Nails In A Coffin (Demi Reynolds Book 1)

by Luis Samways

  “What’s the meaning of life and death? Find out today when we examine both sides of this particular coin!” the presenter said.

  Hamish sat there and shook his head. He didn’t quite know the meaning of life or death. But he sure knew that both of them were a pain in the ass.

  Twenty-One

  When the sensation of movement returned, Demi began to panic. She didn’t like the fact that they had stopped and then abruptly started moving again. It was as if they were playing mind games with her. She started to pull harder on her wrist restraints. They were becoming a little looser, but in doing so she was opening up some deep gashes on the surface of her skin where the tight material was rubbing against her wrists.

  “Fucking get it together, Demi,” she said to herself, huffing and puffing as the air in the coffin became thicker and less effective at providing her oxygen.

  She knew that the longer she remained in the coffin, the higher the chances were that she’d run out of air and suffocate. She didn’t like the idea of dying in a coffin. It was like she was being prepped to die. Which was an accurate way of looking at things, seeing that she was actually being threatened with death by Donny the Hat.

  She imagined all the people in the world who don’t see their deaths coming. Like the folks who go to sleep at night and don’t wake up in the morning. She didn’t know if she envied those people or not. Part of her did, but part of her liked to know exactly what was going to happen. But that’s where the problems began for Demi. She didn’t know what was going to happen. All she knew was her boss wanted her dead. And he was making sure that she was prepared for death by sticking her in a coffin. But she didn’t know when she was going to die or how she was going to die.

  She was frustrated by that fact alone. It was making her feel angry, angrier than she would have thought. At first she thought she was angry because Donny was going to kill her. But she wasn’t. Not in the slightest. In fact, she understood why Donny was doing what he was doing. She’d have done the exact same thing. In her industry – in their industry, even – it was mighty foolish to not expect death to come knocking at some point.

  Scratch that. It was mighty foolish to believe that you’d never die.

  Everyone dies. Some die honourably, while others die on the crapper. There is no escaping that fact. But that wasn’t what was making her angry. Death didn’t scare her. She expected it a long time ago. But it was the prolonged enjoyment that Donny was showing that really ground her gears. She couldn’t understand why he would do such a thing. She didn’t deserve this. Not after all she’d done for him. After all, she had worked for the man for nearly fifteen years. Surely that counted for something?

  “Apparently not,” Demi said, still struggling with her restraints. She was pulling on them even harder now. Suddenly, she felt her left wrist relax a little. Then there was an audible snap.

  “Yes!” she yelled.

  Her left wrist was free, meaning both her hands were free. Her right wrist had the restraints hanging off it, but she could still move her hands just fine. She rubbed the feeling back into her wrists. She squirmed at the sensation of her dirty hands rubbing against the freshly chafed wounds.

  “Gosh,” she said, still wincing.

  Her eyes bulged in her head as she came to the realization that she was halfway there to being able to attempt an escape. All she needed to do was remove her ankle shackles, and she’d be golden. But there was one problem. The coffin’s low roof wouldn’t allow her to sit up and attempt to set herself free. She’d have to try to do so in another way. She didn’t quite know how, but she’d do it. She knew she would.

  “Air, air, air,” she huffed, feeling like her lungs were shrinking by the second. She started feeling around her chest. It was pitch black in the coffin, but her eyes had adjusted somewhat. She was able to see about one percent through her eyes. She could make out black shadows, nothing more, which must mean that the coffin was airtight. There was no room for any light from the outside to make its way through, which meant that there was no escape route for the carbon dioxide her body was producing every time she breathed. If she continued to breathe, which she assumed would be in her best interest to do so, could actually result in her death.

  The realization that the longer she lived, the more quickly she’d die, made her smile. The irony was unbelievable. It made her smile some more.

  “When life gives you lemons,” she said, her hands touching something cold on her chest.

