Joe Coffin, Season One
Author: Ken Preston
Date: 2014-10-05 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Vampires
Description: Get ready. Joe Coffin is on his way. And he's mad as hell. Joe Coffin is fresh out of jail, but going straight is the last thing on his mind. The sickos who murdered his wife and child are still out there, and he’s going to get revenge. The problem is, Joe Coffin is in much deeper than he realizes, and his wife might not be as dead as he believes. Violent, gory, profane and explicit, Joe Coffin is for mature readers only. Written in serial form, there are four episodes in Season One, each available individually or as a complete set at a significant price saving. Vampires on a murder spree. A h
Rights: All rights reserved (#1389773931179000)

Contents

Joe Coffin

Season One

EPISODE ONE

99
skinny kids with tattoos
gyms are for wimps
black and shiny
not scary in a horror movie
chinese whispers
emma on display
someone is digging
peter goes home
it's all bullshit
emma visits the bathroom
niiinnuuuhh!

joe coffin removes his sock

EPISODE TWO
tight little stitches in a dead man's face
maybe superman
bigger than ole king kong
shania twain is a lesbian
stump and corpse
the narrowboat
what's with this leroy
nobody gives a fuck
peaches
dracula
the bat

EPISODE THREE
terry wu
a delication of maggoty scramps
the cat's whiskers
merv, looking the part
wiilllmmmaaaaaa!

we're going to have to kill some people
prod the wasp's nest
baby wipes
let's get this party started
the best orgasm you ever had
the bloofer lady
stupid
more like a corpse than corpse

EPISODE FOUR
uncle frank gets in trouble
evil woman
i can't go in there
edwards number 9
coffin buys a spade
jessica rabbit
i like trouble
a guard dog from the depths of hell
antiques
nick ruins his shoes
harry styles
stut doesn't shoot his balls off
marge
she isn't ordering pizza
let's see you come back from that, you fucker

Read the First Chapter of Joe Coffin Season Two
spider-man is a pussy

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Acknowledgements

Joe Coffin Season Two

Joe Coffin

Season One

Content copyright © Ken Preston, 2014. All rights reserved

This book is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is forbidden.

Cover Design: Ken Preston

EPISODE ONE

99

Jacob Mills’ best friend, Peter Marsden, had been begging him for months to break into No. 99 Forde Road with him. He said maybe they would find a dead body in there, or maybe they would meet a ghost, or get chased by a zombie.

None of these things particularly appealed to Jacob, but Peter kept on and on at him, wearing him down, bit by bit.

The dilapidated, Victorian house had been empty for as long as they could remember. Every morning, as they walked past it on their way to school, they’d tell each other stories about ghosts wandering through the deserted rooms and corridors, skeletal hands clawing at the banisters as they shuffled down the stairs, blood dripping from their empty eye sockets. That’s how Jacob wanted it to stay, a house that they visited only in their imaginations.

The house had been constructed of odd angles and weird extensions. Over the years, sections of it seemed to have sunk slightly, giving the rambling, pointed structure an even more unsettling appearance. Dark windows of different shapes and sizes sat uncomfortably with one another, some of them so recessed under the eaves it was difficult to imagine how they could receive any natural light. Vines trailed all across the frontage, around the weathered window frames and over the front door. Even the tall, tottering chimney pots were being slowly strangled by long, green fingers. Jacob was half convinced that one day he would walk past, and the house would be gone, completely hidden by a mound of twisted greenery.

A set of wide, stone steps, chipped and discoloured from years of neglect, led up to the front door. The steps were guarded by two stone gargoyles, squatting on pillars, their fat lips set in permanent sneers, baring their teeth at anyone foolish enough to approach them.

Jacob could never imagine himself walking past those gargoyles, fearful that they would spring to life, and pounce on him, sinking their stone teeth into his stomach and ripping out his guts.

The two ten year olds lived a few streets away, in River View Gardens, a rundown housing estate, notorious for the number of jobless who lived there. The estate had been built seven years ago, its architects promising it to be a bold new experiment in mixed social housing. Now the bigger, more expensive houses, lay empty or occupied by squatters, whilst the smaller houses were rented out mostly to single mothers and the unemployed.

In all the time that Jacob had lived in River View Gardens, he had never found a river there, or anywhere nearby.

Jacob and his mother and father had moved into a tiny box of a house on the estate when he was three years old. When he was eight, his father came home drunk one afternoon, and flew into a rage over nothing, it seemed to Jacob. His father had picked up a plate and hurled it across the tiny kitchen, where it smashed against a wall. And then he had picked up another, and hurled that one, and another, and another. Jacob’s mother had been washing up at the kitchen sink, and she stood there helpless with fear, soap suds dripping from her hands held up in front of her face.

When he had finished hurling plates and mugs, Tom started venting his fury at his wife. Jacob had hidden under the kitchen table, sick with fear and shame, and watched as his father punched and slapped his mother around the head. When she fell to the floor, he began kicking her in the stomach.

Jacob had finally crawled out from beneath the table and rushed at his father, beating him on the back, and screaming at him to stop kicking his mother. Jacob’s father had ignored him, probably hadn’t even realised he was there, and only stopped when he heard the police pounding on the door, alerted by the call of a distressed neighbour.

The police found Jacob’s father standing over his wife, his chest heaving as he sucked in great gulps of air, his fists clenched and his face contorted in anger. Jacob’s mother lay curled up on the floor, tiny rivulets of blood running across the floor from beneath her head.

Jacob’s father was arrested for assault. Jacob had only fragmented memories of that day, but he had gleaned enough knowledge over the years to work out what happened.

Jacob’s mother refused to press charges, but the police prosecuted anyway. Jacob wondered why they bothered. They knew his father was part of the Slaughterhouse Mob, and sure enough, Mortimer Craggs supplied the best lawyers money could afford, and Jacob’s father walked free.

Jacob had never thought his mum would take him back in again, but she did. He soon realised she couldn’t afford not to. Jacob’s father spent the next few months creeping around the house, trying to ingratiate himself with his wife and son. Jacob wondered what was going on, until he heard his mother talking to Steffanie one night, telling her how Craggs had leaned on Jacob’s father, told him to keep his temper in check from now on. Said if anything like this happened again, Craggs would let Joe Coffin loose on him.

There was no mistaking what that meant.

Jacob was scared of his father, and greeted his awkward attempts at befriending him with sullen, monosyllabic replies. It was only a matter of a few days before the father gave up trying to make peace with his son, and they managed to exist in the same house without talking to one another, and by keeping out of each other’s way.

Peter lived at the other end of the estate, in a house pretty much identical to Jacob’s. Peter’s mother always had a cigarette dangling from her mouth, or held between two fingers. When she finished one, she immediately lit up a second. Even outside, playing, if Jacob got close enough to Peter, he could smell the stale cigarette smoke on his clothes, and in his hair. Jacob once heard his mother and her neighbour, Doris, talking about Peter’s mother. Doris said she was a slut, and Jacob’s mother agreed. Jacob wasn’t entirely sure what a slut was, but he knew it wasn’t a nice term. He thought about telling Peter, but decided against it.

Both boys were small for their age, but the similarity ended there. Peter was thickset and bullish, like his mother. Jacob was slim built, and much quieter.

Peter had already explored the overgrown grounds of No. 99 with his best friend, Dougie. They had found a cellar door at the rear of the house, which had probably once been used for coal deliveries. The wood of the door was rotten, and Peter had been able to pull soft chunks of it free with his fingers, surprised woodlice scuttling over his hands and dropping to the ground.

The two friends had hatched a plan to break into the house, one day in the summer holidays. The trapdoor was padlocked, but the clasp was loose in the rotten wood. Peter said they could easily wrench it free. But then Dougie’s family had moved away quite suddenly, and Peter had no desire to go exploring the rambling old house by himself.

Who knew what grisly horrors might confront him, once inside, and alone.

So he started working on Jacob, telling him the house was surely deserted, had been for years, and there was nothing to worry about, Peter would look after him. Jacob was reluctant, and took some persuading. It was autumn, the leaves turning brown and falling from the trees, before Peter convinced him that breaking into No. 99 was a good idea.

One Saturday afternoon, whilst Jacob’s mother was out at work in the local supermarket, and Peter’s mother was ‘entertaining’ a man friend in her bedroom, the two boys climbed over a fence at the rear of the house and dropped into the long, brown grass of No. 99. The sky was overcast and the light dull. Already, at two o’clock in the afternoon, it seemed as though night was creeping up on them.

Jacob’s insides were loose with excitement and nerves. The boys crouched beside an enormous Ash tree, its dying leaves making a dry, rustling sound in the light breeze. They stared at the house, at its murky windows, their filthy net curtains already conjuring up images of ghosts in Jacob’s head. Part of him wanted to run, and yet the windows, like monstrous eyes, captivated Jacob, and challenged him to venture inside and discover the house’s secrets.

The two boys crept closer, until they were near enough that they could see the vague, shadowy shapes of furniture through the patio windows.

“I’m not sure I want to do this,” Jacob whispered.

“Don’t be a pussy!” hissed Peter. “You’d better come into that house with me, or I’m telling everyone at school that you’re a queer!”

Jacob knew it was no idle threat. He followed Peter through the long grass and stingers, holding his hands up by his chest so that he wouldn’t get stung, and approached the cellar door.

The clasp had been wrenched from the rotten wood, and it lay beside the trap door, the padlock still attached to it.

The two boys looked at each other.

“Did you do this?” Jacob said.

Peter shook his head. For once he seemed to have nothing to say.

Peter bent down and lifted the door open, propping it against the wall.

Jacob looked nervously at the stone steps disappearing into the gloom. He could hear the traffic rumbling along Forde Road, and some young kids playing hopscotch in a nearby street. Outside the grounds of No. 99, life was moving on as normal. But here, time seemed to have stopped. Even the leaves had stopped rustling in the wind, and there was no sign of the rats that the residents of the estate backing onto No. 99 complained of so often.

“Let’s do it, then, yeah?” Peter said, his voice small and insubstantial, not his usual brash tone.

The two boys pulled torches out of their pockets and shone them down into the cellar. Thick strands of dusty cobwebs clung to the dank stone walls, and Jacob’s torch light caught the movement of startled spiders, scurrying into gaps between the stonework.

Peter stepped carefully through the cellar opening first. He hesitated on the top step and turned, his eyes round and wide, to look at Jacob. As though perhaps willing his friend to call the whole thing off, and Peter wouldn’t call Jacob a faggot, or tell anybody at school about their cowardice. The look only lasted a moment, before Peter began walking down the steps. As small as he was, he had to duck his head as he descended.

Jacob watched his friend disappearing into the dark. He thought about turning and running, leaving Peter to face whatever was in the house, alone. He could sprint back and climb over the garden fence, and be back in the safety of his own house in no time. Even the thought of having to endure Peter’s taunts of ‘Faggot!’ and ‘Pussy!’ on Monday morning, didn’t seem too bad right at that moment.

He had endured worse over the years.

But something in the darkness of that house called to him. The mystery that lay behind those blank windows appealed to him, in some grotesque, twisted way.

He stepped through the cellar opening, and followed his friend, descending into the black underbelly of the house.

Rivulets of dark, oily water trickled down the uneven cellar walls. As Jacob walked slowly through the cellar, he realised his feet were getting wet. He pointed his torch at the floor.

“Peter!” he whispered. “Watch out for all the puddles.”

“How did all this water get in here?” Peter said. His voice wavered in the dark. He didn’t sound anywhere near as confident as he had when he first talked about breaking in to No. 99.

“I think it must be seeping up through the floor.” Jacob bent down and touched what he thought was a dry patch of ground. His fingers came away damp and dirty.

“Look at that, somebody’s been digging a hole down here!” Peter pointed his torch at a large, dark shadow on the cellar floor.

Jacob approached it, shining his torch in the same direction. The hole was about six foot deep, and long and wide enough that it looked like a grave. There was an empty wooden box inside, like a coffin. The wood was stained a dirty, dark brown.

Beside the hole lay a sledge hammer and a spade, and a mound of black earth.

Behind the hole, in the further reaches of the cellar, was a collection of ancient, stone jars. They were scattered haphazardly over the floor, their lids by their sides.

Peter swung his torch around. “Bloody hell, look at that!”

Illuminated in the diffuse circle of torchlight, Jacob saw a pair of rusted jaws sitting on the floor, their teeth snapped shut, and pointing up to the ceiling. The two boys approached it with care, fearful that the jaws might open up, and snap their legs off.

“What is it?” Peter whispered.

“I think it’s a mantrap,” Jacob whispered back. “They were used for catching poachers a long time ago. If you step into it, it springs shut, and cuts off your foot.”

“How do you know?” Peter said, scornfully.

Jacob shrugged. “I dunno. I think I heard about it in a history lesson, or something.”

“Look over there, I bet that leads into the house.”

In the pale light, Jacob could see a set of narrow steps disappearing up into the gloom. Stepping carefully past the large hole in the ground, Jacob and his friend walked slowly over to the bottom of the steps. They pointed their torches up, the combined light cutting through the darkness to reveal a closed wooden door at the top.

The two boys looked at each other.

“What do you think?” Peter whispered.

Jacob knew that his friend had lost all his bluster and confidence. At that moment, he could have said that he wanted to go back, and he knew Peter would agree. There would be no name calling at school, no taunts of ‘Faggot!’ That Peter had not had the guts to explore the house, either, would be a secret to be kept forever, a bond between them as powerful as if they had.

This was Jacob’s moment, when he could back out of their plan with no shame.

But his friend’s bluster and name calling outside, had stung Jacob. A perverse desire for revenge festered in his mind.

“I think we should stick to the plan,” Jacob said. “You’re not scared, are you?”

“’Course not,” Peter hissed. “I’m not a bloody queer, you know.”

Peter took the steps first. Jacob regretted riling his friend, and losing his last chance to back out without losing face. Whatever happened next, he was sure Peter would insist on exploring the entire house.

“Come and help me,” Peter said, pushing at the door.

Jacob joined him on the top step and the two boys pushed their shoulders against the old, heavy door, and shoved. It gave a little, and then some more, in tiny, juddering increments. The bottom edge of the door scraped against the floor, leaving curved trails of filth in its wake.

Once they had created a big enough gap, they slipped through, and into a narrow passageway. The floor was made up of uneven slabs of stone, and the walls whitewashed brick. After all the noise they had made, as they had forced the door open, the silence was shocking and oppressive.

On their left was a second door. Jacob peered through the dirty glass panes.

“This leads back outside,” he whispered, hoping his friend would suggest that they use it and escape.

“There’s another door down there,” Peter said, pointing with his torch. “Let’s see where it goes.”

They crept down the passage, and Peter pushed open the door. They entered a large kitchen. The torch light rambled across wooden counter tops filled with broken plates and bowls, scattered silverware, and mounds of what looked like black ash. In the middle of the kitchen there was a massive, heavy table.

Jacob’s torchlight strayed across the table, its surface dark with stains.

Jacob stared at the table like it was something completely alien to him. His lips had gone dry, and his tongue suddenly seemed too big for his mouth.

Jacob pointed his torch up. Hanging from the high ceiling, above the table, were rows of meat hooks. He shuddered a little, at the sight of them.

The two boys left the kitchen, and walked down the narrow passage and through another door. Now they were in the reception hall. In the silence of the house, Jacob could hear a lorry thundering by on the main road. But it sounded distant, as though the lorry was on the other side of town, or an echo from a different time.

In the weak light struggling through the filthy windows, they could see a broad staircase sweeping up to a galleried landing.

“Let’s have a look upstairs,” Peter whispered.

All Jacob wanted to do was make a run for it out of the front door.

He followed Peter up the stairs.

There were several doors on the landing, all closed apart from one, at the rear of the house. It was open just a crack, and Peter headed straight for it. Jacob could see the beam of his torch shaking as he walked.

It was no surprise when he heard Peter whisper, “Let’s just look in here and then get out, yeah?”

“Yeah, I’ve got to get back,” Jacob said.

“Me too,” Peter replied. “Mum will be wondering where I am.”

They were both lying, and they both knew it. It didn’t matter anymore. They had crossed a threshold together, and neither one of them would grass on the other one for being scared.

Peter pushed at the door, and it opened easily and silently. Jacob was standing right behind him. Heavy curtains, hanging over the window, blocked out the last of the daylight. There was a big, old wardrobe standing in the corner, and a chest of drawers with ornate handles. Fat church candles sputtered and flared, puddles of wax gathering around them, where they sat on the floor. Greasy, black smoke curved upwards from the orange flames.

Jacob and Peter stood in silent terror, watching the man and woman on the bed in the flickering light of the candles. They were naked, the man lying on his back, his cock swollen and stiff. The woman was straddled across his chest. Both her hands were wrapped around his head, and she was thrusting her hips against his face, buried in her groin.

Her flame red hair cascaded in curls over her shoulders and down her back as she arched her head, her mouth open, as though she was about to scream.

Peter dropped his torch. It landed with a dull thud on the carpet.

The woman snapped her head around, tendrils of her hair falling across her face. She stared at the boys as she continued gyrating her hips against the man beneath her, pinning his head between her legs. His hands were on her buttocks, his fingers digging deep into her flesh.

The woman stared at Jacob, smiling slyly as she rocked back and forth. Jacob felt as though he was retreating deeper and deeper into his own mind, searching out the recesses and the hidden places, somewhere he could hide from this hypnotic, terrifying spectacle. But whatever he tried, her eyes followed him, penetrating into his most secret places and laying them bare.

A pink, pointed tongue flitted out of the woman’s mouth, and she licked her upper lip, all the while still staring at the boys.

Peter screamed.

The spell was broken. Shocked out of their torpor, the two boys turned to run. Peter tripped and stumbled against the door, and it slammed shut. Jacob grabbed the handle, but the door wouldn’t move, as though it was now part of the wall, as though it had never been opened at all.

Jacob heard movement behind them. Peter had already turned around, putting his back against the door. His eyes were wide and round, tears brimming over his lower lids, and he was mouthing words that Jacob could not hear.

He turned around. The woman had climbed off the bed. She was staring at them as she walked towards them, her movements slow and languid, like she had all the time in the world.

Her red curls, flowing over her shoulders, and the red triangle of hair between her legs, were a shocking contrast to her white, unblemished skin.

As was the dark red blood, running down the insides of her thighs.

Peter was sobbing, his face a blotchy mess of tears and snot. Jacob pushed at the door again, but still it refused to budge. The woman slowly licked her top lip again as she drew closer. Hoarse, throaty laughter filled the room. In the candle light, shadows flickered over the walls, seeming to dance along with the mad cackling.

Like a lithe cat suddenly tiring of its game, the woman pounced on Peter. She dragged him to the floor, straddling him like she had the man on the bed. Peter screamed, pounding at her naked chest, sobbing helplessly. The woman gazed at him, her tongue running along her top lip.

She grabbed his hair and yanked his head back, exposing the soft flesh of his throat.

Jacob looked away as she fastened her teeth on his friend’s neck. Jacob wished he could block out the other boy’s sobs, the sound of teeth tearing at flesh, and then he flinched as heard something snap, and Peter’s screams turned into a wet gurgling and sucking gasp.

When Jacob looked back, he saw the naked man sitting up on the bed. His lips and teeth were smeared with the woman’s blood, and it dribbled from his mouth, as he watched the woman huddled over Peter’s limp body.

Jacob, realising he had been pushing at the door, pulled instead, and yanked it open. He tumbled outside, and sprawled across the landing. As he scrambled to his feet, he glanced back and saw through the open door the woman feeding on his friend, sucking at the wound in his throat. The man was crouched beside the woman, lapping like a dog at a gathering pool of blood on the floor.

Jacob ran for the stairs, his legs trembling and threatening to fold up beneath him with every step. Half running, half falling, he made it to the ground floor and ran for the cellar. The light was fading fast now, and he had left his torch upstairs where he had dropped it in his terror.

He stumbled down the passage, not daring to look back, even for an instant, and plunged headlong into the pitch black of the cellar. His feet slipped on the steps and he began falling out of control. His shoulder hit the stairs midway down, and then his head cracked against a step as he tumbled to the cellar floor.

Struggling to his feet, Jacob blinked warm blood out of his eyes. His hands were dripping with mud where they had landed in a puddle, and his head felt like someone had plunged a knife into it. But, even in his pain and terror, a small, rational part of his mind warned him to be careful of the large hole in the ground, and the mantrap.

Holding his hands out in front, Jacob shuffled cautiously forward in the dark.

Up ahead he saw a faint glow of grey against the total dark of the cellar. It was the open cellar door, leading outside, to freedom. Forcing himself to walk slowly and carefully, he headed for it. Once outside he could dash through the overgrown garden and leap over the fence, and then he would be safe. The first house he got to, he was going to pound on the door, beg for help. Maybe Peter was still alive, maybe it wasn’t too late if the police came now.

Jacob got to the trap door and scrambled up the steps and into the garden. In the late afternoon darkness, he could just about pick out the massive Ash tree, and the fence behind it.

Stumbling towards freedom, long tendrils of grass grasping at his ankles, Jacob struggled not to burst into tears. If he started crying now, he knew he would collapse, and the monsters inside the house would have him.

He paused by the tree, leaning against the trunk, and steeled himself for the run across the last few yards, and then the scramble over the fence. He took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself.

A sudden blow from behind shoved him face down on the ground. Before he could scream, he had been flipped over on his back and a bloody hand clamped over his mouth. The woman’s long tendrils of hair tickled his face as she leaned over him. Her mouth was smeared with blood.

Jacob tried biting her hand, struggling beneath her weight, but it was no good.

She leaned closer, her tongue slithering out of her sticky mouth, strings of red saliva hanging from her sharp teeth.

The terrified boy snapped his eyes shut, waiting for the sharp bite of her teeth in his neck.

skinny kids with tattoos

Joe Coffin looked at the tower block through the rain spotted windscreen. The car’s suspension groaned a little as he shifted his bulk, trying to find a comfortable position. He hated riding in Tom’s car, his head pressed against the roof, despite his best efforts to slouch in the seat. But then there was no room for his legs, either. He’d racked the seat back as far as it would go, but his knees were still up under his chin.

It was a big joke amongst the guys. Coffin didn’t drive, never had. That was because, from about the age of eighteen, he’d grown too big to comfortably fit in most cars. It wasn’t just his height, but his build, too. The others, they called him ‘King Kong’, or sometimes just ‘Kong’, but never to his face.

You didn’t joke around calling Joe Coffin names. Not if you knew what was good for you.

Coffin was all muscle, looked like he’d been popping steroids all his life, and benchpressed car engines before breakfast. But it hadn’t always been that way. When Coffin was a kid, he had been a tall, gangly piece of string. His father had owned a gym, was pretty big himself, and it seemed to Coffin that he was a source of shame to his father that he hadn’t been born looking like a pro wrestler.

The gym wasn’t one of those fancy places you get nowadays, all crappy pop music and water fountains and exercise machines. This was a scuzzy, sweaty gym, in that part of town you wouldn’t visit unless you absolutely had to. You walked in Jim’s gym, you’d better be ready to do some serious lifting. The membership was exclusively male, all huge, shaven headed, tattooed guys, with biceps thicker than a pretty girl’s waistline.

That’s where Joe Coffin had grown up, training with his dad, sparring with the other guys in the boxing ring, them all laughing at this scrawny, skinny kid, who was taller than some of his teachers at school, never mind the other kids in the class. He’d try and throw punches at them, or lift a puny little dumbbell, his face burning with shame, while the men sniggered, and humiliated him with their stupid taunts.

Looking back, he supposed he’d been trying to prove something to his father, trying to be the man he expected. Not that Coffin’s father ever paid that much attention to him. Except sometimes with his fists.

But when he was sixteen, Coffin started packing on the muscle, and by the time he was eighteen, nobody was laughing at him anymore. Especially not the guys at the gym.

Tom Mills wiped furiously at the windscreen with an oily rag, replacing the mist from their breath with smeared streaks of grease and muck. In contrast to Coffin, Tom was small and wiry. He appeared to be older than his thirty-seven years, his skin flaky and blotchy, and his pinched cheeks making him look as though he was constantly sucking on a lemon.

“You ready?” Tom said.

“You sure this is the place?” Coffin said, still staring up at the tower block.

“Yeah, I told you, these are the guys.” Tom stuck a cigarette in his mouth, struck a match against the zipper on his boot, and lit up.

“You sure?” Coffin said.

“Fuck, Joe, yeah I’m sure. One thousand and fucking ten percent sure, all right?”

Tom held out the open packet of cigarettes, and Coffin took one.

Tom lit it for him.

The cigarette smoke wafted across Coffin’s field of vision. The tip tap of raindrops against the car roof started up again, rivulets of water running down the windscreen. Coffin watched as a young girl pushing a pram hurried past, her head down. Even inside the car he could hear the child screaming.

This was no place to bring up a kid.

“Tell me again, about these guys,” Coffin growled.

Tom sighed, the smoke streaming from his mouth. “Come on, Joe, how many times do you want to hear this shit?”

“Quit whining, and tell me about them again.”

“Okay, okay, like I said, these two guys, Shank and Ratface, they’re metalheads, into this crazy vampire cult, called Midnight Deathskulls. They’ve got a little secret society going, like the Famous Five, or the Secret Seven, only instead of getting into jolly scrapes and drinking ginger beer, they get together every night, and snort shit, tattoo each other, and fuck each other’s brains out. Who knows, maybe the guys suck each other’s dicks too. Whatever, like, you know, I’m a live and let live kind of guy, right? They can do whatever the fuck they want as long as they don’t do it in front of me. But these two guys, Ratshank and Fuckface, or whatever the hell they’re called, they think they’re a pair of fucking vampires.”

“Vampires.”

“Yeah, I mean, what the fuck, right? I’ve seen them in town, wandering around wearing their pissy Goth clothes, faces covered in tattoos. And their teeth, man, they fucking file their teeth to points.”

Coffin shifted uncomfortably in the car seat. His clothes, still smelling of prison starch, and stiff like cardboard, rustled as he moved. He’d got out of prison half an hour ago, picked up by Tom, and driven straight here. Six months for assault, let out early due to ‘extenuating circumstances’, and now, less than an hour into his freedom, and he was about to commit a much worse crime than the one he’d served time for.

Didn’t matter to Coffin. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d killed anyone.

“And they’re the ones murdered Steffanie and Michael.”

“Yeah,” Tom said. “Best we can figure, they broke into your house to steal money for drugs. They were already high, and when they saw Steffanie and Michael, they lost it. Ripped their fucking throats out, with their teeth. Shit, man, they drank their fucking blood.”

Coffin flinched. He stared at the tower block.

Vampires.

They liked to pretend.

Shit.

Coffin opened the door and climbed out of the car, the suspension creaking and groaning in protest. Tom followed him, locking the car and hurrying to catch up. They walked across a muddy patch of grass, pathetically labelled Play Area. It contained a single rusty swing, and a small slide.

Coffin was wearing his scuffed leather jacket over a sleeveless, white T-shirt. Rainwater ran down his close cropped scalp, and down the back of his neck. In his right hand he carried a cosh, made of a leather handle and a large, lead weight.

Entering the tower block, Coffin took one last drag on his cigarette and flicked it away.

They climbed the dingy concrete stairs, the walls damp with rainwater and the windows grey with dirt.

Tom wrinkled his nose. “Fucking hell, man, it stinks like a fucking blocked toilet in here. Some people are just filthy animals.”

Coffin walked up the stairs without a word. When they reached the fifth floor, Coffin pushed open a door and they stepped into a dimly lit hall. Out of the six fluorescent strip lights spaced along the ceiling, only two were working, and one of those was flickering and buzzing, like it might give up at any moment.

As the two men walked down the hall, looking for apartment 5F, they could hear the muffled, rhythmic thud of heavy rock music. Coffin passed under the buzzing strip light, and the flickering, yellow glow gave his battered face a hellish appearance.

Coffin stopped outside 5F. The savage, relentless scream of thrash metal was so loud now, that when Coffin placed the flat of his hand against the door, he could feel the vibrations travelling up his arm. Tom stood behind Coffin, waiting for the signal that they were going in.

Two apartments down the hall, a door opened, and a young boy stuck his head out. He looked curiously at Coffin, his eyes growing wide at the sight of this huge beast filling the hallway. The boy’s mother stepped outside, saw Coffin, and immediately dragged her child back inside, slamming the door behind her.

Coffin raised a heavily booted foot, and smashed the thin wooden door inwards. He stepped inside, swinging the cosh round and round. Tom stood in the doorway, blocking the exit. The room was filthy, littered with empty beer cans, cheap whisky bottles, and cardboard pizza trays, with mouldy, half eaten pizzas in them. Crude drawings of vampires had been scrawled across the walls in black, their pointed fangs impossibly large. Satanic symbols had been drawn in the spaces between the vampires.

In the far corner a bare chested man sat on the floor, his braided hair hanging lankly over his scrawny shoulders, his head lolling forwards on his chest. Across from him, set between two of the biggest speakers that Coffin had ever seen, was a record player, the black vinyl disk spinning round and round.

In the middle of the room, a man lay on top of a woman, on a bare, filthy mattress. They were both naked, and she was raking her fingers down his back, and chewing on his neck, her other hand clutching his skinny backside as it pumped frantically up and down.

None of them noticed that they had visitors.

Coffin walked over to the record player and kicked it over, the music cut dead with sharp squawk. The sudden silence was like a bucket of cold water in the face, after the unrelenting noise of the savage music.

The naked white kid, his pasty flesh covered in badly inked tattoos, scrambled to his feet. The woman lying on the stained mattress yanked at a threadbare sheet to cover herself. Coffin noticed her teeth, badly filed to sharp, ugly points.

“What the fuck?” the kid yelled, his outraged voice cutting through the silence. His hands were clenched into fists. His neck looked okay, where the girl had been biting him. A few scratches, but she hadn’t drawn much blood.

Just as Tom had said. They liked to pretend.

“Get out,” Coffin snarled at the woman.

She grabbed her pile of clothes and ran for the door, still naked. She stopped when she reached Tom, standing in the doorway, blocking her exit. He smirked at her, before stepping aside to let her out, and smacked her on the arse as she scooted past him.

“Hey, man, I paid good money for her,” the kid yelled, spittle flying from his lips. “The fuck you think you doin?”

Coffin strode up to the kid, towering over him, and smashed the cosh into his nose. The kid howled, blood exploding from his ruined nose, and staggered back a step. The other kid looked up, a flicker of interest passing over his stupefied face, before his chin dropped back onto his chest.

The pasty white boy fell to the mattress, holding his nose, blood dribbling between his fingers. He reached under the mattress, and pulled out a gun. Coffin kicked the gun out of his hand, and then stomped on his chest. The kid screamed, blood and spittle spraying from his mouth.

Coffin rolled him over onto his front, grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm up behind his back until he heard a snap. The kid screamed again, and started sobbing.

Coffin picked up the gun and pressed the muzzle against the back of the kid’s shaved skull.

“You like to pretend being vampires, right?” Coffin said, his voice low. “That’s what I’ve heard. You like drinking blood.”

“No, please!”

Coffin jammed the muzzle of the gun into the back of the kid’s head.

He screamed.

“Tell me,” Coffin said. “Tell me that you like pretending to be vampires. Tell me about the blood.”

The kid hung his head, snot and blood hanging in a long, thick string from his broken nose.

“Fuck, Joe, just shoot the bastard,” Tom said.

Coffin bent down, his mouth next to the kid’s ear.

“Tell me about it,” he whispered. “Tell me how you like getting high, and drinking other people’s blood.”

The kid nodded his head, still sobbing.

“Joe, come on!” Tom hissed, walking further into the bare room. “If I’d known you wanted to fucking interrogate the little piece of shit, we could have taken him back to the club. We haven’t got time!”

Coffin looked up at Tom, stared at him for a long second. Then, his mind made up, he turned back.

“This is for Steffanie and Michael, you sick bastard,” Coffin snarled.

“What?” he sobbed. “What are you talking abou—”

Coffin pulled the trigger, spraying the kid’s brains over an empty pizza box. He let go of his arm, and the body hit the floor with a solid thump, the kid’s face smacking into the bloody mess on the pizza box.

“What about him?” Tom said, pointing at the other one, who looked like he had passed out.

Coffin walked over, and shot him in the chest, pulling the trigger repeatedly until it just clicked, and the kid’s chest looked like a slab of bloody meat.

Coffin dropped the gun on the floor. “Let’s get out of here.”

Tom stepped aside to let Coffin out, who had to duck as he stepped through the doorway. Tom pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the gun clean of prints. He took one last look around, and his gaze settled on the record deck, lying upside down, the sound system and the huge speakers.

“Who the fuck buys records anymore?” he muttered.

Then he followed Coffin outside.

* * *

Coffin spent the rest of the afternoon getting drunk, in the tiny flat above the Blockade. He heard Lucy, the barmaid, opening up, putting a tune on the jukebox. Some crappy pop song by a faceless group of teenagers with long hair and pimples, no doubt.

Coffin stayed upstairs, sitting on the settee, his enormous bulk making it look ridiculously tiny. He swigged whisky from a bottle, and when he had drained it, he searched the kitchen for another, sweeping the tins of vegetables and stew aside until he found what he was looking for. He cracked open the seal, and upended the bottle, swallowing great gulps of whisky, hoping to lose himself, to obliterate his memories and every last trace of his life.

Today he had done what he set out to achieve, two months ago, after the murder of his wife and son. He had found their killers, and executed them, as they deserved.

Why then did he still feel so bad? So empty of anything resembling humanity? Coffin had killed before, and done a great many other bad things, too. So why, today, did he feel as though he had crossed a threshold? Stepped beyond even his unfocused moral code?

Coffin took another swig from the bottle. The little shits deserved it. Forget how young they looked, how pathetic, their brains peppered with holes from all the shit they snorted. They were killers.

They deserved to die.

Coffin had first seen Steffanie dancing at the nightclub, Angellicit. The club was owned by Terry Wu, who was paying protection money to Craggs. Rumour had it that Wu had been a notorious Triad gangster in China, and that his role as owner of Angellicit was simply cover for a drug smuggling ring.

Coffin never saw any evidence of that on his rounds.

Terry Wu was a round blob of a man, squeezed into an expensive suit. His face was always shiny with sweat, and he was constantly mopping his forehead with a silk handkerchief. He smiled and laughed a lot, clapped you on the back like you were his best friend, said the drinks were on the house.

Coffin was never easy in Wu’s company. He knew you couldn’t trust a man like that, who tried so hard to be your friend all the time.

Coffin had been out collecting payments. Craggs said he wouldn’t always be doing that, being the muscle, the tough guy. Craggs said he had big plans for Joe Coffin, plans for a partnership. And then, when Craggs retired, Coffin would be the leader of the Slaughterhouse Mob.

“Playing at being a tough guy, that’s for the gorillas,” Craggs once said. “They like to use their fists and their feet, see how much damage they can do. But you know what, Joe? I worked something out a long time ago. Men like that, it’s all about their manhood, know what I’m saying? Stead of beating the crap out of some poor sod, they should get together and get their dicks out, compare sizes. That’s all it is to them, who’s got the biggest dick. It’s kinda queer, when you think about it. All these big, tough gorillas, making a lot of noise and pounding their chests, beating up the fairies for fun, when all the time, deep down inside, they’re just faggots themselves. But you, Joe, you’re better than that.”

So Coffin did the rounds, collecting the payments. The scuzzy lowlifes who ran the bars, and the clubs, and the massage joints, Coffin was happy to take money from them. After all, they were in the business, they already knew that the protection racket was part of the deal, something to be put up with. But it was the smaller businesses, the newsagents, the corner shops, run by families struggling to stay afloat, Coffin felt bad about taking their money. Sometimes he only took half of what they were supposed to pay. Before he got back, he would redistribute the cash, so that the lowlifes took the blame for the underpayments.

There was payback, and they protested, but it did no good. Coffin knew they thought he was pocketing the money himself, but that didn’t bother him. No one was going to grass Joe Coffin up.

It was well known in the clubs and bars in Birmingham that Joe Coffin was like a son to Mortimer Craggs. And although Craggs was an old man now, his reputation was still powerful enough that everybody who knew of him lived in fear of him.

So, Coffin had been out, and he collected his money from Wu, and decided to stay for a drink, check out the talent. Steffanie stood out from the other dancers. Sure, she had the long legs, smooth, tanned body, and the fiery, curly hair. But she also had a poise, and a look in her eyes, a defiance, an independence, which turned Coffin on.

Six months later, and they were married in a registry office, just the two of them and the registrar, and some poor guy they dragged in off the street as a witness. When they’d finished, Coffin stuffed a fistful of bills into his hand, and told him to get lost.

Five months after that and Michael was born. And when big, tough, Joe Coffin cradled his new born son in his arms, he cried.

Coffin stood up, letting the whisky bottle drop to the floor, where it rolled across the carpet. He walked into the kitchen and turned on a tap, splashing the cold water against his face.

Now that Coffin had exacted his cold revenge, what else did he have to live for?

Drying his face on a rough, scratchy towel, Coffin heard a light knocking at the door.

He walked through the flat, kicking an empty bottle out of the way, sending it spinning across the carpet. He opened the door.

Laura Mills stood framed in the doorway, skinny arms pale like she never saw the sun, hands clasped in front of her mouth. Her lank, dirty blond hair framed her thin face and red rimmed eyes.

“Hi Joe.”

Coffin said nothing. The whisky was making it difficult for him to think.

“Joe?” Laura said, in her tiny, vulnerable voice. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.” Coffin stepped out of the way, let her walk through the doorway.

He closed the door, watched her as she picked up the empty whisky bottle. She turned and looked at him, and he saw his own agonising pain reflected in her face. She walked in the kitchen, placed the bottle on the counter.

“What do you want, Laura?” Coffin growled.

She turned around, stared at him, her eyes round, like she was suddenly scared of him.

“I’m sorry, Joe,” she said.

“Yeah? What for?”

“I’m sorry about Steffanie, and Michael.”

“You already said that, at the funeral.”

“I know.”

Coffin nodded, and went and sat down on the couch. Laura was still in the kitchen, and he couldn’t see her anymore. But then she appeared at the doorway, leaned against the door frame. He clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to focus all his nervous energy into that single, repeated action.

Killing those two kids had meant to be cathartic, the rough justice giving him a sense of finality, revenge. But in truth, it had done the opposite. Instead of sating his bloodlust, the killings had stirred the beast within, poking and prodding it in its cave. Coffin’s need to mete out more violence coursed through his veins like lava, his head pounding with its desire.

“Joe?”

Coffin looked up.

Laura’s eyes glistened, and a tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped at her eye, smudging her mascara, leaving a black smear across her face.

“Joe, I need you,” Laura whispered.

Coffin hung his head, his thick arms resting on his legs, still clenching and unclenching his hands.

“I know this is an awful time for you, Joe, and I’m sorry I came here, I’m sorry to ask you this, but you’re the only one I can turn to.”

Coffin remained silent, focusing all his energy into his fists.

“Damn you, Joe!” Laura shouted, and stepped over to Coffin and punched him on the arm. “Don’t you dare do this to me! Don’t you dare ignore me!”

She was sobbing now, and she collapsed into the threadbare chair opposite Coffin, plunging her face into her hands, the muffled sobs growing louder.

Coffin got off the settee, knelt down in front of her, putting his arms around her and resting his forehead on her shoulder.

“What’s wrong, Laura? Why are you here?”

“It’s Jacob!” Laura gasped, each word punctuated with another sob. “He’s gone missing, and I don’t know what to do!”

gyms are for wimps

Emma Wylde took the stairs two at a time, her trainers slapping against the metal steps, the noise echoing around the stairwell. She swung around in a tight, right turn, and then up the next flight as fast as she could go. She shouldn’t have been here, these were the fire escape stairs, but she didn’t have anywhere else to do her hill training. Bloody city was too busy with commuters and shoppers crowding the pavements to get any serious running in. And she didn’t have time in her lunch break to find somewhere she could run on the trails.

Emma knew she could have used the regular stairs, but then she would have had to dodge the office workers heading for their lunch break, or back to the office, put up with people staring, or colleagues laughing at her. Even today, in the age of the couch potato, when most people preferred taking the lift just one floor instead of walking, there were still far too many people on the stairs for Emma’s liking.

Not only did she need the stairs for the strenuous exercise, but she needed her space to help clear her head. Emma wasn’t a sociable person, happier with her own company than that of other people, which was ironic, considering she was a reporter.

She was puffing with the effort now, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. It was a cool day outside, the sky grey and overcast, threatening rain. Emma’s blond hair was tied back in a short ponytail, and she was wearing shorts and a black T-shirt.

She reached the top, shouted, “Twenty-four!” and spun around on the spot, ready to descend. Ten floors, back down to the ground and then a last sprint back up to the tenth floor, making twenty-five sets in total. Emma checked her stopwatch as she set off.

She picked up her speed, dangerously close to losing her footing and tumbling down the stairs. But she had to keep moving, if she was going to beat her personal best. The windows and doors became a revolving blur as she dashed around the corners and then down another flight of steps. She hit the ground floor and immediately turned around and began the sprint back up the stairs.

Spikes of pain shot through her chest, her breath coming in short gasps, calf muscles burning. The echo of her shoes hitting the metal steps pounded through her brain, like the sound was coming from inside her head, not from her environment. She ignored the temptation to sneak a quick peek at her stopwatch, it would only slow her down. Just had to concentrate on the climb, get back to that tenth floor as quickly as possible.

As soon as Emma’s feet stumbled onto the tenth floor landing, she hit the stop button on her watch. Sitting down on the floor, breathing hard, and blinking sweat out of her eyes, she stared at the digital display.

“Fuck, shit, fucking bastard!”

That was her third time now, unable to get near her personal best, let alone beat it. What the hell was wrong with her? Her times were getting worse, not better. Emma hung her head between her knees, watching beads of sweat drop from her forehead and land on the metal grill below.

Once her breathing had calmed down, Emma climbed unsteadily to her feet, and pushed open the fire escape door. She retrieved the folded piece of cardboard she had used to wedge the door open, so she wouldn’t get locked out, and let it swing shut behind her. The silence of the fire escape stairs, where the only sounds had been her feet hitting the steps, her breath, and the thud of her blood rushing through her head, was suddenly replaced by the clatter and hubbub of the newsroom.

Row after row of desks and cubicles stretched across almost the entire top floor of the Metropolitan Tower. Large windows on three sides offered views across the city. Across the fourth wall were a row of large screen televisions, all tuned into different news stations, subtitles rolling across the bottom.

“Hey, Ems, nice sweat you got going there,” called a voice from the chaos of the newsroom. “Anytime you wanna rub that sweaty body up against mine, just let me know!”

“Fuck you, Rick!” Emma shouted back, giving him the finger.

“Tell me where and when, I’ll be there!” Rick shouted, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands behind his head, a huge grin on his face. The man at the desk opposite stretched across, and they high-fived each other.

“Bloody hell, Emma, look at the state of you,” Karl Edwards said, standing outside his office, arms folded over his round stomach. “I thought it was you I could hear, making all that noise.”

Emma swiped her arm across her forehead, wiping the sweat away. “You ever think about wearing a bib, when you eat lunch, Karl?”

“Huh?”

Emma pointed. “Either you cut yourself shaving this morning, or you got ketchup on your tie.”

“Oh shit.” Karl pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and began scrubbing at the red splodge.

“I thought Mrs Edwards had you on a diet? I swear to God I saw you eating a salad yesterday.”

“Yeah, you saw right. I should’ve been eating salad today, but I chucked it in the bin when I got in this morning, and bought myself burger and chips.” Karl scrubbed at his tie some more, but only succeeded in spreading the red splodge further out. “Hell’s teeth, I’m going to have to buy myself a new tie now.”

“It’s worse than that, Karl,” Emma said. “You’re going to have to buy yourself the exact same tie, unless you want Mrs Edwards to find out you’ve been cheating on her with the burger van man.”

“She’s been nagging at me about my lifestyle for a while now,” Karl said, spitting on his handkerchief and then scrubbing some more. “Says I need to cut down on my fats, drink less alcohol and coffee. Says she’s concerned about my cholesterol, and my free radicals.”

“Free radicals?” Emma said, grimacing as Karl spit into his handkerchief again.

“Don’t ask me,” Karl grunted. “I thought they were a pop group when she first mentioned them.”

“I’m going to freshen up,” Emma said.

“Soon as you’re done, I want to see you in my office.” Karl gave up on his tie, and yanked it from his collar.

“Okay, Boss.” Emma began walking away.

“Hey, Emma,” Karl said. “What do you do, go in the toilets and have a strip wash over the sink?”

“Yep.” Emma kept walking.

“Well, that’s not hygienic, you know? Besides which, the rest of us, we don’t like it when you lock us out of the toilets while you’re washing yourself down.”

“If you put a shower in I could have a proper wash, and you and the rest of the monkeys around here could take a piss whenever you wanted.”

“That right? You think we’re made of money? Why do you have to do your training here, anyway? Why the hell can’t you join a gym, like everybody else?”

“Gyms are for wimps,” Emma called over her shoulder as she walked off, to catcalls and whistles.

* * *

After freshening up, and stowing her running gear in a gym bag, Emma met with Karl in his office. She wore trousers, shirt open at the collar, and a jacket. The men sometimes tried teasing her, said she looked more like a guy than they did. She said that wasn’t possible, not without a beer gut.

Karl waved her in, and she sat down opposite him. A news report was playing, on a large screen television attached to the wall, but the sound was muted.

“Feel all better now?” Karl said. He was still tieless, his collar unbuttoned.

“Yep, fresh as a fucking daisy,” Emma said. “What did you want?”

“Do you have to talk like that?” Karl said. “I mean, come on, would it hurt if sometimes you could try and act a bit more like a lady, and not swear all the time?”

“What is this, are we back in the 1950s all of a sudden? Next you’ll be asking me to pop out to the shops and look for a replacement tie for you.”

Karl opened his mouth, and then snapped it shut again.

“You fucking were, weren’t you?” Emma shook her head. “Is that what you wanted to ask me? Because if it is, if you think I’m going to simper down to the shops, every time you dribble your food on your tie, I’m out of here now.”

Karl held up his hand. “For crying out loud, just stop, will you?” He let his hand drop to the desk. “Remember that lead you were working on a while back? Steffanie Coffin?”

“Course I do.” Emma sank back in her chair. She felt sick every time she thought of Steffanie, and her little boy Michael.

“You got that look on your face again,” Karl said. “Like you’re the one responsible for them getting killed.”

“It still feels that way to me.”

“Yeah, well, it shouldn’t. Steffanie knew what she was doing, she knew the risks. You were offering her a way out of the life, Emma. That was a good thing you were doing for her.”

“That’s not the way it turned out, though. She came to me for help, and instead, I got her and her little boy killed.” Emma leaned forward in her chair, and pointed at her editor. “I swear, Karl, that’s what happened. Mortimer Craggs ordered a hit on her, because he found out she was passing me information about Terry Wu’s murder.”

“You don’t know that, Emma,” Karl said. “You’re the only one thinks that way. You saw the stories on the news, and in the papers.”

“Yeah,” Emma said, her voice low. “The whole country thinks we got Count fucking Dracula prowling the streets. The only reason we haven’t found him yet is because he stalks the city wearing his invisibility cape.”

“You never read Dracula, did you, Emma?”

“He doesn’t have an invisibility cape?”

“No. You’re confusing him with Harry Potter.”

“Well, fuck, Karl, maybe Dracula stopped off at Hogwarts on the way over here, and Harry loaned him his invisibility cloak. Because, you know what? That’s just as credible a story as all the shit I read about those two murders.”

“You still don’t know Craggs had them killed. That thing with Terry Wu and Steffanie, could be a coincidence. You really think that Craggs would have had Steffanie and Michael sliced and diced like that? He would have ordered a hit on them, not a horror movie gore fest.”

“Are you sure about that?” Emma said, sinking back into her chair. “I’ve heard some pretty graphic stuff from when Craggs was younger, from when he was making a name for himself and the Slaughterhouse Mob. You ever hear that story about the blow torch?”

“Emma—”

“Craggs used it to burn the lips off some poor bastard who’d been chatting up his wife in the pub he owned back then. She was the barmaid, I always thought flirting with the customers was part of the job description. Poor bastard had to have a skin graft from the nose down, and spent the rest of his life eating pureed food, and pissing his pants every time someone struck a match.”

“Emma, you know none of those stories have ever been proved. Craggs hasn’t even got a parking ticket to his name.”

“Yeah, well, I’m telling you, Karl, we get Craggs for that murder, and he won’t have to worry about parking tickets for the rest of his life. And with Craggs in jail, the whole gang folds. They’re nothing without him.”

“It’s not going to happen, Emma,” Karl said, softly. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Yeah, I know. I wanted a career making story, and all I’ve got now is blood on my hands. I just hope Joe Coffin never finds out, because then I’m dead for sure.”

“Yeah, well, Joe Coffin’s sort of why I asked you in here, in the first place.” Karl opened a drawer and pulled out a cigar. He stuck it in his mouth and began chewing on it.

Emma sat up again. “What are you talking about, Karl?”

“Remember those two boys went missing, a few days back?”

“Yeah, a couple of ten year olds, right? What were their names, um, Peter Marsden and . . .?”

“Jacob Mills. That name ring any bells with you?” Karl shifted the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.

“Sweet fuck, you’re telling me that Jacob is Tom Mills’ kid?”

“That’s right, and the coincidence doesn’t stop there, because Tom Mills is married to Laura Mills, previously known as . . .”

“Laura Coffin.” Emma snapped her fingers together. “Is Jacob, Joe Coffin’s kid?”

“No, Joe and Laura divorced twelve years ago, so Jacob is Tom’s kid, poor little bastard. With a piece of shit like Tom Mills for your father, he’s got no chance.”

“So, you think Jacob’s disappearance has got something to do with Steffanie’s murder?”

Karl took the unlit cigar out of his mouth. The end was all chewed and soggy, and Karl had to pull flakes of tobacco off his tongue before answering. “I don’t know, to be honest, but it’s a coincidence, and, despite what I said earlier, I don’t like coincidences.” He popped the cigar back in his mouth. “Pete’s covering the story, but he phoned in sick today, so I wondered if you wanted to take it on, in his absence.”

“Won’t Pete mind?”

“I don’t give a shit what Pete thinks. Last time he phoned in sick we didn’t see him for two months, because he was on an almighty bender. I thought you could go and interview the kids’ mothers, take Jonny with you, see if he can get some nice shots of them blubbing, something that’ll look good on the front page tomorrow morning.”

“You’re all heart, Karl,” Emma said, as she stood up.

“Hey, wait a sec,” Karl said, pulled open his desk drawer, and produced his ketchup stained tie. “While you’re out and about, if you happen to be passing a tie shop . . .”

Emma snatched the tie from him.

“I ought to fucking strangle you with it,” she said, and stalked out of his office.

black and shiny

His wrists were red raw, and he had to clench his teeth to stop from crying out every time the rough rope chafed against his skin. The iron rung, bolted into the cellar wall, was old and rusty, and Jacob had spent the last few hours scraping the rope against it, hoping it would fray and split. He had to work quickly, ignore the pain, because the woman would be down to see him soon, with his food. She always untied him, and sat and watched him while he ate the thin soup, and the bread, with trembling hands.

When he had finished eating, then came the worst part, when she would unwrap the blood soaked cloth around his left arm, and re-open the wound. Jacob cried and screamed, and struggled and kicked, and tried to bite her, and sometimes he fainted from the pain. But however much he fought, the woman was always stronger than him, and she would bleed him, filling a small silver bowl with his dark red blood. And when she had enough, she always bound his arm back up again, and tenderly stroked his sweat covered brow, before leaving him alone once more.

Jacob was feeling weaker every day, so much so he sometimes passed out. Then he would wake up shivering and sick, leaning awkwardly against the damp wall, and wondering how long had passed since he had fainted.

But he knew he had to try and keep alert, stay strong. If she found him now, and untied him, she would see the frayed rope, she’d know he was trying to escape. Jacob closed his eyes, tears squeezing out between his eyelashes, and strained against the rope cutting into his wrists, forcing it up and down against the rusty edge of the iron bar.

His shoulders were sore, and his back ached. Sometimes his arms cramped up, and he cried with the pain. He had lost track of time, trapped in the dank, dark cellar. That first night, after they had dragged him down here and tied him up, the man had come back and spent the next couple of hours repairing the cellar door.

When the man had finished, Jacob heard him padlock it shut, plunging the ten year old boy into darkness. Jacob barely slept, shivering with cold and fear, uncomfortable and sore, sitting against the damp, rough brickwork. His mind was crazy with fear, alternately wondering why they had kept him alive, and thinking up dreadful tortures that awaited him.

Soon enough, the rustling and squeaking of rats scurrying through the cellar had added to his terror. They scrabbled across his feet, making him scream and kick out wildly, and once he woke up to the sensation of a rat gnawing through the sole of his trainer. He stamped and kicked in the darkness, and heard the rat squealing, and scampering away.

Sometimes, that first night, he wondered if Peter might be alive, too, and held captive somewhere else in the house. But then he remembered the woman attacking his friend, and all the blood spilling onto the faded carpet. He remembered the man lapping at the puddles of blood, like a thirsty dog.

Jacob kept scraping the rope against the iron rung. Fear that he would be found out before he had set himself free, kept him going. The pain in his wrists was nothing compared with the horror of what those monsters might do to him if they caught him trying to escape.

Both of his captors scared him, but the woman especially. Maybe that was because he knew her. She had been his mum’s friend. Steffanie always brought Jacob a present when she came to visit, and Jacob had always enjoyed playing with her little boy, Michael.

But she should be dead.

At this thought, Jacob always felt as though his mind would tip over into a black pit of madness. Because he knew that Steffanie and Michael had been murdered. His mum had tried to hide the knowledge from him, tried telling him that they had died in a car accident, but Jacob knew the truth. He’d seen the newspaper headlines in the newsagents, and he’d heard his school friends talking about it.

Steffanie and Michael were dead. He had been to their funeral, seen their caskets lowered into the ground, whilst Joe Coffin fell to his knees and wept.

Joe had always scared Jacob. He was so big and powerful, that whenever he stood in front of Jacob, Joe seemed to blot out most of the sunshine. He came to their house in River View Gardens once, and stood in their tiny kitchen. He seemed to take up half the room, his head almost touching the ceiling. When he left, Jacob expected to see his footprints smashed into the floor, a spider web of cracks spreading out from each one.

But Joe had never hurt Jacob, or said anything mean to him. Not like Jacob’s father. And seeing Joe at the funeral, so desolate with grief, he’d looked smaller and more helpless than Jacob could have ever imagined.

Jacob kept scraping at the rope. Steffanie was alive, but she wasn’t the Steffanie that he used to know and like. This Steffanie was monstrous, she was evil. Jacob had tried pleading with her to set him free. He’d tried reminding her of who he was, and how kind she used to be with him.

But she paid him no notice. She fed him, and gave him water. And she opened up his wound and bled him.

The rope snapped and Jacob fell forward onto the floor, his face smacking into a puddle of dirty water. He tried to push himself up, but he was too weak, and his arms started to tingle with pins and needles. Jacob managed to rollover onto his back, and lay there flexing his fingers, trying to bring life back to his hands and arms.

Moisture seeped through the back of his shirt, chilling his back. Jacob wiped dirty water out of his eyes, his fingers numb and clumsy. He sat up as the pins and needles began to wear off, replaced in his left arm by a dull throb around the site of his festering wound. The pain was growing in intensity, and Jacob could smell the stink of infection.

Now that he was free of the rope he realised that it might all have been for nothing. The trapdoor leading outside, to the garden, was padlocked shut. Jacob hadn’t given any thought to whether or not the inner door into the cellar would be locked too.

His eyes had grown used to the darkness, and Jacob could pick out a faint rectangular border of light, at the top of the cellar steps. He had no idea of the time. Was that daylight outside, or was it night time, and what he could see was light cast from a bulb, or candles?

Jacob shifted on to his knees. Gingerly placing the flat of his hand against a damp wall, he shakily climbed to his feet. A wave of nausea and dizziness washed over him, his vision greying out, and for a moment he was scared that he might faint. But it passed, and his vision returned.

Still leaning against the wall for support, Jacob shuffled over to the steps. He had worked so hard these last few hours, sawing through his bonds, he hadn’t given much thought to what he would do next. And now he was free of the rope, all he wanted to do was sit and cry, and call for his mummy.

What would he do if, when he reached the top of the cellar steps, the door was locked? If he could only scream loud and long enough, perhaps he could alert a passer-by. He had tried screaming, the first few hours of his captivity, until his throat had grown sore and hoarse, and his cries for help were little more than a croak. But nobody had come, not even the Steffanie monster, or the man. The cellar was too far away from the road, around the back of the house. Nobody could hear him.

Jacob doubted that he could make himself heard more from the top of the steps than he could in the cellar. The big, old house was just too far away from the main road, heavy with traffic, drowning out any of his faint cries for help that might actually carry that far.

But if he could just get outside, down to the front of the drive, somebody would see him then. Somebody would rescue him.

Jacob took the first step, and then the next. He leaned against the wall, taking a deep, juddering breath of the cold air.

Gritting his teeth, he continued climbing the steps. Time was growing short, he was convinced of that. He had to get out, before he was discovered.

At the top of the steps, Jacob paused again to recover his strength. Struggling his way up that short flight of steps had felt like climbing a mountain. Taking another deep breath he leaned his shoulder against the door, twisted the handle, and pushed.

Nothing.

The door didn’t budge.

It was locked.

Tears rolled down Jacob’s filthy cheeks as a wave of despair washed over him, and he sank to his knees. He was trapped in this filthy cellar for the rest of his life, whilst the Steffanie monster bled him dry. Or until the infection in his arm killed him.

He wished he had never agreed to explore No. 99 with Peter. If only he had refused, if he had not been worried about Peter’s schoolboy taunts, or if the cellar trapdoor had not been broken open already. Or if this door he was leaning against had been locked, they would have had to turn around and go back home.

And none of this nightmare would have happened, and Peter would still be alive, and Jacob wouldn’t be trapped down here, slowly dying.

But the door hadn’t been locked, had it? The two boys had struggled to open it, as it scraped against the flag stoned floor along the passageway outside, but it wasn’t locked.

Jacob lifted his head.

It wasn’t locked.

And every time Evil Steffanie came to feed him and bleed him, he heard the door scraping along the floor as she opened it.

Jacob stood up and braced his shoulder against the cracked wooden panel. He gathered his strength and pushed as hard as he could.

Noisily, it gave a little, and a chink of light fell on Jacob’s face. He pushed again, and it gave a little more. It was too difficult. The last time he had pushed this door open, there had been two of them. And he had been healthy, and strong.

Jacob realised his wrists were bleeding, where the rope had scraped away the skin. He looked at the bandage on his arm. A fresh, dark patch of blood was seeping through the fabric, along with yellow pus, stinking of infection.

He had to get out of there. If he stayed in the cellar much longer he would die, even if the Steffanie monster did not kill him for trying to escape.

Jacob shoved his shoulder against the wooden door once more, a weak sliver of light falling across his face, taunting him with the possibility of freedom. He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and with a silent prayer to God, please, please, let the door open this time, he pushed as hard as he could.

The door scraped noisily open another inch, got caught on something, and then juddered open another inch or two, and stopped.

Jacob sank to the floor, gasping, his whole body trembling. He knelt on the floor, sweat dripping from his face, shivering in the cold, waiting for his heart to stop thumping so hard in his chest.

Waiting to find out if he had been discovered, with all the noise he had made opening the door.

Jacob raised his head and looked through the gap between the door and the door frame. He could see the stone flagged passage, illuminated by rays of weak, autumnal sunlight, struggling through the dirty panes of glass in the back door.

The door that led outside, to the garden at the rear of the house.

To freedom.

Jacob pressed his face against the gap, the edges of the door and the frame pressing into his cheeks.

He hadn’t pushed the door open enough, the gap was too narrow for him to fit through. He stepped back and shifted position, thrusting his wounded arm through the gap first, and then his shoulder. That was as far as he could get.

Jacob screamed in frustration, and kicked at the door, and pounded at it with his free arm. Then he stopped, and held his breath.

Had he heard something? He strained to listen above the thumping of his heart, holding his breath for as long as he could. Finally he let his breath out in an explosive whoosh, and gasped for air.

Jacob pushed at the door again, his shoulder still jammed in the gap. But he had used the last of his fading strength to push it open this far. He had nothing left. If only it was another inch wider, he was sure he could squeeze through.

Jacob swallowed back the tears threatening to overwhelm him. He just had to keep pushing at the gap between the door and the frame. Surely he could force his way through if he kept pushing?

Then he heard the noise again. The slow shuffle of footsteps on the stone floor. The rustle of clothing.

Someone was coming.

Jacob tried pulling himself back through the doorway. But he was stuck. He had pushed so hard in his attempt to wriggle his way through the gap that he was now jammed halfway.

The shuffling footsteps drew closer, and Jacob could hear slow, ragged breathing, and grunting, as though the effort of walking was sheer torture.

Wide eyed, Jacob stared through the gap he had made, as a shambolic, hunched figure slouched into his line of view.

“Peter!” Jacob gasped.

The boy’s delight, at seeing his friend alive, disappeared like a puff of smoke on a windy day.

Peter’s throat had been ripped wide open, and Jacob could see the ropey muscles, glistening red, and flexing and contracting every time Peter moved his head. His windpipe had been torn apart, and bubbles popped and gurgled from the ragged hole as Peter breathed.

But it was his friend’s eyes that scared Jacob most of all. They were black, and shiny, like a doll’s eyes, and his pale face had the slack look of a sleeper.

Or a dead person.

Peter stared at Jacob with no sign of recognition, or any emotion, on his face.

Peter reached out and took Jacob’s arm, trapped on the outside of the cellar door. To Jacob’s horror, his friend bent down and began licking the blood seeping through the bandage wrapped around his arm.

Jacob yelled, and started trying to pull away, but the other boy’s grip was surprisingly strong, and he held tight and continued slurping at the blood, feasting on it like a starving man. Jacob could feel himself disappearing into a wild panic. Working on instinct, he lifted his foot, and kicked at Peter’s legs, raking his shoe down the other boy’s shins and stamping on his feet.

Peter lifted his head and moved back, out of the way of the frenzied attack. He stepped into a patch of light, a weak square of sunshine falling across his face. The flesh on his cheek grew red, and then started blistering.

Peter grunted again, a spasm of pain distorting his slack features. He reached up and raked his fingernails across his cheek, and ribbons of ragged skin peeled off, exposing the raw meat beneath.

Forgetting about his old friend, and the warm meal of fresh blood, the Peter monster turned and began shuffling away from the strips of sunlight, still scratching at the open wound on his face.

Jacob pushed at the door again, ignoring the pain as he forced his torso and head through the gap. The sides scraped against his cheeks and then his ears. He paused for a moment, gasping with the pain and the effort, sure that he was going to rip his ears off the sides of his head if he pushed any more.

When he saw Peter begin a slow, shuffling turn back towards him, perhaps relishing the thought of slurping at Jacob’s bloody wound some more, Jacob ignored the pain and began shoving his way through the gap again.

His ears feeling like they were being torn from him, Jacob’s head suddenly popped through the door. He managed to get his other arm through and, gripping the door edge, dragged himself further out, until his chest was free.

The rest of his body came out more easily, and Jacob stumbled, and fell to the floor on his knees.

Peter shuffled towards him, the grunting noises growing in urgency and intensity.

Jacob stood up and shoved and pulled at the door leading outside. It was locked. He stared through the tiny squares of dirty glass, at the overgrown garden and the huge Ash tree.

Jacob turned to face the thing that used to be his friend. The twisted deformity that had once been a ten year old boy hobbled closer, blocking the passage, and the route to the front of the house. He reached out with clawed hands, desperate for Jacob’s blood.

With a wild yell, swinging his arms in crazy circles, Jacob charged at the Peter monster and barrelled into him. The dead child was thrown to the side, the back of his head hitting the wall with a wet smack, and then slid to the floor.

Jacob didn’t look back.

He ran into the large hallway, heavy curtains draped over the large windows creating an oppressive gloom. Jacob stood completely still, holding his breath, listening for any signs of movement. He had made so much noise pushing the cellar door open, and then fighting off the Peter monster, that he was sure he must have been heard.

The house was silent, apart from the somnolent ticking of a clock.

Jacob crept towards the front door and placed an ear against the stained glass window pane. It was cold against his skin, and he could hear the hum of traffic along the main road.

Jacob looked down, and there, protruding from the door lock, was a large, ornate handled key. The young boy gripped the key with trembling fingers, and turned it. The tumblers rotated, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence.

Not daring to believe that he might escape, Jacob twisted the door handle and pulled. The door opened a sliver, letting in a breeze of cool, fresh air.

Jacob stiffened as cold fingers caressed his cheeks, and traced a line along his jaw and down the side of his neck. The hand came to rest on his shoulder, and squeezed it.

“Oh, Jacob,” a voice whispered, icy breath feathering his ear.

not scary in a horror movie

Joe Coffin walked the length of River View Gardens with Laura. She pointed out the empty houses, and told him how the police had searched every single one, including those that were occupied by squatters. They had questioned all the residents of the estate, and widened their search net to include nearby streets, and parkland.

Anywhere that Laura could think of where the boys might have gone to play.

“What about the other boy’s mother?” Coffin said.

“Brenda Marsden?” Laura said, and shook her head. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, and stray wisps hung free, and were caught by the breeze. “That boy of hers is nothing to her, apart from a monthly cheque for child benefit. Looking after him is the only way she can afford to keep herself in cigarettes and booze.”

“Did she speak to the police?”

“Yes, but she wasn’t any help. She never kept tabs on Peter. He could be gone for hours on end and she would never stop to think, to worry about what might have happened to him. If I hadn’t raised the alarm when Jacob didn’t come home, Brenda probably still wouldn’t have noticed Peter was gone.”

Coffin looked up at the overcast sky. Dark clouds scudded by, heavy with the threat of more rain. Mid-afternoon, and already house lights were being switched on, and drivers were turning on their headlights. Coffin was wearing a black leather jacket over a white T-shirt, and jeans. An elderly couple crossed to the other side of the road as they approached him.

Coffin had that effect on everyone.

“I’ll have a talk with some people,” he said, looking at Laura. “See if anyone’s heard anything. I’ll talk to Craggs too, get together our own search party. They can’t have just disappeared off the face of the earth, right?”

Laura placed a hand on his arm. “Thank you, Joe.” Her eyes welled up with tears. “I’m sorry to have to ask you for help, so soon after . . .”

The unspoken words hung in the air between them.

“What about Tom?” Coffin said. “I saw him earlier today, he didn’t mention anything about Jacob.”

“Tom just thinks they’ve run off together, that they’ll come slinking back with their tails between their legs in another couple of days.”

“But Jacob’s his kid. He should be worried.”

Laura chewed on a fingernail, her eyes downcast. All the nails on that hand had been bitten down to the quick. Coffin remembered when Laura used to have nice fingernails. Sometimes, on an evening, he used to paint them for her, the tiny nail varnish brush looking ridiculous between his huge fingers.

“Tom isn’t that bothered about Jacob,” Laura said. “Jacob gives him back chat, and the two of them just argue.”

“Is he hitting you again?”

“No.” Laura looked up at Coffin. “I told him, if he hits me again, even just once, I’ll stick a kitchen knife in his chest while he’s sleeping.”

“I don’t know why you took him back, Laura.”

“Yes, you do,” she said. “I couldn’t survive on my own. You know how it is, kids are expensive these days. Me and Jacob, we’ve got to survive somehow, and I don’t want my child going to school in hand me down, faded clothes, the hems of his trousers all tattered, and the cuffs of his shirts all worn away. I needed Tom back, for the money he brings in. Nothing else.”

Coffin grunted. “Tom should have brought this to Craggs the day they went missing. We probably could’ve found them by now.”

Heavy spots of rain began falling from the dark sky.

Coffin bent down and enveloped Laura in a big, gentle hug. “Don’t worry, we’ll find Jacob.”

