of blood. Did he really have to make such a big fuss about it?

  The bathroom door opened and Garrett Stone stepped out, a towel wrapped around his waist. Steam curled around and over his shoulders from the shower. Leola’s gaze lingered over his body, taut with muscle, his chest covered in a dark mat of curly hair.

  He was holding a wad of toilet paper to his neck.

  “Started bleeding again while I was showering,” he said. “You sure do like to play rough.”

  “I was holding back,” Leola said. “You should see me when I let myself go.”

  Stone pulled the toilet paper from his neck and examined the blobs of blood dotting the blue surface. “Looks like it's stopping again. How the hell I’m going to explain this to Lucy when I get back, I have no idea.”

  Leola sat up. “Turn around, let me look at your back.”

  Stone turned around and Leola stood up and ran her fingers down his back. Her fingertips traced the bumps of his spine, between the thick layers of muscle. Most of the scratches across his shoulder blades were light, and already the redness was fading. But there were a couple where her fingernails had gouged deeper, drawing blood. They would heal over quickly enough, though.

  Her fingers found the edge of the towel, and she tugged at it.

  Stone stepped away, turning back to face her, clutching the towel. “Much as I’d love to, I haven’t got the time. Lucy will already be wondering where the hell I am.”

  Leola glanced down at the ridiculous looking protrusion in his towel. “Are you sure?”

  Stone planted his hand on her chest and pushed her back down on the bed. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  He let the towel fall to the floor and walked back into the bathroom. Leola watched him, admiring his ass, the rolling bunches of muscle under his skin. When he came back out of the bathroom, he had put a dressing over the wound on his neck. He bent down and began picking up his clothes, discarded across the room. Leola, reclining back on her elbows, watched him slowly covering up his beautiful nakedness with his clothes. Stone pulled on his shirt, checking that the dressing on his neck was secure, before he buttoned up the collar. When he had finished, he looked like the smartly dressed businessman she had first noticed on the flight over.

  Shame.

  She much preferred him naked.

  Leo
la reclined fully on the bed. Watching Stone, she ran her hand down over her abdomen until her fingers found the thatch of hair between her thighs.

  Stone picked up his hand luggage, the only bag he had travelled with, and looked down at her.

  “You’re not making it easy for me to leave, you know that, don’t you?”

  “That’s the idea,” she said.

  “Unfortunately for you, I make it a habit of not succumbing to temptation too often.” She watched his gaze sweep up and down her body. “You going to tell me what that tattoo is all about, now?”

  Leola shook her head.

  Stone lifted an eyebrow. “Didn’t I satisfy you?”

  “Nowhere near,” she said.

  Stone pulled a slim, silver case out of a pocket and opened it up. He produced a business card from it and lay it on the bedside table.

  “Call me before you leave England,” he said. “Let’s see if I can do better next time.”

  “Maybe,” Leola said.

  Stone walked over to the door and opened it. He paused in the open doorway and looked back.

  “At least I found out the answer to one of my questions,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “As I suspected, you weren’t wearing any knickers under your dress.”

  Leola giggled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You English people, you use some funny words, that’s all.”

  Stone looked at her some more.

  “Call me,” he said, and closed the door behind him.

  Leola stood up and watched the traffic out of the window again. She saw Stone leave the hotel and walk over to the taxi rank. He got in a car, and the taxi pulled out, driving around the island, and joining the flow of traffic on the main road. He never looked back once.

  Leola watched as another car pulled out and eased into the flow of traffic, following Stone’s cab. It took her a moment to pin down the faint tremble of unease in her stomach. She had seen the car before, when they left the airport. Had it followed them here, to the hotel?

  Deciding it was none of her business, Leola stepped away from the window.

  She opened up her suitcase and rummaged through the clothing until she found what she wanted. She pulled out a small, silver gadget, and took it in the bathroom. Wiping the steam from the bathroom mirror, Leola opened her mouth and ran her tongue over her teeth.

  She hadn’t realised they had grown so sharp again.

  She switched on the silver gadget, and it started buzzing.

  Then she started filing down her teeth.

  36 hours earlier...

  Was that Michael Coffin?

  Nick Archer strained against the cuffs, holding him up against the oven door, without taking his eyes off the boy. The kid was incredibly strong, that was obvious just from looking at him. Nick had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before he had snapped the wooden table leg in half and freed himself from the rope that currently held him. He was a wild-eyed monster, his mouth smeared with blood, and fingers like claws. For the last few minutes he had been pulling against the rope that bound him, snapping his head from side to side, and snarling. Bloody spittle had flown from his mouth, flecks of it hitting Nick in the face.

  But for the moment he was quiet, his head bowed, shoulders hunched, panting from the exertion of his struggles.

  And Nick was staring at him, thinking about how much he looked like Joe Coffin’s dead child.

  It wasn’t possible. Nick had seen the crime scene photographs, even stood and looked at the kid’s body in the mortuary. Michael Coffin was dead. Along with his mother, Steffanie Coffin, he’d been the first victim of the Birmingham Vampire.

  So how come he was here, alive, and looking like something out of a horror movie?

  Nick shoved the question out of his head. He could think about this another time, when he wasn’t cuffed to an oven door in a narrowboat that looked more like a slaughterhouse. The handcuffs were rigid and strong, and there was no way on earth he could get them off without help. But the oven door handle, to which Coffin had attached him, was another matter. There was already a little bit of give in the handle where it was attached to the door. If he could keep up the pressure on it, he might tear it out of its housing, and then at least he could get off this narrowboat, and get help.