  It was the cylinder. She contemplated for a second or two whether the cylinder was actually filled with air, or if Donny was trying to trick her into inhaling something far nastier. But she knew her boss rather well and was fully aware of his need to make a show of things. He liked a grand spectacle, and something was telling her that him tricking her into breathing in a deadly solvent wouldn’t be spectacular enough. He’d need blood and guts.

  Or in this case, a coffin and a grave.

  She decided to take the chance, and grabbed the cylinder shaped object with her right hand. She felt around the top of it. There was some sort of mouthpiece on it that was made from plastic. It resembled something divers would take underwater. Like an emergency breathing apparatus. She didn’t know if it was worth using some of the air. She didn’t know how much was in it, but she figured it would make sense to save it for when she knew she was buried.

  “Fuck it,” she mumbled, moving the air canister toward her and sucking on the mouthpiece. She felt a huge spray of air go into her mouth. She pulled hard on it, sucking the air out, and immediately felt somewhat better. Her head felt a little light, but she pulled on it again and gulped a second load of air. She then placed it back on her chest. She held her breath for a while, but then exhaled.

  “You out of those restraints yet?” she heard a voice say. At first she thought she was hallucinating, but then she felt something vibrating on her chest.

  “You there?” the voice said.

  It was coming from the walkie-talkie that Donny had thrown in with her. She’d almost forgotten about it. She felt for the walkie-talkie on her chest and found it, quickly grabbing it and moving it to her mouth. She could smell the plastic as she searched frantically for the button.

  “Press down on the right side of the talkie,” the voice said.

  It startled her somewhat. It was as if he was in her mind.

  “Hello?” she said, pressing down on the button.

  “Hello, Demi,” the voice said, pausing for a second and then saying, “I thought we could play a little game.”

  Twenty-Two

  Hamish pulled up to his usual parking spot. He was surprised to see a black Corsa parked where his car would usually go. He hit the brakes hard, barely coming to a stop inches from the Corsa’s back bumper.

  “Wankers,” he said under his breath, hitting the gear shift and reversing into an unused space that sat next to the bins. He turned the key, and the engine died down. Sat in his seat for a long while he stared at the brick wall in front of him. He surveyed the cracks and the brittle mortar as it clung onto the edges of the brick. Years of heavy rain and cold weather had made the brick wall in front of him become worn and tattered. He looked at it for a little longer and came to the conclusion that he, too, was worn and tattered. Much like the brick wall, he was eroding away.

  There was only so much bad weather a bit of masonry could take before it crumbled into nothingness. Hamish believed it was the same for him as a gangster. There was only so much a man like him could take. Only so much weather. Only so much rain. But by the time the seas calmed and the wind died down, it would most likely be too late. He was already battered by the elements. There was no coming back from the things he’d seen. So he knew he had to carry on. Much like the wall in front of him, he had to stand tall and firm. He wouldn’t buckle under pressure. He couldn’t afford to. He didn’t know how much time he had left in this business, but if he had his way, he’d walk away that day.

  But he couldn’t walk away.
He had a job to do, and that job was to look after the pub that Donny the Hat owned. His duties were to keep troublemakers out of the pub and away from Donny. He was a security guard. Half a gangster, if you will. An associate. A nobody, as Donny once called him.

  He decided to get out of the car. He was doing nothing but winding himself up as he sat in there. He got like that often. He was always dismissive of his own thoughts, but sometimes they controlled him. Sometimes they got him down.

  He locked the door and turned to see the Corsa in his space. It looked new and was by no means flash, but it did cost a few bob, that much was obvious. He walked up to it, his reflection on the brand-new finish reflecting back at him. He stood behind the car for a good two minutes, just staring. He wasn’t sure whether he should call his boss or stay quiet. He didn’t know how his boss would take to an unknown car being parked in their lot. But Hamish decided that he should go into the pub and check if the owner of the car was there. It was the smart thing to do, after all. His boss had told him many times to use his “noggin” and think first before acting.