Laura squeezed her eyes shut and hugged Coffin back.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

* * *

Tom Mills cruised around the block a few times, keeping tabs in his rear-view mirror, before turning into No. 99’s drive. His tyres crunched over the weed strewn gravel as he drove up to the house, and continued on around the side. He parked out of sight of the main road around the back. Killing the engine, he picked up the black, heavy holdall from the passenger seat. He stepped out of the car and on to the overgrown lawn, the hems of his trousers growing dark in the rain water dripping off the long grass.

Slamming the car door shut and lighting up a cigarette, Tom gazed up at the big, old house. He remembered when he was a kid, the house had already been empty for years back then. Him and his mates broke in once, daring each other to explore deeper and deeper into the house’s dark corridors and shadowed rooms.

Tom had always been the hanger on, the skinny, small kid who wanted to hang with the tough boys, wanted to be cool. But none of it came naturally to him, and he was always at the back, or the brunt of the jokes and cruel jibes.

Tom had nearly pissed his pants that day in the house, but he’d gone along with it anyway. Tried to keep up a mask of bravado, cocky arrogance. But then, when he thought it might be all over, and they were going to head back outside, Joe Coffin said they should go and sit in the grand drawing room, and tell each other ghost stories.

Coffin had always been the natural leader. Even back then, when he was as skinny as a piece of string, and his dad’s mates used to use him for boxing practice at his dad’s gym, nobody messed with Coffin. You could see it in his eyes, not a defiance exactly, but a sense that no matter how much shit you threw at him, he’d take it.

And then he’d throw it back.

So they told ghost stories in the shrouded living room, the pale, dust sheets draped over the antique furniture adding to Tom’s growing terror.

Tom had finished up squawking his eyes out, he was so scared, and the others had all laughed at him. Then they all went home, and Tom thought that come the next morning, he’d be the laughing stock of his school, for being a baby. But no one said a thing about Tom crying, and no one spoke about the house ever again.

It was like they had all been scared, each and every one of them. As though they knew that once, sometime long ago, something terrible and awful had happened there. Something so beyond the boundaries of normal human behaviour, that the echoes of it still haunted the house. And they could all feel its dreadful power, a chill deep inside their bodies, a fitful, lonely cry in the subconscious.

They were all scared, but Tom was the only one who’d cried.

Tom sucked hard on the cigarette, his pinched cheeks looking even gaunter, as he drew the nicotine deep into his lungs. That house was a nightmare all right, and here Tom was, back again. But he wasn’t crying now, was he?

Tom’s mobile buzzed into life, playing the theme tune to The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly.

Tom looked at the display.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

He considered ignoring the call, but he knew that wouldn’t do any good. If he didn’t answer, they would just keep calling back. Eventually they’d get bored of being ignored, and pay him a visit.

Tom most definitely didn’t want that.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low.

He listened for a few moments, and then said, “Yeah, yeah, I know I did. Yeah, I know what I said, but I got it all under control . . . fuck yeah, I’ll find out where it is . . . shit, keep a lid on it, will you? We’re sticking with the plan, okay?”

Tom closed the connection and slipped the mobile back in his pocket, took a deep breath. He should have known better than to get involved with those people, but it had seemed like a foolproof plan at the time.

So where did it all go so fucking wrong?

Tom dropped the cigarette in the wet grass and ground his shoe over it. Rain was starting to fall from the overcast sky in fat, heavy drops. He looked up at the house again, at its blank windows and oddly shaped profile, and suddenly his childhood fears were rising within him again. For a moment he thought about turning around, getting back in the car and driving off. As far as he could get on a full tank of petrol.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot,” he muttered.

No matter how far he ran, it wouldn’t be far enough.

Taking a firm grip on the holdall, Tom walked up to the back door and fished a key out of his pocket. He opened the door and stepped inside. His every movement became magnified in the still quietness of the house. Every time he came here, he felt like he was stepping out of his normal world, and into another existence.

One where the normal rules of life did not apply.

Tom walked slowly down the stone passageway, fighting the urge to turn and bolt back outside, climb in his car, and drive off. He pulled another cigarette out of his battered pack and placed it between his lips. He struck a match, and lit the cigarette, his hands trembling as he held the flame in place.

Perhaps they wouldn’t be up yet? He was earlier than normal today, and they didn’t like the daylight. He could always come back later, when it was dark. But that was bad, too. Seeing them in the night, especially Steffanie, gave him the creeps good and proper.

She’d always been a looker, Steffanie had. Tom could never work out why she married Joe Coffin, him being the ugliest bastard this side of an old man’s gurning contest. But then that had been the same with Laura, too. Back when she was married to Coffin, she’d been a stunner. Then they got divorced, and she let herself go.

Especially after she had Jacob. Bloody kid was a drain on her, always pestering her for stuff, and whining about his pissy school and wanting to bring a mate round. Tom had never wanted kids, couldn’t see the point of them.

But that Steffanie, yeah, she was a stunner when she was alive. But now? Tom sucked hard on his cigarette. She looked absolutely fucking amazing. But scary, too. Not scary in a horror movie, jump out of your seat and hide behind your fingers sort of way. No, there was just something unsettling about her now. Something off kilter, in a queasy, slightly arousing yet repulsive sort of way.

Tom reached the end of the passage, and pushed through the door into the entrance hall. Heavy drapes had been hung over the windows since his last visit. If they were going to black out the entire house like this, he was going to have to start bringing a torch with him.

They were usually upstairs, in the master bedroom. Once, when he had come round, they had been naked. Neither of them had been ashamed, or made any attempt to cover up. He’d told them to put some clothes on, but Steffanie, she just laughed, and walked up to him, her hips moving like a cat’s. She got up real close, her lips almost on his, her breath, cold and sweet, like death, on his cheek. She traced a finger down his chest and his stomach, down to his groin, where she caressed him, until he had to step back, snapping out of a trance.

Today he could see the flickering yellow glow of candles, from the doorway to the drawing room, the door slightly ajar. He walked closer, and pushed gently at the door.

The furniture was covered in dust sheets, but fat church candles sat on the fireplace hearth, and the mantelpiece, casting an eerie orange glow over the vast room. In the flickering light, shadows moved at the outer edges of the room, giving the impression of people, or things that were not people, hiding in the corners.

But it was not the shadows that caught Tom’s attention. In front of the dead fireplace, illuminated by the candlelight, Steffanie crouched over a body, slumped in a chair. Tom couldn’t see the body properly, or what Steffanie was doing. He slowly approached, watching with a growing sense of horror as she placed a bowl of dark liquid on the floor beside her feet.

What was in that bowl? Was it blood?

Tom stared at Steffanie’s back, unsure of what to do, how to make himself known. Saying ‘Hi,’ didn’t seem quite appropriate in the circumstances.

He cleared his throat.

She didn’t turn to him, didn’t even flinch.

“Sshh,” she whispered. “You’ll wake him.”

“Wake who?” Tom whispered.

He walked slowly, quietly, moving into a position where he could see the boy slumped in the chair.

His boy, Jacob.

His eyes were closed, and he looked pale and drawn. Steffanie was wrapping a length of soiled fabric around an ugly wound in his left forearm.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Tom hissed. “Is he dead?”

Steffanie finished applying the bandage and straightened up. “No, he’s not dead.”

“He looks dead.” Tom stared at Jacob, and ground his teeth together, his head filled with spikes of tension. “He looks . . .”

“He’s alive,” Steffanie replied. “For now, at least.”

“That’s Jacob,” Tom whispered, pointing at his son, and struggling to enunciate each word. “That’s my son.”

“I know,” Steffanie said, licking Jacob’s blood from her hands. “Does this bother you? Would you like to take him home? There is still time, you can save him.”

Tom couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Steffanie’s tongue, as it flicked in and out, from between her full, sensuous lips. Had her tongue grown longer? And her teeth, were they growing into points? Every time he saw her, she seemed to have changed a little more. She was becoming more like him. Even the scar across her neck was disappearing. Tom had found her and her boy lying on the blood drenched carpet in their house, their throats ripped wide open. The next time he’d seen her, when she was alive again, her throat had still been a mess, but the wound had closed up. Soon, there would be nothing left to see.

“Go on, take the boy. Don’t let us stop you.”

Tom turned to see Abel Mortenson standing in the living room doorway. Tom hated the sight of him. He was thickly muscular beneath his shirt, and his long, square-jawed face was handsome, yet vile at the same time. And he was smiling. Always fucking smiling, or giggling, like he knew something you didn’t, and it really was very funny.

Just like the other kids at school, laughing at Tom behind his back for trying to be tough, trying to keep up with them.

Tom looked back at Jacob. He hadn’t stirred, he looked so helpless, so vulnerable.

“No,” Tom said, his voice struggling out of his mouth in a croak. He cleared his throat, and spoke again, louder this time. “No, do what you want with him. Fucking kid’s nothing but a bloody nuisance anyway.”

Abel giggled, the sound of it turning Tom’s stomach, and walked over to Steffanie. He drew her close, and she draped her arms over him, and they kissed. The kiss lingered, and Abel ran his hand down Steffanie’s back, and over her buttocks. She moaned softly, and rubbed herself against him, running her fingers through his black, curly hair.

Tom looked away. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach, but also slightly aroused.

“I think we’re embarrassing him,” Abel said, looking at Tom. “Or maybe you would like to join in? A threesome would be fun.”

Tom looked back at them. Abel had pulled away. He had a spot of blood on his upper lip, and he licked it off.

Tom yelped when he felt hands tugging at his back, fingers coiling around the folds of his shirt. He yanked himself free, and whipped around to face his attacker.

“Oh, fuck me,” he whispered.

Jacob’s friend, Peter, gazed up at Tom with dead eyes. His face was slack, like he was asleep, and there was a nasty wound running down his cheek, like he’d scratched and scratched at it, peeling ragged strips of flesh away. His neck was open, a raw wound of glistening red meat, just like Steffanie’s had been.

Peter moaned, and staggered after Tom, his arms outstretched, clawing at the air like a B-movie zombie. His chin was wet, like a dribbling baby’s.

Abel giggled, and grasped Peter’s shoulders, turning him around to face the opposite direction.

“Go on now,” he said. “Go and play somewhere else.”

The boy staggered on his way, seemingly oblivious to the direction he was headed, or that he was no longer chasing a meal of blood. Tom winced at the mass of blood matted hair on the back of his head.

“Well? Are we safe?” Abel said. “Is Coffin still looking for his family’s killers, or has he found them?”

Tom swallowed. “Yeah, you’re safe. Coffin whacked the two kids this morning.”

Abel smiled, exposing his pointed fangs. “Good. So, no one is looking for vampires anymore?”

Tom nodded, watching as Peter staggered through the door and disappeared into the reception hall. “You’re just lucky that Coffin was still in prison when you killed his wife and kid.” He looked nervously at Steffanie. “If he’d been out, he’d have hunted you down, and ripped you apart. In fact, you should still lay low for a while.”

“Oh, but why?” Abel said, his grotesque smile slowly fading. “You said it was sorted, that Coffin’s not looking for us anymore.”

“Yeah, yeah he bought it, all right. It’s just, those two kids? Considering the circumstances, they were the best I could find to take the rap, but they were so fucking weedy, they looked like they couldn’t fight their way out of a fucking paper bag, let alone murder anyone. Coffin’s got a lot on his mind, him being fresh out of prison, and still grieving, like. But once he gets to thinking about it proper, it might not add up for him, that two skinny douchebags like them, killed his wife and kid.”

“All right, then,” Abel said. “We can lie low a little longer.”

“You might not have to wait too long,” Tom said. “There was a girl in the flat, but Coffin let her go. If she goes to the police, then Coffin’s done for.”

“She’ll be able to identify him?”

“Unless she’s fucking blind, yeah.”

“And what about you, did she see you?”

Tom wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. His eyes kept flitting back to Jacob, lying in the chair, so frail, so vulnerable. “Yeah, she saw me, but that doesn’t matter. Put me and Joe Coffin in the same room, you look at Coffin. Nobody notices me.”

Steffanie sighed. “Oh God, I’m so bored of hiding in this house. I thought we would be free now. I want to party!”

Abel raise an eyebrow. “And here I was thinking I was keeping you quite entertained.”

Steffanie giggled, and the sound of it sent another wave of nausea through Tom.

She leaned into Abel, and nuzzled her mouth into his neck, and then sucked on his ear lobe. Her hand, those long, sinuous fingers, ran down his chest and over his abdomen. She slipped her hand inside his trousers, and began caressing him.

Abel pulled her hand away. “Not now, we’ll embarrass Mr Mills again. Why don’t you go and feed the Father?”

Tom closed his eyes. He’d forgotten about that decrepit old creature.

“Everything all right?” Abel said. “You’re looking a little pale.”

Tom opened his eyes. “No, I’m fine. Absolutely fucking peachy, that’s me.” He dropped the holdall on the floor. “There, I brought it for you.”

Abel approached Tom, but, instead of picking up the holdall, he grabbed Tom’s arm, his fingers like a vice around his bicep.

“Come and say hello to the Father,” he said, exposing his teeth in that repulsive smile once more. “He gets so lonely here, starved of visitors and stimulating conversation, and he so looks forward to your little visits.”

Tom resisted, holding back. “No, I should be going now, before anyone notices I’m gone.”

“You have a few moments, I’m sure,” Abel said, and pulled him into the depths of the gloomy drawing room.

Steffanie followed them, carrying the bowl of blood.

Hidden in a shadowy corner, lost in the depths of a large, dusty wing backed armchair, sat a skeletal, wizened old man. His grey flesh was drawn tight against his skull, thin lips stretched over long, hooked teeth. A few wispy hairs clung to the skull, bony cheeks standing out against the sunken hollows beneath them. His forearms lay on the armrests, long bony fingers clutching the ends, filthy fingernails curving down, almost as long as the fingers.

He’s dead, Tom thought. He’s got to be dead. Please let him be dead.

Abel slackened his grip, and Tom yanked his arm free.

“Okay, this is lovely and all,” Tom said, taking a step back and pointing at the corpse like creature in the chair. “But it looks to me like the last thing Rumple-fucking-stiltskin needs is stimulating conversation, so I’m out of here.”

Before Tom could move, Abel grabbed his wrist and produced a knife. Abel slid the knife over Tom’s thumb, opening up the flesh. A round, fat globule of blood swelled up on the end of his thumb.

“Hey, what the—?”

Abel held the knife to Tom’s neck. “Just do as I say, Mr Mills, and then you won’t get hurt. Now, on your knees.”

Tom dropped to his knees in front of the seated cadaver. For an instant he felt like that little kid again, sitting with his friends in the old house, crying as he listened to the ghost story.

Abel pulled Tom’s hand closer to the old man’s face. Gently, he pressed his bleeding thumb against the cadaverous lips, smearing the blood over the dry flesh. The corpse’s papery, sunken eyelids snapped open, and Tom flinched. The eyes were red, like the worst case ever of conjunctivitis. The corpse’s lips opened enough to accept Tom’s bloody thumb.

Tom closed his eyes as bile rose in his throat. But he could still hear revolting sucking noises, and feel the old man’s withered tongue sliding over his thumb, and probing the wound for more blood.

“How many bags of blood in the holdall?” Abel said.

“T—twenty,” Tom said, screwing his face up, trying to blot out all sounds and sensations.

“Can you get us more?”

Tom nodded, his movements jerky, like a string puppet’s.

“Good.” Abel let go of Tom’s wrist.

He snatched his thumb out of the thing’s mouth, and opened his eyes. The parchment covered skeleton in the chair stared at him, hunger keen in its red eyes, and it moaned.

Tom scrabbled away, backwards, until he bumped into a piece of furniture. He sucked in a deep breath of stagnant, damp air, willing himself not to throw up.

“What the fuck?”

Abel smiled. “He needs blood to survive.”

Tom wiped sweat off his brow. “There’s a fucking holdall full of bags of blood over there, why didn’t you give him one of those?”

“He needs warm blood to bring him back fully to life, not the cold slop you provide for us.”

“Is that right? Next time, I’ll bring you a fucking microwave to heat it up with, okay?”

Tom pulled himself to his feet, not entirely sure at first if his legs would support him. He watched as Steffanie, kneeling before the skeletal creature in the chair, held the silver bowl of blood to its lips. All the way across the room, Tom could hear the thing slurping at Jacob’s blood.

He looked back at Abel. “Just lay low, all right. Just stay out of fucking sight for a few days, while I think about what we do next.”

Tom didn’t wait for an answer. He left the room, didn’t look back, couldn’t bear to see Jacob again, slumped in that chair like he was already dead.

Outside, standing by his car in the wet grass, Tom started shaking. He gazed at his ghostly reflection in the rain dappled glass of the passenger door.

Fuck it! I’m like their fucking lap dog, jumping through hoops every time they tell me to. I should have asked her, I should have fucking asked her.

He looked up at a noise.

Peter was staggering aimlessly around the large garden, his feet trailing sluggishly through the long grass. And he was digging into the wound on his cheek with filthy, clawed fingers, moaning constantly.

Tom closed his eyes, trying to control his shakes.

What have I got myself into? Just what the fuck have I got myself into?

chinese whispers

After talking with Laura, Joe Coffin headed back to the flat above the Blockade. He showered, turning the water up as hot as he could bear it, and scrubbed at his body, trying to rid his flesh of prison stink.

He dried himself off with a rough, threadbare towel. Naked, he walked into the kitchen and poured himself a Jack Daniels. His head was throbbing from all the whisky he had drunk earlier in the afternoon. This was a small one, just to keep the edge off.

Coffin roamed around the flat, exploring the rooms. The living room was furnished with a settee, a sideboard with three decorative plates on stands, and an old, CRT television. He tried switching it on, but the screen stayed dead.

The kitchen was just large enough to swing a small kitten in. There was a fridge with a box freezer in the top. There was an old gas ring oven, a sink, and a single unit with cupboards above it. In relation to Coffin’s size, the kitchen resembled a child’s toy.

Just like the toy kitchen Steffanie had bought for Michael that one time. The boy had been eighteen months old, just a couple of months before Coffin was arrested. He’d argued with Steffanie about that toy kitchen, told her toy kitchens were for girls, not boys.

She went ballistic, told him he was a sexist, ignorant dinosaur. Told him this was the 21st century, not the 19th, and her boy wasn’t going to grow up like all those other big, dumb brutes that Coffin called his friends.

A flicker of a smile passed over Coffin’s face as he remembered the argument. He loved it when she stood up to him, gave as good as she got. Not like the others, all dolled up like their men wanted them to look, staying indoors cooking and cleaning and ironing and, on the rare occasions when they were allowed out of the house, not daring to look at another man for fear of a slap.

No, Steffanie was independent.

The grief gnawed keenly at him. He drained the glass of whisky, and walked into the bedroom.

A single bed took up most of the room, with a flimsy, flat pack wardrobe jammed into a corner, with just enough space to open the doors. The bed was too small for Coffin. He pulled the mattress off the base, and upended it, shoving it against the wall. He lay the mattress on the floor and threw the duvet over it.

Not ideal, but at least his feet could rest on the floor instead of hanging off the end of the bed.

He dragged a holdall off the top of the wardrobe and opened it up. After the murder, once the police had finished at the house, somebody went and collected his clothes so he didn’t have to go back there.

Coffin hadn’t ever wanted to go back inside that house.

But he knew he had to, at some point. There were memories there, of his life with Steffanie, and Michael. Mementos, photographs, Michael’s childish scrawls and finger paintings. His clothes, his toys, and teddy bears. That blanket he carried everywhere with him, blue with a spotty cartoon dog on it, and its feathered edges which Michael loved brushing against his face.

Coffin took a deep breath. Held it. Let it go.

He’d go back at some point, but maybe not just yet.

Perhaps tomorrow he’d ask one of the guys to go over to the house and get his bike, his Harley Davidson Fat Boy. All those months in prison, unable to get out, on the road. Felt like he’d been going insane some days, about ready to murder someone, anyone.

But he’d held it together, and now more than ever, he needed to climb on that bike, and ride.

Maybe ride out as far as he could, and not come back.

He got dressed. White T-shirt and jeans, what he always wore. The weather was turning colder now, so when he went outside he might wear his scuffed leather jacket.

Fashion had never been his thing. Not even after he met Steffanie.

When he was ready, he pounded down the stairs and strode through the pub. He drew glances from people sat at tables and the bar. One or two voices shouted, “Hey, Joe! Good to see you back,” and one voice said, “Sorry about your family, Joe.”

He nodded an acknowledgement and headed outside. The street lights were surrounded by a misty halo, and the air felt damp against Coffin’s face. The shops had closed up, some of them dark, some of them with their window displays illuminated. Young couples, hand in hand, or arms around each other, sauntered along the pavements, giggling and chatting, dressed up for a night out. A gang of male youths approached, all gelled, spiky hair and attitude, shouting insults and laughing. When they saw Coffin they went quiet, and crossed the road.

Joe Coffin strode down the high street, and turned right onto Hagley Road, headed for the city centre.

* * *

After Terry Wu got taken care of, and Craggs bought the nightclub, he had the name changed to Angels. One of the guys had tried explaining to him that Angellicit was a play on words. Angel, denoting beauty and purity, and Illicit, meaning forbidden or naughty.

Craggs didn’t like it when people tried explaining stuff to him. He told Coffin, “The way I see it, I don’t understand first time, I ain’t interested. This piece of shit, he tried explaining it to me. I told him I wasn’t interested, but still he kept on at me, gave me a fuckin headache so bad I wanted to pull a gun and shoot him in the face.”

The ‘piece of shit’ wound up cleaning toilets for a month.

Craggs had been unhappy with the takings at Angellicit for a long time. Terry Wu was nothing but a ‘fat, lazy, chink bastard’ according to Craggs, and if he was in charge of the club, they would be doing three or four times the business.

Craggs decided he wanted in. He would buy the club, change the name, and move himself into the suite of rooms above the nightclub. All he needed to do was get rid of Terry Wu.

The double doors had neon wings across them, lit up in blue and gold. Two big black guys stood on the steps, flexing their muscles at each other through their tight, black tees, the angel wings illustrated in white across their chests.

They stood back enough to let Coffin through, and one of them clapped him on the back as he walked past.

“Yo, Joe, sorry to hear bout the family, man.”

“Yeah, thanks, Clevon,” Coffin said, pausing long enough to grip his hand in a show of solidarity.

“Anything you need, man, anything at all, you just let me know, I’ll be there,” Clevon said.

Coffin patted him on the shoulder and walked through the entrance. Clevon was the youngest, and newest member of the Slaughterhouse Mob, and Coffin had taken an instant liking to him. He also knew he was too good hearted for a life in the Mob. Coffin had intended to sit down and have a chat with Clevon one day, maybe try and persuade him to find another vocation in life.

Coffin walked past the cloak room and toilets, and through the double doors into the club. It was early, and most of the tables were empty. Some crappy, European electronic disco music pounded through the club’s mostly empty space, and a large breasted girl, wearing only a thong and a forced smile, gyrated around a pole. A middle aged man in a business suit watched her through hooded eyes, listlessly twirling a beermat around and around with his thick fingers.

Coffin made his way to the back of the club, and the dancing girl waved at him as he passed the stage. Coffin gave her a weary wave back, and pushed through a door marked, ‘Private’. His way was immediately blocked by another of Craggs’ bouncers, wearing the regulation Angels tee, all steroid enhanced muscles and tatts. Coffin could spot the steroid abusers every time, with their elongated jaws and high-pitched voices.

“Oh, hey, Joe, didn’t realise it was you,” the bouncer said.

He stepped back, eyes on the floor, like he didn’t know what to say next.

Coffin pushed past him and took the stairs two at a time.

Mortimer Craggs was in his office, sat behind his mahogany desk, in his oversized leather swivel chair, just like Coffin knew he would be. He had on a velvet dressing gown, and he was smoking a huge cigar. The old man looked like he had shrunk since Coffin last saw him, like he’d aged ten years in the last six months.

But when he saw Coffin, his eyes lit up, and he jumped to his feet and strode around his desk. He grabbed Coffin in a hug, slapping him on the back, and saying, “It’s good to see you, son, real good to see you.”

Coffin enveloped the old man in a hug.

Craggs stood back and slapped Coffin on the chest, and spoke to a blond woman sitting cross legged in a chair, painting her toenails.

“Hey, Velvina, this boy here, he’s salt of the earth, he is. Bout the only fucker I can trust these days, that’s for sure. Hey, you listening to me?”

Velvina looked up from her toenails, her mouth moving like she was a cow chewing the cud. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused.

“Ah, forget about her,” Craggs said, waving his hand in dismissal, and turning his back on her. He put his arm around Coffin’s shoulders. He had to stretch, and it looked uncomfortable, but he did it, and he guided Coffin to a chair. “Let me get you a drink, what are you having?”

“Whisky,” Coffin said.

“Of course, whisky,” Craggs said. “That’s what you like, Joe, ain’t it? Listen, I’ve got something special for you, you’ve never had this before.”

The old man walked over to a huge globe atlas, like something out of an old movie about Victorian adventurers, and opened it up. Inside were several bottles and glasses. Craggs took one of the bottles and two whisky glasses, and poured them both a drink.

“I’ve been saving this, Joe, for you.” Craggs handed Coffin a whisky glass, the amber liquid glowing in the soft light. “It’s a Glenfarclas, aged fifty years, would you believe it?”

Coffin sipped the whisky. It had a sweet sherry aftertaste, and spread warmth from his gullet and through his chest.

“Poor bastards who barrelled this are probably dead now. Imagine that, Joe, being a part of making something so special, something that has to be left alone for time to do its work, for so long, that you know you won’t be alive to see the fruits of your labour. I wonder what that feels like.”

Craggs lifted the glass to his nose and breathed in the whisky aroma. Then he took a deep swallow, and closed his eyes.

Coffin swigged his whisky back and placed the heavy, cut glass on the desk.

Craggs opened his eyes, and Coffin realised he’d been wrong. Craggs hadn’t shrunk, he was still the man Coffin remembered. He’d lost some weight, maybe, and he was a little more stooped. But, looking into his eyes, Coffin could still see the man Craggs had always been. The killer, the head of the Slaughterhouse Mob, the most powerful criminal gang boss in the city.

“Tom told me he found the scumbags who killed poor Steffanie and Michael,” Craggs said. “Have you taken care of that, Joe?”

“Yeah, I took care of them this morning,” Coffin said.

Craggs nodded, appreciatively. “Good, I’m glad to hear it, Joe. Tom wanted to do it himself, while you were still locked up. I said no. I said, wait till Joe gets out, let him take care of it.”

Coffin looked over at the girl painting her toenails. “You, get out.”

The girl looked up at him and pouted. “Aw, do I have to?”

Without turning to look at her, his voice low, Craggs said, “Joe Coffin asked you to leave. Don’t make me have to ask, too.”

Pouting some more, the girl took her time replacing the brush in the nail varnish bottle. When she stood up, Coffin caught a glimpse of silk red panties beneath the over-sized T-shirt. She padded barefoot across the office, and left, closing the door softly behind her.

Craggs patted Coffin on the arm. “What’s wrong, Joe? You look tense, like you got something on your mind. Why don’t you come and sit down, we’ll talk about it.”

The two men sat down on leather sofas, facing each other.

Coffin leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “Those two kids, I killed them. The one, I blew his brains out. The other, I filled his chest with bullets, kept shooting until the gun was empty and he looked like a piece of bloody meat.”

Craggs nodded. “That’s good, Joe. That’s how it should be. They murdered your family, they had it coming.”

“No, I don’t think they did,” Coffin said.

The words hung in the silence between them, for a long second.

“What do you mean, Joe?” Craggs said.

“I’m not sure those two kids had anything to do with the attack on my wife and son.”

Craggs stared at Coffin through eyes narrowed down to slits. “Why do you say that?”

“Tom said to me, he said, those two were members of a vampire cult, liked to pretend they were vampires, filed their teeth down to points, maybe even drank each other’s blood sometimes. He said, they were wasted on drugs when they broke into our house, that they lost all control, and savaged my family.”

Craggs nodded slowly, leaning forward and tapping ash off his cigar into an ashtray. “That’s right, that’s what Tom told me.”

“Mort, those two kids? Steffanie would have dealt with them like two naughty schoolboys. The way I heard, Steffanie and Michael, they looked like they’d been attacked by a pack of wild animals.”

Craggs puffed on his cigar for a few moments, head tilted back while he thought about what Coffin had said.

“People exaggerate, you know?” he said, finally. “Tom told someone what he saw, he tells the next guy, with a few embellishments, and so on. What do you call it, there’s a term for it, right?”

“Chinese whispers.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Chinese whispers. By the time you got told the story, it probably looked nothing like the story Tom told that first guy, you know what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, I know what you’re saying,” Coffin said.

“This kind of thing, Joe, losing your family, it’ll eat away at you, like a fucking cancer, you let it. You took out their killers, you got your revenge and they got what was coming to them. I know it’s early days Joe, Steffanie and Michael in freshly turned ground, but you got to start thinking about moving on at some point.”

Coffin cracked his knuckles, looked at the floor, the dark wood varnished and polished so much, he could almost see his face in it. “If there’s a chance I got it wrong, I took out those two kids for no reason, I’ve got to find out, Mort. I need to know, because if Steffanie and Michael’s killers are still out there, I need to spill more blood.”

The old man stood up and walked around the coffee table, stood by Coffin, and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I know that, Joe, I do. I’ll have another talk with Tom, find out where he got his information from. But right now, you need to go home, Joe, get some sleep. This has been a big day for you, first day out of prison, and all.”

Coffin looked up at the old man. How old was he now? Eighty? Eighty-one? Craggs had always been so powerful, so full of life and vitality. So strong. And that strength still lived inside him, Coffin could see that now. Despite the growing frailty of his ageing body, the fire still burned in his eyes.

“One more thing, Mort. Laura came to see me today, said her boy’s gone missing.”

Craggs nodded. “I know. I’ve had the guys out looking for him. Kid’s disappeared off the face of the fucking earth.”

“Laura doesn’t know you’ve got people looking for him. She thinks she’s on her own here.”

“I thought Tom would have told her. Those two are still together, right?”

“Yeah, they’re still together. Tom doesn’t care for them, though. Doesn’t care for either of them. I doubt he cares one way or the other about Jacob, and if he comes back.”

Craggs sucked on his cigar, the end glowing bright orange, the crackle of burning tobacco loud in the silence of the vast office. “Don’t be too hard on Tom. He looked after Steffanie and Michael while you were inside. He’s a good man.”

Coffin shook his head. “How can you say that, after what he did to Laura?”

“He’s got a temper on him, especially when he’s drunk. But we had a chat about that, Joe, you remember. Hell, you were there. The drink takes him, and turns him into something mean and nasty. That never happened to you, Joe?”

Coffin twisted his hands together, trying to ease the tension out of them. Trying to forget how he had used those hands sometimes. “I’ve done some bad things, stuff I regret when I’ve woken up in the morning, and I’ve been sober enough to remember. But Laura?”

“Let Tom be, Joe. He knows what he’s done. He won’t do it again.”

Coffin stood up. “I’m going to take your advice, old man. Go back to the flat, get some shut eye.”

Craggs punched him on the arm and grinned. “Less of the old man. It came right down to it, I could still drink you under the table.”

Coffin smiled. “Yeah, I bet you could.”

Coffin headed back outside. The misty, night air had turned into a drizzle. Coffin pulled the collar of his jacket up around his neck, and picked up his pace as he walked back to the Blockade.

The sound of his footsteps echoed through the empty streets. All the drinkers and clubbers had gone inside, and there were no cars on the road, and for a few moments he felt like he was the last man on earth, and he was destined to roam the empty streets alone, with nothing but painful memories to keep him company.

And that seemed a fitting penance.

emma on display

Despite the cold evening air, Tom Mills was burning hot. Parked outside his house, the engine off, he gripped the steering wheel, his teeth clenched, sweat running down his face.

How could he go inside and face Laura, after what he had seen? Stupid, fucking kid, why did he have to go and get himself involved? Tom closed his eyes, tired of looking at the rain spattered windscreen, the streetlights refracted through the raindrops. He snapped them open again. In the darkness behind his eyelids all he could see was Jacob’s frail, tiny body, draped over that chair whilst Steffanie bandaged up his arm.

He had looked dead. Steffanie said he wasn’t, but the poor little bastard couldn’t be far off. And what about the other kid, what was his name? Jeremy? Peter? Yeah, that was it, Peter Marsden.

What had happened to him? Was he dead?

What had Abel and Steffanie been thinking? Fucking coppers were crawling all over the city looking for those two kids. Might as well put a fucking sign up over the house, in red, flashing neon, ‘HERE WE ARE, COME AND GET US. WE KIDNAP CHILDREN AND DRINK THEIR BLOOD’.

Tom wiped sweat off his forehead, his hand trembling slightly.

But then Abel didn’t strike Tom as being the sharpest tool in the box. Maybe that was typical of his kind. All fired up in the sex department, but not much going on upstairs.

The first time he’d met Abel, Tom had been falling down drunk, at the end of a long, long night. Craggs had warned him off the drink after that incident with Laura, backed up by his pet dog, Coffin, but sometimes Tom couldn’t resist. With a shitty life like his, who could blame him for the occasional binge? So he’d been out, drinking himself into a state of oblivion. Staggering back home at some unearthly hour in the morning, he’d needed a piss. He’d ducked down an alley, and done his business, and it was only when he was zippering himself back up that he noticed the noises.

Sucking, slurping noises, like his old dad used to make, at the end of his life when the cancer had ravaged his body and taken all his teeth. All he could do was eat soup, and suck on orange slices. The slurping and dribbling used to make Tom feel sick, but his mother never let up, said it was his duty to look after his dad after all he’d done for him. Fucking fifteen years old, he should’ve been out with his mates, not spoon feeding a toothless cripple, and wiping up his dribble and snot.

Tom had walked further into the dark alley, using the wall as support. Didn’t give a thought as to what he might find, he was curious, that was all. Drunk, and curious.

The alley was so dark, Tom almost tripped over the shadowed shape, huddled on the floor. It was a man, his back to Tom, holding something to his face, and sucking at it. The man hadn’t noticed he had company.

Tom pulled out his matches, and struck a light. As he held up the lit match, the man turned, startled by the sudden noise. In the weak, flickering light, Tom saw the man’s mouth, turned down in a grimace, smeared with dark blood. In his hands he held the butchered remains of a cat.

Tom’s first instinct was to run, but the beer had taken its toll, and his legs refused the impulse to flee back down the alley, and into the city centre, where he might find normal people, not cat eating crazies.

The man dropped the cat and stood up, and when he rose to his full height, Tom could see he was powerful and lithe, a little like a cat himself. A part of Tom awakened at that moment, a door opened in the depths of his subconscious, into a room that Tom had never known existed before. And he found himself strangely attracted to this man, and yet repulsed at the same time.

Now he feared he was in too deep, had involved himself in something he should have left alone. After what he had seen this afternoon, back at the house, Tom wished he had never set foot in that alley, never gone investigating those sounds. He should have just gone home, slept off the booze. Then, the following morning he’d have woken up with a killer hangover, and got on with his miserable shitty life, not realising how close he’d come to fucking it all up so completely.

But no. He had to go and play at being Lieutenant fucking Columbo, didn’t he?

Tom wiped his sleeve across his forehead. The car windows were all steamed up. Fucking hell, why was he so hot? Perhaps he had a fever, maybe he was coming down with something. Wouldn’t that be fucking great, coming down with flu, or some other shit, right now when he needed to be sharp.

Tom licked his lips. What he needed was a drink or two. Something to calm his nerves, try and take the edge off the image of his boy, so pale and weak, and that awful wound in his arm. He’d never had any time for the little weed, and he knew the kid hated him back.

So why the hell was Tom so bothered what happened to Jacob?

Why did he even give a shit?

* * *

Emma Wylde turned the car onto her drive, and parked in front of the house. The study light was on, the desk lamp illuminating Nick Archer at his desk, intently studying an open file. The rest of the house was in darkness, which meant that he had done nothing but work in the study since coming home.

Emma bipped the car locked, and pulled her bag over her shoulder. With a story to write up about the two missing boys, to go with the interview she hoped to get tomorrow with Laura Mills, it didn’t look like Emma would be seeing much of her husband tonight.

Just the same as any other night, then.

“Hello?” she called, as she dumped her bag in the hall, and hung her coat on the wooden coat stand Nick had bought from an antique shop in Ludlow last year. He loved collecting old things, and she sometimes teased him that he was an antique, too.

“Hi, Ems!” Nick called back. “There’s a fresh pot of coffee on the go in the kitchen.”

“Thanks.” Emma entered the kitchen and switched on the lights. Chrome units reflected the light, whilst the walnut panelled doors softened the room, making a nice contrast with the ultra-modern style of the kitchen.

Emma and Nick lived in a Victorian, double fronted detached. The house had fallen into ruin over the years, and was in a sorry state when they bought it. Emma had fallen in love with it on their first viewing. With her imagination and eye for style, and Nick’s salary as a DCI supplying the money, they transformed it into a modern, smart home, whilst still keeping many of the original features.

Nick had left two mugs by the coffee maker, and a chocolate truffle, wrapped in gift paper and tied with a little bow. Emma smiled. This was a tradition of his, whenever he was home first. It had started not long after they moved in together, after a holiday in Paris. Each lunchtime, they had visited a tiny café on Boulevard St Germaine, where they had drunk coffee and eaten chocolate truffles.

Emma unwrapped the chocolate and popped it into her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully, enjoying the sensation and taste of the chocolate melting over her tongue. How many chocolate truffles did that make this week? Was this her third? Emma sighed. If she was going to keep her weight down she would have to start getting home earlier.

She poured the coffee and took the steaming mugs into the study.

“Hey.” Emma placed the mugs on the study desk, bent down and kissed Nick on the lips.

“Hey, yourself,” Nick said, and licked his lips. “Hmm, chocolate.”

“As always, thank you.” Emma smiled. “I swear you’re trying to fatten me up.”

Nick took his reading glasses off, and placed them on the open file. “Not a chance, not with all that running you do.”

Emma swivelled Nick’s chair around so that his back was to the desk, and sat on his lap.

“How was your day?” she said, running her fingers gently down his cheek. “Catch any bad guys today?”

“Not today, but it was fine.” Nick wrapped his arms around her. “How about yours? Any major breaking news stories that I need to know about?”

“As if I’d tell you,” she said, nuzzling her mouth up against his ear. “What about you? Any new leads on cases that I can go public with?”

“You already know the answer to that one, Ems.” Nick ran his hands up inside Emma’s shirt, his fingers finding the hook on her bra strap.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be the first to know about it at the press conference.”

Her lips found his, and they kissed, long and lingering.

“What do you think you’re doing back there, anyway?” she whispered, her lips brushing his as she spoke.

“You’re the investigative reporter, can’t you figure it out by yourself?”

“Very funny,” Emma said. “You seem to be struggling a bit. Need any help?”

The bra strap popped open.

“Nope, I think I got it.”

“You do realise we’re on public display here, don’t you?” Emma said, glancing at the window.

“Maybe we should go upstairs to the bedroom.”

Emma kissed him again, heat rising from her stomach and into her chest as his hands went exploring under her shirt.

“Seriously, though,” she said, growing breathless now, “have you got any leads on those two missing kids?”

Nick pulled back. “I don’t believe you.”

“What?”

“Do you always have to be on the job, Emma?”

“Hey, I just asked you a question, that’s all. One simple, fucking question.”

“Aw, come on, Ems, you know how much I hate it when you swear.”

Emma stood up, reached under her shirt and clipped her bra back on. “Not you as well. I’ve already had this shit from Mr Modern, Karl, today. What is it with you men, are you living on a different planet from me? Us girls, we’re even allowed to vote now, did you know that?”

Nick threw his hands in the air. “All right, all right! Pardon me for being a sexist pig!”

He swivelled around to face his desk, put his glasses back on, and hunched over the open file, illuminated by the glow of the angle poise lamp. Emma stood behind him, cursing herself for losing her temper so easily. She placed her hands on his shoulders, and started massaging the muscle, all bunched up and tense.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” she said.

“Sure,” Nick said, not looking around.

Emma leaned forward slightly to look at the file he was reading. She saw the name Joe Coffin. She bit her lip, wanting to ask what Nick was working on, but knowing that it would only make things worse between them.

But still, Joe Coffin. Hadn’t he got out of jail today?

Shit. Just don’t do it, don’t ask him.

She needed to take drastic action, get her mind off her job. Taking a deep breath, she stepped back, and pulled her shirt off, and then her bra, dropping them on the floor. She pulled her trousers down, and her panties, and stepped out of them. She grabbed hold of Nick’s chair and swivelled him around to face her, and sat on his lap, straddling his thighs.

The look of anger at being disturbed, swiftly disappeared from Nick’s face, replaced by a smile. Emma took his glasses off, and put them on the desk. She started unbuttoning his shirt, whilst kissing him.

“We’re still on public display,” Nick said breathlessly, between kisses.

Emma tugged at his belt.

“Yeah? So what?” she said.

someone is digging

When she opens her eyes, the darkness is all consuming. She is lying down, confined in a small space. She knows she is trapped, although she does not know why, or where. Yet she feels no fear.

This lack of fear is interesting. Once, in a previous life perhaps, she feels that she would have been terrified, trapped in this narrow, enclosed space. But not now. For the moment, she is content to lie here, exploring the exciting new sensations that are awakening inside of her.

First, there is her vision. She knows that, no matter how long she lies here, for an eternity even, her eyes will never adapt, that she is blind in this place.

And yet she can see.

This is not a normal way of seeing, not one that she has experienced before. She can see, or rather sense, the soil, and the grass, the monuments to the dead, and the stars in the sky. The moist, earthy smell of the soil is strong, and she can hear the tiny creatures wriggling and burying their way towards her.

All of her senses are heightened. She is more alive to the world around her than she has ever been, as though she has wandered through life with her eyes closed, and hands over her ears. She can feel the weight of the sky above her. She can sense the stars, and the universe stretching out to infinity, but she is no longer insignificant beneath its enormity.

Her breath catches in the back of her throat, a little cry, like a lover responding to her partner’s touch. She feels the pulse of a new life force, surging through her from the pit of her stomach, and outwards in hot waves of pleasure. She begins to writhe and squirm in the confined space, an electric tingle coursing through her nerves. She clenches her fists, her long fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her palms, and yet she feels no pain. Arching her back, she opens her mouth, panting, needing the exquisite pulsations to stop, and yet hungry for more.

She reaches a moment of total abandonment, her every muscle taut with desire and pain, corruption and hunger, and she is nothing, and she is everything, and then the waves of power begin to dissipate, her muscles relax, and she is left drained and weak.

And with a taste for blood.

Her tongue begins exploring her mouth, running over her teeth and her lips, like she has never explored her mouth before. The nerve endings on her tongue are now so sensitive, the sensation is almost painful. Her teeth feel sharp, like a predator’s teeth, and her lips are sensual and full.

She needs blood. She craves to fill her mouth with warm blood, its coppery taste shooting sharp pangs of desire through her stomach, and she can imagine the sensation of it sliding down her throat, dribbling from between her lips as the red liquid pulses into her mouth, too much to swallow and yet she can’t stop sucking at it, needing more, yet more.

She lifts a hand to her throat, dizzy with desire, and her fingers find the wound. She begins exploring the jagged rip in her throat, the torn edges of her flesh sewn roughly together. She wants to rip the stitches out, and insert her fingers inside.

And she remembers.

The man, tapping on her window.

She had a name then, but the name is of no consequence now. She forgot her name the moment she saw him, when she looked into his eyes. His flesh was pale, like the moon, but his eyes were dark, filled with knowledge and pleasure and wickedness.

Let me in, he said. Let me in.

And she did let him in, and he entered her, and despoiled her, and in that moment of ecstasy and terror, she knew that she had lost everything, including herself, that she had stepped through a doorway into another world, of cold pleasure and depraved abandonment, and she could never come back.

And the darkness swallowed her.

There is movement above her. A footfall, a disturbance in the packed earth.

She places the palm of her hand against the roof of her prison, only inches from her face. The surface is soft, like velvet, but there is cold resistance behind it.

A thought occurs to her.

Is she in a coffin?

Tremors shiver through her hand and down her arm.

Someone is digging.

* * *

Steffanie’s eyes opened. She could feel the pull of the night, the moon behind the clouds, the eternity of stars behind that blanket of grey she used to call a sky. The need to slip outside, to prowl through the city’s streets, or leap across the roof tops, to hunt, was strong upon her.

But Abel had forbidden her. He understood the need, it bedevilled him, too, making his flesh crawl with desire until he scratched and scratched, and then pounced upon her. She fed him, however she could. Her blood was still pure enough that he could drink from her, but not for long. Another few days, and her body fluids would be poisonous.

And then she would be just like him.

Abel said they needed to stay hidden. For a while longer, at least.

But she didn’t know how much longer she could stand it, cooped up in this house, forbidden to explore the night.

Steffanie sat up, pushing her long, red hair from her face. She ran her fingers over her lips, so fat and full, and her teeth, so sharp now.

She had been dreaming again. Always the same dream, that moment in her coffin, in the ground, when she was reborn.

Abel had come to her, his instinct telling him she was ready. He had dug through the moist, freshly turned earth, and pulled her from her tomb, birthed her into the night, blinking and staring in wonder like a newborn.

Abel cradled her in his arms, sitting on the damp ground, amongst the tombstones. She reached for the stars, her arms white as alabaster, her fingers like claws against the night sky, beneath the light of the full moon and a million stars. Abel pulled her funeral clothes from her, and lay her naked on a tomb. And, naked too, he climbed on top of her. She bit and scratched him as he thrust at her like an animal, the moon illuminating their pale, writhing bodies.

She had not known that she was once Steffanie. Neither had she remembered she once had a husband, and a son. It was a mystery to her when Abel took her to the grave next to hers, and looked almost sadly up on it.

He was too young to turn. The night could not claim him, but at least he shall have peace.

She remembered nothing of her old life.

But the last few days the memories had been rushing back. Images and sounds, snatches of conversations, all piling on top of one another in fragments. She remembered she once had a son, and a husband, Joe Coffin.

She remembered a wedding, with only her and Coffin and the registrar in attendance. And she remembered giving birth to her son, the pain and the blood, and the fear, that everything was changing, that nothing would ever be the same.

Other snatches of memory. Dancing, with people watching her. A woman, asking her questions. A fight in a pub, Joe Coffin pummelling someone until his face was a bloody pulp.

And something else.

Something hidden.

Something important.

Why were the memories flooding back? Why now?

It was that boy, Jacob.

Having him here had triggered something. The rush of memories began as a trickle, when the boy first whispered her name.

Steffanie.

As though he could evoke pity in her heart by speaking that name she once used, in her old life.

Steffanie.

As though she could save him.

He knew, when he looked into her eyes, the boy knew she was no longer Steffanie.

Steffanie was dead.

* * *

Tom cursed loudly as someone jostled his elbow, and the top of his Saxon Gold spilled over the edge of his glass, and dribbled down the side.

He looked around, intending to give whoever had bumped him a mouthful, but there were too many people, all struggling for the bar, before last orders. Tom sat down heavily at a table, squashed between an enormous young woman with pink hair, and a tattoo of a barcode on her left shoulder, and an old man with liver spotted hands talking to his friend.

Tom looked at the barcode, wondering why someone would do that. Was it a personal statement of some kind? Did she consider herself little more than a number, encoded for digital devices? Was she commenting on the future, or maybe making some sort of political statement?

Tom considered taking out his smartphone and scanning the barcode.

Perhaps she was a prostitute, and her website would open up on his phone, with a list of her services and prices.

Or perhaps she would turn around and see what he was doing, and give him a mouthful.

Tom should have known better than to come to The Headless Lady on a Friday night. All he’d wanted was a quiet drink, some time to himself, to get as drunk as possible, as quickly as possible. But the pub was noisy, and had begun to hurt his head, and it was hot.

Tom looked at his pint of beer, his seventh of the evening. He had a good buzz on, but still the image of his son, so deathly pale, remained fixed in his mind. Tom wanted to obliterate any memory of him and his life. How could he look at Laura, knowing what he had seen?

How could he look at himself?

Tom took a long swallow of the cold beer. Jacob was nothing to him, he just had to keep telling that to himself. The kid had been nothing but a pain in the arse from the moment he was born. Crying and whingeing, always needing Laura’s attention. As soon as that scrawny kid was in her arms, still covered in crap, it was like Tom didn’t exist anymore.

From that point on, everything was about the kid. He needed a feed, he needed his nappy changing, he needed burping, he needed bathing, he needed a cuddle.

What about me? Tom had thought. When do I get a fucking cuddle? Preferably in bed, with no clothes on.

Fuck. Laura wouldn’t let him anywhere near her the first few months after the birth. Said she was tired, said she had a pounding headache, said she didn’t feel like it. And when he did see her naked, she still had her baby belly, looked like she was pregnant again, and she repulsed him, turned him off like he’d been dropped in a bath of ice cold water.

It was all the kid’s fault. Laura should’ve got an abortion, like he told her to. He never wanted kids, they were never supposed to have children, that’s what they agreed when they got married.

No kids.

Just the two of us.

Fuck.

Tom took another swallow of his beer.

He’d thought it would get better as the boy grew up, but it just seemed to get worse. The kid grew more demanding, wanting toys, wanting to be played with, Laura even saying one time that maybe Tom should read the kid a fucking bedtime story once in a while.

Not a chance.

And then there was that time a few years back, when he came home steaming drunk, and she was waiting for him in bed, and it was dark, so he couldn’t see her saggy belly with its stretch marks, and for once he’d managed to get it up, but then it was over too quickly, and had it even been worth it?

But she’d tricked him. She wanted another kid, all along she’d wanted a sister or brother for the kid, and when he found out that she was pregnant again, he’d been so furious he could hardly even think. He’d bottled that fury up for weeks, until that afternoon he came home, pissed off his head, and all the anger exploded inside of him, and he had to let it out.

The last thing Tom remembered was him and Laura arguing in the kitchen, screaming at each other, his head pounding like an artery was about to pop.

The next thing he knew, Laura was lying on the floor in a puddle of blood, and Tom was standing over her, panting like he’d been in a fight, and someone was pounding on the door, and the kid was standing by him, punching and slapping him on the back, and crying.

And Tom knew it was bad.

He lifted his glass and drained the rest of it. Time to go home. Laura would be in bed by now, and he wouldn’t have to face her. And in the morning, if he got out of the house quick, like he had something urgent to attend to, he wouldn’t have to listen to her crying about Jacob, and how Tom could be doing more to help find him.

Because, God help him, he couldn’t stand it if she did that. The way he felt now, if she asked him about Jacob, he’d just spill his guts and tell her everything.

Tom stood up and pushed his way through the crowded pub. Outside, a sudden rush of dizziness and weakness overcame him, and he had to lean against a wall, afraid that he might fall over.

Tom rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. His head was pounding and his heart hammering in his chest.

All I need now is a fucking heart attack, wouldn’t that finish the day off like a fucking dream?

Slowly the pounding in his head subsided, and his heartbeat slowed down. When he had calmed down enough that he could think clearly, he opened his eyes. It was late, and traffic was light on the roads. That was good. Tom had intended walking home, he wasn’t fit to sit behind the wheel of a car, but now that he was outside, thinking about that long walk home, he decided to drive.

Tom rubbed wearily at his face. Shit, all he wanted to do was climb into bed and forget about everything. What a mess.

Tom walked slowly to his car, and spent some time concentrating on fitting the key into the ignition. He turned on the engine, and switched on the headlights, and then lay his forehead against the steering wheel and closed his eyes.

After taking a few deep breaths, willing himself to stay awake, he sat up, put the car into first gear, released the handbrake, and drove slowly out of the car park. He took the curve too wide as he turned right onto Hagley Road, and the passenger side wheels mounted the pavement. Cursing, he overcorrected, and jumped as a car horn blared behind him, and the driver flashed his headlights.

The other car accelerated past, the driver flicking the V at Tom.

When he finally parked up, Tom realised he had driven the rest of the journey on autopilot. He had no memory of the drive, and for all he knew he could have left a trail of crashed cars and injured pedestrians in his wake.

But the night was quiet, there was no sound of police cars in pursuit, or angry drivers chasing him on foot, their mangled cars left stranded in the middle of the road.

Tom climbed slowly out of the car. He pushed the door shut, and locked it with his key fob, the red lights flashing twice, on and off.

He looked up, and his eyes widened in dismay.

“Fuck,” he whispered, white clouds of breath streaming from his mouth.

Driving on autopilot, his mind lost in an alcoholic fog, Tom’s unconscious had taken him to the wrong place.

He walked unsteadily through the gate and along the path. In the dark, his sodden mind struggling to make connections, he stumbled along uneven ground, and tripped over stones hidden by the night, until he eventually found what he was looking for.

Steffanie’s grave, a wreath placed over it. Tom had filled that grave back in, after Abel had dug Steffanie free. It had taken him over a couple of hours, but his hands had been trembling, and he hardly had the strength to shovel the dirt back into the hole.

Seeing Steffanie alive had knocked him for six. Tom had never really been able to fully believe that Abel was a vampire, despite what he had seen. But looking at Steffanie, looking as beautiful as ever, and yet queasily different, too, standing before him, risen from the dead, had shaken Tom to the core.

He had returned, and filled in Steffanie’s desecrated grave, hiding the evidence that it had been tampered with.

And he’d done a good job. Looking at it now, no one would know that she wasn’t there anymore.

But Michael’s grave.

That was different.

Tom approached it slowly, hardly able to believe his eyes. He knelt down beside the hole in the grave, soil scattered around it, like whoever had been digging had been working furiously, in a panic, or a rage.

Tom placed his hands on the ground, beside the hole, and leaned forward, peering into it. The coffin lid had been ripped open, splinters of wood lying in the empty casket.

Little Michael’s body was not there.

Tom lay on his back beside the grave and closed his eyes.

Had someone come and stolen Michael’s body?

Or had the little boy come back to life, and dug himself free?

peter goes home

Brenda Marsden sat up, her heart hammering, blood pulsing through her head. The heavy duvet slipped off the bed, and Brenda shivered. The cold prickled at her flesh. Had she screamed, when she sat up, so violently wrenched from her sleep? She took a deep breath, trying to calm her heart, still thumping away in her ribcage. Was she having a heart attack?

With a trembling hand, she reached out to her bedside cabinet. Fingers fumbled with her lamp’s cable, until she found the switch, and flicked on the light.

She squinted in the sudden glare, placing a hand over her eyes. The bed sheet felt clammy and cold. Had she wet herself? Was that why she had woken up so suddenly? Had it been her mind’s futile attempt at stopping her body from betraying her, from embarrassing her?

Brenda ran the flat of her palm over the damp sheet. No, she hadn’t pissed in the bed, after all. She’d been sweating, as she thrashed about beneath the heavy, winter duvet. She remembered feeling hot and feverish, kicking out, pushing and pulling at the cover, as though trying to fight her way out of a nightmare.

Already the details of the dream had fled, leaving her only with a sense of having been utterly terrified. The terror still lingered, in her chest, in her stomach, the ends of her fingers tingling, and the inside of her mouth thick and sticky.

She pulled the duvet off the bedroom floor and over herself, wrapping it around her body like a protective cocoon.

Only a dream. I just need to calm down, forget about it.

Brenda peered at her clock. Her eyesight was getting worse. Every day now it seemed like her visible world was shrinking, imprisoning her in an indistinct blur of light and shadow. She should go to the optician, but what would they do? Just try and sell her some glasses, that’s all. Like everybody else in life, they just wanted her money. The bloody government, the council, all those bloody salesmen on the doorstep, and the Jehovah’s Witnesses, even the men she sometimes had up here in her bedroom, and they paid her, they were all the same. If it wasn’t her money they wanted, it was her body, or her eternal soul.

Bastards, all of them, ready to screw you over at the first chance they got.

Brenda picked the clock off the bedside cabinet and peered at its glowing figures.

5:06 AM

She put the clock back and started chewing on a nail. Not much chance of her getting back to sleep now. Once she was awake, that was it, she was awake for hours. That was always the problem with having Peter around. He’d wake up in the night, having a nightmare, or crying because he’d wet the bed. And he’d wake Brenda up, bloody stupid kid.

Why did he have to do that? He was too old to be scared of the dark anymore, and he bloody well knew where the clean sheets were kept, didn’t he? It was about time he started looking after himself a bit more, was what she’d tell him.

But no, the stupid little boy insisted on waking her up, wanting her to tell him that there weren’t any monsters lurking in the wardrobe, or under the bed. Wanting her to change his sheets for clean, dry ones.

Brenda picked up a packet of cigarettes off her bedside cabinet and pulled one out. No point in even trying to get back to sleep now. She lit the cigarette and took a deep drag, savouring that first giddy moment as the nicotine hit her bloodstream.

Bloody stupid Peter, most probably just like his bloody father, whoever the hell he was. What the hell did he think he was playing at? Him and that other boy, Jacob, they were hiding out somewhere, playing at being silly buggers. None of this stupid fuss with the police had been necessary, but Laura, she had to go and get them involved.

Her being Tom Mills’ wife, and all. You’d have thought when you were married to the Slaughterhouse Mob, the police would be the last people you’d call. But no, Laura had to go and get them looking for the kids, creating a bloody storm in a teacup if you asked Brenda, and now here she was, Public Enemy Number One, according to the papers.

Oh yes, she knew what the police thought of her, and she’d read the newspapers, all those bloody editors sitting in their swanky London offices, ranting on about what an unfit mother she was. What was it The Daily Mail had said about her? ‘Brenda Marsden is a shabby symbol of the state of our once proud nation’, or some such bloody shit.

All a load of bloody bollocks, that’s what it was.

Brenda took another drag on her cigarette, and then held her breath. Listening.

For a moment her chest had contracted, her stomach tightened, the oppressive fear from her nightmare sweeping over her once more. It was her imagination, it must have been. The wind, perhaps, playing tricks with her hearing, with her nerves.

Because, surely she couldn’t have heard Peter calling for her from his bedroom?

Brenda sat perfectly still in the bed, smoke from the cigarette, held between two fingers, drifting past her face.

Nothing, just the empty silence of the house.

God, this house can be bloody lonely at night, she thought. Although the boy had been nothing but a bloody nuisance and a drain on her pocket ever since he came along, at least he was a bit of company sometimes. Like in the evenings, when her men friends were back home with their wives, it was nice to have the lad around then.

He had a right tongue on him, that was for sure, giving her cheek so much she sometimes couldn’t help but give him a slap. It was for his own good, that mouth of his was going to get him into trouble one day. But he could be funny, too. Some of the stories he told her, making them up on the spot like that, he’d have her crying with laughter by the end.

Bloody hell, Brenda, the way you’re going on, anybody’d think you were missing the little sod.

She took another drag on her cigarette.

Brenda jumped as she heard a clatter from outside, and bottles rolling along the drive.

Cats, she thought, as her heart picked up its galloping pace again. That’s all, just the bloody cats.

A long, grey column of ash had grown on Brenda’s cigarette, threatening to collapse onto her duvet. She tapped it into the ashtray, the one with the portrait of Elvis in the base. Her first husband had been an obsessive fan of Elvis, and tortured Brenda by playing his records all day long. He’d hated that ashtray, said she shouldn’t be stubbing her cigarettes out in the King’s face.

Bloody hell, he couldn’t even see that’s why she’d bought it in the first place.

And why she still hung onto it all these years later.

Another clatter of rubbish from outside startled Brenda, and she dropped her cigarette on the duvet. She snatched it up, and stubbed it out in the ashtray.

I’m going to kill those bloody cats, she thought, climbing out of the bed. She twitched the curtains aside, and peered through the gap, down into the darkness of her garden. All she could see was her distorted reflection in the glass.

Pulling on her slippers and a faded dressing gown, she headed downstairs. In the kitchen, in a cupboard under the sink, she found a torch. She hadn’t used it in years, but when she flicked the switch it gave out a weak, yellow light.

She unlocked the back door, and stepped outside.

Silence.

Brenda swung the torch around in a slow arc, past the small, derelict shed, more holes in the roof than there was actual roof, past the overgrown lawn full of weeds, and the engine block left behind by one of her boyfriends. He’d promised to come back for it, but Brenda had given up expecting him.

And there, on the flagstone patio, was her dustbin, lying on its side, the contents strewn behind it in a wide arc.

Not a sign of cats anywhere.

Brenda turned back to go inside.

I’ll pick all the rubbish up later.

The skin on her neck and arms goose pimpled as she heard the slow shuffle of footsteps in the dark. She swung the torch back around, her other hand clutching at her dressing gown. There was no one in the garden, no one that she could see at least.

But she had heard something.

“Who’s there?” she said.

Another sound, like someone laboriously dragging a heavy weight, inch by painful inch, along the ground.

Whoever, whatever, was making that noise, they were coming closer. Brenda stepped back, her heel catching on the lip of the doorstep. She began to fall, tipping backwards. Her arms shot out and began pinwheeling around as she tried to regain her balance, or grab onto the door frame. The light from the torch swung around and around, casting crazy, kaleidoscopic shadows across the walls, transforming the kitchen into a lunatic funfair ride from a black and white horror movie.

Brenda fell on her bottom, and the shock sent the torch flying from her hand and skidding across the kitchen floor. The bulb flickered wildly, and then died, plunging her into darkness.

“Oh no, oh no, no, no, nononononoooo . . .!”

She scrabbled around on the floor, disorientated in her terror, trying to find the door. She had to shut the back door before that thing, whatever it was, got inside the house. She swept her hands wildly across the dirty linoleum, until her knuckles smacked against the edge of the doorstep.

Crying out in pain and fear, Brenda slid her hands up the open door until she found the handle, all the time expecting her wrist to be seized by the clawed, deformed hand of a nightmarish monster from the depths of hell. Crying with relief, she pulled at the door and slammed it shut, her shaking fingers finding the key and twisting it locked.

Something heavy and ponderous thumped against the door, and Brenda screamed. There was another thump, and then the slap of something flat and wet, against the glass. Brenda pulled herself backwards, her bottom sliding along the floor, staring wide eyed at her back door. There was little to see, other than vague shadows, and the suggestion of movement, in the darkness.

She screamed again when she hit her head against the table. Whatever was outside seemed agitated by her scream, and began pawing at her back door. Brenda turned over, reaching out to get on her hands and knees, when she found the torch. She closed her hand around it and picked it up.

The torch flickered into life again, the beam suddenly growing steadier.

As if pulled by an outside force, unable to command her body to stop, she slowly turned around, casting the light on her back door.

A white face was pressed against the window in the upper half of the door, blood from a gash in the cheek smeared against the glass in a long, wide streak. Round eyes stared at her, the pupils so big and black, they seemed to take up the whole of the eye sockets. On either side of the ghastly head, two hands were pushed against the glass, the fingers splayed out.

There was a squeaking sound as it shifted position slightly, leaving more bloody smears across the window. It opened its mouth, and pressed a red, pointed tongue against the glass, and started licking at the blood.

Brenda screamed.

That thing outside was her Peter.

She screamed and screamed, and dropped the torch from nerveless fingers. It hit the floor, the bulb giving up again, and leaving her in darkness once more.

Sobbing hysterically, Brenda managed to start crawling away from the back door, into the hall and then up the stairs.

Outside, the lifeless thing that used to be her son, continued licking frantically at its own blood smeared across the window pane.

it's all bullshit

When Joe Coffin woke up, his eyes were full of grit, and his head felt like somebody had punched a metal spike through it.

There were no curtains in the flat, and the morning sky was a clear, sharp edged blue. Coffin dragged himself out of bed, and rummaged through his holdall for some clean clothes, squinting in the sunlight. He pulled on a T-shirt and jeans.

In the bathroom he splashed cold water over his face. He ran his tongue over his teeth. They felt fuzzy, sticky. Yesterday he had meant to buy a toothbrush and toothpaste. He walked into the kitchen and found the whisky bottle. He rinsed a small amount of whisky around his mouth, before swallowing it.

The clock on the kitchen wall said the time was ten past eight. He would have liked to have slept in for longer, but the sunshine had prodded him awake. He prowled around the flat, in and out of the bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living room. Not sure what he was looking for. Not sure he was looking for anything.

He headed downstairs and outside, the cold morning air like a slap in the face, bringing him fully awake. The street was busy with rush hour traffic, the pavement with mothers taking their children to school. Coffin walked to the corner shop. He began scanning the newspaper headlines, and stopped.

Coffin picked up the newspaper and unfolded it, so that he could read the entire headline.

BRUTAL GANGLAND MURDER IN CITY

Coffin gripped the newspaper, his fingers tightening around the edges, scrunching the paper into his palms.

He scanned through the story, looking for any details about the two kids, about any possible connection the police were looking at in relation to his family’s murders. As usual, the police were remaining tight lipped.

“Hey, are you buying that paper, or not? This isn’t a library, you know!”

Coffin looked up from the newspaper, at the shopkeeper, standing behind his counter, rolls of fat stretching at his shirt. Greasy hair, pasty skin, full, wet lips, he looked to Coffin like someone who deserved a good kicking. Coffin could imagine doing that, saw himself taking out all his grief and misery, all his anger, on this piece of shit.

The man, as though reading Coffin’s intentions in his eyes, took a step back, his eyes widening.

Coffin walked over to the counter, and leaned on it, upsetting a display of lottery tickets, which crashed to the floor.

“What did you say?”

The man backed up again, into shelves of cigarette packets. He was shaking so bad he upset the displays, and the packets began falling, bouncing off his shoulders and his huge stomach.

“I just asked if you were buying the paper, that’s all.”

Coffin leaned over the counter, grabbed the shopkeeper by the collar, and hauled him forward until their faces were only inches apart.

The fat man clutched at Coffin’s wrists, tried to pull himself free. He might as well have been trying to prise open a locked door with his fingers.

Coffin stared into his wide, frightened eyes. Tears were gathering on the lids, quivering and ready to spill down his cheeks. Coffin grabbed the man’s face in one hand, squeezing his cheeks together, so that his lips stuck out in a comical pout.

How easy it would be to simply keep on squeezing, until he felt the bones of the skull cave in beneath the pressure, heard the crack of bone just before the man began screaming.

The bell over the shop door tinged.

Coffin let go, and the man staggered and fell back, on his bottom. Breathing tortuously, his hands massaging his face, the shopkeeper stared up at Coffin. He looked about ready to burst into tears.

Coffin picked up his newspaper and walked outside.

As he walked, he continued reading. There was no mention of the girl that Coffin had told to get out. He regretted letting her go. If she went to the police, she could easily identify him. Maybe she had already gone, and the police were keeping quiet.

No, Coffin couldn’t figure that one. The cops would have said they were pursuing an important lead, or some bullshit like that. They had to say something to justify their existence.

It bothered him about those two kids, though. Coffin never would have named them as the killers. They didn’t fit the picture in his head. Coffin should never have listened to Tom Mills, he should have trusted his instinct. He thought about what Craggs had said, about Chinese whispers, about Tom looking after Coffin’s interests while he was in jail.

Here was another detail that bothered him. Joe Coffin and Tom Mills had never had much time for each other before now. What Coffin had ended up hating the most about his divorce from Laura was that she went on to marry Tom Mills. The guy was a complete waste of space, always had been. What had compelled Laura to hook up with him was beyond Coffin’s ability to reason.

The divorce with Laura had been amicable, and they remained friends. So, Coffin had kept out of the way, and not criticised Laura for her choice of partner. If she wanted to marry him, that was up to her. But then Jacob arrived, and Coffin saw a change for the worse in Tom, an aggressive streak he had never displayed before. It was like he suddenly had this monkey on his back, nipping and scratching at him, whispering in his ear, goading him on to increasingly nasty outbursts.

Coffin had been ready to rip Tom’s arms off when he found out about the assault on Laura. But Craggs had forbidden him from interfering, had calmed him down, saying he would deal with it.

Mortimer Craggs insisted on visiting Laura, taking Tom with him. Coffin came along, too, giving Tom the dead eye the whole time. Tom begged for Laura’s forgiveness, cried his eyes out in front of everyone.

Coffin knew it was all bullshit. Tom didn’t care what Laura thought, didn’t give a shit about the bruises on her face, the stitches in the back of her head. The dramatic display of regret was for Mortimer Craggs, and nobody else.