  But he could see he was running out of time.

  The boy (it’s Michael, you know it is!) was only small. How old? Four, maybe five? During his career in the police force, Nick Archer had seen some tough, streetwise kids. But nothing like this one. There was something in his eyes that revolted and terrified Nick whenever the boy looked at him. Saying that he looked like a wild animal didn’t cut it. The boy was beyond that. Whatever he had been through, whatever the Birmingham Vampire had done to him, had changed him into a monster.

  And Nick knew that if the boy freed himself first, he would rip him apart in a bloody frenzy.

  Biting down on the towel that Coffin had stuffed into his mouth, Nick pulled at the cuffs again. The rigid, hardened plastic rubbed at his wrists, peeling more skin back. His hands were slippery with blood, but he knew he had to ignore the pain and keep up the pressure. If he could pull the handle off the oven door, he could get out and find help. The cuffs would be a hindrance, but they wouldn’t stop him. All he had to do was run back down the towpath until he found the police searching the area for Julie Carter, and he would be safe. They could get the cuffs off him, and he could lead them back here. Then they could get that kid to safety and find Emma again.

  And arrest Joe Coffin.

  Nick was going to slap the cuffs on Coffin himself.

  Nick strained against the restraints, ignoring the searing pain from his wrists. When he could take no more he sank back, breathing hard through his nose. The dirty tea towel that Coffin had stuffed into his mouth was restricting his breathing, and with all this exertion, Nick felt like he was suffocating.

  The kid still wasn’t looking at him. For the first time he looked exhausted, his head bowed, his mop of hair sticky with blood and drooping over his face. On the table top lay Julie Carter’s body, one arm hanging down off the edge beside the kid’s head. Blood was dripping off her fingers, the steady plip! plip! of each drop hitting the sodden carpet, the only sound in the cabin, over the thrumming of the rain hitting the narrowboat’s roof.

  The cabin was a slaughterhouse, the coppery stench of recently spilt blood thick in the air. Much longer down here and Nick knew he would throw up. He could hardly breathe, and his chest was tight with anxiety. He wondered if he’d been missed yet, if any of his colleagues had tried contacting him on his radio. They couldn’t even phone him. That big fucking gorilla had thrown his mobile in the canal, too.

  What the hell had Emma been thinking, leaving him here with this monster? And what was her connection with Joe Coffin? Was it purely professional, the result of an investigative reporter’s pursuit of a story, or was there more to it? Emma could have been raped and murdered by the Birmingham Vampire, but she had chosen Coffin over Nick for help. Why?

  Was she having an affair with the ugly bastard?

  Fear and frustration building inside his chest, Nick yanked hard at the oven door handle. Michael Coffin’s head snapped up at the rattle of the cuffs, and he stared at Nick, his lips peeling back in a guttural snarl.

  Nick flinched, looked away. The boy’s red-rimmed eyes had a fierce insanity within them. Noticing Nick once more sent him into a frenzy, and he began jerking at the rope that held him to the table leg. His trousers and shirt were stained red with blood, and his feet were bare. Even his toes were forming into claws. His toenails looked thick and sharp enough to rip through flesh with one swift slash.

  The boy snarled and howled wordlessly, like a rabid dog being beaten to death with a hammer. He flung himself against his restraints, heedless of any injury he might do himself. Nick risked a glance up. Michael Coffin’s face was taut with tension, straining every muscle in his body to try and reach Nick. Hi
s red, snapping teeth were less than a foot away from the detective’s shoulder. Beneath all the noise the little boy was making, Nick swore he could hear the creak of the fastenings in the floorboards, slowly prising loose.

  When he finally pulled himself free, the boy was going to rip Nick Archer to shreds.

  He pulled at the cuffs again, ignoring the searing pain in his wrists, jerking against the restraints over and over again. His feet scrabbled on the floor as he twisted and writhed, his shoes slipping in the blood soaked carpet. The narrowboat rocked with the combined motion of Nick and the boy fighting to free themselves.

  If only it wasn’t raining so hard, there might have been somebody out there to hear all the commotion they were making, Michael Coffin howling and snarling and kicking his feet against the cabin floor. Where the hell were Emma and Coffin? Couldn’t they hear what was going on?

  Or had they left him to die here?

  With a splintering of wood, Michael tore himself free from the table leg. The rope, no longer taut, began unravelling. The boy was staring at Nick the whole time, red drool hanging from his chin. Nick braced himself as, completely free of restraint, Michael threw himself at the helpless detective.

  Nick kicked out, the sole of his shoe catching the boy in the throat. He spun around and hit the floor with a sickening splat in the blood soaked carpet. Immediately he scrambled to his feet again, and launched himself back at the policeman, like a wild dog. Nick kicked out again, catching him a glancing blow on the shoulder. It did little to stop him. Michael clamped his teeth into Nick’s thigh and bit down.

  Nick howled in pain, but his screams were muffled by the tea towel that Coffin had stuffed in his mouth. It was as though someone had stabbed glowing red-hot needles into his leg, and then begun twisting them, and digging them deeper. He thrashed and kicked, bucking against the cuffs holding him to the oven door. Michael held on, his teeth sinking even further into the warm flesh.

  The little boy chewed and shook his head, like a dog fastened onto its prey. Bright, arterial blood sprayed from the side of his mouth and over Julie Carter’s lifeless arm, hanging from the edge of the table.