  So that’s what Hamish was doing. Thinking first before acting. He smiled as he turned away from the car and made his way toward the beer garden. He could hear the faint sound of music playing from the inside. It was muffled from the outside, but clear enough for Hamish to recognize the tune. He hummed along to the record, the sound becoming clearer as he got closer to the doors to the pub. He climbed a few steps and hit the decking, his footsteps echoing off the wooden surface. He reached the door to the pub and opened it. He was met by the sound of music and the smell of beer. He squinted his eyes a little, trying to adjust to the new lighting. He walked in and noticed that the place was empty. He grimaced a little. He walked up to the bar and saw that the jukebox behind the counter was on. He went toward the flappy door and raised it up. He walked behind the bar and turned the music off.

  The bar became deafening in its silence. It was eerie. But Hamish wasn’t scared. Not until he felt something grab his shoulder. Hamish nearly jumped out of his skin. He quickly turned to see a man smiling at him. He didn’t recognize the man, but the man seemed to know him.

  “You’re the thick fellah that mans the doors, aren’t you?” the man said, still smiling at Hamish, still gripping his shoulder.

  “Thick fellow?” Hamish replied.

  “Yes, the retard. That’s you, right?” the man said in a thick Irish accent.

  “I’m not thick, sir,” Hamish said, the tension in his fists becoming far too great. All he wanted to do was knock the man out.

  “The fact that you just called me ‘sir’ when I called you ‘thick’ means you are just that.”

  Hamish shook his head and quickly raised his fist. Pulled it back and then released. His arm straightened out, and his knuckles hit the man square in the nose. If somebody had caught the punch in slow motion, they would have seen the man’s nose bend an inch to the left while his right canine shot out of his mouth. The man fell to the floor, landing on his back. He stared at the ceiling for a long while and then started smiling. A trickle of blood was making its way out of his mouth. Hamish stood over him, his fists still clenched, ready to punch the guy again.

  The man looked at Hamish and said, “Name’s Johnson. I work for Donny.”

  Hamish’s face went a little white. His heart was thumping in his chest. He quickly hoisted the man called Johnson up to his feet and started brushing him down.

  “You know, lad, Donny was right,” Johnson remarked as Hamish continued to brush him down. “You might be a little slow and all, but fuck, can you punch!”

  Hamish blushed a little and stepped back a few paces from Johnson, as if he was analyzing the man.

  “We got off on the wrong foot,” Hamish said, extending his hand for a shake. Johnson obliged, and both men shook hands.

  “I’m sure we’ll get on like a house on fire,” Johnson said, walking up to Hamish and playfully punching him on the arm.

  “But I’m afraid we’ve got something serious to talk about,” Johnson said.

  Twenty-Three

  DCI Amy Francis and DI Lionel Craig stood outside Demi Reynolds’ apartment. They had a search warrant. DCI Francis gave her partner, DI Craig, a look. He was accustomed to reading her every move ever since they were partnered up ten years ago. He smiled at her and said, “You knock.”

  “That’ll be kind of hard without a door to knock on, now, won’t it?” she said, both of them staring at an empty door frame, the door lying cracked and splintered in the hallway.

  There was a musty smell to the place. The sort of smell that accumulates from an empty home. Like the air inside the home had gone stale.

  “Smells unlived in,” DCI Francis offered as they both made their way inside the apartment. They were greeted by a cold chill. It ran up their backs and made the hairs on their arms stand on end. The place was spooky. They were astonished that nobody had called the broken door in.

  “Shocking, isn’t it?” DI Craig said as he looked at her.

  “Why didn’t we know about this? A whole week goes by, and we don’t get told that our number-one suspect’s house had been broken into?”

  “There’s not one single person who lives in this block of flats who would dare look this way, let alone phone the police upon discovering that her door had been busted in,” DI Craig said.

  “So you think that they looted her house? Took all her stuff and made a clean run for it?” DCI Francis asked.

  “Nope. I think people know who she is associated with and wouldn’t risk falling on that person’s wrong side.”