Craggs didn’t like it when the organisation that was the Slaughterhouse Mob didn’t run as smoothly as it ought. Craggs had founded the Slaughterhouse Mob, and been its leader ever since. He demanded fierce loyalty from every member of the Mob, and that included the wives.

Which meant, that once Tom Mills had finished his desperate pleading for forgiveness, Laura had little choice other than to accept his apology, and take him back. Coffin had already told her that she shouldn’t take him back, and that he would support her, talk Craggs round.

But Laura took Tom back, and it wasn’t that big a surprise, really. Coffin felt bad for Laura, even more so for the boy, Jacob. He wasn’t going to let Tom hurt them again.

And Tom knew that.

But now, here he was, acting like Coffin’s best friend. It didn’t sit easy with Coffin.

Not at all.

Coffin read the rest of the story.

When he’d finished, he folded the newspaper up, and stuffed it into a bin.

He stopped at a florists, and bought some lilies.

Then he began the walk to the churchyard, where Steffanie and Michael were buried.

* * *

Tom Mills gripped the edge of the white toilet bowl, and threw up. He wiped a trembling arm over his forehead slick with sweat, and spat into the toilet. Sitting down on the bathroom floor, his back against the bath, he tore some paper off the toilet roll and dabbed at his lips. His head was pounding, and the morning light hurt the back of his eyes.

Reaching up to flush the toilet, Tom noticed his hand was black. He looked at his other hand. It was black too. He held both hands up in front of his face. His palms looked like a negative image, the tracery of fine lines running across the surface standing out in white against the black.

There were black smudges where he had been gripping the toilet bowl, and when he looked up he saw a black hand print on the wall by the bathroom door.

What the hell was going on?

Tom lifted a shaky hand to his nose and sniffed cautiously. The palm of his hand smelt of soil.

Tom groaned and closed his eyes as he remembered finding the open grave last night. There were several large gaps in his recollection of events, fragments of memory only. But he remembered shovelling the dirt back into the grave with his bare hands.

And he remembered sobbing helplessly while he gathered up the mounds of earth, and pushed them over the edges of the grave.

Tom struggled to his feet and gazed at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His face was smudged with black, and so was his shirt and trousers. He had no memory of how he got home, but he must have crawled straight into bed fully dressed. Still wearing his shoes.

He opened the bathroom window and looked outside. The car was parked at an angle, half on the drive and half on the front lawn. But there was no sign that he could see, of any damage to the car. Surely, if he had been involved in an accident last night, he would have known about it by now?

Wearily, Tom put the plug in the bath and turned on the hot water tap.

The room began spinning, another wave of nausea building inside his stomach. Tom sat down on the floor, beside the toilet. His head ached, along with his legs and arms and back.

Slowly, he began the laborious job of untying his shoelaces. He refused to think about last night, not yet at least. After a long soak in the bath he would go back to bed, get some more sleep.

And then, maybe then, he could try and think about what he had seen.

* * *

Joe Coffin stood beneath the shade of a massive Oak tree. Brown leaves floated gently to the ground all around him. From where he stood, Coffin had a clear view of the police, their vans and forensic crews, and the yellow scene of crime tape.

Every now and then someone would stop, crane their necks to try and take a look, maybe see if there was a body still there. They were quickly moved on by a policeman. A reporter stood a little way off, talking into his mobile.

Coffin still held the lilies, forgotten, by his side. He’d been on his way to the graveyard when he saw the police vans, the crowd of onlookers. It didn’t take long to find out what was going on. A tramp had been found early this morning, the cold body lying half on, half off a park bench, his throat ripped open in a savage attack.

And now Coffin didn’t feel like going to the graveyard. Not if the murderer of his wife and son was still out there, still killing people.

At the sound of rustling behind him, Coffin turned around. A tramp, hunched up like a question mark, shuffled through the leaves towards him. As the beggar approached, Coffin saw long, white hair cascading from beneath an oversized deerstalker, and realised he was looking at an old woman. She wore a large, tattered winter coat, several skirts, and a huge pair of boots. Behind her she was dragging a battered shopping bag on wheels.

She stopped beside Coffin and peered up at him.

“I haven’t got any money,” Coffin said, and turned his attention back to the crime scene in the distance.

The old woman huffed, and spat a gob of yellow phlegm on the ground. “Did I ask you for any money?”

“No, I don’t suppose you did,” Coffin said.

“Well then, what gives you the right to assume that I walked over here just to ask you for some spare change?”

“I apologise,” Coffin replied.

“That’s all right then,” the old woman said. “Now, what’s so interesting to you about all the fuss they’re making over there?”

Coffin sighed. Prison and life on the outside were sometimes very similar. Wherever he was, there always seemed to be somebody interested in his business.

“I don’t mean to be rude, old lady, but this is none of your business.”

“Seems it ought not to be any of your business either, otherwise why would you be skulking around under the shade of this tree, instead of up there talking to those officers?”

Coffin looked down at the old lady again. Even standing straight, she would still be tiny. Because of his size, most people gave Coffin a wide berth. But this little old woman seemed to have no fear of him at all.

“What about you?” he said. “What business is this of yours?”

“I knew old Alfred, long before he took to sleeping on that park bench, that’s what business it is of mine.”

“I’m sorry,” Coffin said. “He was your friend.”

The old woman stuffed a hand inside her jacket and scratched. “Wouldn’t say we were friends, necessarily, more like passing acquaintances.”

“How long had you known him?”

“Oh, we’d been bumping into each other on and off for the last twenty years or so, I reckon. Used to be that we’d see each other in the homeless shelters, but in later years we seem to have spent more time sleeping rough, coming across one another in the backstreets, or heading for the same park bench after sunset.”

“Sounds like a hard life,” Coffin said, turning his attention to the crime scene once more.

“Well, maybe,” she said. “But I had a home once, and a husband, and money, and it seems to me that being homeless is just a different kind of hard life to not being homeless.”

“You could be right.”

“Take that poor woman and her boy got murdered, in their own home. That’s no different to Alf getting his throat cut open out here, in the open, now is it?”

“I suppose not,” Coffin said.

“It were like a fiend from Hell,” the old lady said.

“What?” Coffin snapped his attention back to her. “Did you see the attack?”

She shook her head. “No, but I know someone who did.” She scrunched up her face. “Used to know his name once, but it escapes me now.”

Coffin got down on one knee, like an adult in front of a child, so they could talk on the same level. “What did your friend see, did he tell you?”

The old lady pushed a few wisps white of hair out of her face. “He were down here, right where we are standing now. Said he was on his way up to the bench, could see Alf laid out on it already, could hear him snoring clear all the way over here.”

She fell silent, and Coffin waited. Eventually, he said, “And then what happened?”

“Don’t rightly know. My friend, he drinks a lot, and he’s seen a few things over the years that I know aren’t right. But this time, maybe . . .”

“Maybe what?”

“Said he saw a dark shape drop from the tree over the bench. A shadow, fell on Alf, and the next thing he knew, Alf is screaming and thrashing, and fighting at this shadow, and before my friend could even think about what to do next, Alf’s screams had turned into gurgles, and he stopped fighting, and lay still.”

“And what did this . . . shadow, do next?”

“It started feeding on Alf, and my friend doesn’t know any more, because he turned and ran, and as far as I know, he’s begging for enough change today that he can buy himself a bus ticket and catch the first bus out of here.”

“Do you believe him?” Coffin asked.

“No. Today’s Friday, and on Friday nights, there’s some church folk set up a soup kitchen down at the market, and you get a hot cup of tea, soup and a bread roll. He’ll be there.”

“I meant, do you believe him about what he saw, about how Alf got killed?”

“I don’t know,” the old lady said, quietly. “I’ve never had cause to believe any of his crazy stories before, but this time . . . this time I just don’t know.”

Coffin stood up, looked back at the police on the brow of the hill, then back down at the old lady.

“Here, have these” he said, handing her the lilies, and turned and walked away.

emma visits the bathroom

Emma yelped as a boy on a BMX shot past, narrowly missing her. She stared at his back as he raced down the street, laughing.

Shouldn’t he be in school? Today was a Friday, and still term time as far as she could remember.

But then what did she care?

Children had never interested Emma. The thought of another life form growing inside her body, swelling her belly until it grew so big it had to be removed, screaming and covered in filth, was repulsive enough. And then there were the shitty nappies, the vomit, the sleepless nights, the endless feeding, and the responsibility . . . Dear God, why would anybody want to do that?

She’d been clear with Nick right from the start, no kids. Kids just got in the way, and she had her career to think about. Emma had mapped out her life plan whilst still a teenager. First there was journalism school, and then a job on any old local rag, just to get her foot in the door. After gaining some experience, and several contacts within the industry, the next stage of her plan involved getting the scoop on a major story. Then, if the story was big enough, she could quit journalism to write a book about her sensational part in this major expose. Using her earnings from book sales, and her fame as an investigative journalist, she then planned to follow her ultimate dream of writing novels for a living.

And starting a family did not feature anywhere in that plan. Neither did having a relationship, if she was honest, but sometimes life took you on a different course. Still, the relationship with Nick changed nothing, and if he wasn’t happy with the plan, he knew where the door was.

At thirty-two years of age, Emma was pleased with how her plan had worked out so far. It had taken her a little longer than expected, and she had hoped to have been working on one of the national newspapers by now. But still, for a local newspaper, the Birmingham Herald was pretty big.

Emma had hoped that Steffanie Coffin was going to be her ticket to that career making exclusive. They had only met three times, still at the point of sizing each other up, working out the deal. That last time they met, Steffanie had brought her little boy with her. And she had been jittery, convinced that someone was onto her.

They met in a country pub, The Fifth Lock, on the bank of a canal. As far away from any of the local haunts of the Slaughterhouse Mob as they could get. Emma had arrived early for their meeting. She parked her rusty, battered Ford Fiesta in a corner of the small, dusty car park, and waited for Steffanie to arrive. Twenty minutes later, Steffanie’s sleek BMW pulled into the car park. Emma watched as Steffanie dragged the buggy out of the gleaming BMW, along with a bulging mamas & papas rucksack, a bag with toys in, and finally the little boy, crying and waving his fists.

Emma had waited until she saw Steffanie walk inside the pub, and then she had waited another fifteen minutes, sitting in her car, watching out for anybody suspicious looking, or familiar to her from photographs of the Slaughterhouse Mob gang members.

Finally she walked inside the cool, darkened pub, and found Steffanie sitting in a corner, a large glass of red wine on the table.

The boy had been in his buggy, and Steffanie had spent their whole time together constantly pushing the buggy back and forth, as though trying to lull the child to sleep. But even Emma, with her limited knowledge of children, could see the boy was too big for the buggy, too old be strapped in and sent to sleep.

He yanked at the straps, his fingers fumbling with the clips, his fine motor skills not yet developed enough to be able to undo them. Steffanie had given him books, and sweets, and brightly coloured plastic toys to shake and bang, or twist and chew.

The boy had thrown everything on the floor, except the sweets, which kept him quiet until he had eaten them all, his lips turned bright orange. He cried and yelled and struggled and kicked, until Steffanie ignored him, but still kept pushing the buggy, up and down, up and down.

Emma ordered a cafetiere of coffee, and took the opportunity to examine Steffanie whilst she was busy fussing with the boy. Emma knew all about Steffanie’s career as a pole dancer, and had to admit she looked the part. Tall and slim, perfectly proportioned chest, tanned, and that shock of gorgeous red hair, all added up to the kind of girl that terrified Emma when she was at school.

“I’ve got something for you,” Steffanie said, leaving the boy alone to struggle and cry.

Emma had been plunging her cafetiere, and stopped. “Really?”

Steffanie took a long swallow of her wine, perfectly manicured fingers holding the glass. “No, nothing you can use, but something to show you I’m serious, that I do have the goods.”

Emma finished plunging her cafetiere, and poured the black coffee into her cup. She took her time, sipping at the coffee. It was good, strong and full bodied, just the way she liked it.

“What is it then?” she said, finally. “Show me what you’ve got and we can talk some more.”

Steffanie opened up the rucksack and pulled out a pack of baby wipes. The pack had a seal on the top, already open, to pull out individual wipes. Steffanie ripped open the entire plastic pack and dumped the wet baby wipes on the table. She leafed through the wipes until she found a square piece of clingfilm, with a sheet of folded paper inside, which she pushed across the table.

Emma wondered how long it had taken Steffanie to insert that piece of paper inside the folds of the baby wipes, through that small hole in the top.

Emma peeled the clingfilm apart and unfolded the paper. It was a photo. Printed off a home printer. It looked like a still from a surveillance camera, a wide angle view of an office, with a man sitting at a desk, holding a telephone to his ear.

“Is that Terry Wu?” Emma said.

Steffanie picked a rattle off the floor and handed it to the boy. He threw it at her.

“Yes,” she said. “Two minutes after that, Terry was murdered. I can get you a photo of that, too.”

Emma raised her eyebrows. “Are you fucking serious?” She put a hand to her mouth, glancing at the boy. “Oh, shit, sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it, he’s heard worse,” Steffanie said. “And yes, I’m serious.”

“And you’ve got a photo of Terry being murdered?”

“Better than that, I’ve got the whole thing on video. Complete with a perfectly clear view of the murderer.”

Emma leaned forward, her stomach suddenly doing summersaults. “Who’s on the video, Steffanie? Who pulled the trigger?”

“Uh uh,” Steffanie said, snatching the blurry photograph of Terry Wu from Emma’s hand. “You don’t get no more until we’ve got a deal.”

Steffanie pulled a gold lighter from the pocket on the rucksack, and flicked it open. She touched the flame to the print, the paper quickly catching fire, swallowing the photograph in a bright yellow flame. Steffanie stuffed the burning paper into her empty wine glass, jabbing at it with her perfectly manicured fingers, until there was nothing but curled, blackened paper left.

The pub landlady, all wrinkles and makeup, rushed over.

“What’s going on? Is everything all right?”

“Sorry about that, a little accident with my lighter.”

“Smoking’s not allowed in here, you know. If you want to smoke, you’ll have to sit outside, in the beer garden.”

“No thank you,” Steffanie replied. She slid the wine glass, the blackened paper curled up inside, across the table. “Could I have another red wine, please? And a fresh glass.”

“You’re pretty damn sure of yourself, aren’t you?” Emma said, as the old lady returned to the bar, the ruined wine glass in hand.

“Sure enough to know I want out of the life,” Steffanie said.

“Why?” Emma said. “Joe gets out of jail in another three months, will you be waiting for him? Or is it him you’re getting away from?”

Steffanie levelled her cool gaze at Emma. “I didn’t agree to meet you, just so I could answer your questions. Now why don’t you stop acting like a silly little girl, pretending to be a journalist, and we can talk about the deal?”

“You think I’m pretending, here?” Emma drew herself up a little straighter, tried to ignore that feeling of intimidation from her school years.

“I’m thinking you’re awfully young to be hanging with the big boys and girls. Shouldn’t you still be at home with mummy, playing dress up?”

Emma leaned across the table, her voice low. “Fuck you, Steffanie. You want, we can finish this right here and now, and you can waste another few weeks persuading another newspaper to pay you for giving them the scoop that will bring down Craggs and his mob. That is, if you actually have anything. So far, you’ve shown me shit.”

“Calm down, little girl,” Steffanie said. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

They fell silent as the landlady returned, with a fresh glass of wine for Steffanie.

“Don’t usually do table service here,” the old lady said. “Customers usually come to the bar and order their drinks there.”

“I appreciate you taking the trouble to accommodate me,” Steffanie replied.

The landlady left, the look on her face saying she still wasn’t sure she had made her point.

“My editor’s getting itchy,” Emma said. “If we’re going ahead with this story, we need to get moving. Which means it’s down to you, telling us your story, bringing us the evidence. Who pulled the trigger, Steffanie?”

“We haven’t discussed payment yet.”

“Are you kidding me? We’ve done nothing but discuss the fucking money! Who pulled the trigger?”

Steffanie said nothing, holding Emma in her cool, level gaze.

“Seriously, Steffanie, I’m about ready to call this whole thing off. You need to give us something before we take it any further.” Emma leaned forward, staring at Steffanie. “Who pulled the fucking trigger?”

Steffanie sighed. “It was Joe.”

“Joe Coffin? Your fucking husband?”

Michael let out a cry, and Steffanie bent down to see to him, pushing more sweets into his fumbling hands.

Emma sat back in her chair. Joe Coffin murdered Terry Wu. A low flicker of excitement burst to life in the pit of her stomach. Finally, she was on the cusp of that big, career making story. She’d have to be careful how she handled this, especially with Nick. Maybe take the evidence to the police the morning the story was due to break in the newspaper. Of course she had to give them a heads up, but not too much. This was her story, and she was going to break it how she wanted.

“All right, let’s talk money,” she said.

Steffanie raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“And, Karl says we can go up to £250,000, dependent on you giving us what you’ve promised.”

“Is that all?”

“Holy fuck, Steffanie, get a grip. That kind of money, a national newspaper pays for a celebrity to dish the dirt. You’re hardly big news outside of the Midlands, and even here you’re more in the notorious class than the celebrity status.”

“With what I’ve got, you’ll be bringing down the biggest extortion and drug running gang in the country. I would have thought—”

“Nobody gives a shit what you think,” Emma snapped. “What everybody else will be thinking is, if that high class hooker’s so concerned with bringing down the Slaughterhouse Mob, why the fuck didn’t she go straight to the police?”

Anger flared briefly across Steffanie’s face, and for a moment that childhood fear filled Emma’s chest again.

I’ve gone too far, she thought.

The mask slipped back into place, Steffanie’s face regaining its perfect composure. “I suppose that payment will have to do then.”

Emma sat back and took a deep breath. “Good, now we’re getting somewhere.”

She picked up her cup and took a sip of the coffee. She grimaced. As much as she loved coffee, she hated cold coffee.

“Next time we meet,” Emma said, “you bring all the evidence you have. Everything. And you tell me the whole story, too. We can’t dick about like this anymore. The longer we wait, the more dangerous it gets.”

Steffanie smiled, and sipped her wine. The smile wasn’t warm, or comforting, or pleasant. It was cold and cruel, and patronising. “You have no idea how much danger I am in. And you, too.”

“Like I said, the sooner we get this done, the better. How are you going to get the video of Terry Wu’s murder to us?”

“Everything I have, including the footage of the murder, and rock solid evidence linking Craggs to extortion, drug dealing, the smuggling of illegal immigrants into the country, everything, is on a USB stick. I’ll give it to you soon, but we still need to discuss the terms of the payment.”

Steffanie stood up, started gathering the toys and baby paraphernalia together.

“What are you doing?” Emma said.

Steffanie picked up her glass and drained the rest of the wine. “I have to go. I’ll be in touch.”

She wheeled the buggy around and pushed it through the pub. Emma watched as she manoeuvred the buggy outside, the door slamming shut behind her.

“Don’t mention it,” Emma said, to the empty chair. “I’m perfectly happy to pick up the bill. No need to thank me, no need at all. Fuck!”

* * *

Three days later, Emma got the news that Steffanie and Michael had been murdered. A numb dismay had been her only emotion.

The following morning, she climbed out of bed, made herself a coffee, and then sat in her kitchen the rest of the day, crying. The guilt had been overpowering, debilitating. It had taken several calls from her editor, and a personal visit, before she started the process of coming to terms with what had happened, and her possible role in it.

It was the little boy’s death that hit her most. Steffanie had lived the life, she was going out one way or another. Maybe lung cancer, or her liver packing up, or maybe a good beating from her husband, or a lover. But that little boy, how old had he been? Two, three maybe?

The BMX boy had long since disappeared from her line of view, but still Emma stared after him, lost in her thoughts.

She had a feeling that Michael Coffin was going to haunt her waking, and sleeping, hours for many years to come.

Emma opened the boot of her car and grabbed a camera, hooking the strap over her shoulder. Jonny, the young, long haired staff photographer, had been called out on another job. That was fine with Emma, she could take a photograph just as well as the staff photographers, as far as she was concerned. The D4 might be bigger, shinier and have more buttons and dials than her own compact camera, but what was the difference? You pointed the lens at your subject and pushed a button.

What was the big deal?

Emma rested her backside against her car, and looked at the house. An interview with Laura Mills wasn’t going to be easy, even though she had agreed to it. Another story about her missing child, keeping him alive in the public consciousness, couldn’t hurt, and might even do some good. Laura knew that. She was a mother, she wanted her boy home, and would do anything to achieve that.

But still, it was going to be an emotionally difficult interview.

And what was with the car parked on the driveway? Or, rather, the car parked at an angle, half on the drive and half on the lawn, with the long scratch running down the driver’s side. Looked like someone had been trying to park it, and then abandoned it. At some point in the process of trying to park, whoever had been driving had hit the second car parked on the same drive. The passenger door was crumpled in, just at the point where the other car was facing it. Looked like someone had been having a bad day.

Or night.

Emma walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell. Laura answered almost immediately.

Her eyes were red, and her face blotchy. Had she been crying? Had she even managed to get any sleep since Jacob and Peter disappeared?

Emma stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Emma from the Birmingham Herald, we spoke on the phone yesterday.”

Laura looked at Emma’s hand as though it might bite her. Eventually she shook, briefly, before snatching her hand back. Her movements were jerky, quick, like she was operated by tightly coiled springs.

“I suppose you want to come in,” she said, her voice flat, like she had made a statement, rather than asked a question.

“I think it would be easier on you if we talked inside, yes,” Emma said.

Laura made no move to let her in the house. “What’s the camera for?”

“Oh, well, if you don’t mind, of course, we thought, my editor and I thought, that it might be a good idea if we got a photograph of you, and maybe your husband as well, if he’s at home right now, that is, to go with the interview.”

Fuck! Emma thought. Get a grip on yourself, you sound like a giddy teenager asking a girl out on a date.

“Yes, Tom is at home,” Laura replied, her voice a monotone. “He came home late last night, he’s having a bath right now.”

“Oh good, he’ll look nice for the photograph, then.”

Shit, did I just say that? Emma cringed inwardly.

Laura regarded Emma for a few seconds more, her eyes dull and red rimmed, until she finally stepped back and let Emma inside.

Emma had expected the house to be in a state of chaos, the demands of normal life, such as tidying and cleaning, put on hold for the moment. All of Laura’s energy would be focused on finding her missing son, surely? Emma had half expected Laura to be out when she called, scouring the streets, knocking on doors, pinning missing persons posters up all over town.

But no, here Laura stood, like an estate agent in a brand new house, ready to give Emma the tour. The air smelt of polish, the hall carpet looked freshly vacuumed, the house just seemed to radiate cleanliness and order.

And, come to think of it, despite the red rimmed eyes, Laura looked smart and well presented, too. Was this all for Emma’s benefit? Or was this her way of coping with the stress?

“Would you like a coffee?” Laura said.

“Yes, please,” Emma replied.

She followed Laura into the kitchen. The smell of cleaning spray hung in the air. The hob sparkled, looking like it had just been installed, and all the surfaces were clean and free of clutter.

“You have a lovely house,” Emma said, and mentally kicked herself. Was now the right time to be making small talk?

“It’s all right,” Laura said, switching the kettle on.

Emma put the camera down on the table and pulled out her notebook. Maybe a coffee had been a bad idea. Best just to get the interview and the photograph and then go. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to hang around until Tom Mills had finished having a bath. From what she’d heard so far, he hadn’t been that bothered about his missing son.

“Do you mind if I take some photos of you?” Emma said. “The natural ones sometimes work so much better than posed shots.”

“Whatever you think’s best,” Laura replied.

Emma switched the camera on.

It’s like she’s given up. Jacob’s been missing three days now, and she’s started reconciling herself to the fact that she’s never going to see him again. Like she’s decided he’s already dead.

Emma lifted the camera and composed a shot through the viewfinder. Laura stared vacantly into the camera.

This is good, Emma thought. Karl might run with this one on the front page.

“What the hell’s going on?”

Emma lowered the camera.

Tom Mills had walked into the kitchen, wearing a dressing gown, hair damp and mussed up, skin red from sitting too long in a hot bath.

Emma stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Emma from the Birmingham Herald, I’m here to do a story on Jacob.”

“Fuck off,” Tom growled.

He pushed past her and opened a cupboard, rifling through it until he found a box of matches.

“What did you say?” Emma said.

“You heard me.” Tom pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his dressing gown pocket, and started ripping the cellophane off. His hands were shaking. “I told you to fuck off, we don’t need no fucking reporters round here.”

He finally managed to extricate a cigarette from the pack, and put it in his mouth. His hands were shaking so bad he used up two matches lighting the cigarette. Emma noticed his dirty fingernails, wondered why he hadn’t scrubbed them clean while he was sitting in the bath.

But they were more than just dirty, they were black. What had he been doing that got his hands so filthy, it left black crescents of dirt along the ends of his nails even after a bath?

“What are you fucking staring at?” he snapped, blowing a cloud of smoke towards her.

“Sorry,” Emma said. “I’ll leave.”

“Good fucking riddance.” Tom pushed past her again, and out of the kitchen.

“I’m sorry about that,” Laura said, her voice slow, and quiet. “He’s worried about Jacob.”

“Yeah, I can imagine,” Emma replied. “Maybe if we went somewhere, I could buy you a coffee, and we could talk?”

Laura shook her head. “No, I need to stay here. I’ll see you to the door.”

They stepped back into the hall and Emma glanced up the stairs. On the left hand side, about a quarter of the way up, was a black hand print. Further up the stairs was another one, slightly smudged, but just as filthy as the last.

Emma smiled bashfully. “Um, I’m sorry to ask, but would you mind if I used your toilet? I need to pee, and I don’t think I’ll make it back to the office, if I’m honest.”

“No, I don’t mind,” Laura replied.

Emma walked up the stairs. There was another hand print at the top, and then more along the landing wall, until they reached a bedroom door. Up here there was a trail of dirty footprints on the carpet, too. The vacuum cleaner sat on the landing.

Emma glanced back. Laura had gone back into the kitchen. The stairs carpet was clean. Laura had been vacuuming when Emma knocked on the door.

Covering up for something, maybe? Or someone, more likely.

Emma followed the trail of hand prints to the bedroom and gently pushed the door open. The bed was a tangle of bed sheets, looked like somebody had been thrashing around in their sleep, having some real bad nightmares. The sheets and the covers looked filthy, too.

Emma pulled the door to, and followed the dirty footprints to the bathroom. She opened the door, and was met by moist, warm air. There were more hand prints on the bathroom wall, on the toilet bowl and flush, on the edge of the bath. The inside of the bath was streaked with dirty water marks, and a pile of clothes had been dumped in a corner.

What the hell had Tom been up to last night?

Emma caught her breath. She could hear footsteps on the stairs.

“Hey, you, I thought I told you to get the hell out of my house!”

Emma closed the bathroom door and snapped the lock shut. Whatever had happened last night, she was sure Tom wouldn’t be happy that Emma had seen the mess he’d made.

But what was he prepared to do to keep her quiet? He’d never been convicted of anything, but from what she’d heard, Tom Mills was a nasty character. When he found her in here, amongst all these hand prints and the filthy streaks in the bath, would he be ready with an innocent explanation?

Or would it be easier all round if he found a way of keeping her quiet?

Emma flinched as he pounded on the door. “I said I want you out!”

She flushed the toilet and turned on a tap, began washing her hands. “Just a minute, I’m almost done!”

“What are you doing in there?” he shouted. “Come on out, now!”

Fuck, fuck, fuck! He’s going to fucking kill you, unless you think of something, quick!

She glanced around the bathroom, looking for a weapon.

Shampoo, soap, shower gel, a pumice stone, a toilet brush.

Fuck, maybe I could tickle him with the toilet brush, and get out whilst he’s still lying on the floor giggling helplessly.

More pounding, the door quivering in its frame. “Do I have to kick this door in, and drag you out of there?”

“No, just a sec, I’m almost done, I just need to . . . wait, I think I need to pee again!”

The bathroom window! If she climbed on the bath, hoisted herself up, maybe she could squeeze through the gap.

Emma screamed as the door crashed open. Tom stood in the ruined doorway, fists clenched by his sides, the tendons on his scrawny neck standing out, a pulse throbbing just under his left jaw.

“You stupid bitch,” he hissed.

niiinnuuuhh!

It just didn’t make sense, no matter how he looked at it. When he’d been in their scuzzy apartment, stinking of unwashed bodies, and sex, it had all seemed so obvious. In the heat of the moment, the need for revenge coursing through his body like electricity, Joe Coffin had been ready to pull the trigger, without asking any more questions.

Hell, even if the police had walked in right then, he couldn’t have stopped himself. His wife and his son were dead, and their killers needed to pay the price. Blowing that kid’s brains out had been the right thing to do.

That’s how it had seemed at the time.

But now? Now, Coffin had more questions than answers. Yesterday he had executed his family’s murderers. This morning, less than twenty-four hours later, there had been another ‘vampire’ killing.

How could that be possible?

A copycat murder?

Not likely. People killed other people in the heat of the moment, with their fists, or a gun, or a knife, or whatever came to hand. And mostly they killed family members, not strangers. Or the murder was sexually motivated.

But ripping somebody’s throat out with their teeth?

Coffin pulled his jacket collar up as the rain started falling. The pavement was covered in a blanket of wet leaves, slowly turning to mush. Another month or two and it would be much colder, might even start snowing.

That was when Coffin regretted not driving. He should learn how to drive, get himself a custom built car. Or at the very least get his Fat Boy out of the garage. All this walking from place to place was a pain in the arse.

The thing with those kids, Coffin hadn’t been thinking clearly when he took them out. But now he was, and he could see, plain as day, that those two scrawny pieces of shit had been maybe just about capable of picking their noses.

But murder?

No. Absolutely not.

Tom, in his eagerness to give Coffin a get out of jail and welcome home present, had found a likely pair for the killers, but not done his homework.

Coffin should talk to him again, find out where he got his information from. He had to have picked up their names from somewhere. Tom should have waited, let Coffin deal with it himself, when he got out.

Coffin trudged on, deep in his thoughts, and oblivious to the rain pouring down his head and under his turned up collar.

* * *

“Keep away from me!” Emma said.

“You shouldn’t have come up here,” Tom said. “You should have left, like I told you.”

“Yeah, that’s always been my problem, I never do what I’m told.”

Emma backed up, her bottom hitting the edge of the sink. The tap was still running, the water gurgling down the plughole.

Tom hadn’t moved from the doorway, as though he couldn’t quite decide what to do next. He looked dreadful, and his Adam’s apple kept bobbing up and down, like he was getting ready to throw up.

“You look like shit, Tom,” Emma said. Wasn’t this what they did in the movies, keep the bad guy talking while trying to figure out how to make an escape? “What happened to your car last night, you seen that scratch down the side?”

“What scratch?” Tom said.

“Oh man, you didn’t know? That’s one big, deep fucker, all the way down the driver’s side. You must have been shitfaced not to have noticed that. And is that Laura’s car you drove into? You punched a nice big dent in the passenger door. She’s going to go fucking ape when she sees that.”

Tom’s pinched face seemed to grow even tighter with anger. He took a step towards her. He was making a noise, too, a low growling in the back of his throat.

Shit, Emma thought, maybe keeping him talking was a bad idea. Maybe I should’ve just tried kicking him in the balls.

“Tom, what’s going on up there?” It was Laura.

Tom stopped moving. He looked unsure of himself. Like he wanted to kill Emma, but not here, in the house. Not in front of his wife.

“Nothing,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Everything’s fine. The reporter’s just leaving.”

Tom stepped out of the way, leaving the doorway free for Emma to walk through.

“Get the fuck out of my house,” he whispered. “I see you here again, I’ll rip your fucking head off. Understand?”

Emma nodded. As she walked past him, he grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her in close. His breath stank, and he had a blood soaked plaster on his thumb. Emma felt sick, and she turned her face away, so she didn’t have to breathe in his foul stench.

“One more thing,” he said, and smiled. “I think we can assume our little chat is off the record, yes?”

Emma looked him in the eye. “Go fuck yourself.”

She twisted her wrist out of his grip and ran down the stairs. Pushing past Laura, Emma stumbled outside and over to her car. Cold drops of rain hit her in the face. Her hands were shaking as she pulled the key fob out and unlocked the doors. She threw the camera on the back seat, climbed inside, and activated the central locking system.

Emma took a deep breath, and gripped the steering wheel. Raindrops and brown, wet leaves blew across the windscreen. Emma could feel the shakes coming on, as adrenalin coursed through her body.

Just got to let it pass, she thought. You’re safe in the car, but if you drive away now, you’ll crash.

Closing her eyes, still gripping the steering wheel, Emma took a few deep breaths. The shakes began subsiding.

She opened her eyes, and saw Joe Coffin approaching Tom and Laura’s house. Although she had seen photographs of him, had heard the stories of his tremendous size, this was the first time she had seen him in the flesh.

The man was huge. Paint him green and rip his trouser legs off at the knee, and he’d be the Incredible Hulk.

Coffin cast a curious glance at Emma as he walked past, and then turned up the drive, towards the house. Emma watched as he knocked on the front door, saw Laura open it and show him in, watched as the door closed.

Okay, this looks like it might be interesting.

Emma backed the car up, and round a corner, just out of sight of the house. Switching off the engine, she settled down in the car seat, and waited.

* * *

Coffin held Laura whilst she cried softly, her face buried in his chest. This wasn’t how it was supposed to have turned out. Coming here to question Tom on what he knew about Steffanie’s murder had been a mistake. In his quest for justice, his eagerness to deal out death on those responsible, Coffin had momentarily forgotten that Jacob and his friend were still missing.

“I thought you had some news,” Laura said, her voice muffled against Coffin’s T-shirt. “It’s silly, I know, but when I saw you, I thought maybe you had found them, or that you knew where they were.”

There was a thud from upstairs, the sound of a tap running.

“No, I’m sorry.” Coffin stroked Laura’s hair, like he used to do, years ago. “You haven’t heard any more from the police?”

“No.” Laura wiped at her eyes. “They want me and Tom to do a news conference today, appeal for witnesses, ask the public for help.”

“What about the other boy’s mother?”

Coffin thought he heard a small, bitter laugh.

“Brenda?” Laura said. “No, the police want to minimize her exposure in the news. For some reason, they seem to think having a drug addicted, alcoholic prostitute appealing for help on the early evening news might do more harm than good.”

Coffin continued stroking Laura’s hair. She still had her arms wrapped around him, her head snuggled into his chest. She didn’t seem in a hurry to disentangle herself.

There was another thump from upstairs, footsteps over their heads.

“Where’s Tom?”

“That’s him banging around upstairs. For the first time in his life, I think he might be attempting to clean the bathroom.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. He’s made an awful mess up there, so maybe he feels guilty.”

Coffin grunted. “I’m amazed. I’ve known Tom a lot longer than you, Laura, and I’ve never known him feel guilty about anything before.”

“I know,” Laura sighed. “Maybe it was the reporter, I think she shook him up, got him all agitated.”

“Is that the girl who was sat outside, in the car?”

“Probably. Is she still there?”

Coffin twisted his head, looked out of the window. “No, she’s gone.”

They heard Tom walking slowly down the stairs. Coffin pulled Laura away from him, held her gently by the shoulders, and looked down into her eyes.

“Is he hitting you again?” he whispered.

Laura placed her knuckles against her lips, looked down, shook her head.

“Hey, Joe, I thought I heard you down here,” Tom said. He was dressed in jeans and a checked shirt. He looked from Laura to Coffin, eyebrows raised. “What’s going on?”

“Joe came to see you, Tom,” Laura said, wiping at her eyes.

“Yeah?” Tom pulled a squashed cigarette packet out of his back pocket, started patting his other pockets, looking for matches.

“It can wait,” Coffin said. “Finding Jacob is the priority right now.”

Tom put the cigarette in his mouth, still looking for matches, patting the same pockets all over again.

“You ask me, little bastard’s done a runner. He’ll be back, whingeing and crying, when he’s run out of spending money.”

Coffin ignored Tom, looked at Laura again. “He ever done this before, run away?”

“He’s not that kind of boy,” Laura said. “He’s quiet, keeps to himself, doesn’t really get into trouble.”

Tom walked off, presumably in search of matches.

Laura ran a hand through her hair. “The police have been all through our house, searching through everything, asking questions. They say it’s regulation, they do this with every missing persons case, but the way they go about it, you’d think they suspected us of taking Jacob.”

“Is that why Tom’s on edge? He’s like a caged animal.”

Laura glanced at the kitchen, where they could hear Tom swearing and banging around, still looking for matches. “He’s been nervy for a while now, but he’s getting worse at the moment.”

Tom returned from the kitchen, sucking on a cigarette.

He let the smoke dribble from his nostrils, and grinned at Coffin. “First one of the day, always hits that sweet spot, know what I mean?”

“Hey, Tom,” Coffin said, “Why don’t you and me go out for a walk, take a look around, ask a few questions?”

Tom said nothing. The cigarette drooped between his lips, as though he’d forgotten it was there. “Oh, shit.”

Coffin spun round, to see what Tom was looking at. Through the window he could see down the street, the leaves blowing along the road, the cars parked on drives, everything quiet.

There was a child staggering along the middle of the road, towards Laura’s house. His head seemed to be set at an odd angle, and sometimes he clawed wildly at the air, and then let his arms hang loose by his sides as he continued shambling onwards.

“It’s Peter!” Laura whispered.

Coffin yanked the door open and ran down the drive. The boy looked like he was about to fall down at any moment. Coffin bent down and scooped him up, cradling him in his arms. His face and hands were covered in blisters, his skin looked raw and painful to the touch. Peter’s head lolled back, and Coffin moaned as he saw the gaping wound in his neck.

The wound looked old, the edges of the torn flesh turning green, and gangrenous. Coffin could see Peter’s windpipe, the tendons and the muscles, and he marvelled that the boy was still alive. He carried him up the drive, past Tom’s car, and up to the house.

“Call an ambulance!” he shouted.

Laura stared in horror at the boy in Coffin’s arms.

Tom pushed past Laura and ran down the drive. Coffin swung around, saw Tom struggling to open the driver’s side door, all bashed up from where he had scraped into something.

“Tom?” Coffin said.

Tom ignored him, ran around to the passenger side and climbed into the driving seat.

Tom started up the car and reversed off the drive, spinning the car around, the tyres tearing at grass as he backed up onto the lawn. Coffin watched as Tom revved the engine, struggling to shove the car into first gear.

“Tom, what the hell are you doing?” Coffin roared.

The car lurched off the lawn, and sped erratically down the road, wheels squealing as Tom took the corner at speed, and disappeared from view.

As he turned back to the house, Coffin saw another car pulling out of a side street, and follow Tom’s car.

Inside, Laura was on the telephone. Coffin laid the boy down on the settee, and knelt down beside him. Peter’s eyes were glassy, unfocused, and Coffin wasn’t sure he would live long enough for the paramedics to arrive. And his body had felt so very cold, in his arms.

“Who could have done this to him?” Laura sobbed, looking at Peter over Coffin’s shoulder.

Peter twisted his head from side to side, moaning. With both hands he reached for his neck, and his fingers began exploring the wound, digging deep into the scarlet flesh.

“No, don’t do that,” Coffin said, grabbing the boy’s wrists and pulling his hands away from his throat.

Peter’s eyes suddenly focused on Coffin, and he lunged for Coffin’s neck, his teeth snapping shut, just out of reach. Coffin leapt back, letting go of the boy’s thin wrists.

Peter snarled, and snapped at Coffin again, like a wild animal. There was a red splodge on the sofa cushion, and Coffin realised that the boy had a nasty wound to the back of his head. Before Peter could leap off the settee, Coffin pinned the boy back down again, taking care to stay out of reach of the wildly snapping jaws.

“What’s happening?” Laura said. “I don’t understand why he’s trying to bite you.”

“Un, un, unnn,” Peter moaned, and clicked his teeth together again, flecks of bloody spit flying from his mouth.

“Peter, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Coffin said.

“Un, nnn, nnii, unnn,” Peter moaned again.

“Peter, where’s Jacob?” Coffin whispered. “Where have you been, Peter? Where’s Jacob, can you tell us?”

Peter whipped his head around, leaving clots of blood on the upholstery. “Nnniii, unnniiinnu, nniiiiiiinnuuuh.”

“Oh, please!” Laura cried. “Where’s my boy, tell us where my boy is!”

“Nnnniiiinnnnuuuuuuuu, nniiiiinnnuh!”

“Nine,” Coffin said. “Is that what he’s saying? Nine?”

“Nine?” Laura cried. “What does that mean, nine? Why does he keep saying that?”

“Niiinnntuuuu, nnniiiiinnntuuu, unnniiiiinnnnuuuh . . .”

“What is it, Peter,” Coffin said, leaning in close. “What is it, what are you trying to tell me?”

The boy snapped at Coffin again, his teeth clicking together over and over, as he thrashed his head back and forth in a frenzy. Coffin jumped back out of the way, letting go of Peter’s wrists. The boy leapt up, suddenly galvanised with a burst of energy, and crouched on the settee, like an animal.

Coffin stood in front of Laura, saying, “Get out, Laura. The kid’s gone crazy, he’s trying to kill us. Look at his eyes, he’s lost it.”

Laura backed up towards the door, keeping her eyes fixed on the bloodthirsty creature that had invaded her home.

Peter leapt off the settee, screaming as he hurtled at Coffin, arms reaching out, clawed fingers ready to latch onto him. He smacked into Coffin, who rolled backwards, and threw the child off, using his own momentum to send him tumbling across the room.

Laura, standing in the doorway, screamed, as the creature that had once been her son’s friend, scrambled to its feet and snarled. Coffin jumped up, facing the child, and wiped blood off his face. It was Peter’s blood, the blisters bursting, the skin sloughing off his face and hands.

Coffin noticed the boy’s fingernails, some of them were hanging off, attached to his fingers only by raw tendrils of flesh.

What was happening to him? He looked like he was disintegrating in front of them.

The boy leapt at Coffin again, but this time there was no power behind it. Whatever demonic strength the boy once had seemed to be quickly evaporating. He landed at Coffin’s feet, and Coffin saw the back of his head for the first time.

The skull looked like it had been flattened, beneath a tangled mess of hair and blood. Like he’d fallen, or been slammed against a wall. He crawled towards Coffin, grunting and moaning, his teeth snapping at Coffin’s feet.

Stepping out of the way, Coffin watched as a bloody tooth dropped from Peter’s mouth, and another, and another.

Coffin joined Laura by the door, placing an arm around her shoulders. A siren sounded in the distance.

“The paramedics will look after him,” Coffin said. “They’ll take him to hospital, they’ll find out what’s wrong with him.”

Laura shook her head, crying, as they watched the boy squirming on the floor, moaning.

“Is this what’s happened to Jacob?” she said. “Where is he, Joe? Where’s my boy?”

“He kept saying nine, ninetuh. What does that mean? Nine, ninetuh.”

The siren grew in volume, the ambulance pulling into Laura’s street. Coffin looked out of the window. There was a police car behind the ambulance.

The last thing Coffin wanted right now was an encounter with the police.

“Laura, I’ve got to go, the police are here,” Coffin said.

Laura looked up at Coffin, her tear stained eyes suddenly round with comprehension. “Ninety-nine!”

“What?”

“Peter, he was trying to say the number ninety-nine! I know he was.”

The ambulance pulled onto the drive. The police were right behind it.

Coffin headed for the kitchen, at the back of the house, Laura following him.

“What’s that got to do with anything, Laura?”

“No. 99 Forde Road! You remember, don’t you, Joe?”

Coffin paused. Sure, he remembered.

“We had a call, a child, injured?” The paramedic stood in the front doorway, holding a kit by his side.

“Oh thank God!” Laura said, and pointed to the living room. “He’s in there, please hurry!”

Laura herded Coffin into the kitchen and to the back door. “It’s not locked. No. 99, Jacob’s there, I know he is. He was fascinated by the place, I told him not to go snooping around, but he’s there.”

Coffin squeezed Laura’s hand. “I’ll find him.”

He opened the door and sprinted across the garden. He stopped by the side of the house, and waited. Once he heard both of the police inside the house, he ran.

joe coffin removes his sock

The car skidded as Tom braked, gravel shooting out from beneath the tyres, hitting the chassis like gunshots. Whatever he had hit last night had bent the driver’s side door out of alignment, and jammed it shut. Forgetting that he’d had to climb through from the passenger side when he got in the car, he kicked and pulled at the door, screaming in frustration.

Remembering it was jammed shut, Tom scrambled over the handbrake and passenger seat, opening the door and falling on his face onto the gravel drive. He ran up to the front door.

Locked.

Fuck!

How long before that kid Peter told Coffin where he’d been kept prisoner?

If Coffin comes here, and finds Steffanie, if he sees the creature she’s become . . . oh fucking shit.

Why the fuck did they leave Peter to wander around the house like their fucking pet mascot?

Tom ran down the steps, almost tripping and landing on his face again. He dashed around the back of the house. He’d forgotten to bring the key with him, but he had to get inside. If he had to break in, he would. They liked to stay out of the daylight, he knew that much. Probably upstairs in the bedroom, fucking each other’s brains out, like a pair of fucking animals.

Using his elbow, Tom punched a pane of glass out, in the rear door. He reached through and found the key, still in the lock. He fumbled with it, his fingers shaking, until he got the door open.

He stumbled inside, hands against the walls to steady himself. Abel and Steffanie had to get out of here, before Coffin arrived. Perhaps Tom could persuade them to leave Jacob behind, if he was still alive. As much as Tom hated that fucking kid, the memory of him lying in that chair, looking like death, had been gnawing at him ever since.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Wakey, wakey, the fucking cavalry’s on the way!”

Nothing, not a sound. Where would they keep Jacob? Tom ran down the stone flagged passage, into the gloomy reception hall.

Oh shit! What about the old guy, looks like something out of a fucking horror movie? How are we going to get him out?

Tom looked in the large living room, his eyes slowly adjusting to the poor light. No one, not even Boris Karloff sitting in the corner, waiting for his next feed.

Tom took the stairs two at a time.

At the top, Abel appeared out of the shadows, bringing Tom up short, with a little squeal of fright.

“Fucking hell!” he hissed. “Do you have to do that? I think I just lost another year of my life right then.”

“Why are you here?” Abel said.

“It’s Coffin, he’s on his way.” Tom cocked his head, sure he’d heard footsteps crunching on the gravel drive. “If he finds you here, you’re fucking dead meat.”

Abel put a hand to his mouth and giggled. The sound had a voluptuous, filthy quality to it, which made Tom nauseous for a moment.

“But I’m already dead,” Abel said.

“Yeah, whatever,” Tom said, backing up. “But if Coffin finds you, you’ll be deader than fucking dead. Look, I haven’t got time for this shit. Where’s the kid?”

Abel advanced upon Tom, who was backing up to the stairs. “If our secret comes out, you will pay. You must hide Steffanie, and the Father.”

“Hey no way, you’re on your own now. I’ve been telling you to lie low, but because you couldn’t keep your cock in your pants, everything’s fucked up.”

Tom stopped walking, his heels on the edge of the top step.

“You will take them, and you will hide them,” Abel said. “I will deal with Coffin.”

“Right, great. Just where exactly am I going to hide them, a fucking Travelodge on the motorway? I got news for you, Count Duckula, but the nearest you’re going to get to a meal of blood in one of those places, is if they serve black pudding for breakfast.”

Abel grabbed Tom by the throat, and pushed. Tom’s arms windmilled as he was forced out over the stairs, his feet struggling to keep contact with the top step.

“You will do as I say, Tom Mills. We have a bargain. I will deal with Coffin, you will get Steffanie and the Father to safety.”

“Okay!” Tom said, his voice a strangled whisper.

Abel pulled Tom back to safety and let go of his throat. Tom sucked in a hoarse breath, and took a moment to straighten his clothes. He walked backwards down the stairs a couple of steps, keeping his eyes on Abel the whole time.

“Fucking maniac,” he muttered.

Tom found Steffanie in the kitchen. She had her head tipped back, and was holding one of the empty blood bags over her open mouth, squeezing out the last drips of blood. She looked at Tom, and smiled, blood dripping down her chin and neck.

The decrepit, old man sat at the table, blood smeared around his thin, cracked lips. He still looked dead to Tom.

“We’ve got to go, your husband’s on his way, and as much as I’d like to say he’ll be delighted to see you up and about, I don’t think it would last.”

“Do we really have to go right now?” Steffanie pouted. “I was having so much fun here.”

“Yeah, well, the party’s over for now. We’ve got to move, and Ebenezer Scrooge needs to come with us.” Tom looked doubtfully at the old man. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a wheelchair, have you?”

Steffanie folded her arms and stared at Tom. “I’m not going. We’re safe here, this place is ours.”

“Not anymore, it isn’t,” Tom shouted. “Are you listening to me? Coffin might not bring the filth with him, as they’re not exactly on the best of terms with each other, but sooner or later, this place is going to be crawling with coppers, paramedics, reporters, who knows, maybe the fucking girl guides will have a look in too.”

“He’s right,” Abel said, entering the kitchen. “You have to go.”

Tom ran his hands through his short hair. He felt like his eyes must be bugging out of their sockets, on stalks like in the old Tom and Jerry cartoons.

Abel was naked.

“What the fuck, man!” he yelled. “Put some fucking clothes on, this isn’t the time for playing hide the fucking sausage!”

Abel smiled, revealing his pointed teeth. He lifted a hand, holding out one finger, and ran the sharp fingernail across his chest, drawing a line of blood in its wake. Dipping his fingertip in the blood welling out of the cut, he drew red lines across his cheeks and over his nose.

“I’m preparing for battle,” he said.

* * *

Emma sat in her car, across the road, and watched Tom hustling from around the back of the house, guiding a woman along beside him, a sheet over her head and shoulders. He looked drawn and pale, anxious. No, not anxious, he looked terrified. He kept casting glances all around as they moved, and Emma put her head down when he looked her way, convinced he had seen her.

But when she looked back up, he had his rear car door open, and was guiding the hooded woman inside, a hand on her head, so she didn’t bump it. Emma thought he was going to climb in the car and reverse out of the drive, and she got ready to bow her head again, hide her face as he drove past. But he didn’t. He shut the door on the woman, who stayed under wraps beneath the sheet, and ran back round the back of the house.

Emma watched the woman in the car, as spots of rain appeared on her window. The woman sat perfectly still in the back seat. She made no movement to take the sheet off. Why was that? Either she was hideously ugly, incredibly famous, an internationally hunted murderer, or just plain eccentric. But really, why was she so scared that she might be recognised?

Tom appeared from around the back of the house again, this time carrying a hunched figure beneath another sheet. Whoever this person was, they obviously weighed very little, as Tom had no trouble carrying them. A child maybe?

Tom opened the rear door of the car and slid the shrouded figure inside. He slammed the door shut, and this time he climbed in the car, through the passenger seat and over the handbrake into the driver’s side. Emma heard the engine start up, saw the cloud of fumes spurt from the exhaust pipe.

She slid down in her seat, head bowed. She heard the car reverse onto the road, and then accelerate away. Sitting back up again, Emma caught sight of Tom’s car as it paused at a junction, and then disappeared from view.

She debated following him, and decided against it. Her curiosity had been piqued by the house, and what it might contain. Tom Mills had certainly wasted no time driving down here. Emma had found it difficult to keep a tail on him at times, knowing that she would have stood out if she had driven as fast and recklessly as he had. Something had impelled Tom to rush over here, and Emma was longing to find out what.

Emma stepped out of her warm, dry car. The wind pulled at her hair, ruffled her jacket. Spots of rain fell on her face. She walked cautiously up the drive, examining the house’s eccentric frontage for any signs of a break-in. How long, she wondered, had those two people been living in there? And what did Tom have to do with them?

Some of the windows on the front had been boarded up a long time ago, whilst others still had their original Victorian windowpanes. The ivy covering the house rustled in the wind, giving the building an appearance of life and movement.

Emma shivered.

No. 99 had been empty for as long as everyone could remember. There was an air of mystery about it, and many people, not just the local children, were convinced it was haunted. Once, a few years back, she had made an attempt to look into the house’s history, and to find its current owner. But there was very little to go on. The paper trail was confusing and filled with gaps, and all Emma could find out in the end was that it was owned by a private individual, and it had been in their family for many years.

The reporter walked slowly along the front of the house, and followed the route around to the rear that she had seen Tom take. Branches rustled in the wind above her. There were tyre tracks in the long, wet grass at the back of the house. Tom hadn’t driven in this far just now. Did that mean he’d been here before?

Emma stopped walking. A door at the back was wide open. Inviting her to step inside.

This was too much temptation to resist. Emma stepped through the doorway, and into a passage. The house smelt of damp. On her right was an open cellar door. Emma peered down the stone steps, disappearing into darkness. She looked for a light switch on the wall, but there wasn’t one. Perhaps the house had been empty for so long, electricity had never been installed.

There were candles and matches at the top of the cellar, but Emma decided to move on. She had no desire to explore a dark cellar alone, with nothing but a candle to light her way. Emma had seen enough horror movies to know that was a bad idea.

She continued walking down the passage, past the kitchen and into the reception hall. Heavy drapes had been hung over the windows which weren’t boarded up. It was difficult to see anything in the poor light. Emma walked across the reception hall, and into the living room.

Again, in here, the windows were covered with heavy drapes. Emma pulled at the drapes, trying to drag them open, until she grew impatient and yanked them down. The curtain poles ripped from the plaster, and clattered to the floor, clouds of dust billowing outward, like an explosion.

Emma waved the dust away, coughing. The light was still poor, but she could see better now. More layers of dust covered the heavy furniture, but even from across the other side of the room she could see the footprints in the dust, and the partially burned candles.

Somebody had spent time here recently. The same people that Tom had driven away with?

Emma walked deeper into the room.

She stopped walking by the fireplace. The dust was disturbed around the hearth, and the dust sheets had been removed from two of the chairs.

And there, on the floor, was a large patch of blood. Emma squatted, and pressed her hand into the carpet. The carpet made a squishing noise, little pools of blood growing around her fingertips, in the hollows created by the pressure of her hand.

The blood was cold and sticky, and there had obviously been a lot of it.

Emma stood up, and walked over to the living room door, rubbing the blood between her thumb and fingers. Floorboards creaked beneath her shoes, and she caught sight of her reflection in the mottled mirror as she passed it.

Emma stepped back into the hallway. She looked at the stairs, leading up to a landing. She could hear the traffic rumbling past at the front of the house. A thought struck her. She hadn’t considered the possibility that Tom might be returning, after he had taken his passengers wherever they were going. She needed to get a move on, get out of the house and away, before he returned.

She decided to have a quick look around on the first floor, and then leave.

Emma headed for the stairs. She was halfway up the staircase when she heard the creak of a floorboard, the whoosh of air, just a moment before something slammed into her, knocking the breath from her body, and sending her tumbling down the stairs. She cracked her head against a step, and rolled over onto her shoulder, twisting her arm behind her back at an awkward, painful angle.

Stunned, she lay face down on the floor, struggling to breathe. Her lungs refused to obey her desperate need for air, as she fought for breath. Hands grabbed her by the hair and pulled her over, onto her back. The pain in her scalp made her scream, and suddenly she was breathing again, her chest heaving with the effort.

The face of a demon filled her field of vision. Black eyes stared at her from a face painted with streaks of blood.

“What a surprise,” he whispered, as he leaned in close and began sniffing Emma’s hair. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

Emma twisted her head away, as he buried his nose in her hair, making snuffling noises. He was on top of her, had her arms pinned to the floor by her sides. She screwed her face up as she felt his tongue sliding down her neck, his cold breath on her skin.

“Get the fuck off me!” she hissed.

He looked at her, his tongue snaking out of his mouth, licking his lips, running across the edges of his sharp teeth. Emma thought he looked very pleased with himself.

She snapped her head forward, her forehead connecting with his nose. The impact of his nose on her skull sent a sharp spike of pain through her head, but the man jerked back, loosening his grip on her arms. Emma scrambled backwards like a crab from underneath his body. Her attacker straightened up, squatting on the floor, grinning at her like an imp from Hell.

Emma’s insides contracted at the sight of the man, his naked body smeared with bloody patterns, of lines and circles and crosses. His swollen cock was huge, and stiff, and he giggled when he saw her looking at it.

“Let’s have some fun, shall we?” he said.

* * *

As he pounded down the street, bulldozing through shoppers, Coffin made a promise to himself that, first chance he got he would go back home and retrieve his Harley Davidson from the garage. He was wasting valuable time going everywhere on foot. Laura knew not to tell the police what was going on, she’d been a member of the Mob long enough for that, but still, this was different. This involved her son. For all Coffin knew, she might have blabbed to the coppers as soon as he left the house.

For all he knew there could be a cop car parked outside No. 99 right now.

When he turned onto Forde Road, Coffin slowed down, took his time looking up and down the street, checking for any signs of excitement. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, just another boring, grey day.

Coffin knew the house he was looking for, remembered it from when he was a kid. Remembered breaking in there one time, and Tom squawking like a baby. Remembered thinking, it’s just a house, why are you crying?

He could see its roofline now, the ivy crawling all over it, the distinctive shape of the Victorian build. Seemed like most of the original buildings surrounding it had been torn down, when the entire city went through a massive redevelopment during the 70s and 80s. But not this house, for some reason.

Amongst its bland, identikit neighbours, No. 99 looked like a ruined relic, saved from destruction through some obscure legal protection, perhaps. Whatever the reason, it had been standing empty for longer than anyone could remember.

Coffin approached the drive, alert for any sign of police. The drive was empty, the house dark. But somebody had been here recently. Through the growth of weed on the drive ran two parallel lines.

Car tyres.

Although the car was gone, that didn’t mean to say the house was empty. Coffin ran through the options. Whoever had been holding Peter and Jacob prisoner might have made their escape, with or without Jacob.

Or somebody might still be in there, not realising that Peter had escaped. It seemed unlikely, as did the thought that a child kidnapper would hang around once they realised they had an escapee, who would probably lead the police back here.

It seemed reasonable to Coffin that the house was most likely deserted.

But that didn’t mean he was going in there unprepared.

Coffin searched the overgrown borders, rooting through the weeds until he found a rock, slightly smaller than a grapefruit. He sat down between the two gargoyles and removed his shoe and sock. He put the shoe back on, and shoved the rock inside the sock, and swung it in a tight circle, smacking the rock into his open palm.

Coffin stood up and walked past the two gargoyles and up the steps to the front door. He twisted the handle and pushed and pulled at the door a few times. It stayed firmly shut.

Coffin walked back down past the sneering gargoyles and round to the rear of the house.

How had he got inside when he was a kid? There had been a gang of them. What had they done?

Now he remembered. That stocky, pimply kid, liked to think he was cock of the school, what was his name? Max, yeah, he’d smashed a window pane in the patio windows, reached through and unlocked the patio door.

Thought he was smart, but he wasn’t. He cut himself reaching through that small windowpane, got Tom to give him his handkerchief, wrap his hand up.

Coffin would have let him bleed to death.

Round the back of the house he found an open door. That was too easy, almost like an invitation. But an invitation to what?

Coffin approached the door, slowly, gripping the improvised cosh in his fist. He walked through the back door, pausing in the stone flagged passageway. He could hear movement, scuffling.

The sounds of a struggle?

Coffin started running. He charged into the reception hall. A naked man, his sinewy flesh painted in streaks of blood, was on top of a woman, ripping at her clothes as she kicked and struggled beneath him. With a loud, guttural roar, Coffin charged at them, swinging the cosh high. The man looked up, eyes widening as he saw it hurtling towards him.

The rock smashed into his face with a loud crunch, and the naked man toppled back, off the woman. He landed face down on the floor, and was still.

Coffin looked at the woman, who was straightening her shredded clothes.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m okay,” she said, getting shakily to her feet.

Her eyes widened, and Coffin began turning, just as the man slammed into Coffin, and sank his teeth into his shoulder. Coffin roared, as white hot pain shot through the muscle. He tried to shrug the man off, and his stomach rolled over as he felt teeth grating against his shoulder joint. With his free hand he punched his attacker in the face, once, twice, but still he would not unlock his jaws. Coffin swung around and smashed the man into a wall. The teeth came free, and he sank to the floor.

Coffin stepped away, as the man sprang into a crouch, and, snarling, leapt at Coffin, jaws wide open. Coffin smashed onto the floor, on his back, and his cosh went flying from his hand, skittering across the floorboards.

He grabbed his attacker’s head, one hand either side of his face, as he lunged for Coffin’s neck, jaws frantically snapping open and shut. Coffin had to strain to keep him from sinking his teeth into his flesh, he couldn’t believe how strong this man was. Suddenly he stopped biting, and grinned at Coffin, exposing his white, pointed teeth against his blood painted face. Some of those teeth were broken, and his nose was little more than a bloody pulp. His black pupils filled his eyes, so that it seemed as though his eye sockets were empty, black orbs of infinity set above his high cheekbones dripping blood.

Suddenly he swiped his sharp, talon like fingernails across Coffin’s cheek, a spray of blood arcing across the man’s face. Coffin kicked him off, and rolled out of the way, cursing as his shoulder erupted with shooting pain. Coffin thudded into a wall, put his left hand on the floor to leverage himself up, and clenched his jaws as he realised he was too late.

The naked man slammed into Coffin, snarling, swiping sharp talons across Coffin’s face again. He whipped his head back, but it was too late, and blood sprayed up the wall, and in his eyes.

Blindly, Coffin swung a fist, and it connected with the man’s throat, forced him staggering back, clutching at his neck. Coffin wiped blood out of his eyes. He took advantage of the pause, and scrambled to his feet. Pivoting on his left foot, he swung his right up through a long arc, and into the man’s skull, the heel of his boot squishing into his ruined face.

Coffin’s attacker collapsed, all his fury and manic energy suddenly leaving him. He huddled on the floor, revolting in his blood streaked nakedness, his hands to his face, weeping. Walking in a circle around the pathetic creature, Coffin kept his eyes on him all the time. The best thing now would be to kick him in the head, cave in his face, and leave him there while he looked for Jacob.

“I can’t fucking believe it.”

Coffin spun round. He’d forgotten about the woman.

“What?”

“You beat him. I didn’t think you could do it, but you did. You beat the fucking crap out of him.”

Coffin wiped more blood out of his eyes. His face felt like it was on fire. “Why are you still here?

“What, and miss the fight? Are you crazy?”

Coffin held up his hand for silence. The muffled sounds of crying behind him had changed. What was he doing now?

Was he giggling?

The thing on the floor uncurled itself and leaped at Coffin, the impact throwing him across the hall and smashing into a draped window. The glass shattered, and the heavy drape collapsed over the two men. Coffin punched out wildly, trapped beneath the cloth. Although his fists wouldn’t connect with anything, he could feel the man slicing at him with his talons.

The flesh on his chest, and arms, and face, was being ripped open. Warm blood dripped into his eyes, the taste of it in his mouth. He couldn’t breathe under here, had no freedom to fight.

Suddenly his fist connected with soft, yielding flesh, and he drove the punch home as forcefully as he could, piling all his weight behind it. He heard the crazed man hit the floor, and Coffin grabbed a handful of the dusty material and dragged it off him.

Pale daylight filled the hall, lighting up motes of dust whirling around in the air like mini hurricanes. Coffin threw the heavy drapes to one side, and blinked blood out of his eyes. He flexed the fingers in his right hand, pins and needles electrifying it. The lacerated muscle and tendons in his shoulder were slowing him down.

The man on the floor looked like an animal. He was crouching, lips peeled back in a snarl, black eyes staring at Coffin. Some of his flesh along his back, and down his right arm and thigh, was growing scaly and red where the sun was shining on it. As Coffin watched, the skin began blistering.

The creature didn’t seem to notice. He drew himself up to his full height, smiling again.

“Where’s the boy?” Coffin snarled. “What have you done with him?”

The man licked blood from his lips, and then ran at Coffin. Before he had chance to fully step out of the way, Coffin was overcome. The thing was on top of him, jaws snapping at his neck, a thin whining coming from deep in its throat.

Coffin tried to grab hold of him, his wrists, his arms, his neck, but his hands kept slipping off the blood smeared flesh. They staggered back like one life form, all whirling, struggling limbs, until Coffin snagged a foot under a rug and they both fell, hit the floor with a solid thump.

The thing sank its teeth into Coffin’s right forearm, and he roared in pain. They seemed to go so deep, those teeth, into the muscle, scraping along the bone, chewing and gouging, tearing up the flesh and sinew.

Coffin pounded at the savage thing’s head and back, with his fist, trying to break its grip. Crazed with bloodlust, the man let go of Coffin’s arm and lunged for his neck. The long, pointed teeth scraped at his flesh.

He saw the woman, standing over them both, and she was raising her hand. What was she doing?

She was holding something, and it came swinging down, and Coffin suddenly realised it was his cosh, smashing into the man’s head. The force of the blow whipped him sideways, and he rolled across the floor. As Coffin struggled to his feet, he saw the woman swing the cosh in a wide, powerful arc again, onto the man’s skull.

Coffin heard bone crunch, saw blood and fragments of bone shower the woman’s shredded suit. He glanced at his forearm. It was a mangled mess of blood and chewed tissue.

Coffin heard movement, looked up and saw the thing climbing to its feet again. It grabbed the woman by her hair. She screamed, grabbing at the man’s wrists. Before Coffin could move, the man had smashed the woman’s head against a wall, and let her go, to drop to the floor, senseless.

The rabid monster launched itself at Coffin again. They crashed through a door and rolled down the stone flagged passage. As they fought, they smacked against the walls, leaving trails of blood along the stonework.

Coffin struggled beneath the furious onslaught of the wild man. He scratched and bit and kicked at Coffin, like a rabid animal. Coffin’s right arm was almost useless, and he used it little more than a shield held over his face. His chest, shoulders, arms and head were covered in lacerations, and blood sprayed against the walls as they fought.

Coffin managed to smash his elbow into the man’s already ruined face, stunning him for a moment. Taking advantage of the pause, Coffin grabbed the man between his legs, and squeezed his balls tight. The naked man yowled in pain. Knowing he had to act fast, Coffin planted his left hand over the man’s face, and smashed his skull against the wall. His black eyes widened in surprise, and Coffin pulled him forward and smashed his head against the wall again.

There was a crunch, something popped, and when Coffin pulled the man forward, he left behind a red splodge of hair and bone, and brain.

One more time, Coffin smashed the man’s skull against the wall. There was another sickening crunch, and Coffin let him go. He slid down the wall, his head leaving a dark trail of bone and brain matter on the rough stone.

Coffin stepped away, keeping his eyes on the man’s naked form all the time. He still expected him to jump up, snarling and hissing, teeth snapping, eyes rolling.

But no, he stayed still, back against the wall, head slumped on his chest.

Coffin wiped blood out of his eyes. His chest heaved with the exertion of the fight. He was covered in long, bloody lacerations, his shirt and trousers ripped, liked he’d been in a fight with a roll of barbed wire. He looked at the wound on his forearm, and tried flexing his hand. Pain rode up his arm and through his shoulder, but he could still move his fingers, rotate his hand.

There was an open door beside Coffin, steps leading down into a cellar. On a ledge at the top was a fat, church candle, and a box of matches. Coffin lit the candle, and walked down the steps.

He saw Jacob right away. The boy was lying on a makeshift bed of pallets and sacks, his eyes closed. From where Coffin stood, the boy looked dead. He approached him, holding the candle up to see him better. Hot wax dripped over Coffin’s fingers, but he didn’t notice.

Jacob’s right arm was wrapped in a blood stained bandage. His face was drawn and pale, smudged with dirt. He stank of filth, and piss.

Coffin put the candle down, and squatted down in front of Jacob. The boy’s chest was rising and falling in a slight, shallow movement.

Coffin snapped his head round as he heard movement upstairs. What would it take to kill that thing?

Coffin noticed the mantrap, its rusty jaws snapped shut. If he could prise the jaws apart, and if it still worked, that might do the trick.

Coffin braced his right heel against one jaw, and gripped the other with his left hand. Slowly the jaws separated, grinding and complaining. He kept pushing with his foot, and pulling with his left hand, until the jaws were fully extended, and he heard a click.

Coffin let go, and the mantrap jaws stayed in place. It was primed.

Standing with Jacob behind him, and the mantrap on the floor in front, Coffin watched as the creature crept down the stairs, the light from the candle dancing over its naked flesh, its hunched body casting a long shadow on the wall behind.

It seemed less human than ever, muscles rippling beneath blood soaked flesh, its cock hanging obscenely like a fat slug between its legs.

It fixed its black eyes on Coffin. He braced himself, every muscled bunched up, tense and ready.

This was going to hurt.

With a loud snarl, the creature rushed at Coffin, mouth open, teeth ready to sink into his soft flesh.

Ignoring the searing pain in his right arm, Coffin grabbed the mantrap in both hands and swung it at the creature. The jaws snapped shut with a wet squelch around its neck, the rusty spikes embedded into its throat. It staggered beneath the weight of the mantrap, its hands gripping the rusty contraption, trying to pull it apart.

The weight of the mantrap pulled it back, and the creature toppled over, hitting the cellar floor on its back. After struggling for a few more moments, legs kicking out in spasmodic movements, it finally lay still.

Coffin turned back to Jacob. His eyes were open.

“Joe?”

His voice was weak, nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

“I’m here,” Coffin said, crouching down beside him. “I’m getting you out of here, Jacob. You’re safe now.”

Jacob closed his eyes.

Coffin wrapped his good arm around the boy and picked him up. Jacob raised his hands, his arms trembling, and hugged Coffin, who held him tight.

“St . . . Stef . . .” Jacob whispered.

“Shh,” Coffin said. “It’s all right, we’re getting out of here now, get you to a hospital, to your mother. You’re safe now.”

Jacob fell silent, his body limp in Coffin’s arms.

Coffin climbed the cellar steps, walked through the house, cradling the boy to him, gently stroking the back of his head with his ruined hand. Outside, the rain clouds had cleared, and the touch of the pale, autumn sunshine on his face and arms, was like soothing balm to his raw, bloody wounds.

EPISODE TWO

tight little stitches in a dead man's face

The long column of grey ash projecting from the cigarette butt clamped between Doctor Shaddock’s lips finally disintegrated and scattered over the table. Shaddock squinted at it through the spiral of smoke drifting across his face. Then he swept his hand over the table, and brushed the ash onto the floor.

“Fuck it, isn’t one of you bastards going to offer me a drink?” he snarled.

Craggs nodded at the bouncer standing by the door, his back against the wall. Wearing the black Angels tee, with the angel wings outlined in white spread across his chest, he looked like he spent every spare moment down the gym, benchpressing twice his bodyweight before breakfast. He glowered across the room at Shaddock, like he was thinking to himself, go get your own fucking drink, what am I, your fucking maid? He pulled himself off the wall, sauntered around behind the empty bar, and pulled a bottle of lager from the fridge. He walked across the dance floor, nice and slow, like he had all the time in the world, and put the bottle on the table.

Shaddock looked up at him, the cigarette still stuck in his mouth. “What the fuck do you think I’m going to do with that? Stick it in my mouth and prise the fucking top off with my fucking teeth?”

Craggs nodded at the bouncer again. He sighed, and ambled back across the dance floor, to the bar.

“You need to sort your boys out, Mortimer,” Shaddock said. “Kids, these days, got no fucking respect for their elders. Ain’t that right, Joe?”

Joe Coffin sat across the table from Shaddock. He held a towel to his face. The towel had once been white, but was now stained scarlet. Coffin had removed his shirt. His right shoulder was a mess of torn flesh and blood, and his right forearm looked like a Rottweiler had given it a good chewing. His arms and chest and back were covered in red slashes, some of them still dribbling blood.

“Fucking hell, Joe,” Shaddock mumbled. “What the hell did you do, break into the zoo and try shagging a tiger?”

“Forget the questions, Doc,” Craggs said. “Just sew him up.”

Shaddock twisted in his seat, and stared at Craggs. “This man should be in a hospital. He’s probably lost a lot of blood, and he’ll need the services of a good plastic surgeon if he wants to minimise the scarring on his face. Then there’s the damage to his shoulder and arm.” He twisted round and stared at Coffin. “You still got any use in that arm, Joe?”

Coffin lifted his arm and winced. “It hurts, but, yeah, I can use it.”

“Clench your fist for me.”

Coffin clenched and unclenched his fist, wiggled his fingers, and rotated his hand.

Shaddock pulled the cigarette from his mouth and stubbed it out in an ashtray. “Well, that’s looking hopeful, I suppose. As your doctor, I’d still recommend you go to fucking hospital.”

“If I go to a hospital, I’ll be arrested before they get me on the table,” Coffin said.

The bouncer returned and dropped a bottle opener on the table.

“Bout fucking time,” Shaddock growled.

He prised the bottle top off, lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long slug of the cold lager. He swiped the back of his hand across his lips, pulled a cigarette from the crumpled packet on the table, and lit up.

“All right, then,” he said, the cigarette waggling up and down in his mouth as he spoke. He lifted a large, black bag onto the table, opened it up and began rummaging through it. He pulled out scissors, bandages, packets of drugs and syringes, and sutures.

Coffin noticed the doctor’s hands were shaking.

“I can sew you up, Joe, but it ain’t gonna look pretty. I’m no plastic surgeon, the best I can do with your face is close up those wounds with some tight little stitches, try and minimise the scarring.”

“We should take him to a hospital,” the bouncer said. “Get him some proper treatment.”

Shaddock lifted the lager bottle to his mouth, and drained the rest in one go. He slammed the empty bottle back on the table and grinned up at the bouncer. “You know what? I like these little French lagers. Get these fuckers chilled just right, they go down a treat. Best time I ever had drinking one of these, I was getting a blow job off a black whore down in Bearwood. She was sucking on my dick, and I was sucking on the bottle. What do you think about that? I got an idea, why don’t I go get myself another one of these fancy French lagers, and you can suck my cock while I drink it?”

The bouncer stared back at him, his eyes flat, his face deadpan.

“Go get him another drink, Clevon,” Craggs said.

“Clevon?” Shaddock barked out a sharp, hard laugh. “What the fuck kind of name is Clevon?”

“He shouldn’t be doing no operation on Joe when he’s drinking and smoking,” Clevon said. “It ain’t right.”

Coffin watched with interest as Shaddock stood up. He was tall and thin, looked like a stiff breeze might blow him over. He towered over Clevon, but the bouncer looked like he weighed at least twice what Shaddock did. Doctor Frankie Shaddock had been the Slaughterhouse Mob’s private GP for as long as Coffin had been a part of the gang. How old was he now? Sixty? Seventy?

As the years had passed, Coffin had noticed Shaddock growing thinner, and more stooped, his hands becoming increasingly shaky.

But he’d always been a cantankerous bastard.

“These are some high class bouncers you employ these days, Mortimer,” Shaddock said. “They got medical degrees and everything, at least this one must have, him telling me how to do my job and all.”

“Clevon, get the doctor his drink,” Craggs snarled.

The bouncer turned his back on Shaddock and ambled across the nightclub to the bar.

“All right, then,” Shaddock mumbled.

He walked around behind Coffin and bent down and peered at the wound on his shoulder, the cigarette still clamped between his lips. Coffin winced as the doctor pressed his fingers down on either side of the gash, and pulled the edges apart. He looked intently into the wound.

“Hmm, doesn’t look too bad, I suppose. Whatever it was bit you, has done some damage, but I’ll see what I can sew up. It’s going to be sore for a good while, though.”

“What about infection, Doc?” Coffin said.

Shaddock grunted. “It would help if you’d tell me what bit you.”

“You wouldn’t believe me,” Coffin said.

“Try me.”

“It was a man bit me.”

“You’re right,” Shaddock said. “I don’t fucking believe you. You look like you’ve been savaged by a wild animal.”

“You didn’t see him,” Coffin said. “He was like a wild animal.”

Clevon slammed the bottle of lager on the table with a loud bang, and pointed at the doctor. “Hey, shouldn’t he at least have washed his fucking hands?”

Shaddock snarled and walked away from Coffin. “All right then, seen as the fucking sphincter graduate over here obviously knows better than I do, I’ll leave you in his capable hands, and he can fucking well put Joe back together again.”

Craggs stepped in front of Shaddock and placed his hands on his shoulders. “Hey, Frankie, what’s got into you? You know we respect you, I wouldn’t have called you over here unless I trusted you. Come on, don’t be like this. Joe needs you to put him back together, ain’t that right, Joe?”

“Sure,” Coffin said, the towel still pressed against his cheek. “Come on, Doc, I’m bleeding all over the floor, here.”

Shaddock lifted the lager bottle to his mouth and drained half of it in one go. He smacked his lips together, and said, “For you, Joe, I’ll stay. But dickwipe needs to leave. I’m not doing anything until he’s gone.”

“Clevon, go help Kirstin check the stock,” Craggs said.

Clevon glowered at Shaddock some more, then turned and left.

Shaddock began ripping packets open on the table.

“Fucking wash my fucking hands, who the fuck does he think he’s fucking talking to?”

“You’re right, Frankie, kids these days they’ve got no respect for their elders,” Craggs said. “You and me, we were born at a time when society had values. We spoke out of line, we got a good pasting from the old man, right?”

Shaddock filled a syringe from an ampoule. “Damn right.” He shoved the needle into Coffin’s left shoulder. “Giving you a shot of antibiotics, Joe, and I’ll give you a tetanus jab, too. Whoever or whatever bit you, no telling what germs they might be carrying around. The mouth’s a filthy fucker, Joe, full of nasty shit. Then I’ll give you a local anaesthetic, before I sew you up.” He stepped back, and regarded Coffin’s wounds. “I’m gonna have to give you a fair few shots of local, enough they might knock you out a bit.”

“Forget that, Doc,” Coffin growled. “I’ve got things to do today, I need to be sharp.”

Shaddock filled another syringe with the tetanus shot. “All right then, you’re the boss. But sewing you up’s gonna hurt like a bastard.”

Craggs handed Coffin a glass of whisky. Coffin swallowed the drink in one, and slammed the glass down on the table. “I already hurt. Hurting some more isn’t going to make it any worse.”

Shaddock gazed at Coffin’s face, at the blood and the ripped flesh. “Fucking hell, Joe, one of these days you’re going to get yourself killed. And then I’ll be putting tight little stitches in a dead man’s face, making you look nice and pretty for your funeral.”

* * *

Emma Wylde held the ice pack to the back of her head, and gazed at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. It was just a shame that Halloween had already been and gone, as the battered face that stared back at her would have been perfect for trick or treating. Her bloodshot eyes were encircled by dark, heavy shadows, and there was an angry bruise across her forehead, from when she had delivered her Glaswegian Kiss. How the fuck she was going to explain this to Nick, she had no idea. Especially as they were supposed to be meeting for lunch in another ten minutes. She had already shoved her shredded clothes into a black plastic bag and, apart from the evidence on her face, and a few light scratches across her stomach and shoulders, there was nothing else to show for her misadventure at the house.

But that was more than enough.

Standing in her bra and knickers, she examined the scratches across her abdomen. They were shallow, had hardly bled at all, but still, Emma was worried about infection. She should go to a doctor, but then there would be questions, and Emma wasn’t sure she actually had any answers.

Not ones that made sense, anyway.

Emma opened the cabinet, and rooted through the packets of paracetamol, creams, lotions and Nick’s eye drops. She found a packet of antihistamines. Weren’t they supposed to be good for infections? Or was that allergies?

“Oh, fuck it,” she muttered, and split the silver foil open, and popped a tiny tablet in her mouth.

What she really needed was a course of antibiotics. Or maybe a tetanus jab.

Emma shuddered when she thought of the hideous creature in that house. It was difficult to think of him as being human, more like a crazed, rabid animal. Those teeth, and his eyes. If Emma had held any belief in the supernatural, she would have considered the possibility that he was possessed.

Whatever. She’d been lucky to escape with her life, that was for sure. If Joe Coffin hadn’t turned up when he had, Emma was convinced she’d have been ripped to shreds. After he’d shoved his big cock in one or more of her orifices, first though.

Emma suddenly felt faint, and sat down on the edge of the bath. She dropped her head between her knees and took some slow, deep breaths.

“Come on, keep it together. You’re the big, bad reporter, remember? You don’t take no shit from anyone. Wylde by name, wild by nature.”

Giggles burst out of Emma’s stomach, which was busily turning over and threatening to regurgitate her breakfast. What was happening here? Was she suffering some kind of hysterical fit?

“Oh, shit,” she whispered, and lunged for the toilet.

When she’d finished throwing up, she sat on the floor, grabbed a towel, and wiped the sheen of sweat off her face.

Emma reached out a trembling hand and picked up the ice pack, and pressed it against her scalp again. From a tentative finger exploration, Emma was convinced she had a lump the size of an ostrich egg on her head. She imagined it throbbing, and pulsating with a red glow, like in the old Loony Tunes cartoons. The last thing she remembered was being grabbed by the hair and dragged across the room.

From that point on it was one big blank, until she came to in the silence of the house. That might have been the scariest part of the whole ordeal, wondering where that monster was, if Coffin was still alive, and was she a prisoner, now?

As it turned out, it appeared she had simply been forgotten about. Coffin was nowhere to be seen. Emma had climbed painfully to her feet, holding onto the wall to steady herself. She had a piercing headache, which spiked down from the top of her skull to right behind her eyes. Her vision swam in and out of focus, and Emma had to stand by the wall, using it as support for a minute, before she felt well enough to walk unaided.

It was clear where the fight had happened. Emma followed the trail of blood to the passage leading to the back of the house and the kitchen. Huge, arcing sprays of blood decorated the damp, mildewed walls, like a Jackson Pollock painting.

Emma wondered whose blood it was.

She followed the trail to the top of the cellar steps. There was a splodge of blood and hair, and some other stuff she really didn’t want to think about too much, on the wall there. But no sign of a body anywhere.

Emma stood at the top of the steps, peering down into the darkness.

Did she really want to go down there and investigate?

She had decided not.

Then she’d heard the police sirens, in the distance, but definitely growing louder.

Emma had got the hell out of that house as quickly as possible.

She shifted the ice pack slightly.

Joe Coffin.

Terry Wu’s murderer, at least according to Steffanie.

But now Emma’s rescuer.

Okay, so he pulled a rabid, possibly possessed schizoid with a boner the size of a donkey’s dick off her, but where was he when she woke up? And why was he there in the first place? Did it have anything to do with Tom Mills and his mysterious companions?

The front door slammed shut downstairs.

“Hey, Emma?” Nick shouted.

Emma reached across the bathroom and shoved the door shut.

“I’m on the toilet!” she shouted.

I can’t believe this. Earlier on this morning I was hiding in Tom Mills’ bathroom, and now here I am, hiding in my own.

“Sorry, Ems, but I can’t make our lunch date today,” Nick shouted up the stairs. “I’ve just had a call to go into work, looks like those two missing kids have been found.”

“That’s great!” Emma shouted, and winced at a spike of pain lancing through her head.

“Yeah, it is, but the house where they were being kept? Apparently it’s a bloodbath. I’ll try and phone you later, let you know when I’m coming home.”

“Okay.”

Emma listened for the front door slamming shut again, and then breathed out.

A house that looked like a bloodbath? Was it the same house? Was that why Joe Coffin was there, looking for Jacob?

But what did Tom Mills have to do with any of this? Jacob was his kid. Surely he wouldn’t have been keeping his own son a prisoner in an abandoned house with a violent madman?

Emma hauled herself upright, and gazed at her ruined face in the mirror again. Was there any possible chance that makeup might hide those bruises? Not that she had ever been a makeup kind of girl.

Deciding to forget about trying to hide her bruises with makeup, Emma opened the bathroom door and walked stiffly into her bedroom.

She dressed quickly and hurried downstairs, grabbed her bag and her laptop. As she headed for the front door, she saw the study door had been left open. She could see Nick’s desk, and his chair, and she smiled as she remembered last night, how they had both managed to forget work for a short while at least.

And then another thought occurred to her.

The file he had been looking at.

Joe Coffin.

Emma put her bag and laptop down in the hall and walked into the study. The file was still lying on the desk, in front of the computer monitor.

She stood over it, looking at the manila cover, afraid to touch it. Would it be a betrayal of Nick’s trust if she opened the file and looked inside? If he found out, he’d go crazy.

But if he never found out, what did it matter?

Without moving the folder from where it lay, Emma flipped open the cover. Now that she had time to examine it, she could see it wasn’t an official police document.

What was going on? Did Nick have a personal vendetta going against Joe Coffin? Nick had been instrumental in getting Coffin prosecuted for the assault that sent him to jail, but with Craggs’ lawyers involved, Coffin was sentenced to far less time than Nick had been hoping for.

Emma leafed through the folder. It was a catalogue of extortion, money laundering, drug supplies, and killings, that Coffin was suspected of having been involved in.

But with no evidence to support any of it.

At the front was a report on two young men who had been found murdered in their flat. The murders looked like an execution style killing. Nick had scrawled one name over it.

COFFIN?

maybe superman

Jacob Mills lay in the hospital bed, eyes closed, tubes snaking from his frail body, leading to drips and a heart monitor. His mother sat by the side of the bed, holding his hand, his arm heavily wrapped in bandages. She gently stroked his fingers with her thumb, her eyes fixed on his pale, drawn face.

Tom Mills, sitting on a stiff, plastic chair on the other side of the bed, felt like shit. He had to sit on his hands to stop from fidgeting, and he had to use every bit of willpower he could summon, to stop himself from leaping out of the chair and stalking up and down the hospital room. Pain flared through his chest every time he took a breath, and his head and neck felt like someone had pounded at him with a metal bar.

Fortunately for Tom, by the time the emergency staff had discharged him, the police had finished with their questions for Laura, and already gone. They’d be back, of course, but the longer Tom could keep out of their way, the better.

Tom hated hospitals. The smell of antiseptic, mixed with the stink of old, sick people, which seemed to be ever present in hospitals no matter what ward you were on, made him feel ill. The reek of sickness and death reminded him of his father, and his final days as the cancer ate away at his body. Tom hated that old bastard, and hated every moment spent looking after him while he took his time dying, but he wouldn’t wish a death like that on anyone.

Well, maybe he could think of a few. But as for himself, he’d rather eat a bullet when the time came, than spend his final months on earth lying in a bed, pissing and shitting all over the sheets, and having his arse wiped by some gorilla who was too fucking stupid to get a proper job.

The kid, though, he hadn’t deserved any of this. Poor little bastard shouldn’t have gone exploring in that house. Bloody typical. That house was cursed, it had to be. No wonder it had drawn a maniac like Abel to it. Tom should have moved them on, first chance he got. There were always people breaking in to it, having a look round, or some homeless guy dossing down for the night.

But not Jacob. Why the hell did he have to go and choose now to take up a career in breaking and entering? Any other time, Tom might have been proud of him. It was that Peter Marsden’s fault. If not for him, Jacob never would have dared break into that house. And then none of this mess would have happened.

Tom wondered what the doctors were making of Peter’s condition. His wounds, in his throat and the back of his head, the blisters. And then there was the fact that he kept trying to take a bite out of anyone who got close enough. He was like a wild animal. No one was taking any chances, and they were keeping him sedated, and strapped in the bed, just to be on the safe side. He’d already bitten one nurse in the Emergency Room, and then made a grab for the bag of blood on his IV drip.

Even that miserable old bint that passed for his mother was keeping away from him.

At least Jacob wasn’t in that condition. Whatever else they had done to him, they hadn’t tried turning him into one of them.

Tom ran his fingers through his hair. Felt like the walls were closing in on him, like he was going to scream if he didn’t get out of here soon.

“Hey,” he whispered.

Laura dragged her eyes away from Jacob. Her face was lined and pale, dark shadows under her eyes from worry and lack of sleep. She stared mutely at Tom.

“I’m just going to go outside, smoke a fag. This place is killing me, I feel like I’m going crazy. I won’t be long.”

Laura said nothing, just turned and looked at Jacob again.

“You want anything from downstairs? I could get you a coffee, or something to eat?”

Laura shook her head.

Tom stood up, wiped his hands, clammy with sweat, down his trouser legs. Looking at Jacob, swamped in the big hospital bed, Tom wanted to cry. He had a sudden urge to tell Laura everything, spill his guts to her, to the police, just get it all off his chest and out in the open. Maybe that would be for the best. Confession was supposed to be good for the soul, right?

Tom walked out of the room, down past the nurse’s station, and out onto the main corridor.

Tom stood in the car park and lit up a cigarette. The late afternoon light was slowly fading as the sun set behind the cloud cover. A long line of cars waited to get moving, queueing up to leave the car park. Someone sounded their horn, impatient to get moving.

A hand closed around Tom’s upper arm, the grip strong, and Joe Coffin said, “Enjoying your cigarette, Tom?”

“Oh, hey, Joe, I—”

“Come with me,” Coffin said, glancing around.

He began walking, guiding Tom out of the car park and past decorative bushes, into a corner of the hospital building where they were hidden from view.

Tom’s eyes widened as he saw the blood stained dressings on Coffin’s face, and over his hands. “Fuck, Joe! What the fuck happened to you?”

“Never mind that,” Coffin hissed. He snatched the cigarette from Tom’s mouth and threw it away. “What the hell’s going on, Tom?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Coffin leaned in close, towering over Tom. “Have you seen the state Jacob’s in? Poor kid was being kept prisoner in a cellar by a maniac, looked like a fucking vampire. You know anything about this, Tom?”

“No, of course not,” Tom said.

“Where the hell did you run off to?” Coffin snarled.

“It was seeing that Peter kid, staggering towards the house like a zombie. I just had a flash, like a premonition or something, and I knew where Jacob was. You found him at the house, right? The one we broke into as kids?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Where the hell were you?”

“I was in such a panic, I just wanted to get to Jacob as fast as I could, you know, and I wasn’t concentrating. I fucking totalled the car, Joe, lost control and skidded smack into a brick wall on the way over there. I was out, for like, ten minutes or more, and then the ambulance turned up, and they brought me here.”

Coffin stared at Tom, his eyes narrowed, like he didn’t believe him.

“I’m being fucking straight with you, Joe,” he said. “My chest is black and blue from when the airbag hit me, look.”

With trembling fingers, Tom unbuttoned the top of his shirt and pulled it open. His chest was a mass of bruises, just like he’d said.

“Where’s your car now?” Coffin said.

“Fuck knows, I got taken away in an ambulance, I don’t know, it’s probably been towed away by now.”

Coffin eased back a little, not so much in Tom’s face anymore. “How’s Jacob, you seen him yet?”

“Yeah, yeah, me and Laura, we’ve been sat by his bed all afternoon, you know. He’s in a bad way, but the doctors are keeping him sedated for the moment. They say he’s in shock, and he’s lost a lot of blood.”

“That maniac at the house, I think he might be the one who killed Steffanie and Michael,” Coffin said.

“No, Joe, you got those guys, remember?”

Coffin got in Tom’s face again, up close. “Those two punks? I don’t know where you got your info from, but they probably couldn’t have stolen sweets from a baby, never mind kill someone. No, that bastard at the house,” Coffin pointed to the dressings on his face, “he did this to me, chewed me up like a slab of beef at the butchers, he’s the one killed Steffanie and Michael, I know it.”

“All right, Joe, whatever you say.”

Coffin stuck his finger in Tom’s face. “Yeah, that’s right. Whatever I say.”

“What happened to the other guy, Joe?”

Coffin stepped back again, relaxed a little. “I killed him.”

“Good,” Tom said. “The bastard deserved it.”

“There was a woman there, too.”

Tom stiffened up, felt his insides clenching. Not Steffanie, she was with me.

Coffin glanced behind him, at the cars in the car park, an ambulance, lights flashing, pulling into the Emergency Department entrance. He seemed on edge, wanting to keep out of sight.

“You all right, Joe?”

“Sure, everything’s just dandy,” Coffin hissed, snapping his head back around to stare at Tom. “Here I am, fresh out of prison less than forty-eight hours, and I’ve executed two drugged up, lowlife snotwipes, and killed a deranged psychopath. Now, there’s probably a great many people might well want to line up to shake my hand for ridding the planet of three such dangerous degenerates, but the cops, nah, somehow I think they’ll be taking a different view. So yeah, I’m on edge a little right now, as the hospital isn’t the best place I could pick to hide out in.”

Tom held up his hands, palm out. “All right, Joe. Fuck, I was just asking, is all.”

“Yeah, well don’t ask anymore. This woman, at the house, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her before, parked outside your house earlier this afternoon.”

“Ah, shit!” Tom said. “It’s that reporter, the bitch has been sniffing around, asking questions, thinks she’s Lois Lane, like she’s onto some big story. I thought I’d got rid of her.”

“How did she end up at the house on Forde Road?” Coffin said.

“Come on, Joe, how the fuck should I know? Maybe Superman flew over the house, saw what was happening with his X-Ray vision, and reported back to Lois!”

“Or maybe she tailed you to the house?”

“I already told you, I drove head on into a fucking brick wall on the way there!”

“What’s her name?”

“I don’t know, she never introduced herself. She works for the Birmingham Herald, I think.”

A police car rolled past, pulling up in a waiting bay. Two policemen got out, and headed for the hospital main entrance.

“This place is getting too hot for me,” Coffin said. “Stay with Laura and Jacob, and don’t repeat anything I told you, okay? Especially not to the cops.”

“Hey, I never would, Joe, you know that,” Tom said.

With one more look around, Coffin set off at a fast paced walk across the car park. Tom watched him until he disappeared from view.

He let out a sigh of relief. That had been a close one. After hiding Steffanie and Rumpelstiltskin, Tom had come up with the excuse of rushing to the house, but crashing his car on the way. He’d known he had to make it convincing though, and that he had to actually crash his car.

The hardest part had been sitting behind the wheel, his seatbelt off, psyching himself up to drive full tilt into the wall he had picked. Trusting in the car’s airbag system to stop him from taking a dive headfirst through the windscreen had been the hardest part.

Once he’d committed to the idea, he had floored the accelerator, only closing his eyes at the moment before impact.

It had worked like a dream.

Even though his chest and head hurt like a bastard, now.

bigger than ole king kong

Joe Coffin walked back into the city centre. He stopped at the first newsagents he came to and bought the last copy they had of the Birmingham Herald. The Asian woman behind the counter looked at him wide eyed, like she wanted to ask him how come his face was bandaged up like that, and didn’t he know they were leaking blood? She decided against it, and simply handed him his change instead.

He stood outside the shop, underneath a street lamp, and leafed through the paper. He ignored the stories, concentrating instead on the by-lines. How many women reporters typically worked on newspapers these days? There was a female section in the centre pages, but Coffin did not bother looking in that. Whoever this woman was, she hadn’t struck Coffin as the type to be writing about nail polish and panty lines.

Coffin searched until he found a story on Jacob and Peter. According to the story they were still missing, but that was yesterday’s news now.

Emma Wylde.

That was her, it had to be. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been out cold on the floor. That was several hours ago. If he hadn’t been so concerned with getting Jacob some medical attention, he would have stopped to check on her.

But he didn’t owe her anything. He’d pulled that maniac off her once, and it had been her choice to hang around and watch the fight. Coffin had the feeling she could look after herself.

Coffin shoved the newspaper into the nearest bin, and headed for Broad Street. The Birmingham Herald offices were easy to find, they sat at the top of the tallest building in the city, the Metropole Tower. It was late, gone eight, but who knew how late reporters worked? Besides, if she wasn’t there, then maybe he could find out where she lived, pay her a visit at home.

Coffin walked on, through the city centre. He thought about catching a bus, but Broad Street wasn’t too far, and besides, Coffin hated buses. The ceilings were too low for him to stand up straight, and after ten minutes or so, he would have a crick in his neck. And the seats were too small for him to sit comfortably. And then there were the annoying kids, sitting at the back, playing their music too loud. If you could call that crap they produced these days, music. It was like they thought they were doing everybody a favour, letting all the other passengers listen too.

If Coffin had his way, kids would walk everywhere.

Quietly.

Coffin also doubted that the bus driver would even let him on the bus, the way he looked at the moment.

His face, and his chest and abdomen were sore, but they were nothing compared to the pain in his right shoulder and forearm. Those long, wicked teeth had dug deep, and chewed up his shoulder in particular. Coffin couldn’t lift his right arm above shoulder height, and even doing that much sent bolts of pain shooting through his shoulder, and left him sweating with the effort.

Doc Shaddock had told him there was some muscle damage around the shoulder joint. He said he would always have some limitation of movement from now on, but other than that, it should heal up okay, given time and rest.

Well, Coffin didn’t have time, or the time to rest. Despite what he had told Tom, Coffin still needed to know for certain who murdered his family. His money was on that crazy, blood sucking psychotic he left for dead back at the house, but he needed to know for sure. He also needed to know his name, where he came from, why he’d done it, and if there were any more like him out there.

Emma Wylde might not know any more than Coffin did, but she’d been at that house for a reason, and Coffin intended to find out that much, at least.

The Metropole Tower was lit up like a beacon against the night sky.

The large glass door was locked shut. Coffin peered through the glass, at the gleaming, cavernous reception area. A security guard sat at his desk, with his back to the entrance. Coffin rapped his knuckles on the glass, but the security guard did not stir.

Maybe he was asleep.

Or just ignorant.

There were rows of buttons down the side of the entrance door, labelled up with company names. Coffin ran his finger along them, until he found the Birmingham Herald.

He pressed the button, and it buzzed.

He waited.

He was on the verge of pressing the button again, when a man’s voice, distorted through the tiny speaker set into the wall, squawked, “Hello?”

“I’m here to see Emma Wylde,” Coffin said.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. Tell her it’s Joe Coffin.”

There followed a few seconds of silence, while the man on the other end of the intercom digested this startling piece of information. Perhaps he was wondering how to handle it, weighing up his options. He could always just switch off the intercom, and leave Coffin standing outside, and hope that he would have left by the end of the shift. Or he could tell Coffin that Emma Wylde wasn’t there, or simply not available to talk to him.

The intercom squawked back into life. “Hold on a moment.”

More waiting. The security guard, still sitting with his back to Coffin, suddenly leaned forward and picked up a telephone. He listened for a few moments, swivelled in his chair and took a long look at Coffin, and then turned his back on him once more, and spoke into the telephone.

A long minute passed.

“Come on up,” the intercom said.

The speaker made a buzzing noise, and when Coffin pushed at the door, it swung open.

Coffin strode past the desk, ignoring the security guard, and straight to the lifts.

Coffin had never been inside a newspaper office before, had no idea what to expect. The Birmingham Herald offices occupied the entire top two floors of the Metropole Tower, offering stunning views across the city, through plate glass windows covering three sides of the top floor. The city’s tower blocks glowed yellow lights from their windows, and other lights, like fireflies, snaked along the roads leading out of the city, to the surrounding suburbs.

The office was open plan, desks laid out in rows across the vast space. Coffin would have at least expected the clatter of keyboards, the ringing of telephones, and the chatter of voices, a general hubbub as young, hotshot reporters rushed around, waving sheets of typed paper, or shouting across the room.

But no, the room was entirely silent.

Men and women were sat at many of the desks, others standing. All of them had one thing in common.

They were all staring at Joe Coffin.

A large, middle aged man, his belly hanging over his waistline and his hair going grey, stepped forward, his hand held out in greeting.

“Hi, I’m Karl Edwards, the Birmingham Herald editor. How can I help you, Mr Coffin?”

Coffin took Karl’s hand and shook it. “I’m here to see Emma Wylde, is she around?”

“I’m afraid not, she called in sick today.”

“Sick?”

“Yeah, sick. You don’t look so good yourself.” Karl pointed at Coffin’s face. “What happened to you?”

“I cut myself shaving.” Coffin glanced around the office. “Any idea where I might find her?”

“I’m sorry Mr Coffin, but I can’t help you with that. If I can do anything else for you?”

“Yeah, you can get out of my way.”

Coffin shoved past the editor, and walked further into the newsroom. A couple of the younger reporters, gelled hair and sharp suits, jumped up from behind their desks and stepped in front of Coffin.

“Hold it right there, mister,” the bigger one said. He looked like a regular at the gym, but probably spent more time preening in front of the mirrors, than he did on the weight bench.

“Yeah, where the hell do you think you’re going?” his friend said. He was smaller, but flabby, looked like he’d never set foot in a gym in his life. But liked acting tough in front of his colleague.

Coffin sighed.

He had a powerful urge to grab them both by their ears and bang their heads together.

Repeatedly.

Instead, he picked gym guy up and threw him across his desk, scattering trays of paper over the floor, and tipping his computer monitor over on its back. Coffin whirled around to face the flabby guy, towering over him.

Flabby guy turned and ran.

Karl, the editor, stepped in front of Coffin and planted his hands on his chest. Karl was tall, but he still had to look up at Coffin.

“You’re going to have to leave, now, or I’m calling the police.”

“Emma!” Coffin roared. “Emma Wylde!”

Karl pointed at gym guy, who was climbing back onto his feet. “Barry, call the police!”

“No.” Emma Wylde stepped out of Karl’s office. “Don’t call the police, Barry, it’s all right. I’ll talk to Mr Coffin.”

Karl stepped back from Coffin, looked over at Emma. “Are you sure?”

She nodded.

She looked dreadful. Bloodshot eyes, bruised face.

“I’m sorry I left you,” Coffin said. “It was the boy, I had to get him medical help, quickly.”

“Was that Jacob, one of the missing boys?”

She hadn’t known. Jacob was not why she had gone to investigate the house. Coffin looked around the silent newsroom. Everyone was watching them, listening.

“Let’s go in my office,” Karl said. “We can talk in there.”

* * *

Karl sat behind his desk, and Coffin sat on the leather sofa.

Emma, when she first started at the paper, once asked him what the sofa was for. Karl said, for sitting on, of course. Emma said, don’t be an idiot, you know what I mean. Karl never said anything else, but Emma soon found out what it was there for.

Some days, Karl worked so late, he just lay out on the sofa and took a nap, got up, and carried on working through the night.

Or maybe Mrs Edwards had enough of him some days, and threw him out of the house.

Emma was never sure which.

Emma was perched on the edge of the sofa, the newsroom first aid kit open beside her. She had removed one of the dressings off Coffin’s face, and was dabbing gingerly at the wound.

“Who did your needlework?” she said. “Sweeney Todd?”

“Very funny.”

“Seriously, you should go to hospital.” Emma peeled open a fresh dressing from the first aid kit. “That maniac almost sliced your face off. If you don’t see a plastic surgeon soon, you’re going to have some pretty bad scarring all over your face.”

“Oh gee, I guess that means my career as a model is over,” Coffin growled.

Emma pressed the new dressing into place, and taped it down.

“I’m going to have to change this one, too,” she said, pressing her index finger against his chin and rotating his head around. “All this blood seeping through the dressings, you look like Frankenstein’s monster.”

“Yeah, well, some people might say that’s an improvement.”

Karl shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He opened a drawer and got himself a cigar, started peeling the wrapper off it.

Emma pulled the dressing off Coffin’s face, sticky with blood. She dropped it in a plastic bag and picked up a steriwipe.

“Once I’ve cleaned up your face, I think maybe you should take off your shirt, and let me have a look at your chest.”

Coffin raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve got a patch of blood seeping through your T-shirt. I’m not sure we’ve got enough bandages and dressings in this first aid kit to sort you out, another reason I think you should go to hospital.”

Karl shoved the unlit cigar in his mouth and began chewing on it. “Hey, Emma, since when did my office turn into an episode of Casualty? Are you a reporter, or a nurse?”

“You want him to bleed all over your sofa, Karl? Coffin’s leaking blood like a ruptured appendix, if I don’t change his dressings, he’ll have painted the room red by the time he leaves.”

Karl sighed, heavily.

“Karl?”

“Yeah?”

“You wanna go downstairs, see if they’ve got another first aid kit down there?”

Karl sat up straight in his chair, yanked the cigar from his mouth. “Are you serious?”

“Hell, yes, I’m serious! Remember that tie I got for you, yesterday? Pulled your fat out of the fire with Mrs Edwards?” Emma smiled at Karl. “Be a sweetie, Karl. Go get me another first aid kit.”

Karl stood up, and glowered at Coffin. “You okay in here with him?”

“Sure I am,” Emma said, looking at Coffin. “Big Bad Leroy Brown here is a pussycat at heart, right?”

Coffin looked at Karl, and said, “Miaow.”

Karl huffed. “All right, but you need any help while I’m gone, just yell. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Emma watched him leave.

Coffin said, “Is he going to light that cigar up, or just chew on it?”

“Are you for real? You think anybody’s allowed to smoke in this place? No, he’ll just chew on it until it gets so soggy he has to throw it away.”

“Seems like a waste of a good cigar to me.”

Emma turned to look at Coffin once more. “Okay, I got rid of Karl, but he won’t be long. So spill, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Charming, I must say,” Coffin said.

“Hey, next time, you want charming, bring me a bunch of fucking roses and a box of chocolates. But you come barging in here, and start throwing my colleagues over their desks, that’s not the best start to a relationship.”

“And here I was thinking how me pulling that sex crazed maniac off of you might have put me in your good books already. That wasn’t a tickling stick he was waving in your face, you know.”

“Fuck you, Coffin. I was the one smashed him over the skull with that rock when he was about ready to sink his teeth in your neck. Although I suppose you’re going to tell me you had the situation under control, right?”

“Well, I—”

“And please, tell me that wasn’t your sock. Damn thing smelt worse than a plate full of mouldy cheese.”

“What were you doing in that house, Emma?” Coffin said.

“What the fuck were you doing there?”

Coffin flinched as Emma placed a fresh dressing on his wound, and pressed it down with a little more force than was necessary.

“I asked first,” Coffin growled. “What were you doing at that house, Emma?”

“Yeah, and I asked you right back. What the fuck were you doing there?”

Coffin lunged forward, getting right in Emma’s face. She had that same feeling she’d had with Steffanie, that she’d pushed too far, stepped through a door she should have gone nowhere near. She tried leaning back, but Coffin grabbed her by the shoulders, and held her in place.

“We could play this game all night, but you and I know we don’t want to do that. What were you doing in that house?”

“I was having a look around, I thought the place was empty,” Emma said.

Gel haired guy opened the door and stuck his head through. He looked scared.

“You want me to call the police, Emma?”

Coffin let go of Emma’s shoulders, leaned back a little so he wasn’t in her face anymore.

“No, we’re okay,” Emma said.

Gel haired guy didn’t look convinced.

“Really, Barry, it’s fine. Go back to work.”

“What were you looking for?” Coffin said, when the door had closed.

“I don’t know, but the last thing I expected to find was Toothy Naturist Man, prowling around with his dick in his hand. What about you, Coffin? Way I hear it, you just got out of jail yesterday morning. Not exactly keeping a low profile, are you?”

“Haven’t had much choice in the matter,” Coffin said.

“You hear about those two crackheads got killed yesterday? You know anything about that, Coffin?”

“Only what I read in the papers,” Coffin replied. “You’re not telling me everything, are you? How did you know to go to that house?”

Emma shrugged. “Reporter’s intuition, I guess.”

“Bullshit.”

“You don’t believe in intuition? Listening to your gut?”

“The only thing my gut tells me is when I’m hungry and when I’m full. What my eyes and my ears are telling me right now is that you’re full of shit.”

“Now who’s being charming?”

The door opened, and Karl walked in, holding up another first aid kit, like it was a trophy. “Finally found one!”

“Sorry, Karl, we won’t be needing it anymore,” Emma said, her eyes fixed on Coffin. “Mr Coffin’s decided it’s best if he leaves now, goes and gets proper medical treatment at a hospital.”

Karl looked from Coffin, to Emma, and back to Coffin again. “Yeah? Is that what’s really going on? Because I’m getting a different vibe here.”

Coffin stood up. “Is that your gut talking?”

Karl stepped quickly to one side as Coffin pushed past him and out of the door. Gel haired guy gave Coffin the dead eye as he walked through the newsroom, but Coffin ignored him.

Karl and Emma watched Coffin until he had disappeared behind the elevator doors.

“What was that all about?” Karl said.

“Coffin wanted some info I wasn’t prepared to give him,” Emma replied.

“Same as the info you’re not prepared to give me? I still have no idea what happened to you, today. You look like you’ve done ten rounds with Mike Tyson. What happened in that house, Emma? And more importantly, seen as we had a reporter on the scene when the shit went down, which from the state of you and Joe Coffin, I’m guessing is what happened, why the hell aren’t we writing it up for tomorrow’s edition?”

Emma looked away, bit her lip. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

Emma looked back at her editor. Her eyes were shiny. “Coffin should have snapped that guy in two, as soon as he saw him. You’ve seen Coffin now, seen him in the flesh. He walked into your office, he filled it, right? Didn’t seem possible that we could fit inside, too. The man’s huge.”

Emma took a deep, juddering breath, as she remembered the fight, the blood spraying across the walls and the floors, Coffin’s flesh splitting apart in ragged rips.

“What happened, Emma?” Karl whispered.

“I watched them fighting. And no matter how many times Coffin put this guy down, he got right back up again. It was like watching the fucking Terminator, Karl. He absolutely would not stop.”

“But Coffin stopped him in the end. The police are down there now, probably taking the body back to the morgue as we speak. Once the police break the news that they have the guy who’s been slashing people’s throats and drinking their blood, that’s it, it’s over.”

Emma scrubbed at her face. All she wanted was to climb into bed, forget about everything for a few hours. “I don’t know, I’m not sure it is over. I think this runs deeper than any of us realise, and Coffin’s mixed up in it, somehow.”

Karl raised an eyebrow. “You should be careful, Emma. You don’t want to go messing with Joe Coffin, or anyone from the Slaughterhouse Mob, for that matter.”

“Too late for that, I’m already in way too deep with three of them.”

Karl sat down behind his desk, pulled the cigar from his mouth and examined the soggy end, all chewed up and falling to pieces. “Three of them? Who else you been rubbing up the wrong way, besides big old King Kong?”

“Tom Mills was about ready to punch my lights out, permanently, this morning, and then there’s Steffanie.”

Karl threw the cigar in the bin, and leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, his hands together, fingers interlocked in a steeple shape.

“Steffanie’s dead, Emma,” he said.

“Yeah, I know.” Emma rubbed her face in her hands. “You hear about that murder of the homeless guy they found this morning?”

“Yeah, we’ve written it up for tomorrow’s edition. Why?”

“He had his throat slashed, just like Steffanie and Michael, right?”

Karl opened his drawer, pulled out another cigar, and began peeling the clear plastic wrapper off. “Well, that was one of his wounds, yeah.”

“One of his wounds?”

“Didn’t you read the copy? Poor bastard was carved up so bad, he looked like he should have been hanging from a meat hook in a butcher’s shop. We’re still waiting for a statement, once they’ve had an autopsy done, but from what I hear, it looked like he’d been attacked by a savage animal. The same way Coffin looked. Trust me, Emma, I think your guy’s the man everyone’s been looking for.”

“So the papers won’t be going with the Birmingham Vampire angle tomorrow?”

Karl jammed the cigar in his mouth. “I doubt it. Who knows, they might run with it the day after. What’s going on, Emma? You see a vampire at that house?”

“No, of course not,” Emma said.

“It’s just, if you thought you had, it would have been kind of a big coincidence, you know.”

Emma sat up. “What are you talking about, Karl?”

“Couple of days back, we ran a story about a furore at the city blood bank. Seems there was an inconsistency in the audited stock levels, and the actual stock levels.”

“You mean someone’s been stealing blood bags? But who would do that, and how?”

Karl shrugged. “Who knows, maybe it was Count Dracula, wearing his invisibility cloak.”

Emma stood up. “I’m going to head home, get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Karl got up from behind his desk and walked over to Emma, put a hand on her shoulder. “You seen Nick, yet?”

“No, he’s handling the crime scene down at the house.”

“Don’t you think that you should tell him you were there? Hell, Ems, you’re a witness. You should be going to the police with what you saw, with what happened to you. So should Coffin.”

“Joe Coffin got out of jail yesterday. There’s no way he’s going anywhere near the police.”

“And what about you? Why are you avoiding them?”

Emma thought about this for a moment. She thought about seeing Tom Mills, rushing those two people out of the house, draped in blankets. Smuggling them away in his car. One of them had been a woman, she was reasonably sure of that. But the other one, he’d had to carry. What the hell was that all about?

“Emma?”

“Huh?” Emma looked at Karl, came back from inside her head.

“You should go to the police, Emma.”

“Maybe,” Emma replied. “I’ll see you in the morning, Karl.”

Emma left the office, and Karl watched her go, a look of deep concern on his face.

shania twain is a lesbian

Blue light washed over the house in waves, casting deep shadows and then chasing them away, over and over again. A police car and a Scene Of Crime transportation unit, sat on the drive, with two police cars parked on the street.

Vaughan Pierce sucked hard on his cigarette butt, and then flicked it across the drive. It landed in a small shower of sparks. Vaughan let the smoke trickle slowly out of his nostrils.

Smoking seemed to be about the only pleasure he had left in his job. The government had sucked his pension scheme dry, frozen his salary, increased his working hours, and were now drowning him in paperwork and health and safety protocols. Technically speaking, he wasn’t allowed to smoke at a scene of a crime, but, technically speaking, he didn’t give a shit.

Suzanna Webb, his fellow Scene Of Crime Officer, bent down and picked up the cigarette butt.

“Should I put this in an evidence bag?” she said, holding the offending article up. “I bet we could get some very interesting DNA evidence from it.”

“Sod off,” Pierce growled.

“Charming,” Suzanna said, and popped the cigarette butt in a plastic bag, and handed it to Pierce. “Here, you can do whatever the hell you want with it.”

“Yeah, well, I can think of a couple of things.”

Suzanna held up a hand, palm out. “I don’t even want to know where you are going with that. What’s got into you anyway? You look like you finally figured out Santa Claus doesn’t exist.”

“Didn’t I tell you to sod off?” Pierce said.

Suzanna grinned. “You know me, Vaughan, I never do what I’m told.”

Pierce stuffed the bag in his trouser pocket. “What are you doing back in a hazard suit? I thought we’d finished here?”

“No such luck,” Suzanna said, zipping up her white, plastic overall. “We need to get the body out of the cellar and back to the morgue.”

“Says who?”

“DCI Archer, that’s who.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Pierce muttered. He had a quick look around. “Is he still here?”

“No, he’s done his bit, had a look around, and buggered off back to the station.”

“We’re not going to get any respite on this case, if Archer’s in charge. He’s been bloody crying and pouting ever since he got hauled over the coals by Superintendent Burrows over that mess with Joe Coffin.”

“The Terry Wu case?”

“That’s the one. Everybody’s favourite Detective Inspector is convinced that Coffin did the killing, but he hasn’t got a shred of evidence. He neglected to tell that to Burrows, though, who backed him all the way until Craggs’ lawyers accused Archer of harassment. Bloody embarrassing for everyone if that had gone to court.”

“Why didn’t it?”

“Everyone backed off when Coffin attacked that poor sod in the pub, and he got sent down for assault.”

“Maybe a Triad assassin murdered Terry Wu,” Suzanna said.

“You’ve been watching too many crappy movies.”

“Hey, it’s a known fact that Terry Wu had Triad connections. The gang’s called something like the Black Dragon Ghosts, or the Seven Monkey Devils, or something like that.”

“Like I said, Sooze, too many crappy movies.”

Pierce pulled another cigarette out of the packet, and then thought better of it, and put it back.

“Isn’t Coffin due out of prison any day soon?” Suzanna said.

“Yesterday.”

“You think he had anything to do with this?”

Pierce snorted. “Are you kidding me? The guy gets out of prison and the first thing he does is try and decapitate some poor bastard with a mantrap? I don’t think so.”

Suzanna threw her hands in the air. “All right, Miss Marple, put your handbag away, I was just thinking out loud, that’s all.”

“You and me, we’re not paid to think. That’s the job of important people, like DCI Archer. Anyway, where are Gary and Steve? It’s their job to cart the bodies around.”

“They’ve been called out to another job, over in Handsworth.”

“Shit! I’ve been freezing my arse off out here half the sodding night. You think we’re going to get overtime for any of this?”

Suzanna laughed. “What are in those cigarettes of yours, Vaughan? C’mon, suit up, and then let’s figure out how we’re going to get that poor bastard out of that cellar.”

Pierce pulled another hazard suit out of the back of the van, ripping open the plastic packet it was stored in, and shook it out.

“It is a weird one though, isn’t it? What the hell do you think happened down there?” Pierce said, as he stepped into the suit and began pulling it up over his legs and his waist.

Suzanna shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s like something out of that film with, you know, um, whatsisface who played that guy who got his teeth drilled through by Laurence Olivier.”

Pierce held up a hand. “Wait, I’m confused. Is Laurence Olivier in the film you’re thinking of, or in the other film with the teeth?”

“The film where he drilled through the other actor’s teeth.” Suzanna sighed, her eyebrows scrunched up in thought. “That guy who shot the shark in Jaws was in that movie too.”

Pierce pulled his arms through the hazard suit. “Well, we’re getting somewhere I suppose, at least we’ve got the name of a film, now.”

Suzanna snapped her fingers and grinned. “Roy Scheider!”

“Okay, great, so Roy Scheider’s in this film where someone ends up with a mantrap on his head?”

“No, you idiot, he’s the guy who shot the shark in Jaws!”

“And . . ?”

“And, he was in that other movie with Laurence Olivier, who drills holes in the teeth of the guy who’s in the film where somebody winds up with a mantrap over his head.”

Pierce zipped up his suit. “I still have no idea what you are talking about.” He swept his arm out towards the steps leading up to the front door. “After you, darling.”

“Why, thank you,” Suzanna said. “You do know how to treat the ladies.”

They walked up the steps together and into the entrance hall.

“I certainly do,” Pierce replied. “I don’t take all the girls to the scenes of hideous murders, you know. Not on a first date, anyway.”

“Oh my, I must be special,” Suzanna said.

They headed down the hall, past blood splatters over the walls, and stopped at the top of the cellar steps.

“You know what?” Pierce said. “I’ve been to hundreds of brutal, bloody crime scenes, but this one is the freakiest yet.”

“I know what you mean,” Suzanna said. “I’ve heard of plenty of inventive ways to kill someone, but this is just flat out weird.”

“Yeah.” Pierce looked at his partner. “You thought of the name of that film, yet?”

“No, but it’s on the tip of my tongue.” She stuck her tongue out at Pierce.

“You’d better put that thing back, unless you’re prepared to use it.”

“Yeah, you wish.”

“Anyway, I was just thinking, if you can remember the name of that film, it might be a clue.”

“A clue?”

“Yeah, I mean, what we have here might be some kind of copycat killing.”

“Yeah, right. I can see why you’re not paid to do the thinking round here,” Suzanna said.

They walked down the cellar steps, Pierce in front. In the powerful beams of floodlights set up on stands, every nook and cranny of the cellar was exposed in harsh, bright light. There were rows of empty, earthenware jars stacked at the back, their insides caked with a dry, flaky brown substance.

The two SOCOs stood by the body, lying on its back on the cellar floor beside a deep hole, the head trapped within the rusty jaws of the mantrap.

“Bloody naked, too,” Pierce muttered. “And painted in blood. You ask me, this was some kind of satanic ritual.”

“You think he had a hard on, when it happened?”

Pierce turned and looked at his partner, his eyes round with surprise. “What?”

“You know, like in that James Herbert book, where the teacher gets his cock chopped off with a pair of shears.”

“Really? Roy Scheider in that one, too?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Well, pardon me for not being an expert on the film career of Roy Scheider, whoever the hell he is.”

“Was.”

“Huh?”

“Whoever he was. He’s dead.”

“Right. Just like this crazy bastard here. You think we can get him in the van with that thing around his neck?”

“I’m not sure we can even get him out of the cellar with that thing around his neck.”

“You took photographs, right?” Pierce said.

“Only about a gazillion of them.”

“Then I say we take that thing off his head before we do anything else.”

“You’re the boss.”

“You better believe it.”

They stood either side of the body and knelt down. Pierce leaned in close and looked at the iron jaws, where the teeth had sunk into the man’s neck. Was it his imagination, or did the wounds not seem anywhere near as awful as they had? And his face, too. When they first saw him, earlier on this afternoon, the victim looked like he had been bludgeoned in the head with a crowbar. But now? His face was still a mess, but not quite as bad as it had seemed earlier.

“Hey,” Suzanna said, breaking into his thoughts. “It’s still my choice of music on the way back, right? I’m sick of all that Led Zeppelin crap you keep playing.”

“You know what, Sooze, I like you and all, but even I have my limits. Led Zeppelin happen to be the second best band in the whole world, and I’m not letting anyone, and in particular somebody who’s idea of a great album is Now That’s What I Call Music 132, tell me otherwise.”

“Aww, come on, Vaughan, don’t be such a grouch. I thought you were enjoying the music on the way over here.”

Pierce looked back down at the body. “I don’t think so.”

“But it’s country and western,” Suzanna said. “Now, I happen to know you like country and western, especially, who is it, oh yeah, Hank Marvin.”

Pierce looked up at Suzanna. “No, I do not like Hank Marvin. Hank Marvin plays with the Shadows, who used to be Cliff Richard’s backing group. I hate and detest Cliff Richard with every bone in my body. Okay?”

“Hank Marvin’s not country and western?”

Pierce sighed. “No, You’re thinking of Hank Williams.”

“Oh.” Suzanna shook her head. “I’m rubbish with names, aren’t I?”

“Sooze, are you telling me you went out and bought a Hank Marvin CD, because that would be even worse than the crap you were forcing me to listen to on the way over here.”

Suzanna laughed. “No, of course not! But really, I thought you kind of liked Shania Twain.”

Pierce dropped his face into his hands. “No, Sooze, you thought wrong.”

“What’s wrong with Shania Twain?”

“She sings bloody, crappy commercialized pop, that’s what. Shania Twain wouldn’t know a decent song if it smacked her in the face.”

“You’re telling me you don’t like Man! I Feel Like a Woman!?”

Pierce grinned. “You do realise what that song is about, don’t you?”

“Sure, I do, it’s about getting all dressed up to go out partying.”

“That’s what you think. Sooze, you should pay a little bit more attention to the lyrics, then you’ll get the deeper meaning.”

“The deeper meaning?”

“Yeah, sure. All songs have a deeper meaning to them, you’ve just got to listen carefully, pick out the subtext.”

“Okay, Vaughan, tell me. What’s the subtext to Man! I Feel Like a Woman!?”

“It’s all about Shania Twain declaring herself a lesbian.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Vaughan!”

Pierce spread his hands out. “It’s true, it’s all there in the lyrics, out in the open. She says she doesn’t need romance, and to forget that she’s a lady, she’s going to start wearing men’s shirts, it’s all there Sooze.”

Suzanna shook her head. “Seems like a stretch to me.”

“Oh yeah? How about when she sings about doing it in style, or getting in the action? No inhibitions, and doing what I dare? Besides, if you don’t believe that, all you’ve got to do is look at the song title. Man! I Feel Like a Woman! That’s like me saying, man, I feel like a beer, or man, I feel like pizza. She wants to get it on with another woman, that’s what that song is all about.”

“Vaughan, you are a complete idiot. Besides, if you hate the song so much, how come you know so much about the lyrics?”

“Because you forced me to listen to it about a million times over the last few days. I don’t think I’m ever going to get that song out of my head again.”

“Idiot,” Suzanna muttered.

“Yeah, yeah,” Vaughan said, and looked back down at the body. “Right, how are we going to get this damn thing off his head?”

“You think maybe we can prise it apart with just our hands?”

“Let’s give it a go.”

“Careful of the teeth,” Suzanna said. “What if we hold it by the edges here, down by the hinge?”

They both gripped the edges of the mantrap jaws.

Vaughan looked up at Suzanna. “One, two, three!”

They pulled together, but the iron jaws hardly budged.

“I think we’re going to have to get something to leverage it apart,” Suzanna said.

“No, wait,” Vaughan replied. “Think about it, these things need to be opened up again, if they’re going to be reused. I bet there’s a quick release switch somewhere, there must be.”

Vaughan leaned over and examined the bottom of the pressure plate, ran his fingers around the edges.

“Here, this is it.” He got his thumb under the lever and pulled. It shifted slightly, flakes of rust falling to the floor. Vaughan inserted another finger behind the lever and pulled again.

The lever shifted, and the jaws loosened.

“That’s it, you got it,” Suzanna said, slowly prising the jaws apart.

The wounds made a slight squelching noise as the teeth came free. Vaughan helped Suzanna lift the mantrap over and off the corpse’s head, and place it on the floor.

“You’d think there would be more blood,” Suzanna said.

Pierce gazed at the corpse. “I guess so, yeah, there’s some, but those teeth in his neck, you’d think maybe he severed an artery, or something, and the corpse would be lying in a pool of blood.”

“Well, the autopsy will sort all that out. Come on, let’s get him strapped on to the stretcher.”

They stood up. Suzanna stretched, the white plastic of her bio-hazard suit crackling as she moved.

“You know what?” Pierce said. “I’m gonna have another cigarette before we load him up.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I’m serious.” Pierce started walking up the cellar steps. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He got to the top and halted when Suzanna shouted up after him.

“Hey!”

Pierce turned around. Suzanna was standing at the bottom of the steps, grinning.

“What are you grinning at?” Pierce said.

“Straw Dogs,” Suzanna said.

“Straw what?”

“Straw Dogs. That’s the name of the film where a guy gets his head caught in a mantrap. I remembered it!”

“Good for you, Sooze,” Pierce said. “Who knows, it might be our first clue.”

Pierce walked through the house and back outside. Most of the crime team had left. A policeman sat in a car on the drive, keeping a watch out for any curious thrill seekers, with a desire to go exploring a murder scene.

Pierce pulled a cigarette out and stuck it in his mouth. He shivered. The match flared bright in the darkness, and he held the flame to the tip of the cigarette. It was about time he gave up smoking, he’d been promising himself for years that he would.

Maybe next year.

Pierce smiled as he thought about how he had teased Suzanna over her taste in music. She was a nice girl, but she got wound up so easily, Pierce could never resist teasing her. And her trying to remember the name of that film? Pierce had known all along what it was called. Pretending not to know had been much more fun.

Maybe there were two pleasures left in the job, after all. The chance to sneak out for a fag. And the opportunity to tease his partner.

Suzanna was a sweet, funny girl. If there wasn’t such an age difference between them, and Pierce even thought he had a cat in hell’s chance with her, well . . .

Pierce turned at the sound of a crash from inside the house. Sounded like one of the lights in the cellar tipping over.

Pierce walked towards the front door. “Sooze?”

Another crash. Pierce dropped the cigarette and ran up the steps, into the house.

“Sooze, what’s happening?” he shouted, as he ran down the hall.

He stopped at the top of the cellar steps. The sounds of things falling over had stopped. The light coming up from the cellar was dimmer now, but there was still some. Maybe two of the four lights had fallen over.

“Suzie, you okay?” Pierce said, as he walked down the stone steps.

He froze at the bottom. Suzanna was on the floor, her biohazard suit ripped to shreds, thin streams of blood winding across the floor, and running down the sides of the hole. The naked man, apparently dead just a few moments ago, was hunched over her, sucking at a jet of blood spurting from Suzanna’s neck.

The man paused in his feeding and looked up at Pierce.

And grinned.

stump and corpse

Traffic on the M6 was at a standstill. Tom stood on the covered, pedestrian bridge, gazing through the scratched, filthy Perspex at the three lanes of stationary headlights, snaking back down the motorway as far as he could see. The window began misting up in front of his eyes, obscuring his view. Tom had rested his forehead against the cool surface, as though the effort of keeping it upright on his shoulders was too much for him, and he had to give his neck muscles a rest.

The smart comment about the Travelodge had been just that, a stupid joke. Something to say, when he couldn’t actually think of anything to say. But when it had come down to it, where the hell else could he take them?

Back to River View Gardens? Right, he could just see that. Hi, Laura, I’ve brought a couple of friends back with me, they’re going to be staying with us for a while. You might recognise one of them, she used to be your friend, Steffanie, but now she’s a dead, blood sucking, nymphomaniac, who kept our son locked in a cellar, and drained his blood so that this decrepit, fucking creature over here, could drink it.

Tom closed his eyes. Maybe he should have taken them back to the nightclub. Steffanie always had been a star attraction. Might kind of ruin the atmosphere though, if she leapt into her adoring audience at the end of her act, and started trying to eat them.

And the Boris Karloff lookalike would turn everyone away.

So here Tom was, standing on a bridge over the M6, whilst Steffanie and that corpse they called the Father, hid in a family room at the Travelodge.

A young couple walked past, arms around each other, giggling. The boy had his hand stuffed in his girlfriend’s back pocket of her jeans. Tom watched them as they walked, the girl’s rounded bottom wriggling in her tight jeans. She nuzzled her head into his neck as they walked.

Tom hoped they weren’t headed for the Travelodge, too. The last thing he needed right now was for a horny young couple to book into the room next door to Steffanie. If she heard them in the night, she would probably tear down their door and join in.

Tom turned his attention back to the motorway and checked his watch.

They were late.

No surprise, really, looking at the traffic. But he didn’t like keeping Steffanie and the old man waiting. Steffanie was growing agitated, had this hungry look in her eyes. It had been hours since either of them had drunk any blood, and in their hurry to get out, they had left the holdall of blood bags behind.

Even the corpse was twitching and moaning.

If their new supply didn’t arrive soon, Tom hated to think of what might happen.

Tom pulled a battered, crumpled cigarette packet out of a pocket, and opened it up.

Shit!

It was empty.

He tossed it on the floor and began walking across the bridge. He needed a fag right now, help him to think, sharpen him up. Once he had accepted delivery of the blood, and Steffanie and her pet corpse were all tucked up warm and cosy for the night, he needed to get back to the hospital. Laura was probably going to throw a fit when he returned, wanting to know where he’d been, demanding to know why he hadn’t been at his son’s side.

And having totalled his own car after installing Steffanie and the freak show here at the Travelodge, Tom had had to borrow Laura’s car to drive back here. Fucking thing drove like a tank, but it was all he had left. He’d made up some vague reason for having to leave, but he would need to be a bit more specific when he returned to the hospital.

And thinking up an excuse for his absence over the last few hours wasn’t his only problem. Once Jacob woke up, he was most likely going to start blabbing about how it was Steffanie Coffin had kept him prisoner the last few days.

Nobody would believe him, of course. But it was going to cause a stink, and that was the last thing Tom needed.

Although he’d seen her regularly over the last couple of weeks, Tom could hardly believe Steffanie was alive, still. Except, she wasn’t, was she? What was she now, one of the undead?

A fucking vampire?

Yeah, that’s what she was.

Unfuckingbelievable.

Tom ran down the steps two at a time, and walked through the crowded service station until he found a WHSmith. He joined the back of the queue.

Joe would freak out if he knew what had happened to his wife. All the more reason to try and keep him in the dark. Tom wondered if Steffanie remembered her husband. If she still had any feelings for him?

How much could she remember of anything? What did she recollect of her old life, when she was alive, and not this creature of the night? She’d recognised Jacob, remembered him. But that hadn’t stopped her slicing his arm open and bleeding him dry. So if Steffanie and Joe did bump into each other, what would she do? Try to slice and dice him?

What would Joe do?

How far would he be prepared to defend himself, against his wife?

The queue moved forward a little.

Tom folded his arms, clenched his teeth. He wanted to start shoving people out of his way, scream in the face of that crying kid, go absolutely apeshit. How could the motorway be so jammed with traffic when it seemed like everybody and his fucking mother was in this service station?

Steffanie would murder Joe without even thinking about it. The last year or so, she hadn’t been that hot on Joe anymore, everyone could see that. Except for the big gorilla, he was so besotted with her, he was blind to the looks she used to give him, the cutting remarks.

So in that sense it didn’t much matter how much she could remember. When it came down to it, Steffanie didn’t give a flying fuck about Joe Coffin, when she was alive, and now that she was . . . not alive.

But what if she could remember other stuff?

Like, what if she could remember where the hell she had hidden that USB stick?

Tom had thought plenty about asking her if she remembered where she had hidden the damn thing over the last few days. But the sight of her unsettled him so much, he could never go through with it. Maybe things would be different now that Abel was dead.

Tom needed to try and get the damn thing back before he had another phone call from that scary fucker, wanting to know what was taking so long, why it wasn’t done with yet. He knew they wanted to appear as though they had no involvement, but he could tell their patience was wearing thin. If Tom didn’t get hold of that USB stick soon, he was a dead man.

He’d done a quick search of Steffanie’s house shortly after she took it in the neck from Abel, but come up with nothing. If he got chance, maybe he’d go back soon, and try a more thorough search. But he would have to be quick, before Coffin decided he wanted to go back home, after all.

Why the fuck did the prison have to let Coffin out of jail so early?

And why the fuck was it taking so long for this queue to move?

Earlier, in the Travelodge family room, while the corpse sucked on a piece of raw steak that Tom had picked up on the way over, he’d told Steffanie that Joe had killed Abel. It was the last thing Tom had wanted to do, he thought she would go wild with grief, or anger, or something. But no, she took the news with a casual indifference.

They’d sat on one of the twin beds while they talked, like two lovers talking about maybe doing it for the first time. Except that Steffanie kept arching her back and writhing around like she was a cat in heat. Tom would have found this a huge turn on, but the corpse in the corner was grunting as it slobbered and slurped over the bloody piece of meat clutched in its clawed hands.

Kind of ruined the romantic atmosphere.

The queue moved forward some more. The mother with the crying kid, who had now gone into complete meltdown, decided she’d had enough and left the queue.

Good fucking riddance, Tom thought.

As he stood almost within reach of the counter, just behind the man being served, Tom heard people muttering, and complaining in the queue behind. Sounded like some impatient bastards were pushing their way to the front of the line. Tom didn’t bother turning to have a look. It was none of his business.

Unless they tried pushing in front of him, of course. In which case he would deck them.

Tom finally reached the front of the queue.

“Twenty Benson & Hedges,” Tom said, pulling a rumpled £20 note from his pocket.

The young kid behind the counter slid the panel back to reveal the rows of cigarette packets.

Tom’s hands were shaking and he dropped the money.

“Which pack do you want?” the kid said. “The Gold King, Gold Urban, the Sovereign, or the Silver Slide or Silver Flip Top?”

“Just give me a pack of fucking cigarettes, will you?” Tom snapped.

The kid looked confused. “Um, do you want the cheaper ones?”

Tom ran a hand over his face and through his hair. It was taking all his self-control not to leap over the counter and pummel the kid’s spotty face in.

“Turn the fuck around and face the cigarette display,” he said.

The kid hesitated, then did as he was told.

“Now, lift your hand up, and grab a packet of cigarettes. I don’t care what brand, how much they cost, or what fucking colour they are. The packets can be shit coloured, as long as they’ve got cigarettes in them.”

Tom looked down at the floor, trying to find his money. He couldn’t see it anywhere. He squatted down and peered between the legs of the people surrounding him. There was more commotion, people shifting, bumping into each other.

Where the fuck is my money?

When Tom stood up, the kid had turned around, a packet of cigarettes clutched in his hand, and was staring wide eyed over Tom’s shoulder, at something behind him.

“You beened and goner and mislosted summerthing then?”

The £20 note appeared in front of Tom’s eyes, held by the dirtiest, scabbiest fingers Tom had ever seen.

“About fucking time!” Tom said, turning around.

A man and woman had pushed their way through the line of waiting customers, ignoring grumbled complaints, until they had got to Tom.

The man, tall and skinny, wore a black, stained and ill-fitting suit. The sleeves were far too short for his long arms, and his stick thin wrists protruded from the cuffs, adding to his bizarre appearance. His trousers ended well above his ankles, revealing a pair of dirty white sports socks. His head was badly shaved, patches of stubble growing randomly on his flaky scalp, and his dark, sunken eyes flicked nervously from side to side.

There was a story that Corpse had once been known as ‘The Undertaker’, because looked like an undertaker in that dark suit he always wore. But then one day someone happened to mention that he looked more like the corpse than the undertaker, and the name Corpse had stuck. If Corpse had ever had a real name, nobody could remember it.