  She stood next to him and surveyed the apartment. It was open plan. The hallway was small yet long. A few pictures on the walls. Horrible wallpaper, but still looked modern. From what she could see from where she was standing, the kitchen was fitted with new units, and the color scheme was black. The living room appeared to be right in front of them. It, too, had a black theme. She was just about to take a few steps forward when her partner’s arm stopped her. He held it out across her chest. She gave him a look, at first thinking he was trying to cop a feel of her breasts, but then she noticed him staring at the ground.

  “Dirty footprints,” he mumbled.

  “Big ones, too,” she retorted.

  They looked at the footprints for a long while and attempted to piece together the scene. From where they were standing, it looked as if there had been a struggle. The door being kicked in was an obvious sign of something violent.

  “Somebody kicked this door in and took her away. I count two sets of footprints belonging to two different people. But the interesting thing here is the overlap,” DI Craig said, taking a knee and examining the floor closely.

  “The overlap?” DCI Amy Francis asked, doing the same thing.

  He turned his head slightly and looked at her. “You see those prints? The tread on the sole of the feet?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Yeah, I see it.”

  “Well, I see two distinct tread marks. One with an arching pattern, probably belongs to some trainers, while the other has a bold and thick accent on its marks, most likely belonging to industrial boots. Maybe steel toecaps.”

  Amy nodded. “Yeah, right there! I see it.”

  “You see how the dirty footprints stop in the hallway and then do a 180, overlap, and leave?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Notice anything different?”

  She pondered the question for a long while and then saw what he saw. “Oh, shit! There’s now three different sets of footprints. Flat shoes. No treads.”

  He stood up and reached for his cell phone. “Exactly. Looks like they came in here, two of them, and took our witness. Either she knows something or did something to piss someone off.”

  She watched him dial a number and put the cell to his ear.

  “Hey, it’s DI Craig. We’re at the house, but our person of interest isn’t here. Seems as if we’ve stumbled on some sort of crime scene. The door was kic
ked in when we arrived, and we have multiple footprints in the hallway, suggesting she might have been kidnapped. We need lab coats down here and a few Met Rapid Response just in case we get some company.”

  He snapped the flip phone shut and looked at his partner. “Who said being a detective wasn’t exciting?”

  They both smiled and waited for backup.

  Twenty-Four

  Demi could feel the anger rising through her. It was making her shake. She had never felt this angry before. She’d come close once. She remembered it well. She was seven, and her father was beating her mother. She could hear it from her bedroom. The muffled sounds of her mother’s screams. The contented laughter that he was sounding off every time he hit her mum. It drove her insane. She wanted to get out of bed and find a sharp object. Any object, as long as it was pointed. She imagined going into her parents’ bedroom and sticking the sharp object in her father’s jugular. She could practically feel the arterial blood gushing over her as she stuck him repeatedly.

  But that was all in her head. She never stuck him with anything. In fact, the bastard died of lung cancer ten years later. Demi was a young woman by then. She’d grown apart from her mother, but she still felt some sort of victory over his death. Especially since he’d never smoked, so dying from the smoker’s disease was a bonus.

  But the anger she was feeling now was rampant. And if she had a sharp object at hand, she would be prepared to use it. The anger was coming from deep within her stomach. It was bubbling, like a raging inferno, ready to explode and decimate everything it touched.

  The source of her anger was the laughter coming from the walkie-talkie she had in her hands. The pitch blackness that engulfed her was now dimly lit by the LCD display on the radio. She held the talkie in her hands and stared at the speaker. She was mesmerized by the little black dots that formed the speaker. She caught her gaze going deep into the holes, as if she could go through them and appear on the other side, where the voice was tormenting her. She imagined dispatching her captors with sharp objects. Maybe garotting their throats. Watching their faces go purple and their tongues swell. Maybe take an eye out, shove it down their throat as they choked. She was that type of person, you see. A violent person.