Not even Corpse.

The woman was about as wide as Corpse was tall. There was a permanent sheen of sweat on her pudgy upper lip. Her black, greasy hair was tied back in a lank ponytail. Her belly strained at the waistband of her black leather trousers, and she wore a long, black trench coat, and wraparound sunglasses. Tom had often wondered if she thought she was Neo, from The Matrix. But he’d never bothered asking.

Her left hand, sticking out of the frayed jacket cuff, was stiff, solid plastic, like a mannequin’s. Her left arm ended as a stump just below the elbow. Rumour had it that the hand really did belong to a mannequin once. Stump had happened to be passing a clothing store one day, and, upon seeing the mannequin in the shop front window, took such a fancy to the hand, that she just had to have it.

Rumour also had it that the mannequin hand sheathed a long, wickedly sharp blade, which had been surgically grafted onto Stump’s stump. With a single twist, Stump could pull the hand off her arm, and slice a man’s belly open. Before he knew what was happening, his guts would be spilling out across the floor.

In her right hand she was holding a fat, heavy holdall.

For as long as most people could remember, Stump and Corpse had been the ones you went to when you needed a job doing that was just too distasteful, or downright weird, that you couldn’t think of who else to ask. Nobody knew where they lived, who else they did jobs for, and how they got those jobs done.

Stump and Corpse had no loyalty to anyone, simply working for the ones who paid them.

Or sometimes, it was said, whoever Stump took a liking to.

Tom snatched his money out of Corpse’s hand and paid the kid behind the counter, who now looked as though he would prefer to be anywhere else in the world than here.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Tom snarled.

They walked outside, and Tom ripped open his cigarette pack and lit up.

“What the fuck took you so fucking long? I’ve been standing around like a fucking whore waiting for a pickup.”

“Now, Mr Mills, is that any way to talk to your good friends Stump and Corpse?” Stump said.

“Anyonebody would ruminink he’s madderbaddery with us,” Corpse said.

“Why the fuck can’t he speak English, like the rest of us?” Tom said.

Stump sighed, as though she’d had this conversation many times over the years. With her sunglasses permanently fixed to her face, it always puzzled Tom how Stump could see well enough to walk across an empty room without falling flat on her face. But that sleepy looking, pudgy face was a lie. Stump was sharp, and never missed a thing.

“Shall we get down to business, Mr Mills?” she said. “We have another delivery for you, although, it has to be said, this latest batch was much more difficult to procure than the previous ones. We will be forced to cast our net much wider, if you require more supplies, with the unfortunate consequence of also raising the asking price. I’m sure you understand.”

“The oldpolicebill is on the lookerouter for us nowabouts,” Corpse said, and stuffed a long, dirty finger up a nostril, and began rooting it around.

“Yeah, well, that was unfortunate,” Tom said, trying not to look at Corpse. “The last lot you gave me should have lasted longer, but we had to get out fast, and left it behind.”

Stump licked the sweat off her top lip. “Hmm, that was unfortunate indeed.” She dropped the holdall in front of Tom’s feet. “You have the money.”

Tom produced a fat roll of notes, rubber banded together, and held it in front of Stump’s face. “Of course I’ve got the fucking money.”

Stump sighed again, as though the world, and everybody in it, was a perpetual disappointment to her. “You really ought to try and relax a little more, Mr Mills. All this tension will do your health no good at all.”

“Not good for your old tickerpumper, now, is it, Mrs Stump?”

Corpse sounded as though he was talking with his mouth full of food. When Tom looked at him, he realised that was because he was sucking on the finger he had just been stuffing up his nose.

He turned back to Stump, and said, “Thanks for the medical check-up, I’ll bear it in mind. Now, take your money, and do me the favour of fucking off out of my sight.”

Stump licked her top lip again, and smiled. Her teeth were crooked and brown.

“Delighted to, Mr Mills,” she said, and took the roll of notes. “I do hope we can be of service again.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll ring you on the batphone when I need you.”

Corpse laughed, and the loud braying turned several people’s heads as they walked past.

“You’re veryvery funsilly, aren’t you, Mr Mills, I like you now,” he said.

Tom picked up the holdall and scowled at Corpse.

As he walked back into the service station, and over the bridge, all he could think of was how much he hated dealing with Stump and Corpse. They both gave him a serious case of the chills. Especially Stump.

Tom had the feeling that one day, Stump would simply decide she’d had enough of Tom Mills.

And when that happened, Tom knew he would find out that the rumours were true, after all.

the narrowboat

Abel Mortenson lay on his back on the blood drenched carpet. It had been a nice carpet, not so long ago. Clean. Soft to the touch. Patterned in shades of beige. A nice, ordinary, middle class carpet.

Just like the nice, ordinary, middle class couple who owned it.

Now it was dark red, and sticky, and the tiny cabin was filled with the coppery smell of freshly spilt blood. Lying here, in the warm blood, with it smeared over his naked body, enjoying the gentle motion of the narrowboat rocking on the canal water, Abel felt at peace for the first time in weeks, if not months.

Trapped in that house for so long, drinking cold, purified blood from plastic bags, had almost been enough to send Abel over the edge. His skin had crawled and itched so much at the need to prowl the night, to hunt for warm blood, that he had thought he might scratch his flesh off his bones. But they’d had to stay hidden, for a while at least. They had needed to wait until the Father was strong enough, when they could move on, start killing again.

Having Steffanie there at the house with him had helped, had been an entertainment.

When Abel had first found her, led to her by that fool, Tom, he had known instinctively that he had found a true companion. That night, in the home she shared with that brute, Coffin, he had invaded her body and mind. And, unlike so many others before her, she had given herself to him willingly, with complete abandonment. Abel remembered her, lying on the carpet, her neck arched back, the beautiful flesh taut, waiting for him to sink his teeth into her, the pulse throbbing just beneath the skin, teasing him. He ripped through her fragile flesh, her hot, scarlet blood pulsing into his mouth. She tried to scream, but he clamped his hand over her mouth, and her body stiffened beneath him, her hands clawing at his back, in pleasure or pain, he could not tell.

A pity the boy had found them. Tom had told him to kill Steffanie, and leave the boy. But the taste of hot blood had driven him wild with a need for more blood, more tender flesh to sink his teeth into. Tom should have done his own dirty work, but Abel knew his kind. He was weak. Tom had wanted Steffanie dead, but couldn’t do it himself. His sort never could.

Abel knew she would come back. Not all of them did. Some remained in the grave, others returned too soon, like that boy, left to stumble around like sleepwalkers, aware of the desperate hunger for blood, but unable to function any more than a zombie would. The boy only had a day or two left at the most, and then he would be dead. The malformed ones, they all died, sooner or later.

But the Steffanie woman, she was different. Abel could almost believe she had been waiting for that moment when he bit her, all her life. That she had been ready to be a vampire, that the calling came as no surprise. She was just like him. The pleasures of the flesh were all that mattered.

A yearning ache stirred deep within Abel. Thinking of Steffanie, of her body, coiled around him like a snake, of her cunt, sweet with blood, opening up for him, the vampire desired her flesh.

Abel turned to look at the old woman. The hair at the back of his head was matted with blood and bone fragments, from when Coffin had smashed his head against the wall. But his skull, and his face, and the wounds on his neck, were all steadily healing. He always healed, given time, and enough blood. Always grew back to full strength.

He looked at the old woman’s body, stuffed beneath the narrowboat cabin’s bench. Her eyes, glazed over in death, gazed back at him from her slack face, a pool of blood beneath her head. She had been useful, for satiating his lust before he killed her. She had tried to scream, her old woman’s voice harsh and shrill, hurting his ears. But stuffing that oily rag in her mouth had stopped her.

And letting her husband live long enough to watch, as Abel fucked his wife, had intensified his pleasure.

But still, he wasn’t satisfied. The need was on him, his flesh crawling and itching, an army of ants teeming through his body.

Abel reached under the seat and dragged the old woman’s body out to the middle of the cabin.

One more time, and then maybe he would dispose of the bodies.

* * *

When Joe Coffin arrived at Angels, it was buzzing. The girls were up on stage, doing their thing, that thing that drove some men out of their heads with naked lust.

Why torture yourself, Coffin always thought. All that flesh on display, as toned and alluring as it might be, it was just eye candy. If Coffin couldn’t have a piece, he wasn’t interested. The single time it had been different had been back when Angels was Angellicit, and being run by Terry Wu. Coffin had decided to stay for a drink, that was all. Something to take the edge off the shitty way he felt after taking protection money from the families that ran the newsagents, and the tiny grocery stores and halal butchers.

He’d also taken money off Terry Wu, but that didn’t bother him in the slightest.

But then he had seen Steffanie, and she moved like nobody else he had ever seen. She had an exquisite, hypnotic litheness about her, as though she was half cat. And, unlike the other girls, she danced like she was dancing for herself, not the sexually frustrated knuckle heads, with their mouths hanging open and their eyelids at half-mast.

For a little while, Coffin forgot about everything.

After she had finished work he bought her a drink, and they got talking. It soon became very clear to Coffin that she wasn’t typical of the dancers in the clubs. She was smart, for starters. And she knew her own mind, wasn’t going to take any shit off anybody.

Unlike many of the other dancers, this wasn’t something she was doing while she waited for a better job offer to come along, or for the right bloke to sweep her off her feet and marry her, so she could spend the rest of her life cooking, washing, cleaning and letting her man fuck her whenever he wasn’t getting enough of it elsewhere.

Steffanie knew what she was doing. She had made a conscious decision to become a pole dancer, had trained for it, had pursued it as though she was working towards becoming a doctor, or climbing Everest.

And when she got bored of pole dancing, she was going to move on, do whatever else took her fancy at that moment.

Looking at the girls on the stage now, wearing only silver, sparkly panties, and shimmying up and down the poles like they were making love to them, Coffin was aware of a dull ache in his chest, a sense of keen loss. Steffanie and Michael had been his life. He would have done anything for them, given anything.

If not for that idiot who’d come on to Steffanie that night in the pub, maybe none of this would have happened. A few of the guys, they’d been out with their wives and girlfriends. They had naturally split into two groups, men and women, and it had been late in the evening, when one of the men nudged Coffin, pointing across the crowded bar.

“Looks like some gorilla’s trying to hit on your wife, Joe.”

Coffin turned, and stared. Some square-jawed, athletic type in a muscle T-shirt had sidled up to Steffanie, showing off his perfect white teeth, and cooing in her ear. The other women, they’d left them, were standing in a separate group, giggling and whispering, casting nervous glances at Steffanie.

Coffin walked over, pushing through the crowded pub, all the while working on keeping his cool.

He’d explain to muscle man who he was, that Steffanie was his wife. Muscle man would understand, apologise, and leave.

Hell, Coffin wasn’t even that bothered about an apology. The guy just needed to walk away.

But he hadn’t walked away, had he? Muscle man had to live up to the signals he was sending out. I’m a tough guy. I can handle this.

Just like the crowd in Angels tonight.

The girls on stage, and the girls serving the drinks, were the only female element to the club. The crowd was all men, some of them still suited up from their day at work. Ties had been discarded, jackets slung over the backs of chairs. Lots of back slapping and hearty handshakes, big shit eating grins on their faces, and loud laughter, all signifying, I’m the man here, I work hard and I play hard, and you’d better be on my side, cos you don’t want me as your enemy.

But Coffin had learnt a long time ago, that all you had to do was look in their eyes. This was one of the few things Coffin’s father had told him that had been worth listening to, and remembering. His father’s gym had been a place where men liked to strut and pose, jostle for position to be top dog. They would preen in front of the mirrors, talk the talk, and show off their muscles.

But Jim Coffin didn’t even have to wait to see who could benchpress the heaviest weights, or who could do the most squat thrusts. He looked into the eyes of a newcomer to the gym, and he knew right away whether he had a poser on his hands, or if he was the real deal.

“The eyes, they don’t lie to you, Joe,” he once said, in a rare moment of bonding between father and son. “Some big bastard can tell you all sorts of shit, have you eating out of his hand, believing all the crap about where he’s been and what he’s done, but not if you’re looking into his eyes. Keep eye contact, Joe, and they can’t lie to you.”

Jim Coffin had been drunk when he gave Joe that nugget of wisdom. Perhaps he’d been trying to make amends for all the crap he’d put Joe through, trying to build a bond between father and son.

Or maybe he was just scared, because his son was piling on the muscle at that point, transforming from a gangly, skinny teenager into a huge, powerhouse of a man.

The bonding session failed.

Two weeks later, Coffin bludgeoned his father’s skull in with a 20kg dumbbell.

“Hey, Joe, it’s good to see you.”

Addison Lightfoot grasped Coffin’s hand and shook. Addison was the manager of Angels, brought in by Craggs as the only man he could trust to turn the ailing club’s fortunes around. He had an infectious grin, and a way of charming everyone who entered the club.

Coffin leaned down and slapped Addison on the back. “Hey, Addison, it’s good to see you, too.”

“I heard you got the sick bastard who murdered Steffanie and Michael,” Addison said, his mouth close to Coffin’s ear.

“Yeah,” Coffin said.

“That’s good, Joe. Steffanie and little Michael, they were like family to me, I’d do anything to have them back.”

“Yeah, thanks, Addison,” Coffin said.

Addison stepped back and looked up at Coffin. “Everything’s on the house for you, Joe. Everything. Don’t even think about insulting me by trying to pay for something, all right?”

“All right, thanks,” Coffin said. “I’m here to see Mort. Is he around?”

“I’ll go get him for you,” Addison said.

Coffin grabbed a table in a corner. He didn’t have a particularly good view of the stage but, more importantly, he had a good view of the club, and anybody who might be approaching him. Coffin didn’t like surprises.

Addison Lightfoot was true to his word, and a drink and a bowl of almonds and pistachio nuts were quickly delivered to his table. Coffin ignored the snack bowl and sank his beer instead.

A few moments later and Coffin saw Mortimer Craggs heading towards him. The old man looked strong and in control as he strode through his club. He might be in his eighties now, but no one was going to be foolish enough to mess with him.

“Joe, how are you?” Craggs said, taking Joe’s hand, and pumping it up and down. He pointed at Coffin’s face. “You here to see Doc Shaddock again?”

Nah, I’m okay.”

“Someone change some of those dressings for you?” Craggs said. “You’ve not been to hospital, have you, Joe?”

A girl appeared, put a glass of whisky and ice on the table, with a white, folded napkin. The cut crystal whisky glass looked heavy enough you could use it in a fight, knock someone out.

“Don’t worry, Mort, I’ve haven’t been anywhere,” Coffin said. “A concerned citizen noticed my dressings were soaked through, offered to change them.”

Mort sipped at his whisky, raised an eyebrow.

Coffin explained about his trip to the Birmingham Herald to see Emma Wylde.

“Seems risky to me, Joe,” Craggs said. “You should be keeping a low profile, especially after taking out those two kids yesterday. One single fuck up, and the police are going to be on you like a ton of bricks.”

Coffin regarded his empty beer glass, couldn’t remember finishing it. A girl appeared with another drink, placed it in front of Coffin, took his empty glass.

“Yeah, I know. It’s just, I’ve got too many unanswered questions, Mort.”

Craggs leaned forward. “What the fuck are you talking about, Joe? You got the sick bastard who murdered Steffanie and Michael, that’s all that matters, right? What the hell else do you need to know? Wait for the papers to write it up, by the time they’ve finished you’ll know everything, including the fucker’s inside leg measurements, and how high his balls rode.”

Coffin allowed himself a tiny smile. “I think I already know the answer to that one, Mort. The thing is, we don’t know why he was keeping Jacob alive. Him and Peter Marsden, breaking into that house for a look around, yeah, I can see that, we all did it as kids. Jacob was just unfortunate that he broke in when that sick bastard was hiding out there. But why did he keep him alive? And did you see Peter? The poor kid’s throat was split wide open, but he was still able to wander around. And he tried to eat me!”

Craggs took another sip of his whisky. “I don’t know, Joe, you’re right, there’s plenty we don’t know. But let the coppers deal with it. You’re not a detective, it’s not your job. You’ve got to let Steffanie and Michael go, get on with your life. It’s what they’d want.”

Coffin drained his glass, and sighed.

“I don’t mean to be hard on you, Joe. You know how I feel about you, you’re like a fucking son to me. And Steffanie and Michael, they were family too. When I heard about what had happened to them, I wanted to go out and find the murdering bastard and blow his head off. And I would have done it too, but I knew that wasn’t the right thing to do. You had to be the one to execute the sick fucker, and that’s what you did, Joe. You’ve got to let it go.”

“It’s not just that,” Coffin said.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s Tom. I think he might be involved, somehow.”

Craggs leaned back in his chair, scrutinised Coffin, thoughtfully. His eyes, set in his lined, creased face, were still sharp, and clear. “What, you think he killed Steffanie and Michael, and then kidnapped his own son?”

Coffin shook his head. “No, but when the Marsden kid appeared on Laura’s doorstep, Tom took off like he had the hounds of hell on his tail. He told me that he’d had a sudden inspiration, that he knew where to find Jacob, but then he crashed his car on the way over.”

“That’s right.” Craggs nodded, thoughtfully. “That’s what he told me. Did you see his chest? Black and blue, I’m surprised he didn’t crack a rib.”

“But why did he run off on his own, Mort? I was right there, we could’ve both gone, got Jacob together. And this woman who was at the house when I got there, Emma, the reporter. She wouldn’t tell me why she was there.”

“What are you saying, Joe?”

“When I went to see Laura, Emma was sat in her car a couple of houses further down the estate. And when Tom tore off, I saw her pull out and follow him. I think she followed him to the house.”

Craggs sighed and took another sip of whisky, emptying the glass. “Joe, I know you two have got history, and you’ve had a fucking hard on for him ever since he took his fists to Laura, but this is a stretch. I sent Dave out to pick Tom’s car up, he came back, he said there was no point, Tom fucking totalled the thing. Seriously Joe, I mean, what the fuck?”

Coffin said nothing, watched the dancers on the stage.

Craggs took Coffin’s hand, squeezed it in an oddly intimate gesture between two men. “All right, Joe, maybe you got something. Tell you what, I’ll get one of the men to tail Tom for a while, see where he goes, what he gets up to for the next few days. All right?”

Coffin nodded. “Thanks, Mort.”

what's with this leroy

Emma snapped awake, her heart pounding. She sucked in a deep breath, managing to hold back the scream at the last moment. The darkness enveloped her, suffocated her. Where was she? She had been back in the house, looking down the steps into the cellar. Why had she gone back? Had there been something there that she had missed?

That was it, the cellar. When she had regained consciousness at No. 99, after the fight between Coffin and that monster, she had been too scared to go down into the cellar, and explore.

Stupid!

And so she had come back, for another look.

But what had happened then? Had she hit her head on something? Passed out? Or was there someone else in the house? Had she been knocked out again, and thrown down the cellar steps?

Emma ran her hand across her scalp, searching for another lump. She winced when she touched the spot where she had hit the wall, when that maniac threw her against it.

This is so fucked up. I can’t remember what happened! I need to get the fuck out of here!

But she was trapped. The cellar door was locked, and she was imprisoned down here, like an animal in a cage. That crazy fucking maniac was still alive, and he’d locked Emma in the cellar. That was what had woken her up, when he had slammed the bolt into place across the door.

“Oh God, oh shit, what the fuck am I going to do?” she muttered.

She flinched as she heard a deep buzzing noise, and a sudden glow illuminated her bedside table. For a moment, Emma’s brain struggled to make sense of what was happening. How had her bedside cabinet ended up in the cellar at the house on Forde Road? The buzzing happened again.

Emma reached out and picked up her mobile from her bedside cabinet, the fog of confusion slowly clearing from her mind.

“Hey, Emma, I’m sorry, did I wake you?” Nick said.

“No, I mean yes, but that’s okay.” Emma twisted around, looked at the glowing display on the digital clock. The display read 6:47 AM. “Didn’t you come home last night?”

She heard Nick sigh. “We’ve got a situation at the moment. We found this body, earlier yesterday, looked like a victim of a gangland killing. He was all beaten up, and somebody had stuck his head in one of those old fashioned mantraps, and snapped the jaws shut. He was a mess.”

Cold fear prickled at Emma’s skin, that fear of being trapped in the cellar returning.

“Is this the house where Jacob Mills had been kept prisoner?”

“That’s right, yeah.”

“And this man you found, was he dead?”

“Absolutely. His head and face were all bashed in, and the jaws on this thing had bitten right into his neck. He was pronounced dead on the scene, no signs of life at all.”

Nick fell silent. Emma didn’t like the silence, not in the dark. It reminded her of the cellar that she had never been into.

“What’s going on, Nick?”

“There were these two SOCOs, tasked with getting the body out. They went into the house, down into the cellar where the body had been found. They never came out again.”

“What are you saying?”

“One of the constables left behind on the scene went down to see what was taking so long. He found the two SOCOs with their throats ripped open, and no sign of the dead body.”

“Oh, God,” Emma groaned.

“Yeah, I know. Thing is, we’ve had a major manhunt on all night, trying to find this psychotic bastard. I just wanted to let you know what was going on.”

“All right, thanks,” Emma said. “When do you think you’ll be home? You must be exhausted.”

“I’m pretty tired, that’s for sure, but we’ve got to get this sicko. We think he’s the one who murdered Joe Coffin’s family, and that homeless man. He’s dangerous, Emma, you be careful today, all right?”

“Sure, you take care, too.”

There was a pause, Nick on the other end of the phone, obviously collecting his thoughts, working out how to say what he wanted to tell her. Emma knew what was coming.

“Emma? You think maybe you should stay at home today?”

“Why would I do that, Nick?”

“I think it would be best, that’s all. I don’t like the idea of you being outside, if you don’t need to be. This man, he’s dangerous.”

“You already told me that. Are the police recommending everybody stay indoors today?”

Nick sighed. “No, the advice is to be careful, and not approach this man if you see him.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do, Nick. I’ll follow the official police line.”

“Oh come on, Emma! I know what you’re like. One sniff of a story like this, and you go looking for trouble!”

“Is that right?”

“Shit, yes that’s right, and you know it.”

“Well, for your information, Mr high and mighty DCI Archer, it’s not trouble I go looking for, it’s a news story. You know why I do that? Because it’s my fucking job!”

“Yeah, it’s your job to report the news, not go headlining it by appearing on the front page as the latest victim of the Birmingham Vampire!”

“Go do your job, Nick, and let me do mine. If you wanted a docile little housewife to cook and clean for you, I’m afraid you moved in with the wrong girl.”

Emma disconnected, put the phone back on the bedside cabinet. She switched on her lamp, squinting at the sudden, bright light. Her hands were shaking.

Yesterday, the Birmingham Vampire had tried to rape and kill her, and she’d seen Joe Coffin struggling to hold his own in a brutal, bloody fight. Emma had thought he was dead, but apparently not.

Emma pulled the duvet back and climbed out of bed.

She pulled open the curtains. The low, heavy cloud cover was like a ceiling of black drapes. No wonder it had been so dark in the bedroom.

At least it wasn’t raining.

Emma pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater.

Hopefully Tom Mills would be at the hospital, sitting with Jacob. If Emma could get to him, confront him with the knowledge that she knew he had been at No. 99 yesterday, maybe she could get him to tell her what was going on. Then they might have a chance of finding ‘Nature Boy’.

Scooping her keys off the bedside cabinet, Emma headed for the bedroom door. She paused with her hand on the handle.

You do know you’re withholding evidence, don’t you? If Nick ever finds out, you’ll be in a shitload of trouble.

No. She needed this story. As soon as she found out where the Birmingham Vampire was hiding out, she would phone it in. But Emma was going to be the one to break this story, nobody else.

* * *

Joe Coffin stared up at the list of hospital departments and wards on the display board, his brow furrowed. Where would Jacob be?

Children’s Wards? Intensive Care? High Dependency Unit? Rehabilitation?

No, that was for stroke victims, wasn’t it?

If only he had a mobile phone he could call Laura, find out where she was. Not that any of the hospital staff were likely to let him in to see her, but at least she could come outside to talk.

Shit! I used to have a mobile, before I went inside. What the hell happened to all my stuff?

Coffin was still reluctant to return to the house he shared with Steffanie and Michael, believing it would be too painful an experience. But maybe now was the time. He needed to find out what had happened to all their belongings, sort out storage, or something.

And he needed his Harley Davidson, although he doubted he could ride it at the moment, what with his shoulder all chewed up the way it was.

Standing in the hospital concourse, Coffin was surrounded by small shop units, including a mobile phone shop. But the shutters were down, it was too early yet. The only place opening up was a newsagent, and they were still rolling the metal shutter up, sorting out the piles of newspapers dumped on the floor by the delivery van driver.

There was no other choice but to hang around and wait. Tom Mills might be on the ward with his wife and son, or he might be out and about, up to whatever it was he had going on. But, whichever it was, he would have to come through here sometime. Didn’t matter if he was coming or going, Coffin would be waiting.

And Coffin was going to lean on him hard, this time. That fucking psychotic monster that Coffin thought he had killed was out there somewhere. The police might be recommending that the general public keep their distance, but Coffin wasn’t part of the general public. Coffin intended to find that bastard and kill him again. And this time he was going to make sure he stayed dead.

Tom was in deep, somehow, Coffin was sure. Coffin didn’t really care what was going on, what the scam was, what Tom thought he had happening.

All Coffin wanted was to find the psychopath who murdered his family and then kidnapped Jacob.

Coffin had no idea how that sick monster had survived. This time, when he found him, maybe he would cut the fucking bastard’s head off, douse it in petrol and barbecue it.

Fucker wouldn’t get up again after that.

A hospital security guard wandered past, looking at Coffin. Surely a hospital should be the one place Coffin could go, and not stand out with his face covered in dressings? Apparently not. Coffin walked outside, sat on one of the benches by the entrance, and lit up a cigarette. He watched as cars queued up to get into the staff car park, their headlights on. A raw wind blew across the empty visitors’ car park, cutting through Coffin’s leather jacket.

Except the visitors’ car park wasn’t completely empty, there were a few cars dotted around. And one of them was Laura’s.

That settled it. Tom’s car was totalled, so he would have to be using Laura’s if he wanted to get around. Which meant he was here, and at some point he was going to come outside, head for his car.

Coffin settled down to wait.

“Hey, I heard cigarettes, like, they might not be so good for your long term health, you know.”

Coffin looked up. “Why am I not surprised you’re here?”

“Why am I not surprised you’re here?” Emma said, and grinned. She was wearing jeans and a sweater, with an over-sized denim jacket on top. She was holding a can of Coca-Cola.

“Do you always answer a question with a question?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

Coffin grinned back. “I only met you yesterday, but already I find myself incredibly irritated by your company.”

“Oh, that’s nice. I thought you were leading up to, I don’t know, like saying something complimentary. You know, like, ‘I only met you yesterday, but already I feel like we are soul mates, and your beauty eclipses all else in life’. ”

“That’s good, really nice line. You ever thought about writing for a living? Like maybe those shitty verses inside greetings cards? You’d be good at that.”

“Fuck you, Coffin.” Emma sat down next to him. “I guess you’re here to see Tom Mills, right?”

“You guessed right. And you?”

“Same here. You hear the news that Nature Boy’s on the prowl again? No doubt with his tickling stick in his hand.”

“Yep. And when you heard the news, the first thing you thought was, I bet Tom Mills might know where he is.”

“Great minds think alike.”

Coffin grunted, took a drag on his cigarette. “More like desperate minds think alike.”

Emma popped the tab on her coke, and took a long swig, tipping her head back.

“I hope that’s not your breakfast,” Coffin said.

“Sure it is. Us hotshot reporters are too busy for breakfast you know. Besides, breakfast is for wimps.”

Coffin laughed. “Breakfast happens to be the most important meal of the day. You’re going to give yourself diabetes, or some crap like that, you have a coke for breakfast every morning.”

Emma looked up at him, her eyes alive with amusement. “Fuck, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m serious. You can’t expect to drink crap like that and stay healthy.”

“Says the guy next to me smoking a cigarette.”

Coffin dropped the cigarette on the tarmac, and ground it out beneath the heel of his boot. “You’re right. I managed to give up the damn things while I was in prison, but I seem to have picked up the habit again on the outside.”

“We all have our sins,” Emma said. “Although I suspect smoking is the least of yours.”

“Ooh, was that a dig?” Coffin said.

“You said yourself, you just got out of prison. What was that for? Aggravated assault?”

“He had it coming.” Coffin stared straight ahead, the humour gone from his expression.

“He had it coming,” Emma repeated, softly. “What, the broken nose? The dislocated jaw? The concussion? What did he do, Coffin? Fuck your wife?”

Coffin stood up, walked away from the bench. Why did she have to do this, keep getting under his skin like this? Needling him all the time? He had to walk away, before he lost his temper. He’d never hit a woman in his life, despised men who did that. But all of a sudden, the idea didn’t seem so repugnant anymore.

Emma scooted around in front of him. “Wait, I’m sorry!” She held her hands up. “I’m a complete and utter fucking idiot. I’ve got shit for brains and a bad fucking attitude, I know. I totally forgot about Steffanie, about what happened to her.”

Coffin stared at her. Small, slim, blond hair roughly tied back in a ponytail.

She was nice to look at. He was tempted to forgive her.

But she could be irritating as hell.

“Really, I am so fucking sorry,” she said, clasping her hands out in front of her, begging his forgiveness. “What if I told you how I found my way to No. 99? Would you accept my apology then?”

Coffin nodded at the bench. “Let’s go sit down.”

They made their way back to the bench. Emma picked up her coke and drained the can, and burped.

Coffin raised his eyebrows.

“What? Aren’t women allowed to burp?”

Coffin shook his head, a half smile hovering on his lips. “Why am I surprised?”

Emma looked down at the empty can. “You know, I really am sorry about Steffanie, and your little boy. You must be going through hell.”

“It isn’t easy,” Coffin said.

“You think the man who kidnapped Jacob, killed your family?”

“Seems likely.” Coffin slowed his breathing down, focused on the traffic passing by on the main road. Focused on keeping his emotions in check.

“I don’t know how I would cope, in your situation.”

“I cope by keeping them at a distance,” Coffin replied.

Emma looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, right now I am focusing on killing the bastard who murdered my family, and kept Jacob captive in the cellar, and killed that homeless man. I cope by thinking of my family as people from a different lifetime, and by not surrounding myself with reminders of their existence.” Coffin turned and looked at Emma. “I’m currently living in a crappy little flat over a pub, because I can’t go back home, back to all those familiar things that remind me of Steffanie and Michael. Because it would be too painful. That’s how I cope. Now, is there anything else you would like to know?”

“Sorry,” Emma said. “That’s the reporter in me, always asking questions.”

“Tell me about the house, how you got there.”

Emma threw the empty can in a wastebasket. “It was easy. I followed Tom Mills.”

“Tom crashed his car on the way. He never got there, drove right into a brick wall.”

Emma shook her head. “Nope. Maybe he crashed his car after, but not while I was watching him. He pulled up on the drive at No. 99, and ran inside. A few minutes later he came out with a woman, and then he ran back inside and came out carrying someone.”

Coffin sat up straighter, turned to stare at Emma. “Did you see who these people were?”

“No, they were covered in sheets, like they were famous, or something, and he didn’t want them to be recognised. The one he was carrying, I wondered if it was a child, but it looked a little too big. Didn’t weigh much, though, Tom wasn’t struggling.”

“I knew he was involved somehow,” Coffin said. “Have you got a mobile phone on you?”

“Of course I have. Everybody carries a mobile these days. Don’t you?”

Coffin ignored her question. “You got Laura’s number on your phone?”

“Yeah, she gave it to me when I was interviewing her about Jacob.”

“Call her,” Coffin said. “Let’s see if we can smoke Tom out of there.”

Emma dialled Laura’s number, held the mobile to her ear, waited. “Hi, Laura? Hi, there, it’s Emma here, from the Birmingham Herald. How is Jacob doing? Uh, huh . . . yeah . . . well, listen Laura, I’m so sorry to be bothering you right now, but I need to talk to Tom. Is he there? He is? That’s great. Can you ask him to meet me outside the ward? I’m on my way up.”

Emma disconnected, looked at Coffin. “What do you think?”

“I think you should head on up there, and I’ll wait here. Chances are he’ll suspect something’s up, and try and avoid meeting you. But I’ll be waiting for him here.”

“Sweet,” Emma said. “Catch you later, Leroy.”

“Hey!” Coffin called, as Emma walked for the main entrance. “What’s with this Leroy shit?”

Emma didn’t even turn around, or break stride, just gave him a wave, and disappeared in through the sliding doors.

Coffin pulled a cigarette out of the pack, and lit up.

* * *

Stairs or lift? Stairs or lift?

Emma decided on the stairs. If Tom was wanting to make a break for it before she got up to the children’s ward, he would make better time, and have more control of the situation, if he took the stairs. Besides, if it came to a chase, Tom had no chance trying to outrun her on stairs.

Emma was the queen of stair running. As soon as she returned to the office, first thing she was going to do was tell Karl how all that training had finally come in useful.

Emma pushed open the heavy fire door, and started sprinting up the steps. The children’s ward was on the second floor, with two flights to get to each level. With fourteen steps on each section, four sections multiplied by fourteen was fifty-six.

Fifty-six steps.

Piece of piss.

When Emma arrived on the second floor, she was winded, and a little nauseous, and dizzy. She put a hand out, palm flat against the wall, for support until she got her breath back.

What the hell’s going on? That should have been no problem at all. Okay, maybe I won’t tell Karl about this, after all.

After only a few, brief moments she started recovering. Emma pulled the door open and stepped into the hospital corridor. A nurse in theatre scrubs walked past. Emma looked up and down the corridor. It was clear, and Tom was nowhere in sight.

Perhaps he’d taken the lift after all. Or he was on the ward, waiting for her.

Or he’d taken another route downstairs. It was a fucking big hospital, after all.

And maybe Tom knew other ways out, besides the main entrance. Had they made a mistake, announcing Emma’s presence, and leaving Coffin to cover the main hospital entrance?

If only the big gorilla had a mobile, she could have called him, warned him. But no, in his scuffed leather jacket and white T-shirt, he looked like a relic from the 70s. And even without the scars he was now going to be sporting, his face had looked battered enough that he would never have won a beauty contest.

But he had something, some element of charisma or magnetism, that took your mind off his physical appearance. And look at the women in his life. Laura Mills hadn’t exactly been beaten over the head with the ugly stick, and Steffanie had been a stunner.

They obviously saw something attractive in Coffin, too.

Emma regretted the crack about Steffanie, it had obviously hurt him. It had been a stupid thing to say. The trouble was, Emma had never had much control over her tongue, constantly running her mouth off before she put her brain into gear. She had to remember to be careful what she said around Coffin. He had no idea that Emma had known Steffanie, and that his wife was all set to betray him.

If he ever found out . . .

Emma saw the doors for the children’s ward.

Keep your mind on your job, Emma.

She walked down the corridor, rang the bell by the double doors. If Tom was already gone, and sneaking out of the back of the hospital, it was too late to be running back down stairs to warn Coffin. She might as well find out if he was still inside the ward.

“Hello?” a voice squawked over the intercom.

“Hello, I’m here to see Jacob Mills’ father.”

“I’m sorry, but visiting hours aren’t until ten o’clock.”

“I’m not here to visit Jacob, I’m here to talk to his father.”

“Hold on.”

There was a muffled conversation, and then a click, and the little speaker in the wall went dead.

Great! How very helpful.

Emma reached out to push the intercom button again, when she saw Laura walking towards her, through the window in the door. There was a beep, the magnetic lock released, and Laura pushed the door open, joined Emma in the corridor.

“You’re too late, he’s gone,” she said.

“He didn’t want to talk, huh?” Emma said.

“Doesn’t look like it, does it?”

“He say anything to you before he pulled his disappearing act?”

Laura shrugged. She looked tired, worn out, couldn’t meet Emma’s gaze.

She said, “Peter Marsden died last night.”

“Oh, fuck,” Emma whispered. “But Jacob, he’s going to be all right, isn’t he?”

Laura shrugged again, the movement reminding Emma of a sullen teenager, who doesn’t care one way or another. “The doctors think so, yeah. But they couldn’t save Peter, didn’t have a clue what was wrong with him. The wound to his throat, they said it was at least three or four days old, should’ve killed him straight away. At first they couldn’t work out how he survived for so long, and now they can’t work out why he died.”

Emma thought of Coffin, waiting outside the hospital. She needed to get down there, tell him about Tom.

“Laura, I’ve got to go,” Emma said, and for a moment she wanted to reach out a hand, squeeze Laura’s shoulder. “Jacob will get better, he’ll be okay. You’ve got him back now.”

Laura nodded, looked close to tears.

Emma walked back down the corridor, stopped by the lifts. Next to them was the door to the stairs.

Emma pushed the button for the lift.

nobody gives a fuck

Coffin had the feeling he had made a stupid, obvious mistake. Seeing Laura’s car, sitting in the mostly empty car park, had made him impatient. Knowing that Tom was inside the hospital, knowing that he had lied about going to the house on Forde Road, had got Coffin all fired up, so much so he wanted to charge in there and drag Tom outside, start beating some answers out of him.

So he’d come up with the idea of Emma phoning Laura, announcing her arrival, try and flush him out.

Great idea, Coffin.

As much as Coffin liked to think that Tom was stupid, it simply wasn’t true. The guy was a weasel, and about as dependable as a cheesecloth condom, but he could be sharp. And he probably guessed that Emma wasn’t here on her own. The bastard had probably snuck out the back of the hospital, would have realised the car was being watched.

Coffin paced up and down, outside the main entrance, the sliding doors opening and closing every time he walked past them. He’d left it too late, Tom could be anywhere now. And with that stupid mistake, Coffin realised he might have missed his last chance at cornering Tom. If he realised that Emma and Coffin were onto him, what was stopping him from pulling a permanent disappearing act? The fact that his son was in hospital wasn’t going to stop him. The bastard must have known that Jacob was being kept prisoner by that sick fuck, but he still left him there.

Coffin had never liked Tom, not from their days together at school. He’d always been weak, forever seeking approval off the bigger kids, wanting to be in the gang, ready to pick on anyone who was smaller, weedier than he was, just to prove how hard he was. As an adult he was just the same. Always whingeing about how shitty his life was, how things should have turned out better for him. Always crying about how Laura had got pregnant with Jacob, saddling him with a child.

Like she’d done it on her own.

Tom Mills was the kind of person who seemed to think he’d been handed a bad deck of cards, like everybody else in the world owed him one, and if they’d only get around to his point of view, his life would be so much better.

Coffin hated that. Joe Coffin’s philosophy on life was simple: Nobody gives a fuck about anybody else. You had to keep that in mind, or else you sank. Sure, there was family, and there was loyalty within the Slaughterhouse Mob.

Mortimer Craggs had been like a father to Coffin all these years. Better than his own father.

But beyond that?

You were dead in the water if you trusted anyone.

The sliding doors whisked open, and Emma ran up to Coffin. “Have you seen him, did he come out?”

Coffin shook his head. “He wasn’t there, was he?”

“Nope. You get the feeling he doesn’t want to talk to me?”

“I get the feeling we might not see him again, unless we find him soon.”

Emma glanced back into the hospital concourse. “How many ways out of this place do you think there are?”

“I don’t know. Too many.” Coffin glanced back at Laura’s car, thought for a moment. “I don’t think he’s going to want to leave his car. My guess is he’s hiding somewhere nearby, waiting for us to go looking for him inside, and then he’ll make a bolt for his car.”

“So, we just sit and wait for him? We could be here a long time.”

Coffin shook his head. “No, we disable his car, and then we go looking for him.”

“How are you going to do that?”

Coffin began striding into the hospital. Emma had to run to keep up with him.

“If I can get a knife from the canteen, I can slash his tyres. You stay here, keep a watch on his car.”

“What? Are you an idiot? Do you think they’re just going to hand you a steak knife, just because you ask them nicely?”

“You got any better ideas?”

Emma stopped running, looked back. “Hey! There he is!”

Tom Mills was sprinting across the car park, straight for the car.

Coffin thundered past Emma, down the hospital concourse, past the reception desk. The security guard looked up as Coffin ran past, and spoke into his two-way radio. Coffin ran across the zebra crossing, as a bus squealed to a halt, the driver swearing at him through the windscreen.

Tom was opening his car door, risked a glance back at Coffin, climbed in his car, slammed the door shut. Coffin picked up his speed, his upper body leaning forward, as though he was neck to neck with his rival in a race. The car juddered to life, tyres squealed on the wet tarmac. The back end swung to the right, before the tyres got traction and the car shot forward.

Coffin stopped running, looked to his left. There was only one way out, and that was through a ticket controlled barrier. Tom was currently driving in the opposite direction.

But then Coffin saw what he was doing. Tom’s car mounted the pedestrian pathway, and powered up towards the main road, the exhaust coughing white smoke in the cold air.

They’d lost him.

A Ford Fiesta pulled up beside Coffin, the passenger door swinging open. Emma leaned into his view, grinning up at him from inside the car.

“Come on, get in! I’ve always wanted to be in a car chase!”

Coffin looked at the tiny car. Doubted he could even fit in there.

He pushed himself inside arse first, racked the seat back as far as it would go, swung one leg inside, his head squashed against the car’s roof. The suspension groaned, and the car dipped down on his side. Coffin lifted his other leg up, as he held on to the open door, and he tried to find somewhere to put his foot in the foot well.

“Fuck, Coffin, take your time, why don’t you!” Emma said.

“Don’t wait for me!” Coffin said.

Emma took him at his word, and the car jolted forward, Coffin still half in, half out of the car.

“Damn, it’s like driving a tank with you in here.”

The engine struggled to pull the car as Emma shoved the accelerator pedal down to the floor. She swerved onto the pedestrian walkway, and then off again as she saw an old lady, wide eyed and frozen to the spot right in front of her.

“Fuck!”

The car lurched to its left as she skidded past the woman, the bottom corner of Coffin’s open door gouging a line in the tarmac.

“Get us on the main road!” Coffin roared.

“I’m trying!” Emma yelled. “The fact is, I’ve never tried driving a car with a fucking elephant sitting beside me.”

Coffin finally got his left foot inside and slammed the door shut. The passenger door clipped a bollard, and then Emma was spinning the steering wheel, the car swerving left onto the main road.

“I can see him up ahead, he’s approaching the island,” Coffin said, pointing.

“Right, I’ve got two perfectly good eyes in my head, Coffin, I can see him.”

Coffin turned his head to look at Emma. In the tight confines of the car, it wasn’t easy. “You don’t like being told what to do, do you? Is that some kind of women’s lib thing you’ve got going on?”

Emma laughed. “What are you, a fucking dinosaur? Nobody says women’s lib anymore.”

Emma slowed as she approached the island, waiting for a gap in the stream of traffic.

“He took a right, third exit,” Coffin said, pointing again.

Emma slammed her foot on the pedal, the Fiesta lurched forward, cut up a BMW. The driver leaned on his horn and Emma flipped him the bird over her shoulder, not even turning to look at him. She took the island fast, the car leaning heavily to the left. Coffin grabbed the dashboard, steadying himself.

Emma took the exit, changing up a gear. “I don’t know why you’re holding on, you look jammed in good and proper to me, Coffin. The only way we’re getting you out of there is if I buy some KY, and we lube you up, and pop you out with a shoehorn.”

“I think he’s headed for the motorway,” Coffin said.

Tom was four cars ahead. Traffic was growing heavier as they headed away from the hospital.

“You think he knows that we’re following him?” Emma said.

“I’m not sure,” Coffin replied. “I’m hoping he thinks he got away, left us behind. That way, he might take us right to his mystery friends.”

“That whole thing with the sheets over their heads is still weirding me out.” She took a right at the traffic lights, checked she could still see Tom’s car up ahead. “I mean, who the fuck is that recognisable, they feel the need to be hidden from view like that? You know what? It’s kind of like those news shots you get, when the police are escorting a prisoner to court, and he’s put a jacket over his head, because he doesn’t want his picture on the news, or in the paper.”

Coffin said nothing, keeping his eyes on Tom’s car, waiting for him to make a sudden turn, any sign that he knew he was being followed.

“Or, maybe they weren’t hiding, maybe the sheets were covering them for . . .”

“For what?” Coffin said.

“Oh, shit, I don’t know,” Emma said.

“What? You’ve had an idea, what is it?”

Emma glanced at Coffin. “You’ll think I’m completely batshit crazy if I tell you.”

“Won’t make any difference to me, I already know you’re crazy. Come on, tell me.”

“Well, okay, long as you promise you won’t laugh at me. It occurred to me, maybe those sheets over their heads were for protection.”

“Protection? From what?”

“From sunshine, daylight.”

Coffin said nothing, let that one sink in. “You mean like, they were vampires.”

“Yeah.”

Coffin said nothing.

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Well, thank you for your vote of confidence.”

“You believe in vampires?”

“A couple of days back? Definitely not. But now . . .”

“I know what you’re saying,” Coffin replied. “It’s been an interesting couple of days.”

“Look, he’s definitely headed for the motorway,” They were approaching a large island. Tom was already in the traffic stream headed around it. He took the exit signposted, M6 North. “Any idea where he might be going?”

“Nope,” Coffin said. “But you’d better put your foot down, or you’re going to lose him.”

peaches

“It’s all fucked up,” Tom said. “I don’t even fucking know why I came back, I should just get the hell out of Dodge, before Coffin gets his fucking hands on me.”

“Tom, Tom,” Steffanie whispered, stroking his cheeks, her fingers running softly over his flesh. Tom flinched, the touch of her cold, dead fingertips sending a shiver of revulsion running through his body. “But you did come back, and I’m grateful, so grateful.”

“Yeah, great,” Tom said. “That’s going to be a big comfort to me when Coffin’s ripping my fucking head off my neck.”

He looked around the darkened Travelodge room, the curtains closed against the weak daylight. The cadaverous old man was buried under a duvet, in one of the twin beds, completely hidden from any daylight. Steffanie didn’t seem to be suffering any ill effects from the dim light, as long as she didn’t get too close to the window. The holdall of blood bags lay open on the carpeted floor.

The holdall was half empty. How much fucking blood had they got through last night? Maybe they had a party, invited some vampire friends over for drinks.

“Listen to me,” Tom said. “Coffin and that reporter, Emma Wylde, they were both at the hospital, looking for me. It turns out Coffin didn’t kill your fucking boyfriend after all. He slaughtered two coppers at the scene, and now he’s done a disappearing act. My guess is, Coffin’s pissed off big time, and he’s had a think about my story and decided I’m full of shit after all.”

“Shush, you’re all worked up,” Steffanie whispered, a sly smile playing on her lips. “Calm down, it will all be fine.”

“Calm down!” Tom said, his voice pitched so high it was almost a squeak. “Are you fucking serious? I should fucking leave you two right now, while I can still use my fucking legs.”

“So, the deal’s off?” Steffanie murmured.

“Deal? The deal has never fucking been on! I’m like the fucking milkman, delivering your blood to your doorstep every day. But what have I got out of this mess so far? A fucking shitpile of grief, that’s all.”

Steffanie draped her arms over Tom’s shoulders, her face only inches from his. She emanated waves of cold, like a block of ice, and her breath smelt of death and decay.

And yet, she was beautiful. She was wearing a white, extra-large T-shirt, and nothing else. Her dark eyes glowed with a cold flame, exciting him with a dreadful, base lust. He wanted to push her away, yet he wanted to pull her to him, her cold flesh against his. Her lips against his lips. He wanted to run his tongue over her teeth, run his hands through her long, red hair.

He wanted to escape, get as far away as he possibly could. End this nightmare forever.

“We need to get out of here, find somewhere else to hide out,” Tom said, his voice trembling. “We need to hide out, until, oh fuck, I don’t know, until your boyfriend takes Coffin out for good.”

“But I’m so bored with running and hiding,” Steffanie moaned. “Can’t we have a little fun, first?”

“Are you fucking crazy?”

Steffanie ran a hand down his back, traced a finger around his waist, found his cock, already uncomfortably stiff, straining against the fabric of his pants.

Why the fuck was it always like this? It seemed to Tom that he was like a dog, a pitiful fucking mongrel, and that all his life he’d just been lapping up Joe Coffin’s scraps. Ever since from when they were snot nosed kids at school, he’d trail around after Coffin, trying to be his friend. Tom Mills and Joe Coffin had both been the awkward kids at school, the ones nobody wanted to be seen with. But that never seemed to bother Coffin as much as it did Tom.

And then when Coffin started piling on the muscle, started getting really big, and got his own back on some of the bullies who’d given him grief over the years, things soon changed. Everyone wanted to be Coffin’s friend then. And still, Tom trailed around after him, trying to be part of his gang.

Steffanie brushed her lips over his, her tongue found his tongue, her sickly sweet breath in his mouth. Tom’s hands ran through Steffanie’s long, tousled hair as she kissed him, excitement and revulsion twisting together in his stomach, like two snakes.

All these years later, Tom was still trying to be part of Joe Coffin’s gang, trying to fit in with the Slaughterhouse Mob, trying to get Craggs to see his potential, if he could just stop looking at Joe Coffin like he was his long lost son.

Tom was still having Joe Coffin’s cast offs.

Like Laura. Tom had always fancied Laura at school, had a fucking hard on for her as long as he could remember. But she married Joe Coffin. And it wasn’t until they divorced, that Tom got what he wanted. But by then, Laura was a fucking waste of space.

Joe Coffin’s scraps.

And now here it was, happening again. He knew what Steffanie was doing. She was scared that he was going to run, leave her and the corpse in the hotel room. And she’d always known he fancied her. Tom had seen the looks she gave him sometimes, back at the club. She had always been a sly bitch, but that wouldn’t have stopped him fucking her if she offered herself up to him.

That’s what she was doing now. Offering herself up, bribing him with her body to stay and help.

But if she could remember that much about her life before she died, maybe she could remember where that USB stick was, after all. In which case, it was worth sticking around for a while yet.

“Where’s the USB stick, Steffanie?” Tom whispered, as Steffanie pulled back, gazing up at him through her tousled hair.

“I don’t know,” she murmured.

Tom swallowed. Tried to even out his breaths, coming in short, sharp gasps, his heart pounding like he had just run a marathon.

“The USB stick, you remember?”

She unzipped his trousers, slipped her hand inside.

“The one with—”

He gasped as she began massaging him. Her touch was cold, but that only seemed to excite him even more.

“The one with . . .” he croaked. Took a deep breath, tried again. “. . . the one with the video footage of Coffin, shooting Terry Wu.”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, her cold, lifeless lips caressing his neck.

“Yes, you do,” Tom moaned. “Did you give it to that reporter? Or . . . or is it . . . still hidden somewhere?”

Tom staggered, his back suddenly against the wall, supporting him.

Steffanie sank slowly to her knees, her hand running down his torso. Her lips slid over his cock, her tongue caressing it. And her touch was cold, so cold, like the grave.

Tom screwed his eyes shut, ground his teeth together. He tried locking his knees into place, not sure his trembling legs could support him for long. He reached out blindly, grabbed a shelf for support. He let out an anguished groan when he came, gripping the shelf so hard he thought it might splinter between his fingers.

As the excitement drained from his body, a wave of revulsion washed over him. He jammed his fist against his mouth, and bit down on a knuckle, splitting the skin and drawing blood.

Steffanie stood up.

Licked her lips, that sly look on her face again.

“There, now, don’t you feel better?”

Tom nodded, mutely.

In reality, he was completely overcome with self-loathing.

* * *

The Ford Fiesta circled around the service station car park, Emma looking out of her side window, Coffin out of his.

“You sure he came in here?” Emma said.

“I can’t think where else he could have got off the motorway,” Coffin replied. “We had him in sight until after we passed the last junction, and then we only lost sight of him a few seconds before we passed the exit for this place. Even in this tub of shit you call a car, we should have caught up with him again.”

“Hey, I happen to love this little car of mine,” Emma said, turning to face Coffin. “Just because you’re so freakishly big you look like tuna packed in a can, doesn’t give you the right to insult my car.”

“Aww, did I upset you?” Coffin looked at Emma, his expression one of mock sorrow. “I bet you gave your car a name, didn’t you?”

Emma groaned, turned away, looked out of her driver’s side window.

“Let’s see. Princess? Peaches? Sparkle?”

“Fuck you, Coffin.”

Coffin chuckled, looked out of his passenger window, at the rows and rows of cars parked up. “Car park’s pretty full. Is that usual? I mean, what time is it? Seven thirty? Eight?”

“What, do I look like I spend my days and nights hanging around motorway service stations, gathering data on car park usage?” Emma snapped.

“You’re not really a morning person, are you?” Coffin said.

“Maybe it’s the fucking company I keep,” Emma muttered.

“Let’s swing around the back, where the petrol station is, and where the HGVs park up. If Tom is here, he won’t want to be advertising the fact.”

Emma left the car park, and turned onto the exit lane. She swung a right into the petrol station. They had a good view of the service station’s service area from here, the skips overflowing with rubbish, black bags and cardboard boxes stacked up beside them. Some of the bags had split, and plastic wrapping and food containers spilled across the ground. Emma thought she saw a rat scurrying between two mounds of bags.

“Disgusting,” she said.

“There’s Tom’s car, look.” Coffin pointed to a recessed area, just past the mound of rubbish. Parked inside, partially hidden by the towering black bin liners and cardboard boxes, was Tom’s Vauxhall Astra.

They parked up behind Tom’s car, blocking it in.

Emma got out of the Fiesta and walked around to the opposite side, stood and watched Coffin unfolding himself from the passenger seat.

“Need any help there, big guy?” she said.

Coffin heaved himself out and slammed the door shut. “If we’re going to do this again, you’re going to have to get a bigger car.”

“Fat chance,” Emma said, and walked off, headed for the front of the service station.

“What, that you’ll buy a bigger car, or that we’ll do this again?” Coffin called after her.

“Both!” Emma shouted.

Coffin rotated his head, loosening his neck. It cracked a couple of times, and he rolled his shoulders, easing out the tension, and started walking after Emma.

The service station was busy, men and women in suits queueing for coffee, families buying breakfast, teenagers huddled around the video game machines. Coffin had been in a couple of motorway stops over the years, but hated all the noise, the bustle of the crowds, and the expensive food and drink.

He scanned the building, his eyes roaming across the different branded service counters. You could get value burger meals, your choice from a whole range of coffees, a pizza, extra-large chocolate cookies, even a beer.

What the hell was that all about? A bar at a motorway service station?

Sometimes, Coffin wondered what was happening with the world. Did nobody have any common sense anymore?

He watched Emma, wandering around the tables, head turning this way and that as she searched the building. She was a cool customer all right. Coffin headed for the male toilets. The lines of urinals were almost all occupied, the men standing side by side, studying the posters at head height, advertising car insurance, radio stations, and offering help with erectile dysfunction.

Coffin drew a few curious glances as he walked up and down, searching for Tom. Nobody challenged him.

Why had Tom pulled off the motorway, so soon after getting on? Was he desperate for a piss? Perhaps he’d run out of cigarettes. Or maybe he had a sudden craving for a vanilla latte.

Or maybe he was meeting somebody here?

Coffin hung around until he had checked all the cubicles, waiting until all the occupied ones had been opened up, their occupants hitching up trousers and tucking in shirts as they left. One man walked out of a cubicle and straight out of the toilets without washing his hands. Coffin shook his head in disgust.

Back outside he met up with Emma.

“No luck, huh?” she said.

“Nope.”

“He’s got to be here somewhere.”

“Unless he switched cars,” Coffin said.

“But that would mean he was expecting to be followed, that he’d prepared for this. He didn’t look very prepared earlier, when we were chasing him out of the hospital.”

“Let’s take another look outside,” Coffin said. “Maybe he’s got a room in that Travelodge I saw.”

* * *

Tom zipped himself up, sank down on the bed, his legs weak and trembling. Scrubbing at his face with shaking hands, he let out a long sigh. He couldn’t think straight, his thoughts all tumbling over one another, chasing around and around, like a room full of excitable cats. It was hard to concentrate with Steffanie so close.

She was like a fucking magnet for him. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop looking at her. Kept wrenching his gaze away from her as she prowled the room, but before he knew it he was locked onto her again, following her movements.

Thinking how he wanted to grab her by the hair, drag her down onto her knees again. How he wanted to fuck her in the mouth. And then pull her to her feet, let her sink her sharp teeth into his neck, and suck at his blood. He imagined kissing her, tasting his blood on her lips, her tongue, as the blood pulsed out of an artery in his neck, and ran down his chest.

Tom stood up. He couldn’t think, needed to get out, clear his head. He needed to come up with a plan, an escape route.

“Get your stuff together,” he said, and laughed, a short, sharp, maniacal bark of a laugh. What did they have with them? A holdall of stolen blood? They weren’t exactly your typical holiday family, were they? “I’m going out, I’ll be back soon, and then we’re leaving.”

Steffanie smiled. “Whatever you say.”

She lay down on the bed, her long hair spread out across the pillow. His eyes followed her long, bare legs, up to her T-shirt. Those legs were fucking amazing, he’d always thought that. But she was losing her tan, looking paler. Looking less human every day.

“Just stay put,” Tom said, opening the door and stepping out into the corridor. He slammed the door shut behind him, took a couple of deep breaths.

Cigarettes, I’ll just get myself another pack of cigarettes, and then we’ll go. Find another fucking Travelodge to hide in.

Tom walked down the stairs, the pastel coloured walls and godawful paintings of dogs with doleful eyes, and little girls cuddling kittens making him want to puke.

He arrived at the door leading to the reception and then outside, and stopped, his hand on the handle. Looking through the glass, through the fine tracery of squares designed to strengthen the window in the event of a fire, Tom was staring right at Joe Coffin.

Coffin and Emma Wylde were standing with their back to him, as they talked to the receptionist.

Tom continued staring at them, his mouth hanging open.

How the fuck did they find me?

Coffin began turning around, as though he sensed something behind him. Tom stepped to the side, out of view of the door, his back to the wall.

Fuckfuckfuckfuck!

He took the stairs two at a time as he ran back up to the room. Pounded on the door with his fist.

“Steffanie! Open the fuck up, we need to get out! Coffin’s here!”

The door opened, Steffanie gazing at him, her head tilted down, hair falling over her face. That look in her eyes, the way you’d look at something that had been useful once, but you were rapidly losing patience with. Tom pushed past her, whipped the duvet off the bed, and then the sheet.

“Here,” he said. “You’re going to have to wrap the old bastard up in this, and carry him.”

Steffanie pouted. “Can’t you carry him?”

“Fuck no! If I had my way, we’d leave the fucker here for the cleaners to find.”

Tom yanked the curtains open, grey daylight filtering into the room. The sky was heavy with dark, low clouds.

“You’re going to have to take your chance outside, in the daylight. Doesn’t look too bad. Once we’re in the car, you can cover up again.”

Tom glanced around the room, looking for anything they didn’t want to leave behind. The en-suite door was open, and something caught Tom’s eye. He flicked a switch, the bathroom flooding with light.

“Oh, shit,” he whispered.

The bath, the floor, the tiles and mirrors were all smeared with dark streaks of scarlet blood, and bloody hand prints.

“What the fuck did you do in there?”

Steffanie smiled, looked almost bashful. “We were drinking the blood from the bags. We didn’t want to make a mess in here.”

Tom closed his eyes. “Okay, that’s good, that’s great.” He opened his eyes again. “Let’s forget about the mess, we need to get out of here, now.”

Tom grabbed the holdall and zipped it up. The cadaverous old creature under the duvet moaned as Steffanie uncovered it, and began wrapping the sheet around it. By the time she’d finished it looked like a giant, mummified baby. Steffanie scooped it up easily, cradling it against her chest. She was barefoot, still bordering just on the right side of decency in nothing but the T-shirt.

There was nothing to be done about that. Even fully clothed, she was still going to turn heads, draw glances from everyone she passed.

They left the hotel room, Tom leading Steffanie away from the stairs for reception. There had to be a fire escape around the back.

They passed a young black woman, pushing a silent vacuum cleaner in front of her, holding the plug and curled electrical cord in her other hand. She stared wide eyed at the strange looking couple as they passed her.

At the end of the corridor was a sign pointing right, and depicting a stick man running. Tom ran down the corridor towards a door at the end, Steffanie behind him. He shoved the door open, and it smashed against the wall.

They ran down the cold concrete steps, the sound of their feet echoing around the stairwell. Even though he weighed hardly anything, the ancient old man slowed Steffanie down. Tom had to keep stopping, and waiting for her, hopping from foot to foot in his agitation, and hissing at her to hurry up.

The stairs finished at a fire escape door. Tom pushed the bar and shoved the door open. The fire alarm instantly started wailing insistently.

Tom ran outside and looked back. Steffanie was standing on the threshold of the doorway, her face screwed up like she was in pain. Grabbing her by the arm, Tom dragged her outside.

“We don’t have time to fuck around,” he hissed. “If Coffin doesn’t get us, the fucking fire brigade will probably block us in if we don’t get out of here now!”

Steffanie let out a gasp of pain. Tom winced as he saw angry, red bruises blossoming under the skin on her legs and face, and arms.

“Come on, the car’s just around the corner, and then we can cover you up and get the hell out of here.”

They ran across the gravel, between the sprouting weeds and scattered rubbish. Tom could hear the traffic on the motorway, just the other side of the scraggly, ugly bushes, bordering the Travelodge.

When he saw the Fiesta blocking his car in, Tom wanted to drop to his knees on the dirty ground and weep.

“Fuck me, when am I going to get a fucking break, here?” he yelled.

“Tom,” Steffanie croaked. “I need to go back inside.”

Patches of skin on her forehead and cheeks had begun to bubble and blister. Some of them had popped, and were weeping tiny rivulets of pus and blood. Her arms and legs weren’t faring much better. Underneath its sheet, the living corpse was twisting and groaning, obviously in pain, and Steffanie was struggling to keep hold of it.

Spots of rain started falling from the overcast sky.

“This way, follow me,” Tom said.

Running as fast as Steffanie could keep up, and helping her hold the thing in her arms, Tom guided them around to the front of the service station. People were milling in and out of the entrance, pushing past each other, eager to get inside out of the rain, or back to their cars and on with their journey.

Some people stopped and stared when they saw Tom and Steffanie, and the bundle writhing and moaning in Steffanie’s arms.

Tom looked around, wildly.

There! A lone man, walking back to his car, arm extended, holding his key fob out. Tom saw the lights on a sleek Mercedes flash as the central locking deactivated.

Things were looking up, they were going to be travelling in style.

“Follow me!” Tom hissed, and set off at a sprint across the car park.

He reached the man just as he was opening the driver’s door, his back to Tom.

Grabbing a fistful of shirt and jacket collar, Tom yanked the man backwards, and then smashed his head against the roof of his car, his face hitting the sleek body with a wet crunch.

Someone screamed. The businessman was struggling, his arms out, swinging blindly at his attacker. Tom dragged him up again, saw his face briefly, the nose bent sideways, blood streaming down over his mouth, and then smashed his head back onto the car roof again.

This time the man went limp, and Tom let him fall to the ground, sliding down between two parked cars, leaving a trail of blood against the Mercedes. He opened the back door, shoved Steffanie and her writhing, groaning bundle of joy, in the car.

Some of the onlookers were approaching him, confusion, fear, outrage, on their faces.

“Stay the fuck back!” Tom shouted, slamming the rear door shut. “Or I’ll fucking run you over!”

He squatted down, scooped the bunch of keys off the wet tarmac, stepped on the man lying on the floor and climbed into the driver’s seat. As the car reversed, shooting out of the tight parking space, the wheels bumped over the unconscious man’s arms and legs. Tom twisted in his seat, saw figures leaping out of the way, heard screams. He spun the steering wheel, shoved the gear stick into first, and slammed his foot on the accelerator.

The car shot forward.

* * *

“Well, that was a waste of time,” Emma said, as they stepped outside, leaving the Travelodge receptionist staring at Coffin’s back.

“What did you expect?” Coffin said. “Did you really think if you waved your reporter’s card in front of her nose, she’d spill her guts to you?”

“All I wanted was Tom Mills’ room number. Was that too much to ask?”

“Apparently, yes. I told you, you should have let me do the talking.”

“Huh,” Emma snorted. “I can just see that. Miss ‘Butter Wouldn’t Melt’ in there sees you struggling to fit yourself through the door, she’s going to fall in your arms, is that what you’re saying? Or maybe you’ve got a way with women that you haven’t shown me yet.”

Coffin didn’t reply. He looked out across the car park, in front of the entrance to the service station. A crowd was gathering, and then he heard someone scream.

“This looks interesting,” he said. “Let’s take a look.”

Coffin and Emma began running across the car park, towards the disturbance. There seemed to be a fight going on, in between two parked cars. Somebody else screamed, high and loud, and Coffin saw it wasn’t a fight at all, but an assault.

“Fuck me, it’s Tom!” Emma shouted, and dived into a sprint.

Coffin leaned into his run, saw Tom getting in the car, saw it reverse, and buck wildly as it drove over the man lying on the floor. The crowd leapt out of the way as one, making way for the Mercedes reversing in a tight bend. Coffin heard the crunch of gears, and then the car was shooting forward.

“Emma!” Coffin roared.

The reporter was directly in front of the car as it sped towards her. She leapt to the side, trying to get out of the way, but the car’s bonnet clipped her left thigh, and she flipped over, landing on her back beside the Mercedes as it sped towards Coffin.

Tom was desperate, Coffin could see that. The engine roared as the car surged towards Coffin. He stepped out of the way, in between two parked cars, and let Tom speed past. Unlike the hospital, there was only one way out of this car park, and that was the exit lane back onto the motorway. Tom was currently driving in the opposite direction, would have to do a loop around the car park full of cars to get to the exit. There was no chance he could sneak out by driving the wrong way along the entrance lane, that was too busy with cars coming in.

But if he was quick, Coffin had a chance of intercepting him at the exit.

A quick glance back at Emma, and he could see her climbing to her feet, helped by a couple of onlookers. Coffin started running.

He dodged between parked cars, past families, a mother pushing a buggy, a dad riding his young son on his shoulders, an elderly couple holding hands as they walked back to their car. Ordinary people, living ordinary lives. And all of them staring in wonder at this huge man in a black leather jacket, his battered face covered in blood stained dressings, pounding past them.

Coffin risked a quick glance back, saw the Mercedes screaming around the farthest corner of the car park. He ran past the petrol station, cars queueing up at the pumps. There was another queue of traffic in the exit lane, vehicles backed up on the motorway in the morning rush hour traffic jam.

Too late, the Mercedes screamed past in a low gear, swerving at the last moment to avoid rear ending the car at the end of the exit lane queue. The Mercedes bounced along beside the line of cars, half on the road, half on the verge, ploughing through the vegetation.

Coffin charged after him. All that undergrowth was slowing Tom down. And Coffin was sure he’d seen at least one person huddled in the back seat. Children and adults stared at him from inside their cars as Coffin ran past. The Mercedes wasn’t going slowly enough, Coffin was losing ground.

He pulled up short when he heard a tinny car horn blaring.

Emma was sitting in her Fiesta right behind him. She stuck her head out of the open window, and shouted, “Get the fuck in, will you?”

Coffin snatched at the door handle, yanked it open and threw himself head first inside. Emma didn’t wait for him, and the car bucked forward whilst Coffin was still attempting to fold his legs inside the Fiesta. Thin branches scraped against the side of the car, battering the open door, and snagging at Coffin’s feet.

The Mercedes left the exit ramp, and bounced off the verge, back onto the road. Back on a flat, solid surface, with no obstructions, the Mercedes picked up speed.

“He’s driving up the hard shoulder!” Emma said. “We’re going to lose him!”

“Well, follow him!” yelled Coffin, still trying to right himself, and get his feet inside.

“That’s what I’m doing, you idiot,” Emma snapped, struggling to control the steering wheel whipping around in her hands as the tiny car bounced over the grass verge.

Suddenly they were on the hard shoulder too, and the Fiesta’s tiny engine screamed in protest as Emma stamped on the accelerator, trying to keep up with the powerful Mercedes. Car drivers stuck in the traffic jam hit their horns in protest as they watched Emma illegally passing them.

“We’re losing him,” Emma said, hunched forward in her seat, as though trying to propel the car forward.

Coffin twisted around in his seat, one hand gripping the open door, as he finally managed to haul his feet inside the car. “Can’t you go faster?”

Emma glanced at him. “Yeah, if maybe you got the fuck out of my car!”

“Great,” Coffin grunted.

“Wait, he’s braking, I think he’s stopping!” Emma shouted. “We’re catching up with them.”

Only a few seconds later, and Emma screeched to a halt behind the Mercedes, unable to go any further, blocked by another car on the hard shoulder, its bonnet open, and the traffic stuck on the main carriageway.

Coffin half fell, half climbed out of the Fiesta. He charged up to the Mercedes, grabbed the back door handle, and pulled the door open. He could see two figures lying on the floor in the foot well, covered with a sheet. Tom had twisted around in the front seat, staring at Coffin, wide eyed.

“For fuck’s sake, don’t do it, Joe,” he said.

“What’s going on, Tom?” Coffin growled.

“Just leave it, Joe, please,” Tom said. “You pull that sheet back, you’re walking into a fucking house of horrors.”

“What are you talking about?”

Tom shoved the car into gear, looked in his rear view mirror.

Coffin reached inside the car, grabbed a fistful of the sheet, and pulled.

The Mercedes shot backward, the open door knocking Coffin off his feet. There was a crunch as the rear of the Mercedes slammed into Emma’s Fiesta, the bonnet crumpling under the impact. Someone inside the Mercedes slammed the back door shut. Coffin rolled out of the way as he realised Tom was turning the car in a tight curve, about to drive right over him. Coffin rolled up onto the grass verge. Twisting his head round, he looked back as Tom drove the big, sleek car past Coffin, the wheels scraping his back as the Mercedes squeezed between him and the broken down car.

Coffin jumped to his feet, reached out for the Mercedes, his fingers briefly touching the car’s shiny, waxed shell, before sliding off as the Mercedes sped up, back on the road. Coffin could hear the Fiesta’s starter motor whining, the engine spluttering, and failing to catch.

The Mercedes, still on the hard shoulder but with nothing blocking its way, roared up the motorway, past the line of stationary cars stuck in the traffic jam. Moments later it had disappeared from view.

Coffin looked down at the sheet, hanging from his clenched fist.

“Shit,” he growled.

dracula

Abel moored the narrowboat on a pretty, wooded stretch of canal. A light rain dappled the calm surface of the dark water. The afternoon was grey and overcast. Abel wore the old man’s clothes, and a big parka, the hood pulled over his head, shielding his face from the light. With the coat, and the thick gloves on his hands, Abel had enough protection from the sun, hidden behind the clouds, to keep him from harm, but it was still an irritant. More than anything, he wanted to get out of the light, and find a dark place to sleep. The narrowboat cabin was shady, but the curtains were not thick enough, and still let a little light in.

He could not find the rest he needed in there.

But also, he felt the need to find Steffanie, and the Father. Abel had not come this far in his journey to return the Father to his former glory and power, only to be thwarted now. For over 100 years, the Father had been lying in his tomb, letting the blood regenerate his frail body. Now he was out, he needed fresh, warm blood to drink, and finish the process of bringing him back to full strength and youthful vigour.

A man walked along the towpath with his dog, a big, old slobbering thing, with muddy paws. Abel turned his back on the man as he passed him, and ignored his cheery, “Good morning!”

Abel resisted the urge to pounce, and kill both the man and his dog.

Abel locked the doors to the narrowboat cabin. It wouldn’t do for someone to be wandering past and, spotting the unlocked cabin door, decide to have a nose inside, see if there was anything worth stealing. Marge and Alf looked quite comfortable, stuffed underneath the seating on either side of the cabin, if a little bloody and the worse for wear. The intruder would receive quite the shock on seeing them.

In fact, dear old Marge and Alf were posing Abel a problem. After having had a good search through the contents of the narrowboat, Abel had discovered that the boat was booked for another two weeks from the hire company. So, as long as nobody discovered their dead bodies, Marge and Alf would not be missed for a while yet.

The problem was, if Abel left it much longer before getting rid of them, the two pensioners would begin stirring, and before he knew it they would be clumsily staggering around the tiny cabin, colliding with everything in their path, and demanding a nice meal of warm, fresh blood.

That would make life a little complicated.

Abel walked up the steps leading from the canal towpath, and followed the footpath across the playing fields, and into town. If he could find a hardware shop, then he could easily deal with the problem of Marge and Alf. They simply needed sawing up into several pieces, and those pieces stored in separate bags. That way there was no chance of them turning, and Abel could keep the body parts stored on the narrowboat until such time as he had to abandon it.

By that point he wouldn’t care who found the bodies.

Abel found a small hardware shop in the town and bought himself a saw and several rolls of black bin liners. Inside the shop, he pulled his hood down, so as not to appear suspicious. But he kept his mouth shut, not wanting to reveal his pointed teeth, and he paid the shop assistant with Alf’s money, from a faded leather wallet.

The shop assistant was a pretty young thing. She was bright and soft and virginal, and Abel could not help but imagine what it would be like to taste her blood, and see her beautiful, pale flesh shrink beneath his cold touch.

He could have hours of fun with her.

As the girl handed him his change, Abel stifled a giggle, and strode out of the shop before his impulses got the better of him. Maybe he could pay her another visit, when he had more time to indulge in despoiling her perfect, youthful body.

As he walked down the tiny high street, Abel passed a newsagents. On the top newspaper on the stand, Abel saw the headline, Birmingham Vampire Strikes Again!

The Birmingham Vampire paused, reading the story on the front page, and wondering who could be imitating his kills. As far as he knew, he and Steffanie, and the Father, were the only vampires in England at the moment. And Abel had been very careful to try and lie low, until that unfortunate incident with Coffin.

His only mistake really, had been allowing Tom to persuade him to kill Steffanie in the first place. But he had needed to give something back to him, stop him moaning about how this so-called ‘deal’ of theirs was turning out to be a little one sided. How that man could whine and moan! Abel had been seriously tempted to sink his teeth into Tom’s neck sometimes, just to shut him up. But then, if Tom had turned, Abel would have had to put up with his moaning for hundreds of years.

Far better really, once he had served his usefulness, to simply disembowel him, and let him bleed to death whilst watching Abel suck on his intestines. Or maybe he could fuck Steffanie whilst Tom watched. That man was so pathetic, he could see the pitiful desire for her in his eyes, every time he looked at her.

Abel had enjoyed seeing Tom’s face, the first time he encountered Steffanie at the house, after her death. Whatever deal he’d had going on with Steffanie had obviously gone wrong, somewhere. Once he’d got over the shock of seeing her up and about again, he’d looked like he was about to piss himself, he laughed so hard.

But whatever it was that Tom needed from Steffanie, she wasn’t giving it up easily.

Abel walked on, mulling over the newspaper story, again. He had no interest in Tom or his affairs, other than the supplies of blood he could provide. And soon Abel wouldn’t even need him for that.

The vampire stopped walking, as a thought occurred to him.

The little boy!

He had turned after all.

Abel giggled, and then looked around, almost guiltily. It was a good job the day was overcast and damp. He really did not want to be noticed at the moment. Tucking his head down, and pulling his hood even further over his face, Abel walked on.

Maybe later, after he’d finished his DIY job on Marge and Alf, he would go looking for the boy. Chances were, he wouldn’t have gone far from his ‘birthing’ place, and his first kill. There was a good chance that Abel would find him.

* * *

Emma dropped the bag of books on the table, followed by her keys. Wearily, she pulled off her denim jacket, and let it drop to the floor. She was standing right by the coat hanger, but she was too exhausted to give a fuck about being tidy. After watching Tom disappear in the distance, and then despairing over the state of her car, Emma had called the AA. With the traffic backed up like it was, the rescue truck took over two hours to get to them, and then another couple of hours to hitch up the car and drive her to a garage.

Joe Coffin had decided not to hang around and wait. He climbed over the fence and set off walking across the fields, still clutching the sheet he’d pulled off Tom’s mystery passengers. Emma had tried persuading him to hang around, get a lift back in the tow truck with her, but he wasn’t having any of it. Said he couldn’t stand waiting for things to happen, said he’d rather be walking than hanging around, unable to take any kind of action.

Emma was sure his main reason was that he didn’t want to be caught up in an insurance claim as a witness, and risk being noticed by the police. After all, what the hell was she going to tell her insurance company? That she’d been involved in a car chase, pursuing a man who might be partnered up with the Birmingham Vampire?

Emma decided it would be easier if she told her insurance company that she’d been involved in a collision with another car, but the driver didn’t stop. And, although the traffic had been moving slowly, it had moved, and two hours later when the tow truck guy arrived, there was nobody around who had seen the collision, and no witnesses to contradict her story.

And she seriously doubted that Tom would be calling her to swap insurance details.

Emma picked up the bag of books and traipsed wearily into the living room. She upended the bag, and tipped them over the coffee table.

Nick popped his head out of the kitchen doorway.

“There you are! I was beginning to . . . whoa! What the hell happened to you?”

“What?” Emma said, confused. Had she injured herself in the collision and not realised? She remembered taking a tumble at the service station when Tom clipped her side in the Mercedes, and her left thigh was still protesting about that, but she didn’t recall taking any other injuries.

And then she remembered head butting that psychopath at No. 99.

“The bruises all around your eyes, and over your forehead, what the hell happened, Emma?”

“Oh that, I feel so stupid. I walked into a fucking lamp post, can you believe it?”

Nick held her by her shoulders, tilted his head down, examining her. “You walked into a lamp post? Are you serious?”

“Yeah, of course I’m fucking serious. I was walking along, when I heard a car horn blaring behind me, sounded like there might be an accident. I turned my head to look, but kept walking. Just as I turned my head back, wham! I face planted a lamp post.”

Nick smoothed a few stray hairs off her face, kept looking at her, like he knew she was lying, but couldn’t decide if he should ask more questions, or take the easier option, and pretend that he believed her.

“All right,” he said, finally. “Have you put any ice on that, taken anything for it?”

Emma nodded. “I’ve been popping paracetamol. It’s fine, really.” Then she noticed the dark shadows under Nick’s eyes, the stubble, his mussed hair. “Hey, have you been to bed, yet? You must be exhausted.”

“I’ve felt a tad more alert than I do right now, it’s true,” he said, and smiled.

“You catch the bad guy, yet?”

Nick shook his head. “It’s like he’s disappeared off the face of the earth. But we’ll catch him.”

Nick noticed the pile of books dumped on the coffee table. He squatted down and started picking them up, reading the titles out loud, one by one. “A History of Vampire Mythology, Tales of the Vampyre, Nosferatu, Hidden Subtexts: A Film Analysis, Dracula, Interview with the Vampire, True Tales of Modern Day Vampyrism.” He looked up. “Emma, what the hell?”

Emma shrugged. “I’ve run out of books, needed some bedtime reading, that’s all.”

Nick stood up, his face tight with anger. “You’ve been out looking for him, haven’t you? When I specifically told you to stay at home today!”

“I’ve been at work, Nick!”

“Don’t lie to me, Emma!” Nick jabbed his index finger in front of Emma’s face, a habit he had when angry, or if he felt he wasn’t being taken seriously enough. Emma hated it when he did that, wanted to lunge forward and snap her teeth around his finger.

“I’m not lying!” she shouted.

“Is that right?” Nick said. “So, Emma, where’s your car?”

Emma sighed. “I had an accident. I was waiting at traffic lights, when this idiot in front of me decided he should be in the lane for turning right, so he reversed to give himself room to switch lanes, and backed right into me.”

“Must have been quite a collision.”

“What?”

“I saw you walking from your hire car to the front door. You’re limping.”

Anger flared up in Emma’s chest. “Are you fucking spying on me? I pulled a muscle while I was training, this morning, okay? You satisfied now, or is there anything else you’d like to interrogate me over? Maybe you could take me down to the station, and read me my rights while you’re at it.”

“Oh yeah, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? Give you something to write up for that shitty newspaper you work for!”

“Shitty newspaper?”

“That’s right, all this crap about the Birmingham Vampire, you’re just feeding this psychopath’s delusions, goading him on to commit more murders.”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault all these people are dead, is it? It’s got nothing to do with the fact that the police are a bunch of corrupt, incompetent wank stains!”

Nick raised his hands in the air, like he had finally given up on Emma, after years of promising himself he wouldn’t. “Oh, you’re something else, you are. You’re really something else.”

He stalked past her, shaking his head, and slammed the door behind him in the study.

“Fuck!” Emma hissed.

She flung herself on the sofa and closed her eyes, resting her head against a cushion.

Why did this always happen? Was she really such a cold hearted bitch? Was it Emma’s fault that they always ended up arguing? Maybe she wasn’t cut out for a normal relationship. Nick deserved better than Emma.

Sighing, she opened her eyes and regarded the pile of books on the coffee table, wondering what on earth had possessed her to buy them all. Then she leaned forward, picked up Dracula, and opened it up.

She started reading.

* * *

Coffin swallowed the whisky in one go, thumped the tumbler back down on the table.

“Pour him another one, Velvina, he needs it,” Craggs said.

Velvina poured more whisky into Coffin’s glass, looked at him, eyebrows raised, saying, is that enough?

Coffin snatched the bottle off her, slammed it on the table beside his glass. “Just leave it here.”

Craggs raised a hand, a fat cigar jammed between his index and middle fingers, and lazily waved it at her, dismissing her. “Go on, get out now. And send Doc Shaddock straight up when he gets here, all right?”

Velina stuck a finger in between her glossy, red lips, and pouted. Made out like she was about to cry, make a big fuss, but then thought better of it, and turned on her heel and sashayed out of Craggs’ office like she was on the catwalk in Paris.

“What a fucking mess,” Craggs said. “Not only have we got to deal with this fucking psycho again, but now this shit with Tom, too?”

“I told you he was involved, somehow,” Coffin growled.

“You fucking told me you’d killed that sick bastard who held Jacob a prisoner.”

“I did kill him,” Coffin said. “I smashed his skull in and damn near cut his head off. Next time I find him, I’ll bring him here and we can kill him together if you don’t think I’m up to the job.”

Craggs sat down. “All right, Joe, I didn’t mean anything by it, you know that. I’m just all wound up, that’s all. I don’t understand what’s got into Tom, what his involvement in all of this is.”

“No, the next time I see him I’m not letting him go again. Him or his two friends hiding in the back seat.”

Coffin looked at the sheet, lying on the leather settee, where he had thrown it when he entered Craggs’ office. After leaving Emma by the side of the motorway, waiting for a tow truck, Coffin had walked across the fields until he got back to the service station. From there he had called a taxi back to take him back into the city centre.

And he had held onto the sheet the whole way.

Coffin wasn’t completely ready to accept Emma’s theory about Tom’s two mystery companions being vampires. He didn’t think Emma fully believed it, either. But given what had happened over the last three days, and what he had seen, Coffin wasn’t quite ready to dismiss it as total bollocks, either.

The door opened, the steady thump of the club’s music growing louder. “Fuck me, Mort, didn’t I just sew this bastard up yesterday?”

Shaddock stood in the open doorway, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and holding his large, black leather case in his right hand.

“And you’ll sew him up again, tomorrow, if you have to,” Craggs snarled. “Isn’t that what I pay you for?”

Shaddock slammed the door shut and sauntered over to Coffin. He dropped his case on the coffee table, and examined Coffin through one open eye, the other one closed against the cigarette smoke spiralling up to it.

“What the fuck happened to you?” he said, eventually.

“Someone tried to run me over,” Coffin said.

“Yeah? Did you know the cops have been sniffing around outside, asking after you, Joe?”

“What the fuck for?” Craggs growled.

“Something about some poor bastard getting his face pulverised against his car at Hilton Park services. Seems you were spotted at the scene.”

“Fucking coppers.” Craggs said. “Where are they now?”

“That black bitch of yours, thinks he’s a qualified fucking doctor, he sent them away.”

“You got a bad fucking attitude, Shaddock.”

Shaddock grinned at Craggs. “That’s right, I’m, a miserable old fuck, aren’t I? But who the hell else are you going to get to put your boys back together?”

Shaddock looked at Coffin again, examining his bruises, and dressings stained with blood, with a wry amusement.

“You ever think, maybe it’s time you quit the business, Joe?” he said. “You could stay at home, write up your fucking memoirs.”

“That’s a great idea doc, I’ll think about it,” Coffin replied. “In the meantime, some of these wounds have opened up again, and I’d appreciate it if you could sew me back up.”

“Sure, Joe, sure.” Shaddock looked at Craggs. “Fuck, Mort, what’s a fella gotta fucking do around here to get a shot of fucking whisky?”

Craggs scowled at Shaddock, and then went and got him a glass from the cabinet. Back at the coffee table he poured three generous shots of whisky. Coffin downed his in one again, and then sat back and closed his eyes, waiting for the sting of the needle.

Whatever Tom was up to, Coffin was reasonably sure he wouldn’t have gone far.

Not far enough to escape Joe Coffin, anyway.

the bat

Despite his tiredness, the excitement of the hunt coursed through Abel Mortenson’s body. But tonight, he wasn’t hunting for a meal of fresh, warm blood. He was looking for one of his own kind.

The rain had stopped falling, but Abel still wore the parka, with the hood pulled up. It was cold out, and the streets were relatively empty, and Abel felt confident he would hardly be noticed. He moved quickly, and with confidence, even through the darker parts of town, where there was less street lighting. Abel’s vision was as good at night-time as during the day. Better even, as daylight tended to hurt his eyes.

Abel arrived at the graveyard, a bulging plastic carrier bag in one hand, and weaved his way between the headstones, until he found the graves he was looking for. He squatted down in front of the little boy’s grave.

He was surprised that it looked undisturbed. Abel had been convinced that Steffanie’s son must have been responsible for the death of the homeless man. The site of his killing being so close to the graveyard had only confirmed Abel’s suspicions that the boy had come to life in his coffin, and dug his way out with a fury that would have been fascinating to see.

Abel had expected to find an open grave, sharp lengths of splintered coffin scattered over the grass, along with mounds of soil. But no, the grave looked as it had when Abel had dug Steffanie out of her tomb, and birthed her into her new life.

Except, now that he looked closer, Abel could see there was a shallow indentation in the soil, and there were lumps of black soil ground into the grass.

The boy had dug himself out, but then somebody had come along and refilled the grave.

Abel stood up, cast his gaze around his surroundings. Wherever he was, the young creature would surely still be nearby. He would be scared, uncertain of this new world, and his new craving for blood. And his natural instinct would be to hide.

Abel began searching the graveyard, the church towering over him, a black monolith against the dark night sky. Gravel crunched under his feet, sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet night. A bat swooped past him.

The church and its graveyard were situated on a small hill, the front of the church overlooking the rows of houses, and shops. To the rear of the church, separated from the graveyard by a low wall, was parkland. During the day it was popular with dog walkers, runners, mothers with little children and babies. At night, it sometimes became a refuge for the homeless, especially recently, as more of the homeless shelters were closing, due to lack of funds.

And it was just over this wall, on a park bench, that the little boy had enjoyed his first kill. The spot where the man’s butchered remains had been found was still surrounded by yellow scenes of crime tape, flapping in the breeze. But the bench was gone.

Abel had been right, the boy was somewhere nearby, not venturing far until he became accustomed to his new way of life. And how long had it been since that last kill? Almost forty-eight hours now. The boy would be hungry, desperate for hot, sweet blood.

The heavy carrier bag swinging beside him, Abel walked around the church, as another bat swooped past him. He tracked its flight across the graveyard, flying low over the headstones and then up, where it disappeared into a ruined building right in the furthest corner of the graveyard.

Abel followed the bat’s path. The ruin looked even older than the church, the stonework worn away by the elements, some of it so smooth it looked almost polished. Most of the roof had collapsed, but there was a section at the back still remaining. The roof there was faded and weatherbeaten, but looked younger than the rest of the building. An attempt many years ago, to restore it, perhaps, but then abandoned.

Abel stepped inside, walking deeper into the chapel. His eyes penetrated the gloom in the rafters above him, searching for any sign of movement.

He stopped, and smiled. “There you are.”

A tiny figure, hunched in an alcove in the wall, hidden by the lattice work of wooden beams and shadows. It stared down at Abel, not moving, its posture signalling its wariness of this intruder.

“You must be hungry,” Abel whispered. “Look, I’ve brought you food. It’s not warm, I’m afraid, nor is it very fresh, but it’s blood.”

He reached into the carrier bag, and pulled Marge’s head out, lifting it by its grey, matted hair. He held it up, for the boy to see. The head’s mouth hung open, the skin slack and blackening in patches. A glob of congealed blood fell from the severed neck, and hit the stone floor with a wet splat.

The boy leapt from his hiding place and swung from a rafter. He landed against the wall and scurried down it headfirst like a giant, malignant spider. On the stone floor it snatched the head from Abel’s hand and began sucking eagerly at the severed neck.

Abel reached out and ruffled the boy’s dirty hair. “There, doesn’t that taste good?”

The boy stopped sucking on the head, and gazed up at Abel with big, round eyes.

“Daddy,” it said.

EPISODE THREE

terry wu

Terry Wu sat at his computer, tapping one fingered at the keys on his keyboard. His face was all screwed up, and he took his time searching for each particular key that he needed to depress. The act of writing looked like it might be hard work for him at the best of times. The tip of his tongue was sticking out from between his swollen, baby’s lips. His face looked like a round balloon sitting on top of a round balloon body, and his tiny eyes were hidden inside the rolls of fat in that face. He had short, black hair, back combed and held in place with wax, or gel. He was dressed in a white shirt, the collar open, and a clip on bow tie hanging askew from his neck.

His office was large, the walls covered with framed movie posters, a haphazard mixture of Chinese and Japanese fantasy and action movies, and Hong Kong gangster films: Hard Boiled, A Better Tomorrow, Infernal Affairs, Mob Sister.

In pride of place was a Samurai sword in an open presentation case. The sword had an inscription on it.

Terry Wu finally finished typing. He sat back in his chair, and giggled. Whatever he had been working on, he was obviously very pleased with himself and the finished result. He picked up a bottle and swigged straight from it. The label said it was Tsingtao Beer.

When he took the bottle away from those pudgy lips, he had a dribble of spit glistening on his chin. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He was still looking at the computer monitor, smiling. Almost as though he knew he was being filmed, and was proud of the way he looked.

Steffanie Coffin walked up behind Terry Wu, and bent down. He raised his face to hers, and she kissed him on those fat lips.

“I should go outside and start dancing,” she said.

Terry Wu’s smile faded.

“Aw, come on, baby,” he said. He sounded like he was trying to act tough, like one of those gangsters in the films he obviously loved so much. He just sounded pathetic. He looked down at his groin. “Little Terry Wu is going to get jealous, you dancing for all those men with hardly any clothes on.”

“But dancing without clothes is what you pay me for.”

“I could pay you extra tonight, baby, just dancing for me,” he said.

“Without any clothes on?”

“Oh, definitely,” Terry Wu murmured, and giggled. He kissed Steffanie again. A long, lingering kiss.

Steffanie stood up straight, ruffled his perfectly gelled hair. Ran a finger down his fat, smooth cheek. Terry Wu turned his head, and her finger slipped inside his mouth. He sucked on it, closing his eyes, going “Mm, mmm,” as though he was eating the most gorgeous slice of cake he had ever set eyes on.

“You’re such a naughty boy, Terry,” she whispered, throwing her head back, letting out a little gasp, like she was having an orgasm whilst Terry sucked on her finger.

She slipped her finger from his mouth, her red nail vanish glistening with his spit, and bent down and kissed him passionately. Terry Wu grabbed her hand and stuffed it against his groin, rubbing it up and down.

Steffanie pulled free and stepped back. Terry Wu swung around on his high backed swivel chair.

“Aw, baby! I was just getting warmed up!”

Steffanie gave him a sly little smile, gazed at him from hooded eyes. “You’ve got me hot all over, Terry. I want to strip off and do that dance for you right now. A special little dirty dance, I’ve been saving just for you.”

Terry Wu grunted, jumping up and down in his chair. “Is it really dirty?”

“Oh my, Terry. It’s filthy. And the best part? You get to do it with me.”

The fat man looked like he was about to come to orgasm right there and then. “Can we do it now? Can we, can we?”

Steffanie’s face hardened, the smile disappearing in an instant.

“No, Joe’s coming round to see you, remember?” She glanced at the clock, a 40’’ plasma screen on the wall, the digital numbers filling the display. “I should go now, he’ll be here any minute.”

“Fucking Joe Coffin,” Terry Wu grumbled. “I already told Craggs I don’t want to sell. I give him enough money every month, why he keep bothering me?” He looked at Steffanie. “You should leave the big guy, come live with me.”

“I already told you, if Joe ever finds out about us, then we’re both dead.”

“Maybe I should kill Joe Coffin.” Terry Wu giggled. “What would Craggs do without his pet gorilla then? Maybe I kill Craggs too, and then I don’t have to pay money every month. Then I could be boss of Slaughterhouse Mob. I be big guy then, right?”

“You already are a big guy, Terry,” Steffanie cooed.

“Oh baby, I just want to fuck you right now.”

“Later, I promise,” Steffanie said, backing up to the door.

After she had gone, Terry stared at the closed door for a few moments. Then he swivelled around in his chair to face his computer. He moved the mouse around, clicking a few times, and then tapped on the keyboard. When he had found what he wanted, he simply stared at the computer screen, his face going slack.

He dropped a hand beneath his desk and unzipped his trousers. Soon his hand was going up and down beneath the desk in regular, rhythmic movements. The tip of his pink tongue appeared between his pudgy lips again, his breathing deepened, and his eyes took on a sleepy, trance like look.

The door to his office opened and slammed shut. Terry Wu’s face snapped back alert and, hunched over his desk, he zipped himself back up again. He swivelled around in his chair.

“You should knock before you come in!” he shouted.

“My apologies,” Joe Coffin said. “Did I interrupt a conference call?”

Terry Wu stood up. He didn’t look much taller standing, than he had when sitting down. “I was doing very important work, very confidential work!”

“Is that right?” Coffin said. “Funny that, because it looked to me like you were having a wank.”

Coffin sauntered over to the computer. Terry scrambled for the mouse, moved it, closed a window down.

Coffin stared at Terry Wu. “You’re a sick fuck, Terry. You know that?”

“You got no business breaking in here and looking at my confidential work,” Terry Wu shouted. “I should call police, have you arrested!”

Coffin pointed at the computer. “I’m sure the police would be very interested in examining your computer hard drive, Terry. You want to give them a call?”

“You get out of my office now!” Terry Wu shouted. “I already told Mr Craggs, I not selling the club. I already told him, I pay too much money every month, he charge too much.”

Coffin was wandering around the office, looking at the posters on the walls. “You could have been onto a good thing here, Terry. All Mort wanted was for you to get more punters in. It should be easy enough, right? You got girls wearing nothing but a smile, who dance all night and look like they enjoy it, you got alcohol, shit, Terry, it’s a private club, the men can even smoke in here if they want. All Craggs wanted was for you to make this place a success. You make money, he makes money, everybody’s happy. But that isn’t happening, is it, Terry? The club looks like a graveyard out there.”

“Business slow right now,” Terry Wu said. “I can’t help that.”

“Sure you can. If you spent less time in here doing the five fingered shuffle, and more time working the club, business would soon be on the up and up.”

“Is that what Mr Craggs sent you here for, to tell me to ‘up my game’?”

Coffin was still looking at the posters, examining each one in turn, as though he was at an art gallery. “No, Craggs didn’t send me round here to say all that, Terry. That was me talking.”

“Then why are you here, Joe? I already paid up this month. I can’t afford to pay you any more.”

Coffin looked at Terry. “Have you been outside tonight, Terry? It’s a nice night. A clear sky, the stars are out, it’s too nice to be inside. I took the bike out for a spin before I came here. I needed some time to think. I’ve been doing that a lot, lately, thinking about my life, about Steffanie and Michael. Thinking how maybe I don’t like it so much anymore, knowing that my wife is flaunting her naked body for those creeps out there.”

“You be careful, Joe, you’ll be going to church next,” Terry Wu said, and giggled.

Coffin smiled, but there wasn’t any warmth in it. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, Terry. I don’t care what people get up to. Sometimes think about buying one of these clubs myself. Run it right, you could make a killing. But my wife? It bothers me that she’s out there tonight, exposing herself like that, for money. It makes me feel bad.”

“Steffanie’s my best dancer, Joe, you know that. I can’t let her go, I’d lose half of my customers.”

Coffin nodded. “I know.”

Coffin stopped when he reached the Samurai sword.

“Is this for real?”

Terry Wu nodded, suddenly smiling, like a little kid. “Oh yeah, genuine 100% real Samurai sword. David Carradine gave it to me, look he signed it.”

“Was he the Kung Fu guy, used to travel around the Wild West, having adventures? I used to love that TV series when I was a kid.”

Terry Wu nodded again, still excited. “That’s him, yeah.”

“To Terry, Peace, David Carradine,” Coffin read out. “Seems a little ironic, signing with a message of peace on a weapon of death.”

“Is that all, Joe? Are you finished?”

“Not yet, no,” Coffin said, turning to face Terry Wu. “I told you I went for a ride on my bike, for a think. I was thinking about you, too, Terry. I’ve never liked you, always thought you were a smarmy, oily creep. But even so, I think I must be starting to develop a conscience as I grow older. Mort sent me here to kill you, Terry. He wants you out of the way, so he can buy the club.”

Terry stepped back, bumped into the back of his chair by the computer. “But you’re not going to do that, are you, Joe?”

Coffin regarded Terry, his eyes flat, dead. “I’d been thinking, maybe not. I’d been thinking, maybe I’m getting tired of the life, maybe it’s time for a change. Thinking I could get my family, and we could move out, maybe go abroad, somewhere nice, by the sea. I could open up a bar, kind of like retiring, you know?”

“Sounds nice, Joe. You should do it.”

Coffin sighed, like he was genuinely sad. “But then I came in here, saw what you were looking at on your computer. That’s really fucking sick, Terry. Even if Mort hadn’t told me to kill you, I’d do it anyway, after seeing that.”

Terry held up his hands, started backing up, away from Coffin, away from the computer. “It’s not what it looks like, Joe, honest. These kids, they get paid good money, nobody forces them, they know what they’re doing.”

Coffin pulled out a gun. “Don’t fight it, Terry. I can make it easy on you. Quick, painless.”

“Joe, seriously, you don’t want to do this. You kill me and the brothers will hunt you down, and avenge my death.”

“Seriously?” Coffin said, grinning. “You sound like a character out of one of those Kung Fu movies you love so much.”

Terry Wu stared wide eyed at Coffin. He looked like he was about to cry.

“You shouldn’t laugh at the Seven Ghosts, Joe. If you kill me, they will hunt you down and catch you, and you will endure the horror of a thousand deaths, until they decide to kill you for good.”

Terry Wu had backed up to another desk, a big, grand, dark affair, looked like it belonged in a castle, or something. With a sudden movement, he reached underneath it.

Coffin shot him in the shoulder, and he spun around and hit the floor.

Terry Wu was lying on his back, clutching his bloody shoulder. He gazed wide eyed at Coffin, standing over him.

“Please, Joe,” he said. “Please, don’t—”

Coffin shot him in the head.

He pocketed the gun and walked back over to the Samurai sword. After examining it a while longer, he pulled it off the wall, still in its presentation case, and closed the box. Tucking the long, ornate box under his arm, he walked over to the door, pulled out a cloth and wiped the door handle, the only thing he had touched in the office.

After he had gone, the office was silent.

Terry Wu lay on his back, on the floor.

Bleeding into the carpet.

a delication of maggoty scramps

Tom Mills sucked hard on his cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, and exhaling slowly. Fucking things were killing him, but what did that matter? Once Coffin found out that he’d been shagging his wife, Tom was a fucking dead man anyway. Except, Tom hadn’t been fucking Coffin’s wife, had he? Because that monstrosity wasn’t Steffanie Coffin. She looked like Steffanie, and she spoke like Steffanie, but she was a fucking nightmare.

Half the fucking night she’d kept him up, shagging him dry. His stomach turned at the thought of it, now. Her flesh against his, so fucking cold he thought he was going to be left with fucking frostbite. Even her cunt was like a fucking ice pack, thought his cock would shrivel up and disappear when he stuck it in her, but no, the opposite happened, and he got so hard it hurt. And her breath, dear god, her breath, sweet as death and putrefaction. And those teeth, brushing against his neck, and suddenly he’d needed her to sink them into his flesh, begged her to bite him, and suck at his blood.

She only giggled, and teased him with the pointy tips of her teeth.

Tom took another deep drag on his cigarette, ran a trembling hand across his forehead.

The doors to the service station slid open and shut as travellers drifted in and out, in ones and twos and little family groups. Quieter than it had been yesterday, the coffee bars and food areas were still relatively busy.

After escaping from Coffin and that reporter, yesterday, Tom had driven the Mercedes another twenty miles up the M6. Not wanting to attract any more attention, he had left the hard shoulder at the first opportunity. Tom had stopped at the next service station, and booked himself a room. Once he’d smuggled Steffanie and the Father into the room he had taken the Mercedes, leaving the motorway at the next junction and dumping the car in a supermarket car park. He caught a taxi back to the service station.

Tom flicked his cigarette butt away, and it landed on the wet ground in a shower of sparks. A woman, followed by a sullen teenager, scowled at Tom as she passed him. Tom placed another cigarette in his mouth and lit up. Standing smoking under the canopy at the entrance to the service station probably wasn’t a good idea. The anti-smoking police would probably turn up soon, get him to move on, tell him he was causing problems smoking in a public place.

But the more immediate danger was that he might be recognised. After assaulting that Mercedes driver and stealing his car earlier in the day, Tom’s name and photo were all over the news. Along with Joe Coffin. Fucking gorilla couldn’t go anywhere without being recognised. If it hadn’t been for Coffin, then Tom might never have been pegged for the assault. But with enough of a description of Tom from the onlookers, and his known association with Coffin through the Slaughterhouse Mob, it was inevitable that Tom had been identified by the police.

Tom should have stayed in his room, kept out of sight, but he couldn’t stand it in there, watching Steffanie and her corpse friend sucking blood from those IV bags. And, as much as that had turned his stomach, he was hungry.

He’d risked being out in public, bought himself a hat, a new jacket, and the weakest pair of reading glasses he could find. Couldn’t see shit when he wore them, but at least it changed his appearance a little. He bought a burger and fries, and once he’d eaten them, washing them down with a coffee, he stepped outside for a smoke.

Except it was fucking raining, which was why he was sheltering under the canopy at the entrance, risking being spotted.

Fucking motorway service stations. Was this going to be his life from now on, moving from one bland hotel to another, driving up and down the M6? Fuck it. If Coffin had a mobile phone, Tom would be tempted to call him now, confess all, let him come over and rip his fucking head off.

Anything was preferable to living with that creature called Steffanie Coffin, and her friend the fucking zombie. It was like living in a horror movie.

Bloody hell, that had been a close thing with Coffin, earlier. Another second later and Coffin would have seen Steffanie lying on the floor in the back of the car.

Fuck. That would have been bad.

A gust of cold wind blew across the forecourt, driving rain in under the canopy. Tom shivered. Took another drag on his cigarette.

Looked up, and saw Stump and Corpse approaching him.

“About fucking time,” Tom muttered.

The rain didn’t seem to bother either of them. Corpse was still wearing his undertaker suit, his arms sticking out from the sleeves of his jacket, and the hems of his trousers flapping around his shins, revealing his dirty, white sport socks. Walking beside the tall, stick thin Corpse, Stump looked even more ridiculous. Short and fat, she was wearing a long, black leather coat and sunglasses, obviously styling herself after Neo in The Matrix. Tom’s eyes were immediately drawn to the plastic left hand, thinking about that razor sharp blade grafted to her stump.

“What fucking kept you?” Tom said.

Stump smiled, and for a single, horrifying moment, Tom had the sickening feeling that she was flirting with him. “Oh, Mr Mills, that mouth of yours, so filthy.”

“Like a delication of maggoty scramps, hmm, lovely tastering wormies,” Corpse said.

“Another call, so soon after our last meeting?” Stump said. “Not more blood, I hope, at such short notice too.”

“No, no more blood,” Tom muttered. “I’ve got another job for you.”

“Oh, good, Mr Corpse does like a little variety in his life.”

Corpse’s cracked lips stretched back, in what Tom supposed was an attempt at a smile, and revealed two rows of brown, chipped teeth, and gaps. “Mrs Stump, she’s manking smashioned.”

“Let’s step inside, shall we?” Stump said. “It would be nice to get out of this cold wind.”

Tom glanced back, through the windows at the families and couples sitting around the tables, eating burgers, drinking coffees and cokes. He shuddered at the thought of taking Stump and Corpse inside, at sitting with them at a table. Would they want a drink? Something to eat?

No, he couldn’t go inside with them.

“Well, wouldn’t it be better if—”

Too late, the odd couple were already pushing past Tom and walking inside. Tom took a last, deep drag on his cigarette and dropped it on the floor.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered, the smoke billowing around his face.

Stump took her time choosing a table, finally selecting one between a family of squabbling children and a young couple with a baby. The young mother watched, wide eyed, as Corpse sat down on a seat nearest to her. He grinned at her, his index finger rooting around up his nose.

“Well, I do believe I’d like a scone with cream and blueberry jam,” Stump said, “along with a cup of herbal tea.”

“We’re on the M6, not in the fucking Cotswolds,” Tom said. “I’ll get you both a cheeseburger and fries.”

“Hmm, delicional,” Corpse said, sucking on his finger.

One of the three arguing children sitting next to them, screamed. His older brother was tormenting him, snatching at the crappy, plastic toy he’d got with his burger. Stump turned to the family and lifted her yellowing, shiny plastic hand to her lips, and said, “Shhh.”

The entire family stopped eating and talking, and stared at Stump, and her mannequin’s hand.

The three children burst into tears.

Tom escaped to the queue for the food. By the time he got back, the family with the arguing children, and the couple with the baby, had left.

He didn’t blame them.

Corpse attacked his burger like he hadn’t eaten for several days. As he chewed, he continued shovelling more of the burger and bun into his mouth, accompanied by wet snorting noises, and grunts of pleasure. Stump took her time, first of all taking her meal apart, sifting through the fries and the contents of the burger meal with her plastic hand. Tom watched her, trying to block out the sound of Corpse eating, and wondering what she was looking for. Did she think the meal was poisoned, or contained stray fingernail clippings or mouse droppings?

Finally satisfied, she put every element of the meal back the way it had been, and began eating.

Very slowly and delicately.

“Right, if you two are fucking satisfied with your meal, maybe we can get down to business?” Tom said. “Did you bring me a car?”

Stump dropped a car key on the table. “A Ford Mondeo, quite a few years old, won’t be missed for at least another couple of days.”

“Good, good,” Tom said, picking the key up, and pocketing it. “Now, I’ve got another job for you.”

“Of course, Mr Mills, please carry on,” Stump said, through a mouthful of food. “How can we be of help?”

Tom took a deep breath. This was the part he hadn’t been looking forward to. “All right, I’ll be honest with you, I’m in a shitfuck load of trouble, and I need you two to do something for me.” He paused, tried concentrating on Stump, tried to keep his voice level. “Off the books, as it were.”

Stump stopped eating, gazed at Tom with a mild look of surprise on her fat, splodgy face.

“Yeah, you heard me,” Tom said. “This is just between us, right? I’m willing to pay above the odds for this one, because I know it’s not how we usually do things.”

Stump lay her burger down and dabbed at her pudgy, ketchup smeared lips with the paper napkin. “Really, Mr Mills, you do surprise me.”

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 feel 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 No. 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.

Had they been talking out of fear of reprisals, or was that the Joe Coffin they knew?

Emma’s mobile vibrated in her bag. She pulled it out and glanced at the display. Nick. What the hell did he want?

Emma stuffed the phone back in her pocket. He could wait, she had things to do.

Emma climbed out of the car and locked it. The morning air was cool and damp.

She walked up the drive, past the garage. As she approached the front door, it swung open.

“What kept you?” said the small, wiry man standing in the hall.

Emma stepped inside the house.

She checked her watch. “You said ten o’clock. Look, it’s two minutes past.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” the man said, casting a quick glance outside and then shutting the door. “I told you ten o’clock, and here you are, turning up at two minutes past ten. I was getting ready to leave, you know how nervous this makes me.”

“All right, I’m sorry.” Emma looked at him, his suit and tie, shiny black shoes. “Fuck, Merv, you really made an effort today, didn’t you?”

Merv stood up a little straighter, adjusted his tie. “You like it?”

“Shit, yeah I like it. Look at you, you even combed your hair!”

“Got to look the part, you know,” Merv said, beaming with pleasure.

Emma nodded, smiling. “Oh yes, you look the fucking part, all right.” She looked at him some more. “Okay, Merv, what is it you’re supposed to be? I mean, don’t get me wrong, you look great and all, but I’m used to seeing you looking like something even the cat refused to drag in.”

Merv’s face fell. “Really?”

“Yep, really.”

“Well, you know, it can get difficult sometimes, living on your own, there are some days you just don’t feel like making the effort.”

“Merv, believe me, you live on your own, it’s still worth the effort to brush your teeth and maybe have a wash once in a while, you know what I mean?”

“You never said anything before.”

“I never wanted to offend you. It’s not easy telling someone they smell.”

“I smell?”

“Oh, fuck, Merv, don’t go getting all pissy on me. Look at you, you look fantastic today!”

“Yes, well, I wanted to look the part.”

“You already told me that.”

“Maybe I should try looking the part more often.”

“That’s a good idea, Merv. But what’s the part you’re playing?”

“Oh. Well, I thought, as I am breaking into a house that is the scene of a crime, that it would help if my attire gave off the appearance of officialdom.”

“Right.”

Merv pulled a wallet out of his jacket pocket, and opened it up. “Look, I even made myself an ID badge, just in case anyone asked what I was doing here.”

Emma looked at the laminated card.

MERVYN PRICE

WEST MIDLANDS SCENE OF CRIME OFFICER

“That’s great, Merv,” Emma said. “You know you put your real name on that badge, don’t you?”

Merv beamed. Nodded his head.

“You show that badge to anyone, yet?”

Merv shook his head, still beaming.

“Okay, that’s good. Don’t show the badge to anyone, Merv. All right?”

Merv’s smile faded. “Why not, Emma?”

“Because if someone sees it, and decides to ring the police anyway, and tell them that there is a SOCO called Mervyn Price inside Joe Coffin’s house, you’ll be in cuffs before you know it. Your name’s all over police files for breaking and entering, Merv! What the hell were you thinking?”

“I thought it was a good idea.”

“Just . . . don’t show anyone the badge, all right?”

Merv nodded. “Well, I’m going to go and leave you alone now, anyway. You’re in the house, like you asked.” He handed her a key. “Just make sure to lock the door on the way out.”

“Of course I will, Merv.” Emma took his hand, slipped some money into it. “Thanks.”

Once Merv had gone, the house seemed unnaturally quiet. Emma stood in the carpeted hall, not sure if she could carry out her search of the house, after all. There was a framed photograph on the wall, to her right. Coffin and Steffanie, and Michael. A studio portrait, Coffin and Steffanie sitting together on the floor, Michael, could only be about one year old, sitting in between them. They were all smiling, Michael waving his hands at the camera. Coffin looked relaxed, his right hand on the floor, supporting him, his left forearm draped casually over a knee. With that big, goofy smile of his, he looked handsome.

Emma could understand why the women fell for him.

Steffanie, as always, looked stunning. She was smiling too, but was it just Emma, or did Steffanie’s smile appear to be a little more professional, less heartfelt than it should?

Baby Michael was adorable. Emma’s insides twisted up into a tight knot at the thought of what happened to them. And the guilt returned, too, the feeling that she had played an unwitting part in their deaths.

Emma buried the guilt, shoving it back where she couldn’t see it for the moment. The point of breaking into Coffin’s house was to find the USB stick, not agonise over her possible role in Michael’s death. Emma moved softly along the hall, pushed open a door.

The living room was light and airy. Everything lined up neat and tidy, like a showroom. Large flat panel TV mounted on the wall above the fireplace, black leather sofa and two armchairs arranged to face the television, light beige carpet, another framed portrait of the family. Michael a tiny baby in this one, held between Coffin and Steffanie, all of them tastefully naked.

The photograph, the room’s decor, all had Steffanie’s touch to it. Emma just couldn’t reconcile Joe Coffin living here, couldn’t match this living space, and that photograph, with the man she had spent time with yesterday.

In shocking contrast to the rest of the room was the large patch of dried blood in the carpet. This was where Steffanie had been murdered, left to bleed out from the wide, ragged gash in her throat. What still puzzled the police was the lack of any signs of a struggle, or a break in. Steffanie had to have let her killer in, as her body was discovered inside the house, all the doors and windows locked shut.

Emma stared at the brown bloodstain, once again struggling with her guilt. Emma had found Steffanie to be cold and calculating, and didn’t believe for one second that she ever loved Joe Coffin. Steffanie had been an expert manipulator of everyone she met, Emma was sure. She used her body for tips when she was pole dancing, and she married Joe Coffin for no other reason than a way out of a life she had grown bored with. But then that didn’t work out the way she intended, and she ended up saddled with a baby, changing nappies, feeding, washing, bathing, trapped in the house all day, playing Mummy. And then there were those tedious hours spent at the local toddler groups, discussing nappy rash, baby clothes, first baby steps, and all the other crap that Steffanie had no interest in whatsoever.

Sure, she would have acted the part, played the role of new mother to perfection, fooled everyone she met. But inside, she hated it all, maybe even hated her son, for transforming her from desirable sex goddess into a slave for an insatiable, ever demanding creature that considered itself to be the centre of the universe.

That was why she had been prepared to shop Coffin for the murder of Terry Wu, along with Mortimer Craggs and the whole Slaughterhouse Mob. Emma was reasonably sure that Wu hadn’t been Coffin’s first contract killing, and those other murders were probably documented in the evidence that Steffanie had gathered.

As far as Emma was concerned, Steffanie Coffin had been a cold hearted bitch.

Still didn’t make her feel any better about what happened to her and Michael, though.

Emma had no interest in searching the living room. If the USB stick was anywhere in the house, then Emma was convinced it would be hidden amongst Michael’s things. That day at The Fifth Lock, the slip of paper with the still of Terry Wu on it, from the video footage, that had been hidden in a pack of baby wipes. Steffanie had never struck Emma as a woman of much imagination. She was reasonably certain that Steffanie would have hidden the USB stick somewhere similar.

The police would have done a thorough search of the house for evidence in the murder case, but they hadn’t been looking for any items hidden by Steffanie, or anybody else for that matter. They were looking for forensic evidence, or a murder weapon.

Mortimer Craggs’ crew though, that was different. If Steffanie’s murder had been a hit ordered by Craggs, because he found out she was going to the papers with enough evidence to land him in prison for the rest of his life, then he would have ordered a detailed search of her house, too. There was a distinct possibility that Craggs already had the USB stick, and all the damning evidence it contained.

That thought wasn’t worth pursuing. If Craggs had found the USB stick, he’d probably destroyed it by now, along with any chance Emma had of a big, juicy story to make her name with.

Emma left the living room and took the carpeted stairs two at a time. She slipped her way into Michael’s bedroom, hesitated just over the threshold, like she was invading a sacred place. Stuffed teddies filled one corner of a large cot, the blue walls were decorated with space rockets, and comical aliens and spacemen, and brightly coloured, plastic toys piled up in a play box.

Michael hadn’t wanted for anything.

Except perhaps the love of his mother.

But what about Joe Coffin? Had those hands that had dispensed death also been able to dispense love and affection?

Emma began searching the room.

She took the toy box first, carefully removing the toys one by one, examining them for openings, somewhere big enough to hide a USB stick. The battery compartments of the electrical toys were the most obvious place to start. Emma had brought a selection of small screwdrivers with her to open up the flaps. Soon she was surrounded by trains, walkie talkies, talking teddies, toy computers that beeped and buzzed when she switched them on, and a couple of big, bright plastic contraptions with flashing lights and levers and buttons, that she had no idea what they did.

When she had finished with the toys she moved onto the wardrobe, carefully searching through all of Michael’s clothes, her fingers running along the thick seams and searching through the tiny shoes. She examined the wardrobe too, scouring every inch of it for hidden recesses.

Nothing.

Emma lifted the mattress out of the cot and searched it for any cuts, anywhere Steffanie might have inserted the stick. Nothing that she could see, not even any repairs to the mattress. She searched through the bedding, through the drawers in the dresser.

When she had finished, Emma sat down in the middle of the room and rested her head in her hands.

Maybe she had underestimated Steffanie, after all. If the USB stick wasn’t here, then Emma had no idea where to continue looking for it.

Or, the other possibility was that Craggs already had it.

Emma’s head snapped up as she heard the rumble of the garage door being swung open. On her hands and knees she crawled over to the window and peered over the window ledge.

Joe Coffin was standing on the drive, looking into the open garage.

“Oh, fuck,” Emma muttered.

What the hell was he doing here? Hadn’t he said he was staying away, that the memories back here would be too painful to be around?

Quickly and quietly as possible, Emma began putting Michael’s room back as she had found it. She put the mattress back in the cot, folding the sheets over it. She picked up a square, soft, blue blanket, with a drawing of a cartoon dog printed in a repeating pattern all over it. The blanket looked like a child’s comforter, looked well used.

Emma put the blanket in the cot. Turned around. The toys, their compartments were all open, batteries scattered across the floor.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Emma muttered.

Why the hell hadn’t she tidied up as she searched the room?

She knelt down on the floor and began gathering the batteries up, snapping them into their compartments. Her hands were shaking as she tried tightening the screws up.

If Coffin found her up here, what would he do? Emma had absolutely no explanation for being in his house, searching through his dead son’s possessions.

The toy train fell out of Emma’s hands, the two batteries rolling across the carpet.

“Fuck!”

She stood up. Fuck this, she had to get out, before Coffin came upstairs and found her.

Leaving the bedroom in a mess, Emma stepped out onto the landing. She could see down the stairs to the front door. Couldn’t go out that way, she had to walk past the garage entrance to get back to her car.

Her car! Shit. If Coffin was in the garage then he had a nice view of her car parked across the road. At least it was the hire car, and not the Fiesta. But how to get back to her car if it was in his line of vision the whole time?

She would just have to leave it for the moment, come back later and collect it. Right now she needed to get the fuck out of Coffin’s house before he came in and found her. Emma took a couple of steps down the stairs, unconsciously holding her breath, expecting Coffin to open the door at any moment, and stare up at her, his look of astonishment turning to anger.

She stopped walking, gripped the banister.

Her phone was buzzing in her pocket. She pulled it out, glanced at the screen. Nick again. She put the mobile away, ignored him.

But she couldn’t walk any further down the stairs. She had the strong sense that she had missed something. Something so obvious that she would kick herself if she knew what it was.

Steffanie. No imagination, absolutely none at all. Intelligent, focused, scheming, but not one scrap of imagination about her. How often would she have spent playing with Michael in his bedroom? Those toys looked brand new still, like they had just been bought yesterday.

It took imagination to play with toys, didn’t it? A willingness to suspend disbelief, and enter into a child’s make believe world, much of which involved garishly coloured, noisy toys, and teddy bears.

Not something that Emma could picture Steffanie being at ease with.

And honestly, did children really need playing with? Stick them in front of the television, or a PlayStation, or give them an iPad. That would keep a kid quiet for hours, surely?

Emma turned slowly, looked back up the stairs, at the open bathroom door. Sure, you didn’t have to play with children, but what every child needed was its nappy changing, its bottom cleaning.

On top of the bathroom cabinet were three packs of baby wipes.

“No fucking imagination, Steffanie,” Emma whispered.

She glanced back down at the front door. No sign of Coffin coming in the house yet. Whatever he was doing in the garage was keeping him busy.

Steffanie crept into the bathroom. She reached up and pulled down the three packs of baby wipes. Was tempted to rip them open straight away, but couldn’t bear to be in the house any longer. Not with Coffin downstairs.

Emma sat down on the toilet lid.

Got to think about this. Keep calm. If you run outside now, Coffin will see you.

As far as Emma could work it out, she only had two choices. One was to find a way out of the back of the house, and hope that there wasn’t a view from the garage over the back gardens. She would have to leave the car, come back for it later. That meant a long walk back into the city centre, or a taxi.

The second choice was to sit tight inside the house, and hope that Coffin didn’t come inside.

The sound of a key in the front door made both her choices redundant. Emma remained sitting on the toilet lid, staring through the open doorway, at the landing and the top of the stairs. Out of her line of view, she heard Coffin opening the front door and stepping inside. It was all over now. Her career, most definitely. Even Karl, her editor, wouldn’t stand by her after she was arrested for breaking and entering.

And, considering Coffin’s reputation, there was a good chance her life might be over very soon, too.

She glanced around the bathroom, looking for an escape route. Apart from the bathroom door, the window was the only way out, and the section that opened up was far too small for her to climb through. If Coffin walked into the kitchen, maybe she could creep down the stairs and then make a run for it through the door, and to her car.

Emma didn’t think she would get very far, though.

Maybe he wouldn’t even come upstairs. What if he had just come back to pick up some things?

Like, clothes?

From his bedroom.

Or maybe he was moving back in.

Emma closed her eyes, tried focusing on listening for his footsteps. If she could work out where he was going, which room he was moving into, she might have a chance.

Emma flinched as she heard the front door slam shut. That was it, he was definitely staying. There was no chance of her escaping now. All she could do was hope to appeal to his better nature.

Emma flinched again, at the sound of a loud, low rumble. Sounded like a motorbike.

Curious, she slipped off the toilet lid and onto the floor. She crept along the carpet until she could see downstairs, peering over the top step at the front door. It was shut, and the hall was empty. Emma crept out of the bathroom and back into Michael’s bedroom. On her hands and knees, amongst the toys and batteries scattered over the carpet, she looked cautiously out of the bedroom window.

Coffin, astride a huge motorbike, was on the drive, revving the engine, which was spewing clouds of purple smoke from the exhausts. What was that? A Harley Davidson?

She watched as Coffin kicked the kickstand down and got off the bike. He shut the garage door. Just like yesterday he was wearing blue jeans, white T-shirt and his black, scuffed leather jacket. He looked like he was having trouble using his right arm. Wasn’t it his right shoulder the psycho bastard had chewed up?

Coffin placed a shiny, black helmet over his head and climbed back on the Harley. Emma watched as he coasted down the drive, and then, with a low, guttural roar, disappeared down the quiet, leafy avenue.

Emma twisted around, sat down with her back against the wall, and closed her eyes. That had been close.

Far too close.

Now that Coffin was gone, she decided that she needed to tidy Michael’s room. Best not to leave any sign that someone had been here. But she needed to act fast, just in case Coffin had gone for a quick spin around the streets, before coming back.

As fast as she could, the job made easier now that Emma’s hands were no longer trembling, she put the batteries back in the toy compartments, and placed the toys back in the toy box. When she was satisfied she had put the room back as she had found it, she crept down the stairs, the packs of baby wipes in her hands.

Cradling the baby wipes against her body with one hand, she pulled open the front door.

“What the fuck!” she said, and dropped the packets on the floor.

“Ooh, contemgander the lovelable damselvety over thithertoo!” said the strange looking man blocking the doorway.

wiilllmmmaaaaaa!

Coffin braked and slowed the Fat Boy to a halt outside Angels. A police car was parked outside the club. There was no one in the car.

Coffin revved the throttle and pulled around the back of the club, parked up in the customer car park. He climbed off the bike and slowly flexed his right hand, and gingerly rotated his shoulder. His right arm, from his fingers to his shoulder, was on fire. The journey from his house back to Angels was only a short one, but towards the end he’d had trouble gripping the handlebar with his right hand.

After finding out that Shaddock wasn’t a doctor, Coffin was seriously considering seeing a specialist. It wasn’t the scarring that bothered him, but keeping the use of his arm. After examining the wounds in his shoulder and forearm, Shaddock had done nothing more than sew him up, and supply him with a course of antibiotics. Did he really want to trust Shaddock with repairing his damaged shoulder, when he seemed to have learnt most of his doctoring skills from watching Casualty?

The problem was, he couldn’t exactly turn up at a hospital, and ask for treatment. There would be too many questions, not the least of them being, what on earth happened to you, and which quack sewed you up?

First chance Coffin got, he would ask around, see if he could find somebody else, who was off the grid, to have a look at him.

But he might ask to see qualifications first.

Despite the pain, it had been good to get back on the Harley. Especially after going back into his house for the first time since losing Steffanie and Michael. He had thought to just have a quick look around, check that everything was okay, and gauge how he felt about being home. But he couldn’t do it. The hallway was as far as he got. Seeing the photos on the wall, the familiar surroundings, the silence, it had all been too much.

He couldn’t face the pain of going back in his home just yet.

But soon. The pain of losing his wife and son was never going to go away, but Coffin was a realist. He had to get on with his life. Maybe now was the time to get out of the Slaughterhouse Mob. Move away, start afresh. Hell, he’d lived in Birmingham all his life. Hadn’t set foot out of the West Midlands before he met Laura, and she insisted on them taking a holiday somewhere nice.

They wound up in Torquay, spent a weekend walking along the seafront, playing on the penny slot machines in the arcades, eating ice creams on the beach.

It had been hell.

But what if Coffin just got on his bike and rode off somewhere, anywhere? He didn’t have to stay in one place any longer than a night. Maybe he could take his Harley to the USA, ride up and down those long, straight roads through the desert. Just like that TV series he used to watch as a boy, Then Came Bronson. Bronson was like Caine from Kung Fu, travelling around the west on his bike, sorting out people’s problems. Watching that show had been responsible for getting Coffin into motorbikes. Bronson rode a 1969 Harley Davidson Sportster, with the eye of providence painted on the fuel tank.

Coffin had sometimes thought about having an illustration painted on the Fat Boy’s fuel tank, but he could never decide what.

Coffin walked in the club through the back entrance. Chairs were stacked on tables, the bar in darkness, the silver and gold poles on the stage looking forlorn without a half-naked girl wrapped around each one. The only sounds were that of the cleaning lady pushing a vacuum between the tables, and the low murmur of conversation from two men at the bar.

Coffin sauntered over.

Best to get this done with.

Craggs was sitting on one stool, elbow leaning on the bar, steaming mug of coffee in hand. The mug had the Angels logo on it.

DCI Nick Archer was perched on the stool next to Craggs. He didn’t have a drink. He looked tense, unhappy, like he had a lot on his mind.

Craggs turned to face Coffin as he approached, and Archer stood up.

“Perfect timing, Joe,” Craggs said, his face breaking open into a wide smile. “This is DCI Archer, he wanted to ask you a few questions.”

Archer didn’t offer his hand. “You’re a difficult man to find, Mr Coffin.”

Coffin raised an eyebrow. “Most people would disagree, considering my size.”

“What happened to your face?”

“Got myself a kitten,” Coffin said. “He likes to use my face as a scratching post.”

Archer stared at Coffin, like he wanted to tell him to stop being a dick, have some respect. “Have you been in contact with Tom Mills, recently?”

“Not for a couple of days.”

“What about yesterday, at Hilton Park service station?”

Coffin tilted his head back a touch, put on a thoughtful expression.

“Nope, don’t believe I saw him yesterday,” he said, finally.

“But you were at the service station, right?”

“Not me, I don’t like motorway service stations.”

Archer sighed. “We have witnesses, Coffin, saw you there, with a young woman, Emma Wylde, driving a Ford Fiesta.”

Craggs laughed. “You see Joe fitting in a tin bucket like a Fiesta? It’d be like the Flintstones, where Dino sticks his head through the car roof at the drive-in. You remember the Flintstones, don’t you, Archer?”

Coffin chuckled, shook his head. “I used to love the Flintstones.”

“Yabba dabba doooo!” Craggs yelled, his old man’s voice cracking as he stretched out the vowel at the end.

“Wiillllmmaaaaa!” Coffin roared.

“You two are funny,” Archer said. “You both missed your vocation in life. You could have been a comedy double act, instead of a pair of thugs and killers.”

Craggs looked at Coffin, his eyes alive with amusement. “Did DCI Archer just accuse us of murder, Joe?”

“Sounded like it to me.”

“Maybe I should ring my lawyer, before Archer charges us. Are you going to charge us with something, Archer? Or were you just thinking out loud when you called Joe and myself killers?”

“Like I already said, we have witnesses, Coffin, saw you chasing Tom Mills, after he assaulted that man and stole his Mercedes,” Archer said.

“Tom assaulted someone, and stole his car?” Coffin said, and gave Archer a look of feigned astonishment.

“Doesn’t sound like Tom to me,” Craggs replied. “What do you think, Joe?”

Coffin shook his head, sighed deeply. “Tom’s a sweet guy, wouldn’t hurt a fly. These witnesses of yours, they must be mistaken.”

Archer stood up. “All right, all right, enough with the comedy routine. I knew I was wasting my time coming here.”

Craggs spread his hands out wide, smiled. “I wish we could be of more help, Detective Archer.”

“Of course you do,” Archer said, walking between the tables stacked with chairs, past the cleaning lady, pushing the vacuum around. She flicked the Vs at his retreating back.

“Archer!” Coffin shouted.

The detective stopped by the door, turned back to stare at Coffin.

“Shouldn’t you be out looking for the Birmingham Vampire, instead of wasting your time here, questioning me about an assault over which I had nothing to do with?”

Archer stared Coffin down for a couple of seconds. “If you see Tom Mills, he needs to hand himself in right away for questioning.”

“Of course, Detective Archer,” Craggs said.

Coffin and Craggs sat at the bar, watched Archer leave.

“Fucking filth,” Craggs muttered.

Coffin reached across the bar and grabbed himself a mug, filled it with strong, black coffee from the pot. “Anyone seen Tom, yet?”

“Not yet. But he’ll come crawling back soon enough, you can bet on it.”

“And when he does I’m going to rip him apart, bit by bit, until he tells me what’s going on.” Coffin sipped at the hot coffee. “What do you think that was all about, with Archer? Didn’t seem like an official police visit to me.”

“You know him and that reporter are an item, don’t you?”

Coffin put his coffee down on the bar. “Emma Wylde?”

“Yeah, the same Emma Wylde you were cavorting with yesterday.”

Coffin ran his hand over his scalp, and massaged the back of his neck. The wounds on his face and chest were itching, and he had to resist the urge to rip the dressings off. “It wasn’t a date, you know. We didn’t even kiss.”

“I don’t care if she let you slip your hand down her panties, you still managed to piss off her boyfriend.”

“You think that was why he came here?”

“What would you do in his position, your girlfriend’s seen running around with a known criminal?”

“I’d rip his head off.”

Craggs leaned forward, fixing him with a stare. “What the fuck, Joe? I didn’t say anything last night, but seriously, what the fuck? Since when did it seem like a good idea to hang around with a reporter? Not only that, but her boyfriend’s a fucking copper.”

Coffin opened his mouth to say something, but Craggs held his hand up, silenced him.

“And if that wasn’t bad enough, he’s the same fucking copper who’s had a hard on for you ever since you fixed Terry Wu! You mind explaining to me what’s going on?”

Coffin shrugged, sipped some more of the coffee. “There’s nothing to explain. We bumped into each other at the hospital, both of us looking for Tom. When Tom made a run for it, we went after him in her car.”

“A fucking Ford Fiesta.”

Coffin smiled. “It was a tight fit.”

Craggs took Coffin’s hand, gave it a squeeze. “Joe, I know you can take care of yourself, but you’ve got to be careful. This Archer, I’ve got a bad feeling about him. Fucking coppers are bad enough, but one that’s got his sights set on you? That’s your worst nightmare.”

“I can handle Archer,” Coffin said.

Craggs let go of Coffin’s hand. “I know you can, Joe. I just want you to take care, that’s all.”

* * *

DCI Nick Archer climbed in the police car, sat behind the wheel and watched the nightclub’s front door.

What an idiot you are! You should have got Coffin down to the station, questioned him on his own, away from the old man, away from the club. Why the hell did you have to come over here and make a fool of yourself like this?

But Nick already knew the answer to that question.

Emma.

Ever since he’d had that call from Collins at Staffordshire Police, Nick had been on edge. They had been the ones called out to the assault on the Mercedes driver. Coffin had been identified by witnesses at the scene. He wasn’t exactly easy to miss. But it hadn’t been until earlier this morning that Nick had received, what Collins termed, a ‘courtesy call’, to let Nick know that Emma had been identified as having been on the scene too.

What the hell had she been doing at Hilton Park services, with Joe Coffin of all people? If the witness they had was to be believed, Coffin actually got in Emma’s Fiesta and they drove off together, in pursuit of Tom Mills.

Archer shifted in his seat, tried stretching out his legs in the confines of the car. He was tired, and stiff, and ached all over. He was supposed to be in bed, getting a few hours’ sleep before his next stint on duty, coordinating the manhunt for the Birmingham Vampire. The psycho had seemingly just disappeared, which was incredible, considering his wounds, and the fact that he was naked. Surely somebody must have seen him?

But he’d gone, vanishing like a puff of smoke.

They had to make some progress soon, find the bastard before the papers started laying into them. It wouldn’t take long, before the headlines started screaming about ‘incompetent police’, and ‘who was going to protect the city if the police couldn’t’. What did they know? They hadn’t seen Pierce and Webb, lying in a dark pool of blood, in the cellar at that house, their throats ripped wide open.

Why the hell did Emma have to be a reporter? Of all the girls he could have chosen to move in with, and he wound up with a reporter. But she was funny and sexy and, although she infuriated him so much at times, he liked that she was independent minded. Archer had never gone for women who just rolled over and gave in at the first sign of a fight.

But sometimes he just wished she would listen to him. Like yesterday. He’d told her not to leave the house, he’d told her it was dangerous. But no, she refused to listen to him, and wound up being associated with an assault, with Joe Coffin of all people.

Was that why her car had got smashed up?

And why was she lying to him? Was it just because she knew he would be angry with her, for not listening to his advice, and for being with Joe Coffin?

Or was it more serious than that?

Maybe her and Coffin were having an affair.

Archer punched the wheel of his car in frustration.

Don’t be an idiot! Emma wouldn’t do that. And what would she see in Coffin, anyway? The big bastard has a face like a squashed pizza.

Still . . .

Nick called up Emma’s number on his mobile. He’d been trying to call her all morning, but he just kept getting her voice mail service.

Where the hell was she?

* * *

Emma could feel her mobile vibrating in her pocket, could hear the buzz.

“You’ve got a recally on your stelephone,” the tall, skeletal creature standing in the door said.

Emma said nothing, just stared at him, couldn’t take her eyes off him. He looked like the vampire in that old film, what was it called? Oh yeah, Nosferatu.

Keeping her eyes on him all the time, Emma squatted down and picked up the packets of baby wipes. Nosferatu watched her constantly, his dark little eyes tracking her movements. She stood up, slowly. He looked so painfully thin, a stiff wind would most likely blow him over. Emma thought about rushing him, pushing him aside and dashing for her car. Wouldn’t take much, he’d probably still be getting to his feet by the time she was driving off.

But something about him made her hesitate. Maybe it was his bizarre appearance, or the strange language he spoke in. Or maybe it was something else, an uneasy prickling running down her back, that told Emma he was stronger, faster, than he looked.

And she didn’t like the way he was looking at her.

Emma’s mobile stopped buzzing.

Nosferatu licked his dry, cracked lips.

Another figure stepped into view behind the tall, dirty, dishevelled creature.

“Oh, how delightful,” said the woman. “There is somebody home, after all.”

Not quite as tall as the man, but at least twice his weight, she was wearing a long, black coat and dark, wraparound sunglasses. Emma didn’t like this, not at all. Whatever their intentions were at Joe Coffin’s house, Emma didn’t really want to stick around and find out what they were.

Emma was forced to walk backwards as the two strangers entered the house. The woman closed the door behind her.

“Who the fuck are you two?” Emma said.

“This is my good friend and companion, Mr Corpse,” the fat woman said.

“Mrs Stump, she’s smashioning,” said Corpse.

“What did he say?” Emma said.

“He said that he likes you,” Stump replied.

She took off the sunglasses. Her eyelids were puffy and red, and her eyes were weeping. She wiped at them, and Emma went cold as she realised the hand was plastic, looked like something off a mannequin.

“Your eyes, they look sore,” she said.

“Oh, yes, they’ve been bothering me for days, now. Such a trial.”

“You’ve probably got conjunctivitis,” Emma said.

Stump stopped wiping at her eyes with the plastic hand. “Have I now?”

“Go to the chemists, you can get some eye drops. Clear it up in no time.”

“Why, thank you.” Stump turned to Corpse. “So nice to meet someone who’s prepared to help another person, isn’t it Mr Corpse? People are so unfriendly these days, so reluctant to get involved.”

“I’d likewish to inspeer her sunlicked buttarbuns,” Corpse said.

“What the fuck’s he talking about?” Emma said.

“He said he wants to have a look at your bottom.” Stump smiled, dimples forming in her pudgy cheeks. There was a fine tracery of red veins running over her bulbous nose. Her greasy hair was tied back off her forehead covered in spots.

“Is that right?” Emma said.

She took a step backwards, clutching the three packs of baby wipes to her chest. Why the fuck had she decided to take them all? All she’d had to do was take them apart until she found the USB stick, and then she could have stuffed that in her jeans pocket. Instead she looked like she was about to perform a mass baby’s arse wiping session.

Corpse’s eyes flitted about the hallway. His gaze settled on the portrait of Coffin and his family.

“Joe Coffin,” he said, as though he had discovered Coffin standing right in front of them.

Stump lifted the framed photograph off the wall and looked at it. She ran her mannequin’s hand over the glass, as though the yellowing, plastic fingers had the power of touch. Emma was amazed and appalled to see a tear form in the corner of Stump’s pudgy face, and roll down her cheek.

“So sad,” she said. “What a lovely looking family. Who would have thought that Joe Coffin could have such inner beauty? Look at the love for his son, shining from that battered face of his.”

“The little sprogborn is looksing good enoughly to munchguzzle,” Corpse said.

Emma hoped he wasn’t being literal.

Stump gazed at Corpse, a look of tenderness on her face. “Mr Corpse and I would have loved a child, but it was never to be. We have had to settle for taking pleasure in other families’ children, which is some comfort, at least.”

“That’s nice,” Emma said, her stomach turning over at the thought of these two creatures taking off their clothes and having sex.

Corpse stuck his finger up his nose, shoving it up inside until half of it had disappeared, and Emma was convinced his fingertip must be scratching at his brains.

“Oh, Mr Corpse, you would have made a lovely father, I know you would,” Stump said, still gazing at her companion.

Then she tossed the photograph to one side, and the glass shattered when it hit the floor.

“Fuck!” Emma said, jumping out of the way of the glass shards.

Stump smiled. “What’s your name, young lady?”

“What the fuck’s it got to do with you?”

“I’m a concerned citizen, investigating a break in at a house.”

Corpse pulled his finger out of his nose, and inspected the shining lump of green snot on his fingertip. Then he popped it in his mouth and sucked, his eyes rolling back in his head with pleasure.

“The fuck you are,” Emma said. “You see any signs of a break in? I came by to collect some stuff for Joe.”

Stump raised a bushy eyebrow. “Baby wipes?”

“Yeah, they’re good for cleaning stuff.”

Emma glanced at Corpse. He was still sucking on his finger, and there was a tiny trickle of blood from his nostril.

Stump wiped at her weeping eyes with her mannequin’s hand. “Where is Joe Coffin?”

“Uh, I don’t know,” Emma said. “I’m meeting him later, give him this stuff then.”

Stump stepped up close to Emma. She tried moving out of the way, but her back bumped up against a wall. Stump lifted her hand and ran the back of her plastic fingers down Emma’s cheek.

“Such soft, lovely skin,” she whispered. “Do you moisturise?”

“Okay, you need to get the fuck out of my face,” Emma hissed.

Stump continued stroking Emma’s cheek with her mannequin’s hand. Emma twisted her head, trying to keep away from the cold touch of the plastic. The yellow, stiff fingers stank of dried up bodily fluids.

“Such a shame if your soft, lovely face was to be sliced apart. Your beautiful flesh opened up and ripped into shreds. Are you as pretty on the inside, do you think?” She looked at Corpse, still sucking on his finger. “Go and take a look around the house. I doubt Coffin is here, but I do like to be sure of these things.”

Corpse grinned, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood dripping from his nose across his face. He walked up the stairs, his long legs taking the steps two at a time.

“Why are you looking for Coffin?” Emma said.

“I’ve been asked to deliver a message to him,” Stump whispered, her plastic fingers still running softly up and down Emma’s cheek. Her breathing had gone shallow, and her face taken on a slack appearance.

Emma tried shifting sideways, but Stump gripped her by the shoulder, pinned her against the wall. Stump was surprisingly strong, her fingers digging deep into her flesh, and Emma had to clench her teeth together to keep from crying out in pain. And those cold, mannequin fingers kept on rubbing softly against her face.

Corpse was stomping around upstairs, slamming doors open and shut. He quickly finished searching the rooms, and walked down the stairs, singing tunelessly to himself.

“No onebodies hereabouts,” he said.

“Search the downstairs,” Stump said, her voice low and guttural.

Corpse walked past them, his feet crunching over the broken glass.

Stump kept Emma pinned against the wall, stroking her plastic fingers up and down Emma’s cheek, in a slow, rhythmic movement. Stump’s eyes looked dull and unfocused. But Emma had the feeling that if she tried to make a bolt for freedom, Stump’s attention would snap back to the present moment straight away, and Emma would pay for her mistake.

“Nobodies down insidering hereabouts, neithering,” Corpse said.

Stump blinked, her eyes focusing on Emma once more. She lowered the mannequin hand, and let go of Emma’s shoulder.

“Well, how disappointing,” she said, stepping back, and composing herself.

Emma scooted sideways, her back sliding against the wall. Stump made no move to stop her. Clutching the three packs of baby wipes to her abdomen, Emma sidled up to the front door.

“If you do see Joe Coffin,” Stump said, smiling, “please tell him that Stump and Corpse are looking for him. It’s been far too long since we last saw each other.”

Emma grabbed the front door handle and pulled it open. Her hands were shaking.

“Pair of fucking maniacs,” she muttered, and backed outside, keeping Stump and Corpse in view the whole time.

Once she had shut the door, Emma turned and ran down to her car. Fumbling with her keys, the packets of baby wipes fell to the ground, and then she dropped her keys, too. Emma clenched her hands into fists and took a deep breath. She grabbed the keys, unlocked the car and climbed inside. She reached out and picked up the packets of baby wipes, and closed her door.

Gripping the steering wheel, she let out a long whoosh of air.

What did that pair of weirdos want with Joe Coffin? Emma had a feeling it wasn’t anything good. She wondered if maybe she should get in touch with him, let him know that a couple of nutjobs called Stump and Corpse were after him.

But then she decided against it. Just because they had spent time together yesterday, chasing Tom Mills up the M6, and earlier in the day when he’d pulled that psycho off her, didn’t mean she owed him anything.

Besides, if she had the USB stick now, and if Steffanie had been telling the truth and it did contain video footage of Coffin murdering Terry Wu, then Emma was about to send Coffin to jail for a long time.

So really, was there any point in letting him know that two more psychopaths were stalking him?

Emma looked out of her window at Coffin’s house. No sign of Stump and Corpse leaving yet.

Left alone in her car, on the quiet, suburban street, Emma wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t been dreaming the events of the last few minutes.

we're going to have to kill some people

The boy appreciated the darkness of the tunnel, Abel could see that immediately. The cloud cover was thinner today, the sun breaking through the grey occasionally, shining into the narrowboat’s cabin. When that happened, the boy went wild. He scrabbled around the cabin, screeching and howling, clawing at the floor, trying to find shade. Abel did everything he could to keep him out of the light, and keep him calm. If anyone was to come and investigate the noises, Abel would have to kill them.

And there really wasn’t much more room for any more bodies. The cabin was littered with black plastic bags, containing the dismembered remains of Marge and Alf. Abel had intended getting rid of them, maybe throwing them into the dark, murky canal water. But the boy had needed blood, and so he had kept them. Like a dog with a juicy bone, the boy had sucked on the ends of the severed limbs, and the decapitated heads. The blood was cold and thick, but it was nourishment at least.

Abel had steered the narrowboat along the canal, searching for shade, until he had come across the tunnel. He moored just inside. The tunnel was wide, with enough space for other narrowboats to fit past. But the canal system was quiet, and Abel hadn’t seen anyone else so far today. Once inside the darkness, the boy calmed down. He sat cross legged on the cabin floor, sucking happily on the spinal cord dangling from Alf’s neck. The boy had already sucked the juices from his eyeballs, and the old man’s sightless sockets gazed up at the ceiling, as the boy cradled the bloody head in his lap.

He looked contented now, sleepy even. His eyelids had begun drooping as he slurped and sucked at the old man’s cold flesh. His burial clothes were covered in dirt and splatters of blood. Abel wondered if it might be a good idea to find him some new clothes. This might prove to be a little more difficult than buying the saw and the rubbish bags from the hardware store, though.

Thinking of the store reminded Abel of the young woman who had served him. Her soft flesh, crying out to Abel to be despoiled by his touch. Just thinking about her stirred desire within him. Marge had served to satisfy his lust fleetingly, but her wrinkled old body was no substitute for young, tender flesh. The need was on him again, gnawing at his insides, as he imagined the girl, naked and defenceless. Abel saw himself soothing her sobs with a kiss on her lips, tasting her tongue as his fingers raked down her body, and his nails sliced open her flesh.

The little boy could feast on her warm blood whilst Abel fucked her. And when they were finished, maybe he would leave her to turn, and then they could be a family together.

Mummy and Daddy, and their little boy.

How sweet.

* * *

“Oh, fuck.”

Tom shut the door behind him and leant against it. He was so fucking tired of all the blood, and the dead bodies, and the running. And, yes, he was tired of the sex, too. He could see the look in Steffanie’s eyes, the lust, the need to couple her body with his. But he was sick of it. And his dick was so fucking sore, felt like he’d taken some skin off it the last time she fucked him.

The dead body lying on the floor, leaking blood all over the carpet, kind of ruined the atmosphere, too.

Tom ran his hand through his short hair, took a deep breath.

“What the fuck happened here?”

A giggle burst out of his mouth. He clapped his hand over his mouth, but then another giggle erupted from between his fingers, and then another, and another, until he was doubled up, cackling manic bursts of laughter. He put the flat of his hand against the wall and leaned on it, and clutched his stomach.

“Did you hear what I just said?” he gasped.

Steffanie gazed at him with a quizzical smile.

He pointed at the dead maid lying on the floor, the crimson streaks up the walls. “I asked you what happened, like it’s a fucking surprise!” Tom wheezed. “I should be fucking used to seeing dead bodies leaking blood all over the place by now.”

The old man was kneeling beside the maid’s body, bony backside sticking in the air, his hands on the floor while he lapped at the crimson pool of blood gathered by the woman’s head and left shoulder. Tom could see the reflection of the window in the dark, glossy surface, so smooth and shiny it could have been a mirror.

“She didn’t knock,” Steffanie said. “Aren’t the maids supposed to knock, before they come in and clean the room?”

Tom slowly straightened up, his giggles subsiding. “I think so, yeah.”

“He was on her before I could stop him. I slammed the door shut, before she could scream, but he had already ripped her throat out.”

“The old bastard’s getting stronger, isn’t he?” Tom said. “I noticed it this morning, but I thought it was my imagination. But I’m looking at him now, and he seems younger, stronger.”

Steffanie gazed down at the skeletal figure, crouching on the floor, its grey tongue flicking in and out, as it drank the blood. It surprised Tom to see her like this. She looked scared, like this was something she had been waiting for, but never really believed was going to happen.

“What’s happening, Steffanie? Who is this ancient fuck?”

“He’s the Father of all vampires, everywhere. He’s the first one. Or maybe not the first, Abel told me, but the oldest vampire left.”

“And Abel dug him out of the ground in the cellar, didn’t he?”

Steffanie tore her gaze from the Father, and looked at Tom, her eyes bright and shiny, almost like she was the old Steffanie again. “Abel buried him down there over a hundred years ago, in a coffin filled with the blood of seven virgins.”

“Abel did? What the fuck for?”

“It was a ritual, a way of renewing him, before he died.”

“I thought vampires were fucking immortal,” Tom said, glancing down at the Father lapping at the blood.

“Abel said no, we’re not. He said vampires can live hundreds of years, sometimes over a thousand, but we age eventually. And then we die.”

Steffanie was regaining her composure, that sly look on her face again, her eyes darkened once more. Tom didn’t like that look.

“So he buried him in a coffin full of virgin’s blood, and that was what, meant to make him young again? He’s never looked too fucking healthy to me.”

“He needed fresh, warm blood for the sacrifices to work, once he was out of the ground. Those bags of sterile, hospital blood were never good enough, they hardly did anything for him.”

“And that’s why you kept Jacob prisoner, kept slicing him open and bleeding him.”

“That’s right. We didn’t want to go hunting yet. Abel was worried about drawing too much attention to ourselves just then.” Steffanie smiled. “We’re almost impossible to kill, you know. We can heal from any wound, and only sunlight can do us any real damage. But if enough people knew about us, if enough men came after us, and hunted us down, how could we feed? How could we provide for the Father? And we would be killed, eventually. The boy gave us a steady supply of blood, even though in small amounts.”

“That boy, as you call him, is my fucking son, you cunt,” Tom said.

A lock of red, curly hair fell over Steffanie’s face. “That never bothered you before, Tom.”

Tom’s head was filled with white noise, with static. He clenched every muscle in his body as he resisted the urge to leap at Steffanie, screaming, and punching and kicking her until she was a bloody pulp.

“Do you like being a vampire, Steffanie?” he said. “Do you enjoy being dead?”

Steffanie sucked on a finger, gazed up at him from hooded eyes. “It has its advantages.”

“Do you know who killed you, Steffanie? Do you know who turned you into this fucking sex mad, blood sucking nymphomaniac?” Tom stabbed his thumb into his chest. “It was me. I did it. I’m the one who’s responsible for this whole fucking mess.”

Steffanie’s smile slipped, and her forehead creased into a frown. “No. I remember Abel, appearing at my window. He tapped at the window, and I let him in.” Her hand slipped to her neck, her fingertips sliding over the pink scar, so faint it was hardly visible. “And then he bit me.”

“You think it was pure chance he chose you? Just a random event that he came to your house?” Tom bared his teeth, but it was more of a snarl than a smile. “No. I fucking sent him. I sent him there to kill you. Not the kid, just you.” He shook his head, still grinning that crazy, sick smile. “I never for one single fucking moment thought he really was a vampire. Just some sick fuck, who liked to pretend. I saw him in that alley, and I was pissed, and he was chewing on that dead cat.” Tom leant the back of his head against the door, raised his eyes to the ceiling. “And I don’t know, maybe he fucking mesmerised me or something, but I had this idea that I could use him to kill you. All he wanted in exchange was the blood. That was fucking easy enough.”

Tom looked down at his hands, examined his thumb, the clean slice still visible where Abel had cut it open, and forced it into the Father’s mouth.

“It was only when I saw you again, after the funeral, that I realised he really is a fucking vampire. Shit, that was so fucking freaky, seeing you again, I almost crapped my pants.”

The only sound in the room was the Father, licking the blood off the maid’s face.

Tom stared at him. “Vampires. Fuck.”

“Why did you have me killed, Tom?” Steffanie whispered.

“Because you’re a fucking stupid bitch!” Tom hissed. “Because you wouldn’t listen to a fucking word I said to you. We had a fucking plan, Steffanie. You were meant to give the USB stick to that fucking reporter, but you didn’t did you? Coffin should be back in jail by now, along with Craggs and the rest of the Mob, but no, you had to fucking haggle for more money!”

“Oh God!” Steffanie groaned. “Will you stop going on about the USB stick? I can’t remember anything about it.”

Tom punched himself in the forehead. “I’m such a stupid bastard! All this time, I’ve been protecting you, providing you with blood, just waiting for you to remember what you did with it. Fucking Lois Lane can’t have it, or else it would have been all over the papers weeks ago. But if she doesn’t have it, and I can’t fucking find it in your house, then where the fuck is it, Steffanie? Where?”

“I already told you, I don’t know!” Steffanie snarled. “And I don’t care. I don’t remember everything about my life before, just fragments, bits and pieces. But that life is nothing to me anymore.”

“I need that USB stick, Steffanie. I need those files I copied from Craggs’ computer. I can’t get my hands on them again. I need them now!”

Steffanie ran her hands through her long hair, pushing it back off her face. “What’s so important about them, Tom? Why do you need them so much?”

Tom sighed, scrubbed his hands over his face. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. What we need do now is get the fuck out of here, before the maid is missed. You’re going to have to cover up again, while we get to the car. Think Rumplestiltskin here can walk now?”

“I think so, yes,” Steffanie said, and gazed thoughtfully at Tom. “Why are you doing this? You could run now, leave us behind. Why are you still helping us?”

“I’ve been hoping you might still remember what you did with that USB stick. But if even if you can’t, I’ve got a plan B now, and I can still use you for that.”

“How?”

“We’re going to have to kill some people.”

“Ooh, good,” Steffanie said, and smiled. “I like the sound of that.”

And, to Tom’s horror, the ancient, skeletal monstrosity on the floor paused in its feeding, and lifted its head to grin at Tom, its mouth and teeth a mask of dripping red.

prod the wasp's nest

Emma stared at the three packets of baby wipes lined up on her desk. She had arranged them in a very neat row, all facing the same direction, the company logo and the product name forming the start of a repeating pattern. Hell, if she had some more, she could set up a display. Maybe that could be her new career, after she got the sack from the Birmingham Herald for breaking and entering Joe Coffin’s house, and stealing three packets of baby wipes.

Shelf stacker.

“Hey, Ems, you want me to bring you a sandwich back?” Barry said.

Emma, jolted from her thoughts, looked up. “Huh?”

“A sandwich. Ham salad? Ploughman’s?”

“Oh, uh, no thanks, I’m fine, Barry.”

“Are those baby wipes?”

“Shit, Barry, all these years I’ve wondered what possessed Karl to hire you as a reporter, but now I see it. It’s your fucking powers of observation, right?”

“Yeah, very funny. What are you going to do with them, anyway?”

“What the fuck do you think I’m going to do with them? I’m going to wipe a baby’s arse.”

Barry’s eyes widened. “Emma, are you pregnant?”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Get the fuck out of my sight, Barry, before I report you to Karl.”

“What the hell for?”

“For being an empty headed fucktard, that’s what.”

“Have you always been an evil bitch, Emma, or is it permanently your time of the month?”

Emma flicked Barry the finger, but she was too late, he’d turned his back on her and was walking away. He’d probably go crying to Karl, later, and then Karl would invite her into his office, talk about how she needed to be a team player, change her fucking attitude.

Fuck that.

She looked at the baby wipes again. Yanked open a drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. She picked up the packet on the left of the row, attacked the thin plastic wrapper with the scissors. Pulled the block of moist, fragrant wipes out of their packet, and began leafing through them, scattering the wipes across her desk, until they had all been peeled apart.

Nothing.

Emma jammed the scissors into the second packet, ripped it open, tearing at the wipes, feeling her way through them until she was sure there was no USB stick hidden inside.

One pack left.

Emma put the scissors down. Stared at the packet like she could see right through it, like she could will that USB stick into existence in the middle of that block of wipes. If it wasn’t there, she had to accept the fact that she wasn’t going to find it. Either it had already been found by one of Craggs’ men, or Steffanie had been cleverer than Emma had thought. Either way, her big, career defining story was finished.

Picking up the scissors again, her hands shaking slightly, Emma sliced open the packet and pulled the block of wet baby wipes out. She didn’t peel them apart immediately, but picked the brick of moist wipes up and squeezed it.

There, in the middle, she could feel a solid object. She pulled the wipes apart, until the USB stick, wrapped in a clear plastic bag, dropped on her desk. Emma let go of the remaining wipes, swiped them off her desk and onto the floor. Stared at the USB stick, not quite believing that she had found it. If Steffanie had been telling the truth, and there was enough evidence on there to bring down Craggs and the Slaughterhouse Mob, including the footage of Coffin murdering Terry Wu, then Emma finally had that story she had been chasing all her adult life.

With trembling fingers, Emma ripped the plastic bag apart and pulled the USB stick out. She removed the cap and inserted it into a port on her computer. A dialogue box popped open on her screen, asking her what she wanted to do with the device. Emma selected ‘Open’ and clicked ‘OK’.

A new window opened. There were several Word and Excel files, and one MPG4.

Emma took a deep breath. Double clicked the MPG4 file.

The computer’s media player opened.

Emma yelped as an image of Terry Wu stared at her from the monitor, his big, round face in the middle of the screen.

It took Emma a second to work out what was going on. Then she realised, the video had been captured through the camera on Terry Wu’s computer. Emma had always assumed that the video footage had been captured by a CCTV setup. But no, here he was, frozen in a still video image, looking like he was about to skype someone. And then he had left the camera on? Had he known what was about to happen, and wanted evidence?

None of this seemed to make any sense.

Emma clicked on the play button.

Terry Wu sat at his computer, tapping one fingered at the keys on his keyboard. His face was all screwed up, and he took his time searching for each particular key that he needed to depress. The act of writing looked like it might be hard work for him at the best of times. The tip of his tongue was sticking out from between his swollen, baby’s lips. His face looked like a round balloon sitting on top of a round balloon body. . .

* * *

Emma gazed through the window and watched the cars crawling by on Broad Street. Lunchtime, and the Starbucks was filled with suited men and women on their breaks, grabbing a quick coffee and something to eat, or sat in front of laptops, working through their break while they ate. There was no excuse for stopping work anymore, or for not being connected. You could hold a conference call here, via the free Wi-Fi, upload files to your cloud storage, and work collaboratively with someone on the other side of the world, whilst consuming vast amounts of strong coffee and calorie rich food.

No wonder the world was so fucked up.

Emma was part of it, though. She carried her iPad around like it was a religious talisman. Had even the most ancient and superstitious of cultures ever revered their gods and idols as much as western society now revered its technological artefacts?

Emma doubted it.

If there really were vampires prowling the city, the next time Emma confronted one, she might try holding her iPad up in front of it. Maybe the holy power of Apple would ward off its evil, and the vampire would disappear into a crumbling mass of dust.

Emma had her iPad with her right now, and she had been watching Joe Coffin shoot Terry Wu, over and over again. She had found a corner seat, by the window, where nobody else could see what she was looking at on the screen. Finally she had got sick of seeing the video, and closed the tablet down. And now here she was, watching the cars and the pedestrians passing by, her coffee going cold, wondering what the hell she was going to do next.

What’s the fucking problem? You stick to the plan, go to the police, write up your story and splash it all over the front page. The cops get Craggs and Coffin and the rest of the Slaughterhouse Mob, and you get your big, career making story.

And yet . . .

Something was holding her back. Was it the sense that this career making story still seemed so much bigger than she realised at the moment? Emma still had no idea what Tom was up to, and who his mystery companions were. And what about the Birmingham Vampire? What was his connection to all of this? Emma had been convinced that Steffanie had been murdered by one of Craggs’ people, because they found out she was selling them out. But now she wasn’t so sure.

Emma thought back to what she had seen at No. 99. The blood soaked into the carpet by the fireplace, the Birmingham Vampire attacking her, Joe Coffin arriving. She thought about the fact that Jacob had been kept prisoner in the cellar. Did Tom know Jacob was there? Had he been keeping his son a prisoner all along?

And the video of Coffin killing Terry Wu. It just didn’t make sense to Emma. Terry Wu seemed to have no idea he was being filmed by his own computer. Had he been video conferencing someone earlier, and forgot to turn off the camera function? Was that even possible?

Or had he been setup?

And what about Terry Wu’s threat to Coffin, that the Seven Ghosts would hunt him down and avenge Terry Wu’s death? What were they, some kind of Triad gang? Emma would have to look them up. And it had been months since Coffin murdered Terry Wu. Why had there not been any retaliation so far?

Was it because Coffin had been in jail? Were they getting ready to strike now?

Or had Terry Wu been lying, desperately trying to think of anything he could say to stop Coffin pulling the trigger?

Emma remembered her coffee, took a sip. She grimaced and put it back down. She hated lukewarm coffee.

“The coffee that bad?”

Emma looked up. “Oh, hi Karl. No, it’s gone cold.”

“Good job I bought you another one,” the editor said, and placed a fresh coffee in front of her. He stayed standing, holding a second cup of coffee, not going anywhere. “May I join you?”

“Sure,” Emma said.

She put the iPad in her bag, pushed the bag under her chair.

Karl sat down opposite and tipped sugar and milk into his coffee, and looked thoughtfully at Emma as he stirred the drink. “Nick phoned the office earlier, said you weren’t answering your mobile, wondered where you were, if everything was okay.”

“Fuck,” Emma sighed. “That man’s worse than my mother.”

“I told him you were fine, that I’d tell you he was after you.”

“What did he want? Make sure I was eating my five a day?”

“Just said he needed to talk to you.”

Emma took a tentative sip of her coffee. It was hot and it was good. “Mrs Edwards do this to you, too, keep checking up on you, make sure you’re all right?”

Karl smiled. “You know she does. She’s finally given up on sending me to work with a salad for my lunch, though.”

“Did she ever find out about your affair with the burger van man?”

Karl arched his back, smoothed a hand down his tie. “Unfortunately yes. I dripped more ketchup on my tie yesterday, didn’t realise until I got home and saw her staring at me like I’d murdered someone. We had a blazing row, but when we calmed down she agreed not to make me anymore salads. And I agreed to cut down on the burgers.”

“Wow, compromise. What marriage is all about, right?”

“You make it sound like a bad thing,” Karl said.

“Well, I kind of think it is,” Emma said. “I mean, fuck, Karl, you should be able to eat as many burgers as you want, without anyone nagging you about your free radicals, or whatever. Let Mrs Edwards eat all the salads she likes, while you stuff your face with burgers.”

“You ever move in with anyone, before Nick?”

“Nope,” Emma said. “Didn’t really see myself moving in with Nick at first, either, but he kept going on and on about it, until I just sort of gave in at the end.”

“Doesn’t exactly sound like the most romantic development in your relationship.”

Emma shrugged, grinned at Karl. “What can I say? I’m not exactly the most romantic of girls. I’m not into all this two becoming one crap, and all hearts and flowers and shit. Nick’s got his life and his job, and I’ve got mine, and that’s the way it should stay.”

“I’m not sure anymore why you actually have a boyfriend, Emma.”

“For the sex of course,” Emma said. “And Nick is pretty damn good at that, I have to say.”

Karl held his hand up. “Too much information.”

Emma and Karl fell into silence while they drank their coffee. Emma had the distinct feeling this was all leading somewhere. Karl didn’t just drop into Starbucks like this. He preferred the instant shit to real coffee, and bought his lunch from the burger van man.

“You came down here looking for me, didn’t you?” she said, finally.

“Yep.”

“How did you know I would be in here?”

Karl smiled. “Emma, if you’re not in the office, or out on a job, there’s only two places you can be. This was my second choice of place to look.”

“Where was your first?”

“The fire escape stairs, of course.”

“Oh, right.”

“Something wrong?”

Emma rotated her cup on the table. “I’m not sure. It’s just, the last few days, I wind up feeling like I’m going to puke, every time I do a run. Felt the same way this morning, when I got out of bed.”

Karl raised an eyebrow. “Morning sickness?”

“Don’t be a fucking idiot, Karl!” Emma snapped. “You’re as bad as that fuckwit, Barry.”

“Do you think maybe you should get checked out, Emma? Or at the very least, do a pregnancy test?”

“I am NOT fucking pregnant!”

“All right, calm down,” Karl said, and sighed. “Why the hell I let you talk to me like this, when I wouldn’t put up with it off anybody else, is beyond me.”

“It’s because you like my dirty mouth,” Emma said.

“Maybe.” Karl leaned forward. “And maybe it’s because you’re the best reporter I’ve got, and I don’t want to lose you. But right now, Emma, you’re not acting like my best. For crying out loud, you’re not even acting like a professional.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Remember our conversation yesterday? What did I tell you?”

Emma leaned back in her chair, reclaiming her personal space. “Fuck, I don’t know. What?”

“I seem to remember the first thing I told you was to stay away from Joe Coffin and the Slaughterhouse Mob. That didn’t exactly work out, now, did it?”

“I suppose not,” Emma muttered.

“Seems to me, the only reason the police haven’t been all over you is because of Nick.”

“You think he’s protecting me?”

“I think the officer in charge of the investigation into the assault at Hilton Park services called up Nick as a courtesy, and is holding off picking you up as a witness, giving Nick a chance to question you first.”

“You know this for sure?”

“No. I don’t know a damn thing. But I think it’s pretty strange that the police haven’t come calling for you yet, as, not only are you a witness, but you drove away from the scene of the crime with one of the most notorious criminals in the West Midlands in your car. Does it not strike you as slightly strange, Emma, that the police haven’t been knocking on your door for an interview?”

Emma shrugged. “Maybe. I suppose.”

“That’s right. You suppose.” Karl tapped his temple with his index finger. “You’re not thinking straight, Emma. Whatever the hell you’re involved in, whatever story you think you’ve got your teeth into, it’s messing with your head. You’re too close, Emma. You need to step back, take a good look at what you’ve got. Ask yourself, what’s the right thing to do here?”

“You want me to tell Nick I was at the house, don’t you?”

“That was the other piece of advice I gave you yesterday. I’m not used to my reporters ignoring my advice, Emma. Yes, I think you should talk to Nick, tell him everything you know.”

“But I know fuck all, Karl! That’s the whole fucking point, I have no idea what’s going on here.”

“You should still talk to Nick. You’re a witness.”

“I don’t know,” Emma said, and drained her coffee cup. “Nick will go fucking ballistic when he finds out.”

“You’re probably right, but it will be better coming from you than him finding out some other way. Come on, Emma, I know you feel shit about what happened to Steffanie, and Coffin’s boy, but you can’t let that cloud your judgement forever. Their deaths weren’t your fault.”

“Clouding my judgement?”

“I’ve been there myself, Emma. I was a young reporter, trying to make a name for myself, and I made a stupid mistake. A big, stupid mistake, one that cost somebody else his career, his marriage, his family.”

“What happened?”

“I was working down south, on a local rag in Devon. I got a lead, that a prominent businessman was a paedophile. This man, he was a big hero in the area, everybody loved him. We were always doing features on him, his charity work, his sponsored runs and bike rides, his expeditions up mountains and across deserts.” Karl paused, looked down at his empty coffee cup. “Well, a lead supplied me with information that he had a huge collection of hardcore porn magazines, really sick stuff, you know. And videos, too. And I was young, and I was eager for that big story, and I believed my anonymous source. But I didn’t go to my editor with it. I thought if I did that, the story would get taken off me, handed over to a more senior reporter. Big mistake.”

Emma waited, whilst Karl gathered his thoughts, still not looking at her.

“So, I did some digging around, tried to find out more, but there was nothing. This man, he was a family man, even attended church on Sundays with his wife and two girls, can you believe. He just sounded too good to be true. I was about to give up on the story, when my anonymous source got in touch again, told me where I could find one of his secret stashes of porn. Our man, he ran a big electrical store in the centre of town. I went down there on the pretext of interviewing him about his latest charity benefit, and partway through the interview I excused myself, said I needed the toilet. I went out back, down to his office, and sure enough, right where my informant had told me they would be, was this stack of porn magazines. And I’m not talking Playboy or Penthouse. This was cheaply produced stuff, and really nasty, involving kids and torture. I looked through some of it, and to this day I wish to God I hadn’t. Still can’t get that shit out of my head.”

“You were set up, weren’t you?” Emma said.

Karl nodded. “I went to my editor with what I’d got, and we ran the story. The businessman was arrested and charged, and it went to court. Eventually he was acquitted. Turns out a disgruntled former employee had been my source, and had planted the magazines, from his own personal collection, in the shop. But by the time it was all over, the businessman had sold his shop to pay for his legal fees, his wife had left him, taking the girls with her, and most of his friends had deserted him too. He went through a bout of major depression, and tried to kill himself. Last I heard, he was on the up, rebuilding his life again.”

Emma wanted to tell Karl it wasn’t his fault, anyone could have made a mistake like that. But she didn’t, because she knew how he felt, and she knew he wouldn’t listen.

“The point I’m trying to make here,” Karl said, “is that for months afterwards I refused to trust my own judgement. My editor had every right to sack me, but he didn’t. But I was a coward after that. I was still keeping potential stories to myself, but not because I was scared he would take them off me and let somebody else run them, but because I didn’t trust my own judgement anymore. I was too fearful of making another mistake like that again, and couldn’t commit to the stories I was chasing.”

“And you think that’s what’s happening with me?”

“I know that’s what’s going on with you, Emma, even if you don’t realise it yourself. Look, I’ve rambled on long enough.” Karl stood up. “I’m heading back up to the newsroom. You stay here a while longer, have a think. I’ll see you in a bit, all right?”

“Okay,” Emma said.

The editor turned and began walking out of the coffee shop.

“Karl?”

He stopped, turned back.

“Thanks,” Emma said.

Karl gave her a wave, and stepped outside. Emma watched him go.

That was a nice speech, Karl, but you’re wrong. I still feel like shit about Coffin’s family, but I’m not going to let it get in the way of doing my job, or getting that story.

But what was the story she was writing? What had begun as an expose of the Slaughterhouse Mob was now growing into something much bigger. But Emma only had strands of the story, unconnected threads. And no idea which thread to pull on, to start unravelling the story.

Emma stood up, gathered her things together. She decided she would sit on the video of Terry Wu’s murder, and the evidence against Craggs, for the time being. Just until she found out a little bit more about what was going on.

Like who set up Terry Wu’s computer, so that Coffin would be filmed shooting him. The whole sexy temptress part that Steffanie had been playing in Terry Wu’s office had looked utterly fake to Emma. Had she known that Terry Wu was going to be executed by Coffin that night? And so she had played the part of his mistress so that she could get access to his computer, and use his webcam to film Coffin pulling the trigger? Was she really that cold?

Emma didn’t really think that Steffanie would have had the IT skills to set up the computer like that, so she must have had an accomplice. But who? And did her accomplice then have her killed? Was Steffanie meant to go to the papers with her evidence, or was it supposed to be used another way? Blackmail, perhaps?

And had she been murdered because Craggs found out she was going to the papers with evidence that would bring him down? Or had her accomplice had her killed, for some reason? Or was it purely bad luck that the Birmingham Vampire picked the Coffin house for his first kill?

And then there was Tom Mills to think about, and his connection with the Birmingham Vampire, and his two mysterious companions that he kept shuttling around in cars, under a blanket. What the hell was that all about?

And did it have anything to do with Steffanie and her evidence against Coffin and the Slaughterhouse Mob, or was it all just a coincidence?

“Fuck!” Emma hissed.

She realised she was still standing by the table, holding onto her handbag with the iPad inside. The cafe was filling up, and Emma decided to get moving.

Maybe she would go to the hospital and visit Laura, see how Jacob was. If he was awake, he might be willing to talk to her about what happened in that house. And if not, maybe Laura could tell her about her history with Tom and Coffin.

A little background information for her career making story.

baby wipes

Coffin hung around the club for a while, shooting pool in the back with Clevon, and drinking beer. Clevon talked about the plans he had for his own nightclub one day, or maybe a gym, but Coffin was only half listening. They played five games, and Coffin lost every one of them. He was too tensed up to concentrate on his shots, thinking about Emma, and her boyfriend Archer, and thinking about Tom, and how he must have known Jacob was being kept prisoner in that cellar.

That day, back when Craggs and Coffin had paid Tom a visit, on account of the beating he’d given Laura, Coffin should have killed him. Only loyalty to the old man had stopped him. But that had been a mistake, Coffin could see that now. Craggs didn’t know Tom the way Coffin did.

He’d argued with Craggs against leniency, and giving him another chance. For all his hard man status, and some of the terrible things he had done, Craggs had an old fashioned sense of loyalty and duty. It was this part of his character that had enabled him to become the most successful gang leader in the country for a long time. Once you were accepted into the Slaughterhouse Mob, you became part of Mortimer Craggs’ family.

And you looked after your family.

But Tom Mills had to be the exception.

The next time he saw Tom, Coffin was going to break his kneecaps, and then maybe his knuckles, and he was going to keep working on him until he found out what was going on.

Then he was going to kill him.

The bastard didn’t deserve to live. Coffin had it all worked out. Once he’d taken care of Tom, he would dispose of the body, maybe weight him down and throw him in the canal. Or maybe stuff him in the boot of a car and then take it and have it crushed. Leaving Tom alive and conscious whilst in the car might be a nice touch.

The only problem was, Tom had disappeared. And if he had any sense he was going to make that a permanent disappearance.

So Coffin was edgy and tense, and lacking any sense of purposeful action.

After losing his fifth game of pool in a row, Coffin decided he’d had enough. He considered heading back to the flat over the Blockade, but couldn’t face the thought of sitting alone in the tiny living room, on that tiny couch, drinking whisky. Making his excuses to Clevon, he left the club.

Coffin got on his Harley Davidson and headed into town. He bought himself a mobile, and called the club, and left his number.

“Tell Mort if he hears or sees anything of Tom, to call me right away,” he said. Coffin didn’t think Tom would return to the club, but you never knew.

Coffin climbed back on the Harley. He pulled the mobile out of his pocket, cradled it in his hand and looked at it. Just a couple of days ago he’d got out of prison, with nothing on his mind other than executing the lowlifes who had murdered his family. Nothing else had mattered, he’d had no other reason to live.

But now look at him. It seemed like he had a purpose in life again. Was it simply because that murdering psychopath was still out there somewhere? Was it because Tom was involved, and there was more going on than Coffin could see, right now?

Or was it more than that?

Coffin hadn’t been able to see himself climbing back on his bike ever again, or doing anything else associated with his life before he lost Steffanie and Michael. But he had gone home once already today, and it had been painful, but not impossibly so.

Maybe it was time to go back home again.

Time to confront his ghosts, and reclaim his family home. Maybe then he could start thinking about what to do next.

Coffin gunned the bike into life, and headed out of the city centre.

By the time he pulled the Fat Boy up onto his drive, Coffin’s shoulder and arm were on fire. He leaned the bike on its kickstand, and climbed off, flexing his arm and his fingers.

Earlier, when he had collected his bike, Coffin had managed to stand just inside the threshold of his own home, unable to enter any further. Now Coffin gazed up at the house, at the bedroom windows, the clouds reflected in the panes of glass. Maybe now really was the time to sell up, move on. Say goodbye to his life as a member of the Slaughterhouse Mob.

Coffin couldn’t see how his life could continue the same as it had been, before he was sent to jail.

He pulled out his house key and inserted it into the lock. It jammed slightly as he turned it, and then stopped moving altogether. Coffin pushed at the door, and it opened.

Had he left the front door unlocked after his visit this morning? Coffin was reasonably sure he hadn’t. And nobody else, as far as he knew, had a spare key. Unless Steffanie had given a key to a neighbour for some reason, without telling him.

But if that was the case, what the hell had they been doing in his house today? It wasn’t like they had a cat that needed feeding, or plants that needed watering.

Coffin stepped inside. Glass crunched beneath his shoes. One of the family photographs on the floor, the glass in the frame was all shattered, a spider’s web of cracks spreading out from the impact point in the centre. Coffin bent down and picked the photograph up. He looked at the space on the wall where it had been hanging, the ghost of its presence still there in the slightly paler rectangle.

Coffin tipped the frame upside down and let the shards of glass fall onto the carpet. Then he pulled the print out of the frame. It was undamaged, apart from a slight creasing where he had stepped on it.

Coffin’s head snapped up as he heard voices from the living room. Listening intently, he realised it was his television.

Holding the picture frame in one hand, and the photographic print in the other, Coffin walked slowly down the hall, alongside the stairs.

In the moment before the impact, he heard a giggle, but it was too late. A figure landed on top of him, must have dropped from the upstairs landing. Before he knew what was happening, his attacker had wrapped his arms around Coffin’s neck, and his legs around his chest.

The stink of unwashed flesh, and piss, overwhelmed him, and Coffin started gagging. He swung around and threw his whole weight backwards, crushing his attacker between himself and the wall. The man howled, and then wrapped his hands over Coffin’s face, forcing his fingers into his eyes. Coffin’s vision went black, and then stars exploded in the darkness. He grabbed the man’s wrists and pulled his hands off his face, those fingers out of his eyes.

Holding onto his attacker’s wrists still, Coffin swung around, smashing the man’s side into the balustrade at the bottom of the stairs. He had still been giggling, but now he let out a deep whoosh of air on the impact, and the grip of his legs around Coffin’s chest loosened. Coffin shook him off completely and whirled around to face him.

“Oh, shit,” he growled, and stepped back. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Corpse lay on the floor in his ill-fitting suit, clutching his side where he had winded himself, and grinned up at Coffin.

“Mrs Stump’s arrivered hereabouts to exinate you, we have indeed,” he said.

Coffin ignored him, turned his back on him. Wherever Corpse was, Stump had to be nearby. If his nose wasn’t already filled with Corpse’s stink, he would have been able to smell her. He pushed open the living room door, and there she was, sitting on his sofa, watching television. Some crap, daytime soap opera. Stump was shovelling crisps into her mouth as she watched, with the remote cradled in her plastic, mannequin’s hand. She was wearing dark, wraparound sunglasses, and her long, black trench coat.

Beneath her booted feet was the edge of the dried blood stain, covering most of the carpet, a ragged edged pool of dark red.

Steffanie’s blood.

“Joe Coffin, at last,” Stump said, through a mouthful of crisps. “I hope you don’t mind, but we’ve made ourselves at home. Well, I have, anyway. Mr Corpse was so excited at the prospect of seeing you, he just had to sit upstairs and watch for you out of the bedroom window. I told him, I said, Joe Coffin might be ages yet before he comes home. We might even have to spend the night. I said to him, why don’t you come and sit with me, and watch some television. On the go all the time, we are. It’s so difficult to find the time to relax. What do they call it these days? Downtime, that’s it. It’s so difficult to find downtime.”

“What the hell are you doing in my house?” Coffin growled.

Stump stroked her mannequin’s hand, running her fingers along the glossy, faded plastic shell. “We were waiting for you, Mr Coffin. It’s been such a long time since we last crossed paths.”

“I seem to remember saying that I never wanted to see the pair of you again,” Coffin said. “I’ve had enough of you two to last me a lifetime. Didn’t I make that clear?”

Coffin heard snuffling from the hallway. Stepping out of the doorway he looked back, and saw Corpse. His nose was bleeding, and he was wiping the snot and blood away with the sleeve of his dark, stained suit. He looked at Coffin, and grinned, showing off his blackened, chipped teeth. His gums had receded, and his teeth looked long, and horse-like.

“You two are fucking disgusting,” Coffin said.

Stump screwed up her empty crisp packet and dropped it on the floor. “Mr Corpse and I have been sent here to kill you.”

Coffin’s body tensed up, his hands automatically bunching into fists. Stump and Corpse might look like a pair of weird tramps, but he knew how dangerous they could be. If he could help it, he didn’t want this to end in a fight.

Stump laughed, her rolls of fat jiggling up and down. Sitting down like she was, it was hard to tell where her pendulous breasts ended and her stomach began. The bulging flesh had no sense of bodily form to it.

“Don’t worry, Mr Coffin, we’re not interested in a fight,” Stump said. “The money offer was a very good one, half up front, would you believe it? I was sorely tempted, but then I remembered, Mr Corpse and I owe you a favour. And I can’t let it be said that Mr. Corpse and myself don’t pay back our debts. That would be terribly unprofessional.”

“I told you to forget it,” Coffin said. “I hadn’t gone there to save you two, I was out to kill Ullman.”

“Which you did, thereby saving our lives in the process.”

“If I’d arrived ten minutes later, you pair would have been dead. And believe me, I wouldn’t have given a shit. It makes no difference to me what happens to either of you, just as long as you stay out of my face.”

“Mrs Stump, I don’t imagipose he muchly niceties us,” Corpse said, walking into the living room and sitting down next to Stump.

Coffin did his best to hide the tension and the rage building inside him. If he attempted to physically throw them out, there would be a fight. It wasn’t the thought of violence that had Coffin acting so cautious, it was all the damage that would be caused in the process. This was where he had lived with his wife and son, where he had been part of a family.

Coffin couldn’t fight them in here.

“So you think not killing me makes us even, now?” he said.

“I’d say it squares the balance up, somewhat, wouldn’t you?” Stump replied.

“Maybe,” Coffin said. “One more thing, though, before you go. Why tell me? Why not just refuse the job? Or take the money, and then run? Why come here, and risk making me angry, getting us into a fight?”

Stump reached into her trench coat and pulled out a thick wad of bills. Rifling through them, she looked up at Coffin. With her eyes hidden by the sunglasses, it was like being stared at by a bug eyed fly.

“I thought you might be interested in who was willing to pay so generously to see you taken out.”

“It was Tom, wasn’t it?” Coffin said quietly.

Stump said nothing, just continued rifling through the thick wad of money.

“Where did you meet with him?”

“A service station, on the M6.”

“Which one?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. We delivered him a car, seems he had to abandon his last one. I should imagine he will be long gone by now.”

“What kind of car? What registration?”

“Really, Mr Coffin, I can’t go telling you everything, that would be unfair to Mr Mills. I owe him a little loyalty. He did pay me quite a sum of money, after all.” Stump returned the money to her inside pocket, and stood up. “Come on, Mr Corpse, let’s get going, shall we? We don’t want to outstay our welcome.”

Corpse stood up and grinned at Coffin, the blood and snot smeared across his cheek drying into a crusty scab.

“You’re damselvety is absolested lovelable,” he said.

Coffin planted a hand on Corpse’s chest. “What did you say?” He looked at Stump. “What the fuck’s he talking about?”

“He was complimenting you, Mr Coffin, on your choice of girlfriend.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Coffin snarled.

“Our mistake,” Stump said, smiling. “We were foolish for assuming the young woman here earlier was your companion.”

“What young woman?” Coffin growled.

“She was carryating all the sprogborn wipers,” Corpse said.

“Yes, she seemed very attached to them,” Stump said.

Coffin leaned over Stump and Corpse, putting his face right in theirs. “What young woman?”

“Blond hair, slim, very attractive,” Stump said. “Why, I was quite taken with her myself, and as for Mr Corpse, he practically swooned in front of her, he was so smitten. Isn’t that right, Mr Corpse?”

Corpse nodded enthusiastically.

“She was lovelable,” he said, licking his lips, as though he had taken a bite out of her, and found her to be very tasty.

Coffin dropped his hand from Corpse’s chest, and nodded at the door. “Get the fuck out, and don’t ever come here again.”

Stump sighed, and inserted the mannequin fingers beneath her sunglasses, and rubbed at her eye.

“I told you, Mr Corpse, didn’t I, that he wouldn’t appreciate our taking the time to come here and warn him? Men, they are all the same.” She touched Corpse on the face, ran her fingers down his cheek. “Present company excepted, off course, my love.”

Corpse giggled.

Coffin watched them walk down the drive, and followed their progress down the road until they had disappeared from view. Had they walked here? Coffin couldn’t imagine them catching the bus. Did they own a car? Could either of them even drive?

And then his next thought, as he shut the door: Emma Wylde.

What had she been doing in his house?

And why the hell had she been carrying packs of baby wipes with her?

Coffin took the stairs two at a time and ran into the bathroom. He searched for baby wipes, but couldn’t find a single pack anywhere. Had Steffanie still been buying them while Coffin was in prison? Michael hadn’t been a baby when he died, but he was still very young, still needed cleaning up sometimes.

But why would Emma Wylde want to break into Coffin’s house and steal all the baby wipes?

let's get this party started

Tom parked the car around the back of Angels. He checked the clock on the dashboard. Three o’clock. The club was open, but it would be quiet. The light was fading as the clouds, heavy and dark with rain, gathered overhead. Middle of the afternoon, and the cars had their headlights on. According to the weather report on the radio, they were in for a heavy downpour. Police were advising motorists to cancel all but absolutely necessary journeys, especially this evening when high winds were predicted too.

None of that mattered to Tom. He was planning to be warm and snug and dry, holed up in Mortimer Craggs’ office by that point. Maybe with Velvina cuddled up with him. He could do with a warm woman, after that cold bitch, Steffanie. Having sex with Steffanie was like being raped by a corpse. Tom had decided it would be good to be in charge again. Back on top, so to speak.

He took another swig from the bottle of Jack Daniels, relishing the smooth heat as it slipped down his throat. He held the bottle up and gazed at it. Bloody thing was more than half empty. When the fuck had he drunk all that?

Dutch courage. Wasn’t that what it was called?

Tom took another swig, wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

Yeah, Dutch fucking courage.

Tom glanced in the back of the car. The old man, who was looking disconcertingly younger now, and Steffanie, were huddled under a blanket, keeping out of the way of the weak daylight. The burns and blisters that had erupted on Steffanie’s skin the last time she had been exposed to daylight had healed now, and she was taking no more chances. They had crept out of the hotel and found the Ford Mondeo just as Stump had promised. The car was filthy, the floor and seats covered in crisp and biscuit crumbs, empty crisp and sweet packets. The dashboard was covered in a layer of dust, and there were greasy finger marks over the windows. Tom assumed the car was stolen, but Stump had said it would not be missed for at least a couple of days, so Tom had to take her at her word.

Despite their weirdness and their filthy appearance, Stump and Corpse could be relied on to deliver on any job they accepted. Tom was sure that Stump would not have wasted any time in fulfilling her promise to kill Coffin. With Joe Coffin out of the way, this next part of his plan would go a lot easier.

Tom got out of the car and opened the rear door. A breeze tugged at his hair and jacket, and he staggered slightly.

“Wakey, wakey,” he said. “The party’s about to start.”

Steffanie lifted a corner of the blanket. “Are we here?”

“Fucking right we’re here,” Tom said. “I think you can lose the blanket now. It’s like the middle of the fucking night out here, looks like we’re in for one hell of a downpour.”

Steffanie climbed out of the car. The old man, the thing that Tom thought of as a corpse, followed her.

Tom took an involuntary step back, and clamped his jaws together with an audible click. The Father, as they called him, still looked old and frail, but he was younger. The flesh on his face was still stretched tight over the skull, but his eyes were no longer dull and cloudy, and had an alertness to them. Where only yesterday a few wispy hairs clung to his scalp, now there was more hair, and his lips were no longer permanently peeled back from his long, sharp teeth.

He stood beside Steffanie, holding onto her, his skeletal fingers with their long, dirty nails, wrapped around her forearm.

“Where is this?” he said, looking up at the rear of the club, the dark brickwork just visible in the gloom. His voice was dry and rasping, and he couldn’t seem to be able to form the words properly, his question sounding like, “err us ish?”.

“Fuck,” Tom whispered.

A fat drop of rain hit Tom on the forehead, and ran down his face.

He put the whisky bottle to his lips and upended it, draining the last of the amber liquid.

“Let’s get inside,” he said, and tossed the bottle across the car park, where it smashed against a wall.

The three of them hurried across the car park as more drops of rain fell from the heavy sky. Tom punched in the six digit security code on the panel set into the wall and pushed open the heavy door. He ushered the other two inside, and let the door slam shut behind them. A strip light flickered overhead, illuminating the corridor. On their right were the toilets, to their left a door leading into the stockroom, and the cellars. At the end of the hall was a door leading into the club.

The dull thump of rock music reverberated through the walls. Angels was open, but it would be practically empty. Towards the end of the week they did good business on a lunchtime, but the busiest times for the club were the evenings, and into the night. Right now, in the late afternoon, there might be a couple of losers in there hoping one of the girls would dance for them so they could have a crafty wank under the table.

But if there was nobody dancing, the club might be empty, apart from Addison at the bar, and a bouncer on duty.

“You two ready for a nice drink of fresh, warm blood?” Tom said.

Steffanie licked her lips, her eyes alight with a fire he had seen when she was fucking him.

The old man pushed his way between them, and began shuffling down the corridor towards the music.

“All right,” Tom whispered to himself. “Let’s get this party started.”

* * *

Emma hated hospitals. The smell of a hospital, that combination of bleach and hospital food, tensed her up, and made her feel slightly ill. And those smells brought back memories of her childhood, and with those memories all the feelings of resentment and guilt that accompanied them. It was almost thirty years ago since she had spent all that time in hospital, visiting her older sister, and yet, although the hospitals had grown bigger, more modern, looked cleaner and more clinical, they still smelt the same.

Wendy was three years older than Emma. Aged eight, she had been diagnosed with leukaemia, and so began a gruelling round of hospital stays, chemotherapy, radiation treatment, and blood transfusions. Emma could remember sitting in the ward, quiet and unresponsive next to her parents, as they fussed over Wendy. Emma was five years old at the time, and it already seemed to her that her big sister was the ‘special’ one of the family.

Even before the leukaemia had struck, casting its shadow not just over the family, but over her parents’ faith in God and the power of prayer, Wendy was always the one talked about in glowing terms, and how she was doing so well at school, and how she was going to go on and do amazing things as an adult.

Whatever these ‘amazing things’ were, was never specified, never put into words or named. But Wendy was special, so of course she would do ‘amazing things’.

But then the BIG C came for a visit, and suddenly it seemed that Wendy might not grow up to be an adult doing ’amazing things’ after all. Of course, this possibility was never actually articulated, never spoken out loud, at least not in front of Emma, and she doubted very much if it was spoken of in private, either. Because their parents were Born Again Christians, and Born Again Christians believed in the power of prayer, and an interventionist God.

So, in between hospital visits, and prayer vigils at their local church, Emma spent her days at home with her mother and father, heads bowed in prayer, that her wonderful, precious sister might make a full recovery. Even now, all these years later, Emma could still taste the bitter resentment she felt at not being allowed to have friends around to play, or being given the time to show off her paintings and cereal box and sellotape constructions that she had made at school to her parents.

Oh, that’s lovely, Emma. Now get your coat on, we have to go to the hospital to visit Wendy.

Tell me later, Emma, after prayers.

Not now, Emma, can’t you see how tired I am?

Then one day, Emma’s parents’ faith in God was vindicated, and Wendy started making good progress, until finally she was pronounced completely clear of cancerous cells. There was a big party in the church hall, and, when Wendy was strong enough, she stood up at the front of church on a Sunday morning and gave her testimony to the congregation, explaining how God had healed her.

Emma, even then, at such a young age, couldn’t help thinking, I thought it was the doctors made you better?

Here she was again, in hospital, those smells opening the gates in her mind for all those memories to flood back, and with them the guilt, the resentment, the confusion.

In her parents’ eyes, Wendy had gone on to do great things, working for a missionary organisation in Tanzania for many years. She was back in England now, still working for the same organisation, but on the strategy and planning side.

Emma, on the other hand, had disappointed her parents by entering the seedy world of journalism, and ‘living in sin’ with Nick.

Was that why she hated hospitals so much? Because these smells and sights were a constant reminder of how much she had disappointed her mother and father, and how they so often looked at her in a way that suggested they wished that Emma was more like Wendy?

Burying these thoughts deep into her subconscious, which was where she tried to keep them, Emma headed for the lifts, not even considering the stairs today. What Karl had said earlier, about the possibility of her being pregnant, had rattled her. She took her pill every day. She couldn’t be pregnant.

Could she?

The lift doors slid open and Emma stepped inside, punching the button for the second floor.

Standing waiting for the lift doors to slide closed, Emma gazed out at the collection of shops in the hospital concourse. She noticed the pharmacy, next to the mobile phone shop.

The doors began sliding closed, and Emma hit the button to open them again.

Didn’t move. Just looked at the pharmacy, at the female staff inside, in their white coats.

Maybe she should buy a pregnancy test kit. Put her mind at ease. No need to say anything to Nick just yet, though. Knowing him, he would probably get all fired up at the idea of having a baby and then, when they found out she wasn’t pregnant, he would be disappointed, and start pushing Emma to start a family with him.

Oh no, Nick!

He had been calling her all day, and she still hadn’t got back in touch with him. By now he was probably going crazy with worry. Although he’d spoken to Karl, hadn’t he? And Karl had told him she was fine, and that he would pass on the message that Nick had been calling.

Emma pulled her mobile out of her bag. The elevator doors began closing again. Emma punched the button to open the lift doors again, and put the phone back in her bag.

Later. I’ll call him later.

She stepped out of the lift and headed for the pharmacy.

* * *

It was visiting time on the ward, and Emma was let in without too many problems from the staff at the nursing desk, after they had spoken to Laura, who said it was fine for Emma to visit Jacob.

“How is he?” Emma said, looking down at the frail little boy, swallowed up by the large hospital bed. He was so pale, he looked white, and his thin arm was encased in bandages. His face had the drawn, thin look of a corpse. This was the first time Emma had actually seen Jacob, and the horror at what Tom had left his son to endure washed over her like a wave of filthy sewer discharge.

“The doctors say he’s growing stronger,” Laura said. “They’ve reduced his sedation, so I’m sitting here, waiting for him to wake up. The police want to talk to him as soon as he’s conscious, but I’m not going to tell them right away.”

Emma tore her gaze away from Jacob, looked at Laura.

“I want some time alone with my boy, when he wakes. I want him to know he’s safe now,” Laura said, her eyes brimming with tears.

Emma clamped down on the guilt suddenly filling her stomach and chest. She should have told someone about Tom’s involvement with his own son’s kidnapping. No one else knew, apart from Joe Coffin, and he wasn’t going to the police. She should tell Nick, or make a phone call, keep her name out of it.

But no, not yet. The police were after Tom anyway, for that assault at the service station. It wouldn’t make much difference right now what she told them, and it would only hurt Laura to know the truth. Why cause her even more pain than she was already experiencing?

Still, she could ask her a few questions while she was here.

Emma looked around the ward. “Is Tom here? I thought he would be.”

Laura shook her head, sat down on the hard plastic chair by the side of the bed. “No, I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him since yesterday, when you were looking for him then.”

“Did you know the police are looking for him?”

“No. What’s he done now?”

“He assaulted someone, stole their car. It’s been all over the news.”

“Bloody typical,” Laura said.

Emma pulled up a chair and sat down on the opposite side of the bed from Laura. “Have you any idea at all where he might be?”

Laura took one of Jacob’s hands in hers, and held it lightly. “No, and I don’t care. I’m finished with him now.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. The miserable bastard will come crawling back at some point, I’m sure, but he’s not coming anywhere near my boy. He should be here for Jacob now, but he keeps pulling these disappearing tricks, always with the excuse that he has something he needs to do, that he’ll be back right away. But he never is. He’s gone for ages, and then when he comes back he sits in the chair, fidgeting, and sighing and swearing, until finally he jumps to his feet, and he’s off again.”

“Any idea where he goes?” Emma said.

“No. And that’s the way it’s always been. Ever since I first met him, there has always been something else he needs to do, somewhere else he needs to be. It’s like he’s got this secret life, and I will never be allowed to find out what it is.”

“He assaulted you once, didn’t he?”

Laura nodded, the tears spilling silently down her cheeks. “We had a blazing row one afternoon. It was a Saturday, and Tom had been at the pub, and he came home and he was drunk, so drunk he could hardly stand up straight. Things hadn’t been good between us for a while.” She let out a ragged sigh. “A couple of weeks before, I’d told him I was pregnant again. Tom hadn’t even wanted a baby the first time round, and when I got pregnant with Jacob, he begged me to have an abortion. But I couldn’t do that, no matter how much he pleaded and shouted, and tried everything he could to get rid of the baby, I refused. Tom hated being a father, hated seeing that bond between me and my baby. He was jealous, like he was excluded from a club he used to belong in, and all his mates were still there. I could see it in his eyes, every time he looked at me and Jacob. And Jacob wouldn’t have anything to do with him. I think he was scared of him from a very young age.”

Laura pulled a tissue out of the box on the bedside table, and wiped at her eyes, and blew her nose. Emma thought she might continue with her story, but she didn’t. She sat in silence, the crumpled up tissue in her hands, clasped between her knees.

“What happened?” Emma said, eventually.

“It was spring, a lovely warm day after all those cold, dark days of winter. And I should have been feeling happy, you know, the weather getting better, and me being pregnant again. But I wasn’t, I was in the kitchen, washing up the dishes from lunch, and Jacob was sitting upstairs in his bedroom, reading I think, and I was at the sink, and I was crying, and I felt so miserable and unhappy. Tom had been drinking heavily for a few weeks now. He drinks heavily anyway, but once I told him I was pregnant again, he was out doing the rounds of the pubs more than he was at home. But sometimes that was all right, because it was a relief to get him out of the house, not have him wandering around scowling at me and Jacob, filling the house with his cigarette smoke and beer fumes.”

“I don’t understand why you put up with him,” Emma said. Or even less why you would want a child with him, but she kept that thought to herself.

“I don’t understand either, sometimes,” Laura said. “When we first got together, I was on the rebound from having split up with Joe. He was my first true love, you know.” She giggled, a short, sharp burst of quiet laughter, and put a hand to her mouth. “Oh my God, that sounds so corny, doesn’t it? Like something out of a cheesy movie. But it’s true, he was. He still is.”

“You sure know how to pick them,” Emma said. It maybe wasn’t the most tactful thing to say, but Emma couldn’t help herself. This woman mixed with gangsters and killers, married a notorious killer and then, when she’d divorced him, married an alcoholic thug instead who, (surprise!) turned out to be a wife beater too.

“I know how it sounds,” Laura said, her hands twisting in her lap, ripping the tissue up into shreds of ragged paper. “But Joe’s different. He’s tough, and he’s hard, and I know he’s done some terrible things, but he’s not mean, not like Tom. Tom just wants to be part of the gang all the time, hang out with the big boys, but he’s not cut out for that kind of life, not really. He’s like a little boy, and the other boys and girls don’t want him to play with them. It’s been the same way all his life, and I think that’s what makes him so mean.”

“What was so attractive about him after your split with Joe?”

Laura shrugged. “He wasn’t so bad, then. And he wanted me, and feeling wanted made me like him more than I normally would have, I suppose. Tom was less like a little boy at that point. He’d done a few jobs for the Mob, and Craggs was starting to take notice of him. Craggs was upset with Joe for splitting up with me. He’s old fashioned like that, considers the marriage vows sacrosanct.”

“Mortimer Craggs never struck me as the religious type,” Emma said. “Is this the same Craggs who once ripped a man’s tongue out with a pair of pliers, because he found out he’d been talking to the police?”

“You’re right, Craggs isn’t religious, but he believes in loyalty. He believes in family. He was angry with Joe for leaving me, but then Tom took an interest in me, and from Craggs’ point of view, that was Tom stepping in, taking care of me. So Craggs started taking care of Tom, giving him more jobs, more responsibility. Life got better at that point. Tom was on the way up, he was finally getting some respect from his peers, and we got married, and we were happy.”

“And then you had Jacob.”

Laura nodded.

“That was the start of it all, really, the point where our marriage started disintegrating, the point where Tom started growing mean, like a sulky little boy, who’s had all his toys taken from him. And then Joe met Steffanie, and everything took another turn for the worse.”

Emma sat up a little. “Steffanie? What did she have to do with anything?”

Laura sighed. “You have to understand something about Joe, first, before I tell you about Steffanie. He’s a big tough man, and he had a hard childhood, but he got through it, and he’s kind and decent, and he’s not perfect, but he’s a good man. He really is a good, kind man.”

“But?”

“But, when it comes to women, it’s like his brain switches off, and he loses all sense of direction and meaning. It’s like he doesn’t know what’s up or down, left or right. That’s why we split. He loved me, and I still loved him, but he’d meet a pretty girl, and she’d come on to him, and that was it, he’d jump into bed with her before he’d even considered what he was doing. And then he would feel all terrible, and guilt ridden, and promise never to do that again, but then he’d meet another girl, and it’s like they cast a spell over him or something. Got to a point I just couldn’t take it anymore, and I told Joe I was leaving him. He was upset, said he still loved me, promised to try harder, but I’d had enough by then. So we got divorced.”

“And you married Tom, and you had Jacob, and then what?”

“It was around the time that Joe met Steffanie at Angellicit, that I told Tom I was pregnant again. The day they officially became an item, and started wandering around like a couple of lovesick teenagers, that was a Friday. We met them at Craggs’ old club, before he bought Angels.”

“Which one was that, Edwards Number 9?”

“That’s the one, yeah. He still owns it, he owns all the nightclubs in town now, and a fair few of the pubs and hotels, too.”

“Mortimer Craggs, he’s a real entrepreneur, right?” Emma said, thinking of Coffin, shooting Terry Wu, just so Craggs could have his club. “Maybe he’ll get a knighthood one day, for services to Birmingham city.”

“Me and Tom, and a few of the others, I think Craggs was there, too, we met Steffanie. Joe was showing her off like she was a trophy, and you could just see he was completely smitten. Every time she looked at him, he was like a puppy, with his tongue hanging out, and rolling over on his back waiting to have his tummy scratched. It was a bit sad, really.”

“But you said he always fell for the women, they were his weak spot.”

“This time was different. He might fall hard for a girl, but then he would regain some sense of proportion, get a little perspective. This time there was no sense of perspective. I said they were like two lovesick teenagers, but that’s not true. It was Joe who was giddy with love, but Steffanie, she was a little bit more aloof, reserved. She went through the motions of laughing and chatting, and kissing Joe, and holding his hand, but when I looked in her eyes, it seemed to me that there was nothing there. No feeling, no empathy or humour or enjoyment, just the sense of a cold, calculating mind behind that fake exterior.”

“You didn’t like her much, then?”

“No, never. Steffanie had her own reasons for marrying Joe, maybe she thought he could get her out of the pole dancing life, although she always seemed to enjoy it to me, or maybe it was pure lust, but then she didn’t have to marry him for that, did she? Whatever the reason, it wasn’t because she loved him, I’m sure of that much, at least. And I looked at Tom, thinking that surely he would be able to see the real Steffanie too, but no, he was standing there goggling at her, with his tongue practically hanging out of his mouth.”

“Men,” Emma said, contemptuously.

“And then I realised, Tom didn’t love me, he never had, not once, not even when we first got together, and when he married me. Him and Joe, they’d known each other all their lives, and all Tom ever wanted out of life was what Joe already had. When Joe was married to me, Tom wanted me. I could see it sometimes, the way he looked at me. And then we split, and there was Tom’s chance, and he wooed me, and made me feel good when I was feeling bad, and he got what he wanted. But then, when our marriage had all turned bad, Joe met Steffanie, and she was a stunner, and so Tom didn’t want me anymore. He wanted Steffanie. And, on the following day, the Saturday, he came home pissed off his head, and kicked my unborn baby to death inside of me.”

“Oh fuck,” Emma whispered.

“I should have left him then, I should have pressed charges, and taken Jacob, and left him to rot.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I already told you. Mortimer Craggs.”

“What? He forced you to stay with Tom?” Emma’s eyes widened, and a hot flare of anger rose in her chest.

Laura nodded, tearful again. “When I was released from hospital I was in no condition to go anywhere. Craggs came for a visit, brought me a bunch of flowers, a huge bouquet. It was beautiful. And presents for Jacob, too. A remote controlled car, and this huge kite, would have lifted Jacob off the ground if we’d ever taken it out of the packet and tried flying it. And Craggs said . . .” Laura’s voice hitched a little, “. . . he said that he would look after me and Jacob, that we were part of his family. He said we would never want for anything, that the bills would always be paid, we would always have a roof over our heads, and that Craggs and the Slaughterhouse Mob would always look out for us.”

“But?”

“But, I had to stay with Tom. Craggs said he would have a word with Tom, tell him to get his drinking under control, tell him to start treating me nice. But if I left Tom, or if I ever pressed charges against him, then I was on my own. Me and Jacob, we would be out on the streets, left to fend for ourselves. The Mob wouldn’t be our family anymore.”

Emma realised she was hunched forward in her chair, almost painfully so, and leaned back, unclenched her hands. Her career making story was forgotten for the moment. Instead she simply had an anger burning inside her, anger not only at Tom for the emotional and physical abuse he put his wife through, but Mortimer Craggs, too. He had inflicted his own form of abuse on Laura, and in a way, his was the more vile of the two.

“Mummy?”

Emma and Laura both started at the sound of Jacob’s frail voice, little more than a hoarse whisper.

“Oh, my baby!”

Laura jumped off her chair and embraced Jacob. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she was smiling, laughing, crying all at the same time.

Emma sat quietly, watching, and feeling a little like an intruder at an intimate family moment. She stood up, picked up her bag, ready to go.

Laura straightened up, one hand caressing her son’s forehead. He was gazing up at her, his eyes dark with the drugs the doctors had given him.

“Laura, I’m going to go now, leave you two alone,” Emma said.

Laura looked round at Emma, her face tight and flushed and streaked with tears. She nodded, unable to form words.

“Mummy, the cellar,” Jacob whispered.

Laura leaned over Jacob again. “No, darling, don’t think about it, you’re safe now. You’re safe.”

“Mummy,” Jacob whispered, his eyelids fluttering closed again. “It was Steffanie. Steffanie kept me prisoner in the cellar.”

Emma’s stomach felt like it had plunged through the floor, and a cold, icy wave flooded through her system.

Steffanie?

the best orgasm you ever had

Hard to believe it was the middle of the afternoon, the sky was so dark. Clevon pulled the collar of his jacket closer as a stiff wind sent a shiver though him, and picked up pieces of litter, sending them tumbling down the road. The cars all had their headlights on, and the street lamps had been switched on, too.

Clevon stood in the entrance to Angels, watching the traffic backing up on the road, and pedestrians hurrying by, trying to get to shelter before the heavens opened with the threatened downpour. The burly bouncer flexed his pectorals under his coat. They were still sore from the workout he had given them yesterday, but he enjoyed the sensation of the soreness. It helped him feel like he had achieved something in his gym session, instead of standing around talking for an hour and a half.

All Clevon ever wanted to do at the gym was concentrate on his workout. The trick was to focus on whatever task you had set your mind to, on the goals you wanted to achieve. Clevon had been reading a lot about setting goals, and focusing, recently. He had high ambitions, he didn’t plan on being a bouncer at a nightclub for much longer.

The trouble was, Clevon wasn’t entirely sure what it was he wanted to do with his life, and where he intended to let his ambition guide him. Maybe into the music business, or maybe running his own gym, someplace without all that crappy pop music playing in the background, and all those posers, standing around looking at themselves in the full length mirrors.

Clevon was sick of other guys talking to him when he was trying to workout. First of all, one of the big dudes would saunter over to him, and ask him to spot him. Clevon was always happy to help out with a workout. You didn’t have someone spotting you, you couldn’t benchpress the serious weights, and you couldn’t pack on the muscle. But more often than not, they just wanted to stand around and shoot the breeze, and end up wasting Clevon’s workout time.

When Clevon got his own gym, he’d have it written into the contract they signed when they joined up, no standing around bullshitting. You were at the gym, you lifted weights, or you sparred in the ring.

The bouncer retreated a little into the shade of the porch as the dark, heavy cloud cover suddenly broke, and the downpour began. The sound of the rain hitting the car bodies, and the roads and the pavements, was incredibly loud, like a vast cathedral filled with people pounding furiously on drum kits.

This rain kept up, the club was going to be quiet tonight, Clevon reasoned. Nobody was coming out in this weather, not even to gawk at nubile young flesh dancing up on a stage.

“Clevon.”

The bouncer turned around. Addison was standing behind him, in the shadows of the club’s interior.

“Sup, Addison?”

“Clevon, Craggs wants you to close the doors, and come on inside.”

“You kidding me, right?”

“No.” Addison paused, swallowed.

“Are you all right? You look like you gonna be sick or something.”

“Craggs says, he says to shut up shop. Nobody’s coming in the club now, not in this weather.”

Clevon shook his head. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. Mortimer Craggs would keep his clubs open twenty-four hours straight through the week, if he thought he could get the business. Craggs never shut the doors during business hours.

“Come on, Clevon,” Addison said, his voice breaking slightly. “You know Craggs, he’ll have your balls if you don’t do what he says.”

“Okay,” Clevon muttered, “but this is just plain weird.”

With one last look at the rain pounding the streets, rivers of water already gushing along the gutters, the drains overflowing, Clevon stepped inside and pulled the doors shut.

“Man, it’s dark in here,” he said, reaching for the light switches. “Is Craggs trying to save money on the electricity?”

He flicked the switch, flooding the reception area with bright, fluorescent light. And then he froze. Clevon’s brain refused to register what his eyes were telling him. It wasn’t possible, and yet there she was, even more icily beautiful than the last time he had seen her at the club.

Steffanie Coffin was standing beside Addison. One long, graceful arm was draped over his shoulders, her hand hanging in front of him, and her fingers playing a little beat on his chest. Her other had was slowly and gently caressing his face. Addison’s eyes were wide with terror, and Clevon could see a large, dark patch spreading from his groin, and down his trousers.

Steffanie gazed at Clevon through her mane of long, red curls. Her lips were fat and glossy with red lipstick, and her eyes were dark, her pupils round and large. That look turned the bouncer’s stomach over, in a queasy, sexual way. A small part of him screamed in terror, begged him to open the door and run, outside into the downpour, and keep on running. But another side of him needed him to stay, to approach Steffanie and let her have her way with him.

Clevon swallowed, realised he was breathing heavily, his heart rate galloping out of control.

Steffanie was wearing a large, white T-shirt, just big enough to keep her decent, but short enough that it showed off almost all of her long, slender legs. The T-shirt was stained with splatters of fresh, dark blood.

“Steffanie?” Clevon said. His voice was barely more than a strangled croak.

“Hello Clevon,” Steffanie said, and smiled.

The bouncer backed up against the door at the sight of Steffanie’s long, sharp teeth. They were red, too. Clevon suddenly realised Steffanie wasn’t wearing red lipstick, it was blood smeared over her lips and teeth.

Without warning, her head snapped round and she sank her teeth into Addison’s neck. The manager screamed. He grabbed clumps of Steffanie’s long hair in his fists, and pulled. His feet kicked out spasmodically, scrabbling against the floor, as he yanked at her hair and pounded on her back. Steffanie ignored him, holding him up whilst she chewed on his neck, making grotesque sucking noises.

Still, Addison screamed, but his flailing arms grew slower and weaker, and the scream turned into a choked gurgle. Blood dripped down his chest and fell to the floor with a wet splat.

Steffanie pulled away, and dropped Addison to the floor. He groaned as his skull connected with the hard floor, and lay still. Blood pumped in weakening bursts from an artery in his neck. Clevon watched in horror as Addison slowly turned his face to the bouncer, eyes pleading for help. But then his eyelids fluttered, and the life drained from his face.

Steffanie wiped the blood from around her mouth and licked at her fingers.

Without taking his eyes off her, Clevon scrabbled for the door handle, his hands shaking so bad, they could hardly grip it He managed to open the door a sliver, but Steffanie was on him before he knew what was happening. She pulled him away from the door, slammed his back against a wall. Her hands were slippery with Addison’s blood. Clevon gagged at the rich, coppery smell.

Steffanie pressed her body up against him. He could feel her breasts through the thin material of the T-shirt, her nipples hard and erect. Clevon’s insides were alive with fear and excitement. He twisted his head away, screwing his eyes shut as she leaned in even closer, her mouth opening to reveal those terrifying, blood stained teeth. Her tongue flicked out, and she licked his cheek, from his jawline up to his temple. Her tongue was rough and sharp, like a cat’s tongue.

Steffanie took his hand and guided it up her thigh, and underneath her T-shirt. She wasn’t wearing anything, and she was moist, and his finger slipped inside her. She clasped his jaw in her hand and turned him to face her, and thrust her tongue in his mouth.

Her tongue probed his mouth, as her body undulated softly against him.

She pulled away.

“It’s your lucky day, Clevon, I’m going to give you the best orgasm you have ever had,” she whispered into his ear. “And then I’m going to kill you.”

* * *

Mortimer Craggs had never felt as old as he did now. He had always prided himself on his strength, and his vigour and energy. Craggs believed in taking care of himself, always had. Now, aged eighty-two, he still worked out at the gym every day, lifting weights and rowing and running, and working harder than most teenagers could.

Sure, he had slowed down over the last ten years in particular, but he knew he could still take care of himself in a fight. And when he looked in the mirror, he was proud of the body he saw, the drum tight stomach, his chest and the ropey muscles in his arms. He knew he could pass for someone ten or twenty years his junior. For Mortimer Craggs, life was one long battle, and if you wanted to stay on top of the game, you had to look after yourself, be ruthless with your body like he was ruthless with his enemies.

Not for him the indulgences of the other mob bosses he had known over the years. Sure, he liked his cigars and he liked his whiskies, but everything in moderation, and counterbalanced by a healthy lifestyle. That had always been part of his success as leader of the Slaughterhouse Mob. Where others thought they had made it, thought they could relax and enjoy life because they had ’arrived’, Craggs knew you could never afford to be complacent. The moment you relaxed, that was it, you were dead.

Craggs was sitting in his chair, behind his desk. He was gripping the arms of his chair, and leaning back, far enough he knew he might topple backwards at any moment. The reason he was leaning so far back was crouched on his desk, looking like something out of his worst nightmare.

The man, if it could be called a man, appeared to be ancient. Its grey flesh was wrapped tight around its skull, eyes protruding from its sockets like a corpse’s. But those dark eyes were alight with amusement and contempt. It bared its teeth at Craggs, revealing sharp, elongated fangs. It was wearing a dark, stained and wrinkled suit. There was something odd about that suit, it looked old and out of fashion, by at least a hundred years.

The vagaries of fashion weren’t exactly prominent in Craggs’ thoughts at this moment. The thing in the suit was leaning so far forward, its nose was almost touching Craggs’ nose. It made a low, guttural sound in the back of its throat as its lips peeled even further back, and those jaws began opening.

“Oy, you. Father, or whatever the fuck you’re called,” Tom shouted. “Leave him, now!”

The thing on the table turned its head, looking like a reptile, and stared at Tom. He was holding a gun, Craggs’ gun which he always kept in a drawer in his desk. In his other hand, Tom was clutching a bottle of twenty year old Lagavullin he had taken from Craggs’ globe shaped drinks cabinet. Craggs was grateful that he had not taken the Glenfarclas, at least. That really would have been wasted on him.

Tom took a quick swig from the whisky bottle, and said, “Back up, doggy. Come on now.”

The ancient thing climbed off the table, that low growl still emanating from the back of its throat. Craggs didn’t like the way it looked at Tom.

“You’d better be careful,” Craggs said, relaxing a little in his chair. “Your friend looks like he wants to take a bite out of you.”

“Oh, right, well tough fucking shit,” Tom snarled. “I’m fucking sick of being pushed around, and it’s about fucking time I started giving the orders around here. If he doesn’t like it, he can fuck off somewhere else for his blood milkshake.”

Craggs breathed slowly, evenly, bringing his heart rate back down. It was all about self-control. This was a bad situation, obviously. Velvina was dead, poor bitch, lying in a growing pool of her own blood on the floor, and who knew what had happened outside in the main part of the club. But Craggs knew, no matter how bad the situation was, the only chance he had of getting the upper hand was if he stayed in control.

“What the hell’s going on, Tom?” he said, quietly, not wanting to antagonise the monster by speaking too loud.

Tom began pacing up and down the office, like a caged animal. “That’s a good fucking question, Craggs.” He ran his hand through his hair. “This was all meant to be so fucking simple, and now it’s nothing but a fucking nightmare.”

“What, Tom? Tell me, what is this nightmare you’re talking about? I can help you, Tom. Whatever you’ve got yourself mixed up in, we can work it out.”

Tom shook his head, his single bark of laughter shooting a tingle of fear down the nape of Craggs’ neck. That laugh was verging on hysteria. If Craggs didn’t get out of here soon, Tom was likely to lose it, and maybe start shooting the place up.

“Who is this, Tom?” Craggs said, pointing at the ancient thing in the stained suit. It had sat down on the sofa now, it seemed tired, worn out. But still those eyes, glittering and alert, followed Tom as he paced up and down.

“Him?” Tom said. “Haven’t you heard? He’s the Father of all vampires. The oldest vampire of them all.”

Vampires.

Craggs dismissed the notion as soon as it had entered his mind. Vampires, ghosts, werewolves, none of those things existed. He remembered the vampire cult that Tom had found, the ones he claimed were responsible for Steffanie’s murder. But hadn’t he said they were just kids? This thing in front of him looked like it was a hundred years old at least.

“Tom,” Craggs said, quietly. “Did this monstrosity here kill Steffanie and Michael?”

Again that bark of laughter, short, sharp and nasty sounding. “No, that psychotic bastard’s still running around with the police after him. This fucking piece of shit is the one who drank my son’s blood, while that bitch Steffanie kept him tied up in the cellar.”

“Steffanie?” Craggs muttered. “But Steffanie is—”

“And he fucking sucked on me, too,” Tom screamed, holding up his hand and ripping a plaster off his thumb.

His whole body was quivering, as though he had an electrical current running through it. If he dropped the gun, Craggs wondered if he would have time to get out of his chair and grab it.

Probably not. No matter how much he liked to pretend otherwise, he was nowhere near as fast or as strong as he used to be.

“What’s going on, Tom?” Craggs said. “I don’t understand any of this.”

Tom stopped pacing, and stared at Craggs. “It’s all your fucking fault. You and Joe Coffin. I’ve just been your fucking poodle all these years, haven’t I? You and Joe, you’ve been pissing yourselves behind my back, fucking laughing it up a treat, right? I’ve tried hard to do my best for you, Craggs, fuck knows I have, but nothing is ever good enough for you. Not unless Joe does it, yeah, Joe fucking Coffin, the golden boy. I’m surprised you don’t suck his fucking cock every time you see him.”

“Dear God, Tom, is that all this is? You’re jealous?”

Tom pointed the gun at Craggs. “Shut the fuck up, or I swear to God, I’m going to blow your fucking head off.”

Craggs said nothing. He knew he had to choose his words carefully. Just one wrong comment, and Tom would shoot him, or set that monstrosity on him.

Tom began pacing up and down again. “I thought I was on the way up. For once in my fucking miserable life, I thought I had it made, and I was going to make something of myself. But then that bitch of a wife of mine had to go and fucking spoil it.” He stopped pacing, whipping his head around to stare at Craggs again. “She had it coming, that kicking I gave her. She fucking had it coming.”

Craggs kept quiet. His eyes flicked from Tom, to the old man he had referred to as father. What the hell did that mean? Craggs had known Tom’s father, years ago, before the cancer got him, and slowly, painfully killed him. And this thing, sitting in his office, looked nothing like Tom’s old man.

“And you, you had to poke your fucking beak in, with your pet dog, Coffin, and then humiliate me in front of Laura. She’s my fucking wife, Craggs. My wife! I don’t remember you ever visiting my old man when he used to kick the shit out of me and my mother!”

No, wait. Tom said he was the father of all the vampires. Did he seriously believe that? All this talk of vampires, was it the drink?

Tom approached Craggs, took another long drink from the bottle, keeping the gun pointed at the old man. But he was swaying slightly, like he was standing on the deck of a ship, rolling in a gentle swell. The whisky was Craggs’ only hope. If Tom kept drinking like this, he was going to fall flat on his face, and pass out. Then, if he could grab the gun before that monstrosity in the chair got him, he could shoot it in the head.

That would just leave whoever was down in the club. Craggs had no idea how many more of them there were, but he’d heard the commotion, and the screams from downstairs. Craggs had to assume that Clevon and Addison were dead. If he was going survive this, it was up to him, on his own.

But that was all right. He’d faced worse odds than this over the years.

“So this is what it comes down to, is it?” Craggs said. “You’re pissed off, because I gave you a slap, but I left your father alone. Is that it? Is that why you murdered that poor girl over there? What the hell did she have to do with any of this, Tom?”

Tom looked at Velvina, lying on her back on the floor, the overhead lights reflected in the dark pool of blood surrounding her mutilated body. Then he turned to look sulkily at the ancient thing sitting on the sofa.

“He killed Velvina,” he said. “That was a mistake. I was planning on getting some warm pussy tonight.” Tom’s head swivelled round to face Craggs, and his lips drew back in a nasty smile. “But there’s plenty more where she came from, right?”

He upended the bottle, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he gulped at the whisky. When he had drained it, he let the bottle drop to the floor. His face was flushed, and his eyelids were drooping. Craggs couldn’t believe Tom was still standing. He had obviously been drinking when he first arrived at the club, and now, after finishing off a bottle of whisky that had been over half full to begin with, surely he should have passed out by now?

“You know what?” he said, his voice thick and slurred. “I’m fucking sick of all this talking.” He lifted the gun and pointed it at Craggs’ head. “That’s all everybody ever does, is talk and talk and fucking talk. It hurts my fucking head.”

“Don’t do it, Tom,” Craggs said.

“Fuck you, Craggs,” Tom said, and pulled the trigger.

the bloofer lady

Emma sat in the hard plastic chair, looking across Jacob in his bed, at Laura. She was holding her boy’s hand, gazing at him as he slept once more. Her face was strained with worry, but her eyes shone with love for him.

Vampires, Emma was thinking.

Karl, in her head, saying, You really think that Craggs would have had Steffanie and Michael sliced and diced like that? He would have ordered a hit on them, not a horror movie gore fest.

Tom, with his two mysterious companions, hidden under the sheets. Or maybe not hidden, but shielded, from the sun?

And hadn’t one of them looked like a woman? A woman, maybe of Steffanie Coffin’s height and build?

Karl again, saying, What’s going on, Emma? You see a vampire at that house?

No, of course not.

But maybe she had. How else could that psychopath have survived a fight with Joe Coffin? All that blood, splashed over the walls.

Blood.

The missing blood from the blood banks.

And poor Jacob, being held prisoner in the cellar whilst apparently being drained of his blood.

“The Bloofer Lady,” Emma said.

Laura looked up, her eyebrows raised. “What?”

“Sorry,” Emma said. “Just thinking out loud.”

The Bloofer Lady. The Beautiful Lady. That was what the children called Lucy Westenra, in Dracula. After she had been turned into a vampire, she began hunting children at night, draining them of only a little blood, and then setting them free. Was that what had happened to Jacob? Had Steffanie been keeping him a prisoner, so she could drain him of his blood, little by little?

Steffanie Coffin, a fucking vampire?

Emma had to find Joe Coffin, talk to him. Besides Emma, he was the only other person to see the Birmingham Vampire, and survive. And they had both followed Tom, seen him with his two mysterious companions hidden under those sheets. If there was anybody who would even begin believing what Emma had to say, it was Joe.

“Laura,” she said, softly. “I think I should go now.”

Laura looked up, regarded Emma blankly.

“Laura, do you know where I might find Joe, right about now?”

“I don’t know, he could be anywhere. But he’s staying in a room over the club, so I guess you might find him there.”

Emma stood up. “Okay, thanks.”

She wanted to say something else, give Laura some encouragement, words of kindness and reassurance. But she couldn’t think of anything, and in the end, she just quietly left the room.

* * *

Two things happened. As he pulled the trigger on the gun, Tom swayed drunkenly, and his aim drifted up slightly. And knowing that Tom was about to shoot, Craggs slid off his chair and dived under his desk.

The bullet hit a picture hanging behind Craggs, shattering the glass and ploughing through the backing board and into the wall. The picture frame fell off the wall. Crouching under the desk, Craggs heard a thump and a cry.

It was Tom. He had fallen over. But he was still conscious, Craggs could hear him shuffling around, swearing, trying to get back onto his feet again. Now was Craggs’ only chance to get out of here. He started crawling out from under the desk, his joints protesting with every move. The sudden dive he had made underneath the desk had hurt him, he wasn’t as fast anymore as he needed to be.

But he wasn’t giving in.

Halfway out from under the desk, and lying on the floor, Craggs looked up. That ancient looking monstrosity in the filthy, stiff suit was crouched on top of his desk again, grinning down at him. A thick string of drool fell from between its clenched teeth, and onto Craggs’ upturned face.

“You bastard,” Craggs growled.

The monstrosity dropped from the desk, its mouth opening, more yellow saliva dripping from its fangs. It landed on Craggs, knocking the wind from him, one filthy hand on his head, pulling it back to expose his neck. Craggs grabbed a thick shard of glass from the smashed picture frame, its sharp edges digging into his hand, slicing his flesh open. Ignoring the pain, he thrust it into his attacker’s neck, gouging the point in as deep as he could.

The thing on top of him let out a wet scream and, letting go of Craggs’ head, its hands scrabbled at the triangle of glass sticking out of the side of its neck. The shard of glass was slippy with Craggs’ blood, and its sharp edges cut through its paper thin flesh as it tried to pull it out.

The elderly mob leader punched the thing in the nose with the heel of his uninjured hand. It rocked back, still pulling at the jagged glass in its neck. Craggs hit it again, and this time it rocked back far enough that it fell off him. Craggs clambered to his feet. The palm of his right hand, and his fingers, dripped blood from a crisscross of lacerations.

Tom was holding onto the sofa, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet. He still held the gun. He saw Craggs, and his eyes widened. The thing on the floor was snarling and kicking, still trying to pull the glass from its neck, its hands and neck and face now covered in blood.

“Stay there, you old bastard,” Tom said, his voice thick and slurred.

Still on his knees, he swung the gun up, pointing it at Craggs.

The old man was too quick for him. In three long strides he had reached Tom, and grabbed the gun, twisting it from his hand. He slapped Tom across the face, and cried out at the pain in his hand. Tom swayed backwards from the force of the slap, but managed to stay upright. The slap left streaks of blood smeared diagonally across his left cheek.

Craggs smashed the butt of the gun in Tom’s face. Tom screamed, and this time he did fall over, onto his side. He rolled over onto his back, looking up at the elderly man. He held both hands over his nose and mouth, and Craggs could see the blood and snot dribbling down his cheeks, and over his ears, pooling on the floor. Tom’s chest started hitching, and tears welled up in his eyes, and rolled down his face, cutting clean lines through the dark red blood smeared on his cheeks.

“Shut the fuck up, you fucking cry baby,” Craggs snarled, and kicked him in the side.

Tom cried out, and sobbed helplessly.

“Now stay there.”

Craggs walked back around the other side of his big desk. The thing on the floor was pulling the long shard of glass out of its neck. Its ancient eyes regarded Craggs with contempt.

Craggs raised the gun and shot it in the head. The bullet slammed into its forehead, making a neat red hole in the grey flesh. The thing’s eyes widened in surprise, and it stiffened, and then lay still.

Craggs nudged it with his foot. It didn’t move. Craggs nudged it again, and still it did not move.

Despite seeing the corpse on the floor, Craggs couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that the thing still wasn’t dead.

He kicked it one last time, just to be sure, and then turned and walked back to stand over Tom.

Craggs knelt down and placed the muzzle of the gun against Tom’s temple.

“I should fucking shoot you now,” he said. “I could decorate my floor with your brains right now, couldn’t I?”

Tom stared up at him with wide, shining eyes, snuffling and crying, and making wet gurgling noises, like a little child recovering from a tantrum.

“Joe told me, he said you were spotted at the house where he found Jacob,” Craggs said. “Fucking hell, Tom, did you know he was there?”

Tom, his hands over his nose, snuffled and cried, and shook his head in spasmodic jerks.

Ignoring the pain in his lacerated hand, Craggs placed it flat over Tom’s hands and leant his weight on it. Tom screamed at the pressure on his broken nose, his body writhing, trying to wriggle himself free.

Craggs let go, and tapped Tom on the forehead with the gun’s muzzle. Tom stopped moving, staring up at Craggs, trying to control his crying.

“Tom,” Craggs said quietly, “you’re a fucking dead man. After what you’ve done, I can’t let you live. You know that, don’t you?”

Tom stared up at Craggs, more fat tears rolling down his face. He stank of blood and whisky, and Craggs wondered if maybe he’d pissed himself too.

“But I need to know a few things, Tom. And I need you to answer my questions. So, tell me what I want to know, and I’ll make it nice and quick, all right? Hold back, though, and I’m not going to kill you straight away. But you’ll wish I had, Tom. I can make it so you’ll wish your mother had never met your father, Tom. You understand me?”

Tom nodded.

Craggs tapped him on the head again with the gun’s muzzle. “Now, Jacob. Your boy. Did you know he was being kept prisoner in that cellar?”

Tom nodded again, his hands still over his nose and mouth, his eyes wide and pleading.

“Fucking hell,” Craggs whispered. “How could you do that to your own son?”

Tom mumbled something behind his hands, his voice thick with snot and blood.

“What did you say?”

“Jacob . . . wasn’t meant to be there,” Tom groaned. “Jacob was a mistake.”

“A mistake,” Craggs said, his voice flat, and dull. “Bloody hell, Tom, that’s all Jacob ever was to you, isn’t it? A bloody mistake.”

Tom closed his eyes, and moaned. “He wasn’t meant to be there. When I saw him, when I saw what they’d done to him, I didn’t know what to do.”

“You could have pulled your fucking kid out of there, that’s what you could have done. Instead you left him.” Craggs hit Tom on the forehead with the muzzle of the gun, and he cried out. “You left him to be fucking tortured by that sick fucking psychopath. If Coffin hadn’t have found him, Jacob would be dead by now.”

“I was going to go back for him,” Tom said, between snuffles. “I was going to go back and get him out of there, but you don’t know who these people are, Mort. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”

“You spineless piece of shit,” Craggs snarled. “I’ve got a good mind to keep you alive, while I cut tiny pieces off you and shove them in your mouth, make you eat yourself, bit by lousy bit. How’d you like that, you fucker?”

Tom moaned again, his hands still over his face.

Craggs slid the gun down Tom’s body, coming to rest in his groin.

“Now, tell me what the hell is going on, or I’m going to shoot your balls off. And then I’m going to shoot you in the kneecaps. I think you’ll be talking plenty by then.”

Tom took his hands away from his bloody, ruined face. He stared wide eyed at Craggs, a sudden fury contorting his features.

“Fuck you, Craggs,” he said, and spat a gobbet of blood at him.

Too late, Craggs noticed the shadow lunging for him. He swivelled around, swinging the gun up, just as the gnarled old man in the stained suit crashed into him. Craggs slammed onto the floor on his back, his arms being flung out sideways with the force of the impact. The gun flew from his hand, and skittered across the floor, out of reach.

The elderly mob boss tried to squirm onto his front, crawl after the gun, but the ancient monstrosity on top of him had him pinned to the floor. As he twisted his head he came face to face with Velvina, staring lifelessly at him with her wide eyes. Craggs realised he was lying in her blood, pooled across the floor.

He looked back up at the monstrosity, grinning down at him, its lips and teeth red with blood. The old man swung a fist at it, but the thing caught his wrist in its long fingers, and pinned his arm to the floor. Craggs stared up at its gaunt face, at the bulging eyes. He could see the bullet wound in its forehead where he had shot it. And he thought he could see, just poking out of the wound, the glint of something metallic.

With a sudden rush of horror and despair, Craggs realised that it was the bullet, somehow being forced back out of the thing’s head. Craggs watched, fascinated, as the squashed bullet was slowly squeezed out of the wound, by some invisible force. Gradually it emerged far enough that it tipped forward, and then dropped to the floor with a dull clink.

The monster sat on top of Craggs and snarled at him, baring tis teeth. It was getting ready to bite him.

“Wait!” Tom shouted.

He was across the other side of the room, swaying slightly as he bent down to pick up the gun. He grinned at Craggs as he straightened up. His face was a mess, his nose looked like it had been bent to the left, and his mouth and chin were covered in blood.

“As much as I would enjoy seeing Boris Karloff tearing your throat out, I hate the thought of you returning as a vampire,” Tom said, as he walked towards them.

“Vampire!” Craggs spat the word out. “What are you talking about?”

“Look at him, Craggs,” Tom said, lazily waving the gun in the direction of the thing sitting on top of him. “Does he look normal to you? You ever come across anything like him before?”

The monstrosity on Craggs hissed at him, spraying flecks of spit and blood in his face.

“He’s a fucking vampire, Craggs,” Tom said, and giggled. “You can see it, now, can’t you? You don’t believe it, but deep down inside, you know it’s true. And if that thing there takes a bite out of you, and sucks your blood, fucking chances are you’ll be waking up again sometime soon, with a craving for a drink of nice, warm blood, too.”

Tom paused, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, being careful not to touch his nose.

“Thing is, you old bastard, the last thing I want is you prowling around, wanting to sink your teeth into me. And have you seen how fucking difficult it is to kill these bastards? A few more of these freaks and I’ll have an army of fucking terminators on my side.”

Tom pointed the gun at Craggs.

“So, I’m going to shoot you, and then let Boris have his fill of your blood. Think of it as a kindness, Craggs. You’d hate being a vampire, I’m sure.”

“Quit talking, and just do it,” Craggs snarled.

Tom laughed, took another step closer, beside Velvina’s body. His foot slipped on the floor, slick with her blood.

“Oh, fuck!” he yelled, drunkenly trying to regain his balance, his arms pinwheeling wildly.

There was a crack as the gun fired, and the thing on top of Craggs jerked sideways. Craggs wasted no time in crawling away, as Tom finally lost his battle with gravity, and dropped to the floor, with a wet smack, in the dead girl’s blood.

Craggs got painfully to his hands and knees. He couldn’t risk looking back, wasting any more time. He had to get out of here as soon as possible. There was no way of knowing what was outside his office, if Clevon, or any of his other staff were left alive, but he had to take the chance. If there were more of these fruitcakes outside, then so be it. But he had to try.

Craggs staggered to his feet and reached the door. He grasped the door handle, but his hand slipped off, slick with his own blood. There was movement behind him, but still he did not look back. Grabbing the door handle with both hands, this time he managed to twist it, and pulled open the door. Staggering outside, he slammed it shut behind him.

Down the stairs. He had to get down the stairs and outside. Once out in the open, he stood a better chance.

But the club, it was so silent. Was he the only one left alive here? Was there nobody to help him?

Craggs headed for the stairs, gritting his teeth. It didn’t matter. He’d faced tough odds before, and always come through the other side.

Behind him, the door opened. A shot was fired, the bullet slamming into the ceiling just above Craggs, showering him with flecks of plaster. Craggs made a dash for the stairs, but his legs gave way beneath him, and he stumbled forward. The old man pitched over at the top of the flight of steps. At the last moment he made a grab for the handrail, but missed it, and tumbled down the stairs. He cracked his head on the wall, as he fell, and came to a halt almost at the bottom, his right arm bent awkwardly behind his back. His left ankle flared up in pain, and Craggs bit back a scream.

There was movement at the top of the stairs. Tom and his pet monster, coming after him. Was this it? Was this the end of his life, and career as leader of the Slaughterhouse Mob?

Fucking pathetic way to die, lying in a broken, tangle of limbs on a flight of stairs in the back of his club. But at least he was going down fighting.

Craggs lay in the silence, unable to move any more, waiting to die.

Suddenly the quiet was shattered by the pulsing throb of music from the club next door. Craggs wasn’t alone after all.

Suddenly inflamed by a renewed need to live, a fierce determination to not let himself die like this, especially at the hands of Tom Mills, Craggs began crawling forward. He screamed as his right arm freed itself from underneath him, a red hot pain shooting through his elbow. Using his left hand, he shoved himself upright. He stood up, leaning against the wall for support, leaving a bloody hand print behind.

The music played on, throbbing through the walls, turned up to top volume, it sounded like. It would be deafening in there. Craggs lunged for the door, sure that his two pursuers were right behind him. He pushed through the door and staggered into the club.

The place was empty. There were a couple of tables with half-finished drinks sitting on them, but no one sitting in the chairs. The lights were down low, but the drinks behind the bar were illuminated in the soft glow of the bar lights. But Addison was not standing behind the bar.

Craggs’ eyes were drawn to the stage. There was a woman up there, dancing. She was up against one of the silver poles, her thighs straddling it, her back arched, and running her hands up and down its sleek length.

And she was naked.

Craggs limped closer.

The woman arched her back, her long hair hanging down, almost touching the floor. She undulated her hips softly against the sleep, silver pole, and then swung herself around, her hair flying out like a wave. Pulling herself back up straight, she hugged the pole, her arms draped around it, squeezing it between her breasts.

Craggs limped closer, his pursuers forgotten for the moment, as a cold lump of ice settled in his stomach, and across his chest.

“Steffanie?”

Her naked body was dripping with blood. Letting go of the pole with one hand, she ran her fingers over her breasts and down her stomach, smearing the blood around in swirling patterns of red. She smiled at Craggs, her face resting against the pole, and then slid down, bending at the knees so her bottom was sticking out.

She giggled and swung around so that her bottom was facing Craggs.

“Kiss my arse, Mortimer Craggs,” she shouted over the music, and giggled again.

She swung back around to face Craggs, standing up straight, running her hands through her hair, and stretching like a cat.

Suddenly the music was switched off, the silence almost a deafening noise in itself for the first moment.

“I’ve been wanting to say that for years,” Steffanie said, as she stepped down off the stage. “I’ve hated you, Mortimer Craggs. I’ve hated you ever since the first moment I laid eyes on you.”

Steffanie circled around him, running a bloody finger across his cheeks, over his lips. Craggs stood still, staring straight ahead, trying to regain some semblance of self-control. Seeing Steffanie alive again, it was impossible. But then Craggs had never actually seen her body. What had happened? Had Tom been lying to him?

Steffanie continued circling him, her naked flesh seeming to emanate a freezing coldness. Her finger continued tracing lines across his face, leaving trails of red.

“Steffanie,” Tom said, from behind Craggs. “Don’t bite him, he’s mine.”

Steffanie draped herself across Craggs, sitting on his lap, one arm over his right shoulder, her chin on his left, and pouted. “You spoil all my fun. Let me have my wicked way with him, and I’ll tell you where the USB stick is.”

Tom approached Steffanie, still holding the gun. The Father was crouched on one of the tables, licking blood from a customer slumped across the table, his head lying in his spilt drink.

“You fucking bitch,” Tom said. “You knew all along, didn’t you?”

Steffanie giggled, and then nibbled at Craggs’ ear. Craggs flinched.

“No,” she said. “I just remembered, up there while I was dancing. Everything came back to me. Everything.”

Tom took a deep, juddering breath. “Okay, great. Fucking whoopdeedoo, you remember. Now where the fuck is it?”

Steffanie’s tongue flicked out, and she licked at the blood on Craggs’ face. She made a sound, deep down in the back of her throat, like a growl of pleasure.

“I’ve never fucked an older person before, I never thought it would be worth it,” she whispered, her lips against Craggs’ ear. She undulated her body up and down against him, grinding her hips against his. “But you might be the exception. You’ve still got some life down there, haven’t you?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Craggs hissed.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Tom said, and lifted the gun.

Craggs spun Steffanie round in between him and Tom. The blast of Tom’s gun firing, echoed around the nightclub. Steffanie’s face exploded over Craggs, showering him in blood and bone and flecks of brain matter. He tipped back, Steffanie falling on top of him, and he hit the floor with a painful whack to the back of his head.

“Oh, fucking hell!” Tom wailed, tipping his head back and letting the gun drop to the floor. “Why the fuck do these things have to keep happening to me?”

Craggs pushed at Steffanie’s lifeless body, his hands on her breasts in a gruesome simulation of sexual coupling. He managed to tip her bloody carcass off him, and it landed with a dull thud on its back, the arms and legs splayed out, lifeless eyes staring out from the shattered, bloody face.

Craggs was too weak to move. His arm was on fire, and his ankle no longer felt like it would support him. He fumbled in his pocket with lifeless fingers for his mobile. He should have thought of this before, get help.

Craggs pulled the mobile out and punched in a number.

Tom seemed to have forgotten him for the moment. He was pacing up and down, wailing and shouting drunkenly.

“Joe?” Craggs said. “Joe I’m at the club, I’m in a bad way.”

Tom whirled around. “Joe? But Joe’s dead!”

“Quick, Joe,” Craggs hissed. “I need you now, he’s going to kill me!”

Tom snatched the phone out of Craggs’ hand.

“Yeah, Joe, come quick!” he screamed into the mobile. “If you get here fast enough, you’ll get to see me slice and dice the old man, and then it’ll be your fucking turn!”

He hurled the mobile across the club, and it smashed against a wall, and broke apart.

stupid

Joe Coffin pushed the Fat Boy as fast as he dared in the wet conditions. The roads were gridlocked with traffic, headlights cutting through the gloom, and the sheet of water falling from the heavy sky. But the pavements were deserted, everyone hiding indoors from the downpour. Whenever he came across a queue of stalled traffic, Coffin mounted the pavement, and tore along it, water spraying out from under his wheels in great arcs of foam.

The visibility was dreadful, worse than driving at night, and Coffin had to keep a sharp eye out for lamp posts, litter bins and telephone kiosks. He skidded to a halt outside a Pizza Hut, narrowly avoiding colliding with a pensioner driving a mobility scooter along the pavement. He was enshrouded in a rain drenched plastic covering, and he drove past Coffin without comment.

The families in the Pizza Hut looked at Coffin through the logo on the window, their faces wide eyed, slices of pizza held forgotten in hands halfway to their mouths, open in astonishment.

Coffin gunned the bike, and set off again, spraying a sheet of water against the window, momentarily obscuring the onlookers’ view.

After learning that Tom had taken out a hit on him, Coffin had already decided that he was going to kill Tom Mills. After he had got Tom to spill his guts about what was going on, and what he had got himself involved in. But if Tom hurt Craggs, or, God forbid, killed him, before Coffin had chance to get to Angels, then he would make sure to take his time over killing him.

Coffin angled the bike back onto the road, and shot over a junction, the traffic lights on red. There was a blaring of horns from behind him, and then the sound of crunching metal. This section of the road was free now, and Coffin took it as fast as he dared, leaning low over the bike, ignoring the red hot pain in his shoulder.

Tom had sounded like he had gone insane, screaming down the phone at Coffin. He had always been highly strung, but he was weak and ineffectual, the butt of everybody’s jokes. The other guys in the Slaughterhouse Mob, they made fun of him, or they ignored him, Coffin included, much of the time. No one ever took him seriously, because no one ever thought he would bite back.

But now he had, and in the worst way possible.

Coffin pulled up outside the club. The place looked like it had been locked down for the night. Another sign that something was wrong. Craggs shut the doors to Angels as little as possible. Coffin climbed off the Harley, and took his helmet off. Rainwater ran down his face, pooling into little rivers, streaming down inside his leather jacket, and his T-shirt.

He flexed his arm, bolts of hot pain firing through it with each movement. Even considering Tom’s obvious unbalanced state of mind, Coffin didn’t think it would come down to much of a fight. Tom was too much of a lightweight, couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag. But what made Coffin uneasy was the fact that he had not heard from Clevon, or Addison. There was no way in hell Tom could have taken all of them down, which meant he had to have company.

But who?

Not those two mystery companions of his he kept hidden under sheets, surely?

Coffin approached the club’s double doors. The Angels logo, usually flashing neon colours, was dead. Coffin pushed at the doors, and they gave slightly, and then stopped. He pushed harder, and they gave a little more. There was something on the other side, blocking the doors shut. Favouring his left, uninjured side, Coffin put his weight against the doors and shoved. When he had got enough of a gap that he could see inside, he realised there was a body on the floor, blocking the doors. It looked like Clevon. He was in a kneeling position, with his face on the floor, and his arms splayed out either side of him. His trousers and pants were bunched around his ankles, and his naked bottom was sticking up in the air.

Coffin pushed his way through into the lobby, and closed the door, and turned the lock. He leaned down and gripped the bouncer by his shoulder, turned him over. Clevon flopped onto his back. His groin was a mass of bloody, ripped flesh. In the dim light, Coffin could see the trail of blood, where the bouncer had crawled, as he tried to get to the door, all the time bleeding to death.

Tom hadn’t done this. An attack so savage and bloody, it looked like the work of the psychopath that Coffin had fought in the house on Forde Road. The one the newspapers liked to call The Birmingham Vampire.

Coffin straightened up. On his left was the admittance desk and the cloakroom. On his right were the toilets, and a wall of photographs, Craggs posing with local celebrities. Further down the hall, where the double doors led to the club, there was a huddled shape on the floor. Another body.

The steady thump of rock music pumped through the walls. Some crappy, soft rock.

Coffin couldn’t go in the club unarmed. He needed a weapon. And he knew where to find one. He jumped over the admittance desk and opened a door in the back. There was a second office in here, with a large safe built into the end wall. The club’s takings were kept in here at the end of the night, until they could be banked the following day. What very few people knew, was that the safe also housed a sawn off shotgun in a compartment in the back.

Coffin walked around the tables they counted the money on, and stopped dead.

The safe door was open.

“You really think I’m that stupid?”

Coffin turned around. Tom was standing in the doorway, the shotgun pointed at his chest.

“Yeah, I do,” Coffin said.

“Well, I showed you, didn’t I?” Tom said, grinning. “You going to change your mind now, Joe, looking down the barrel of a fucking shotgun?”

“Nope. I still think you’re stupid.”

The grin slipped from Tom’s face. “Why?”

“Because if you had any sense at all, you’d have got out of here as fast as you could, and run away as far as possible. The fact that you stayed just shows how stupid you are. I want you to think about that when I am breaking every bone in your body, one by one.”

“You think you’re a funny bastard, Coffin, don’t you?” Tom said. “Always got something to say, always ready to take the piss out of me.”

“Here’s your chance now, Tom. Go on, shoot me. Even you couldn’t miss with that thing in your hands.”

“No, not yet. I’ve got something I want to show you, first.” Tom stepped to the side, out of the doorway. “Go on, into the club. You’re going to love this, Joe.”

Coffin walked around the desk, watching Tom all the time. The barrel of the shotgun followed him, tracking him like a CCTV camera. There was no point trying anything right now, Tom would have blown a bloody hole in Coffin’s chest before he was on top of him. But Tom was sloppy, always had been. Coffin had to stay alert, look for that one moment when he could take control.

“You been in a fight, Tom?” Coffin said. “Your, face, it doesn’t look so good, although some people might say it’s an improvement.”

“Just keep your mouth shut, Joe, you won’t be laughing soon.”

Tom followed Coffin out of the office, and through the lobby. Coffin paused at the double doors leading into the club, hoping that Tom would get up close behind him, perhaps try and nudge him on with the end of the shotgun. He stank of whisky, and had a crazy, wired look in his eyes. But he kept his distance.

“Go on, Joe,” he said. “Go on through, I’ve got a surprise waiting for you.”

Coffin turned his head, speaking over his shoulder. “If you’ve hurt Mort in any way . . . “

“That old bastard?” Tom said. “He’s alive still. I’m a big, old fucking softy at heart, Joe. Once I realised you were on your way over, I thought wouldn’t it be nice, Joe and Craggs, together at the end. All I’ve got to decide now is, do I leave you alive to watch, while I kill Craggs, or the other way around? What do you think, Joe? You want to go first, or second?”

“You haven’t got what it takes, Tom. You never did. Ten minutes from now, you’ll be staring down the barrel of that gun you’re holding, begging me not to blow your head off.”

“Ooh, such big talk, Joe. Go on, go into the club. Like I said, I’ve got a nice surprise waiting for you.”

Coffin placed his hands against the double doors, pushed them open, the rock music swallowing him in its pulsating beat.

He stepped inside.

more like a corpse than corpse

Emma looked at the Angels nightclub through the stream of rainwater pouring down her windscreen. The place looked closed, which was unusual. The streets were empty of pedestrians, everyone seeking shelter in the shops and cafes, their windows blazing yellow light in the gloom of the thunderstorm. Wouldn’t this have been an opportunity to get some extra custom? On your way home after a hard day in the office, heading through the downpour for the train station, and facing a packed ride home on the train, wouldn’t it seem like a good idea to maybe stop off for a drink or two? Let the rain ease off, and the commuter crush thin out a little?

But no. Angels looked like it had been closed down for the rest of the day.

Emma drummed her fingers on the steering wheel of her hire car, debating whether or not to go and try the doors. She was still damp from running to her car from the hospital entrance, and she would be drenched again within seconds of climbing out of the car. Hell, Coffin might not even be there.

But then she thought of Jacob again, lying in the hospital bed, looking wide eyed at his mother.

It was Steffanie. Steffanie kept me prisoner in the cellar.

Emma shivered.

There was no question at all, really. She had to find Coffin.

Emma didn’t move. Just kept staring at the club, through the rain pouring down the windscreen. Finally, she looked down at the passenger seat, at the white paper bag, the top crumpled closed, lying there. Like an unexploded bomb.

Except that wasn’t right, was it? The contents of that paper bag had already blown her life apart. One little blue line in a plastic window. And it had changed everything.

Emma tore her gaze from the pharmacy bag.

There would be time to think about that later.

Getting out of the car was like stepping into a cold shower. Emma tucked her head down and ran for the doorway. Under the canopy over the entrance, she took a moment to shake some of the rainwater off. There wasn’t much point, as she was drenched to the skin.

She shoved at the doors, but they refused to budge. Locked.

She pounded on the door, and waited.

Pounded some more.

Nothing.

Fuck!

Emma wiped her arm across her face, at the water streaming from her hair.

Now what? Head on over to Coffin’s house, see if he was there? And what if he wasn’t, what then? Even worse, what if those two weirdoes were still there, and that disgusting fat woman with the false hand opened the door? Maybe they would invite her inside, and they could have tea and biscuits, and discuss the awful weather.

Emma noticed the Harley, parked outside the club. Joe Coffin’s Harley. She had driven right past it when she got here.

That settled it. Coffin was inside Angels somewhere.

Maybe there was another way in. Emma braced herself for another plunge into the solid sheet of water falling from the dark sky. She ran around the back, through the car park. Craggs’ BMW was there, and a couple of other cars. One of them, a battered old Ford Mondeo, had been abandoned in the middle of the car park, its rear doors open, puddles forming in the seats.

And there, at the back of the club, was a rectangular glow of light. An open fire escape door.

Emma ran across the car park, her feet sloshing through large pools of water gathering on the uneven surface of the old tarmac. Once inside she paused to wipe water out of her eyes.

Over the sound of the rain falling, Emma could hear the faint, dull pound of music, throbbing through the walls. Didn’t sound like the music Emma imagined them playing in places like this, but what did that matter?

There was somebody here, after all.

She walked slowly down the hall, past the storerooms.

Despite the sound of the music pulsing through the walls, the place had a deserted feel to it. Something was wrong.

Emma noticed a smudged hand print on the wall. Was that blood?

“Oh, shit,” Emma whispered. Something was most certainly wrong here, all right. Maybe now was the time to phone Nick, after all. Get the police down here. It might blow her story wide open, ruin any chances of her getting the big publishing deal on her book she was after, but she couldn’t ignore the fact any longer that she was in too deep.

She was reaching for her phone when a storeroom door opened, and a skeletal creature in a dirty, wrinkled suit, reached out and grabbed her with its filth encrusted hands. One hand snaked its way into her hair, and yanked her head back. The other pulled at her jacket, dragging her towards it.

Emma dropped her phone, and it smashed on the hard floor. Instinctively, she twisted her body into the thing’s grip, and slammed her shoulder into its chest. It folded like a sheet of cardboard, and they both fell to the floor, Emma landing on top of the dirty, stinking monster.

“Fuck! Fuck!” Emma screamed, scrambling to disentangle herself from the thing clawing and scratching at her.

She managed to free herself and jumped up, and backed away.

The ancient thing on the floor reminded her of Corpse, although it looked even more like a corpse than he did. Its mouth snapped open and shut as it struggled to get back on its feet, and Emma saw its teeth, blackened with age, but still wickedly long and sharp. It stood up, blocking her way to the exit.

The only escape left was into the club.

Emma opened the door, and stepped through.

EPISODE FOUR

uncle frank gets in trouble

Julie Carter gazed out of the window at the heavy rain. Large puddles had formed in the road, and rivers gushed down the gutters, and around the overflowing drains. The young woman had never known rain like this before, and she was fascinated by the spectacle of all the water dropping from the dark sky.

“It’s like standing in a waterfall,” she said.

Frank Carter, standing behind the till, paused the cashing up, and looked out of the window too. “It’s a downpour, all right. Are you going to hang around here until I’ve finished cashing up? I can give you a lift home then, save you getting wet.”

Julie turned away from the window and gave her uncle a smile. “It’s a tempting offer, but I need to get back. I’m going out later, and I need to get ready.”

Frank raised his eyebrows. “You’re going out in this? Don’t bother dolling yourself up, you might as well just wear a swimming costume.”

“Oh, I can see that happening. I’d be the talk of the town, out clubbing in a bikini.”

Frank walked over to the window, and stood beside Julie. He was a tall, fat man, and dwarfed his petite niece. “Besides which, do you really think it’s wise to go out while that maniac is still on the loose?”

“That’s all happening in the city centre,” Julie said. “We’re just going to spend the evening in the Waggon and Horses.”

“A bit tame for you in there, isn’t it?”

Julie pulled a face. “It’s full of old men, and hairy bikers.”

“It’s a good idea though, not going into the city. Even so, I’d still be happier if you stayed at home. Tell your mum she can come over to ours tonight, and you and your friends can have a girly night in at your house.”

“No way!” Julie said. “You know what Mum’s like, she’ll be home and wanting to go to bed by nine o’clock, and kicking my friends out.”

“Did you know they found another dead body earlier today? A cleaning lady, at a service station on the M6, in Stafford.”

“So, I’ll be fine! He’s obviously moving away from Birmingham, then, isn’t he?”

“Hmm,” Frank said, the look on his face saying he wasn’t convinced. “All right, have it your way.”

Julie walked through the shop, past the shelves of drill bits, and screws and nails, and other fixings she’d never even heard of before she started working in her Uncle Frank’s hardware shop. She went into the back and picked up her coat and her rucksack. When she walked back out again, pulling her coat on, her Uncle Frank was still standing by the window, watching the rain.

He turned and looked at her, that familiar expression of concern on his face.

“Let me take you home, the till can wait until I get back,” he said.

“Don’t be daft. It only takes me a couple of minutes to walk home.”

“But you’re going to get soaked!”

Julie stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “No. I’ll be fine.”

Frank sighed. “It’s your mother’s fault.”

“What is?”

“That stubborn streak of yours.”

Julie laughed, and pulled her hood over her head, tucking her long, blond hair inside. “I’ll tell her you said that!”

“Make sure you do!” Frank said, as she opened the door, and, head down, ran outside.

Frank stood at the window, watching Julie’s small, slender figure running through the rain. She quickly disappeared in the gloom. He had a sudden urge to run after her, to persuade her to accept a lift home off him after all, or at least let him walk her back. But then he turned around, and saw the day’s takings piled on the shop counter in full view, and even if he left it there, by the time he’d got his coat on and locked up, Julie would be practically home anyway.

Frank looked out of the window at the rain again.

She’ll be fine, he told himself. The Birmingham Vampire’s gone. Now he’s somebody else’s problem, and he’ll be known as the Stoke-on-Trent Vampire, or the Manchester Vampire.

But still, Frank couldn’t rid himself of the queasy knot of worry in his insides. There were some odd people around these days. Like that chap the other day, who’d bought himself a saw and a roll of black bin liners. Very quiet he was. Didn’t say a word. Which isn’t a crime, people don’t have to say please and thank you, but still . . .

Frank hadn’t liked the look of him at all.

Not one bit.

* * *

Standing hidden in the shadows, Abel watched the young woman leave the hardware store and run down the street, her head down, her hands holding the collar of her coat together. He was wearing Alf’s parka again, the hood zipped up, obscuring his features. But this afternoon he didn’t need any protection from the sun. The cloud cover was so thick and heavy, he could easily have exposed himself to the day and not suffered any effects.

The Birmingham Vampire stepped out of the doorway he had been sheltering in, and strode after the young woman. Apart from the occasional car driving slowly past, cascading sheets of water out from beneath their tyres, the town’s streets were deserted. House windows glowed with orange light, everyone huddled indoors, apart from this one girl, hurrying home.

The conditions were perfect, and Abel couldn’t have asked for better. He had known he would be taking a huge risk, hunting once again, while the police were still after him. But then how long would he have had to lay low, waiting for the panic to die down? Too long.

That was why he had wanted to stay hidden in the house, at No. 99. The Father needed time, and warm blood, to rebuild his strength, and his youth. He would have known what to do. With the Father in command once more, and returned to his full strength, they would have been unstoppable. No number of police, or Joe Coffins, could have stopped them, then.

Abel picked up his pace, closing the gap between the girl and himself.

Joe Coffin.

Abel would deal with him, once and for all, at some point soon. If not for him interfering in their plans, and that stupid bitch who had come to the house, they would still be hidden, the Father slowly growing stronger. Instead of that, Abel was risking being found, and the Father and Steffanie, who knew where they were?

But Abel had the child, Coffin’s boy. And he needed fresh, warm blood. That was why he was out hunting tonight, in the pouring rain. Alf and Marge’s cold, clotted blood, was no longer sufficient for him. He was growing agitated, and soon he would be uncontrollable, and go mad in a feeding frenzy.

That kind of attention they didn’t need.

Abel had to keep the child quiet, until he had worked out how to find the Father and Steffanie. Once they were reunited, everything would change, everything would be better.

And Joe Coffin would die.

* * *

The young woman hurried through the torrential rain, and began to regret her decision to refuse Uncle Frank’s offer of a lift home. Just lately she had taken to refusing lots of offers of help from her mother and her uncle. Ever since her father, Frank’s brother, had died, two years ago, they had taken to mothering Julie. It was as though they were trying to protect her from the harsh realities of life, when really, after losing her father to a massive heart attack, it seemed to her that she had already confronted the worst that life could throw at her.

But they couldn’t see it like that, and they were overcompensating, smothering her with their love. Julie had recently started reacting against this, trying to make a stand for her own independence. But tonight? Maybe she had stuck to her guns too much. A lift home through this atrocious weather would have been much more pleasant than this.

As she passed the park on her right, she briefly considered taking the shortcut through the wooded area. It would only take less than a minute off her journey, and she dismissed the idea. It would be dark in there, and the likelihood was that she would trip and hurt herself.

Julie’s phone started vibrating, in her pocket. It would be her mum. Uncle Frank had probably called ahead, still worried about her. He would only have asked her mum to keep a lookout for Julie, but she was a worrier, and so now she was phoning her, checking she was all right, asking where she was, why was she taking so long?

Julie kept walking as she reached in her pocket for her mobile. A car drove past, water spraying out from beneath its wheels. Her cold hand closed around the vibrating mobile, and she was grateful for its warmth. She pulled it out and slowed her pace a little as she checked the screen, glowing bright in the dark.

Yes, as she thought, it was their home number, her mother anxiously checking up on her. Julie smiled as she thought of the trouble that Uncle Frank would most likely be in now, for letting Julie walk home on a night like this.

She tapped ‘Answer’ and was bringing the mobile up to her ear, when a hand closed around her wrist.

Julie gasped, with shock and pain, the cold hand squeezing her wrist, and she dropped the phone. Before she could scream another hand covered her mouth. She squirmed, and kicked out, her heel connecting with a shin. Her attacker pulled her close, letting go of her wrist but then wrapping his arm around her. Julie tried biting at the clammy hand gripped her mouth, and the stink of rotting flesh filled her nose, making her gag.

White hot panic filled Julie’s chest. She was being attacked, and there was nobody out here to see what was happening. How could this be happening? Who was going to wait outside in the pouring rain for a victim to pass by? Julie squirmed and kicked and screamed, but her attacker was far too strong, and her screams were muffled behind his hand. She grabbed at the cold hand and tried prying it from her face, but it was like a clamp over her lips, and she couldn’t move it.

He started dragging her towards the park, into the trees. As she kicked out, one of her shoes flew off her foot and landed on the grass. Her attacker paid it no attention, relentless in his determination to get her under the cover of the trees, and out of sight of the main road.

Julie, realising he was too strong for her and that it was futile to try and peel his hand off her face, let go and jabbed her fingers up behind her, trying to scratch at his eyes. Her fingers encountered the soft fabric of the parka’s hood, and she jabbed harder, trying to find his face. She heard a revolting giggle, and she screamed.

Suddenly they were in the darkness of the wood. He let go of her, and she fell on the ground, covered in wet leaves, sobbing.

Her attacker stood over her, a dark, hulking shadow against the gloom of the woodland. Julie realised her situation was hopeless now. She watched in terror as the man reached up and pulled his hood back.

“Please, please,” she sobbed, “let me go. Please don’t hurt me any more. Don’t kill me.”

The man bent down over her, and she could just make out his face in the gloom, his long teeth and his eyes narrowed down to slits.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he said quietly, his voice just audible over the rain falling on the cover of trees. “But my little boy needs a playmate, and, I’m afraid, once he’s finished with you, you’ll be wishing I had.”

Julie took a deep breath, and screamed.

But everybody was indoors, sheltering from the storm, and nobody heard her.

evil woman

Coffin stepped through the open doors, into a wall of sound, the speakers pumping out Evil Woman, by the Electric Light Orchestra. The club was in darkness, only the round stage lit up in glowing red, from the spotlights, illuminating a single figure, tied to a chair.

It was Mortimer Craggs, a gag around his mouth. He was straining at his bonds, staring at Coffin, his eyes bulging from his face. He was working his jaw furiously, like he was trying to shout something, or force the gag off his mouth.

“Go on,” Tom said, and prodded him in the back with the gun.

Coffin walked on, around the empty tables and chairs, towards the stage. He saw a body lying on the floor, between an upended table and chairs. In the shadows beyond the spotlights it was difficult to make out too much, but he could see the body was a woman, that she was naked, and she was obviously dead.

Tom prodded him again. “Go on, Joe, up on the stage with Craggs.”

“What have you done?” Coffin said, ignoring Tom’s order to join Craggs, and turning around.

Tom stepped back, out of Coffin’s reach, his eyes wide and panicked. He bumped into a table behind him, but kept the shotgun trained on Coffin the whole time.

“Just get the fuck on the stage, Joe, or else I’m going to blow your fucking head off right now.”

Coffin regarded Tom coolly for a few more seconds, and then began walking towards the stage again. Craggs stared at him, eyes bulging in their sockets. His face was streaked with blood, but it didn’t look like his.

The song was coming to an end, fading away. As the last notes disappeared and were replaced with silence, a door opened at the back of the club, next to the bar, and a woman stepped through.

“Fuck me, it’s Lois Lane!” Tom said, and grinned.

“Emma?” Coffin said.

Emma looked behind her, then back at the others.

“Come and join the party, Lois!” Tom shouted.

Emma walked past the bar, looking from Tom, to Craggs, to Coffin.

“I see you found Tom, then,” she said.

“Yeah, it was easy,” Coffin said. “I just followed the sound of whining and complaining.”

Emma glanced uneasily at the woman’s body on the floor. From where she stood she had a better view than he did, and when she looked back at Coffin, something inside of him turned over uneasily at the expression on her face.

“Hey, Lois, grab a couple of chairs and put them on the stage. I want you and your boyfriend up there with Craggs, all in one place where I can see you.”

Emma looked back at the body on the floor again, and then picked up two chairs and carried them onto the stage. Craggs watched her, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. She sat down, and Coffin joined her.

Tom grinned as he looked at them, the shotgun aimed at Coffin the whole time.

“This is fun, isn’t it?” he said. “All the gang together. We could have a party.”

“We’ll party all right, when I’m dancing on your fucking corpse,” Coffin growled.

Tom leaned back, his grin growing even wider. “Ooohh, the big boy’s getting angry. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Joe, but you’re not exactly in a position to be making threats.”

“This is a mess, Tom,” Coffin said. “Just what the hell is going on?”

“You’re right, this is a big, fucking, stinking crap heap of a mess, but I’ve finally got the situation under control. And what the fuck, I might as well tell you all about it, before I kill you. That way, at least you’ll know why you’re dying.”

Tom’s head snapped around at the sound of a clatter, something falling, from behind the bar. Coffin tensed, ready to pounce whilst Tom’s attention was diverted, but before he could make a move, he was staring back down the barrel of the shotgun again.

“Stay there, big boy,” Tom said. “Don’t worry about him, he’s harmless.”

Coffin watched as a shambling, skeletal figure staggered into view, like a zombie in a horror movie. It saw them, and started making its slow, painful way over to them.

“It’s all that fucking stupid bitch’s fault,” Tom said. “If she’d just done as I fucking told her, when I told her, none of this crap would have happened.”

Who’s he talking about? Coffin thought.

“But nobody ever fucking listens to me. All my life I’ve been walked over, stepped on, fucking pissed on, by everybody I ever knew. My shitty parents, the Mob, that fucking stupid bitch of a wife who wouldn’t fucking shut up about having kids.”

“Is that what this is all about?” Coffin said. “The people who have died, that man you assaulted on the M6, your boy, Jacob, locked up in that cellar and tortured, all because you’re pissed off that nobody will listen to you?”

“You’re going to fucking listen to me now, Joe,” Tom replied, holding the shotgun up to emphasise his point.

“Let him talk,” Emma said. “I’d like to hear his excuses.”

Tom glanced at her, like he didn’t have an answer for that.

“All my life, Joe, you’ve been fucking laughing at me, taking the piss with the rest of them. When we were at school we were both fucking outcasts, but even then you wouldn’t give me the fucking time of day.”

The shotgun dipped slightly as Tom let go of it with one hand and wiped his arm across his face.

He looked up at Craggs. “And you, too, you wouldn’t listen to me, either. I would have done anything for you once, Craggs. Anyfuckingthing. But still you had to come and scold me like a naughty schoolboy, with your pet poodle Coffin behind you. All because I’d taught that bitch wife of mine a lesson.”

Tom wiped at his face again. Was he crying?

“She needed teaching a lesson. Fucking bitch had been lying to me, not taking her pill when she said she was. Why would I want another kid? That fucking snotwipe of mine was sucking the life out of me all by himself, I didn’t want another one. My old man was a fucking nasty bastard, but he taught me one thing at least, you have to keep your family on a tight leash, and you have to use your fists if need be. Maybe if I’d given Jacob a good fucking pasting when he was younger, he might have listened to me more. He might never have gone and broken into that house.”

Keeping the gun trained on Coffin, Tom reached behind him, his fumbling fingers closing around a bottle of whisky. He picked it up and took a deep swallow from it, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“But then I met some people who did listen to me. Down at the Headless Lady one night, about a year ago. Two of them, night after night, willing to listen to me.”

The old, skeletal creature in the filthy suit bumped into a table. Coffin noticed it was staring directly at Tom the whole time, and was making its way towards him.

“Pretty soon it was like they were there every fucking night, not just listening to me, but buying my drinks, getting me pissed, and I was spilling my guts to them. Not just about Laura and the kid, but about the Mob, about Mortimer Craggs and Joe fucking Coffin.”

Coffin watched as the thing in the suit navigated its way around the table, dark eyes still fixed on Tom. It had a way to go yet, before it made it to where Tom was standing, but there was no mistaking its intent.

“I should have known they weren’t interested in me, they just wanted to know about the Mob, they wanted a way in. All along they were using me, probably laughing at me behind my back, just like everybody else. Turned out they were members of a fucking Triad gang, the fucking Seven Spooks, or some shit like that.”

No, the Seven Ghosts, Coffin thought.

You shouldn’t laugh at the Seven Ghosts, Joe.

Terry Wu, threatening Coffin with retribution if he killed him.

“But we cooked up a plan together,” Tom said. “The Triads, they wanted Craggs out, finished with. But they wanted it done cleanly, without broadcasting their involvement. Not until after, when they could move in and take over ownership of the clubs and the bars, and all the other businesses left behind. Especially Angels. They were fucking mental about Terry Wu paying out protection money to Craggs. And then I heard that you’d been given the job of putting a bullet through his head.”

Coffin glanced at Craggs. He was straining against the bonds holding him to the chair, trying to say something beneath the gag. He looked angry, ready to kill Tom, if he hadn’t been tied up.

“I came up with the idea of shopping you to the cops, Joe. I was in Craggs’ office once, when Wu was skyping him. Where he had that computer positioned, fuck, you could see the entire room behind him. I knew if I could just rig up the video camera built into his computer to record you murdering Terry Wu, that’d be all the coppers needed to put you away for a long time. And with you off the scene, I could deal with Craggs myself.”

Coffin could see the old man shuffling towards Tom, behind him. He still had a little way to go, yet.

“How did you get into Terry Wu’s office? He just open the door, and let you in to mess around with his computer?”

“That was the easy part. Turned out, after every performance on stage, Steffanie was giving Terry Wu his own private little dance, before shagging him stupid on that big fucking desk of his.”

Coffin stood up, couldn’t help himself. “You’re lying.”

Tom lifted the shotgun, aiming at Coffin’s chest. “Sit down, Joe, I haven’t finished.”

Slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on Tom the whole time, Coffin sat down.

“Terry Wu was fucking Steffanie after every show. Had been, long before you showed up. That’s why she got paid so well, so much better than all the other dancers. She was my way in, but I didn’t tell her anything about the Triads. I said we could take the evidence to the newspapers, get a shit load of money for exposing the Slaughterhouse Mob, and putting you behind bars. She went for it like a hungry baby after its mother’s titty, Joe. You think she loved you? She fucking despised you.”

“You’re lying,” Coffin said, again, through gritted teeth.

Tom took another swig of the whisky. “Ah fuck, don’t feel bad about it, Joe. That cold hearted bitch despised everybody. So I told her what to do, how to set up the computer so that the camera was always on, but Terry wouldn’t know about it. Told her how to set it up so that it saved the video feed onto a folder on the hard drive. After you killed Terry, and left, Steffanie went back in and loaded the file onto a USB stick. She was supposed to hand it over to Lois Lane, but the stupid bitch started haggling for money.”

Coffin looked at Emma. She hadn’t told him any of this. She stared at the floor, head bowed, refusing to meet Coffin’s gaze.

“It was about that time I met Abel, in a back alley, sucking the blood out of a dead cat. I didn’t really think he was a vampire, not then. But he needed blood, and I knew a way of getting him some. I said I could get him plenty of fresh blood, if he did a favour for me.”

“You murdered Steffanie and Michael, not those kids you told me about,” Coffin said, his voice low.

“Nah, not me. Abel Mortenson murdered them. I just told him to do it. But he wasn’t meant to kill your kid, Joe. What kind of sick fuck do you think I am? I never told him to kill the kid.”

Coffin concentrated on staying still, regulating his breathing, his heartbeat. If he made even one move, he would lose control and he would leap out of the chair and right at Tom, ready to tear him limb from limb. But Tom had the shotgun trained on him, and at that close range, Coffin would be dead before he hit the floor.

“I thought Steffanie had handed the USB stick, with all the evidence on it, including a shitpile of digital files I’d downloaded off Craggs’ computer that would send him away for the rest of his life, to Lois, but she hadn’t. She’d fucking hidden it somewhere, and now she was dead, and I couldn’t get my fucking hands on it, could I? But then I realised she wasn’t dead, after all. At least, not dead like she should have been.”

Coffin was barely listening. A thunderstorm was raging inside his head, obliterating all rational thought. He gripped the sides of the chair, forcing himself to remain still, his muscles bunched up, painfully tense, and his jaws clamped together so hard it was a miracle he didn’t fracture his teeth.

“She’s dead now, though, proper fucking dead, and she isn’t coming back again from the looks of her. But none of that matters anymore. I don’t need the USB stick, because I’ve got you and Craggs right where I need you. I’m going to do you first, Joe, and then I’m going to do Craggs, and then Lois Lane. I might fuck her first though, it’s been a while since I’ve had some nice, warm pussy.”

Emma kept her head down, said nothing.

“What, no fancy comeback? No smart Alec reply? I should have fucking dealt with you when I caught you snooping around my house.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Coffin growled.

“I don’t think so, Joe,” Tom said.

He raised the shotgun, training it at Coffin’s head. Craggs began leaping up and down on the chair, looked like he was trying to break it apart, but he was too weak.

Coffin tensed, his gaze focused on Tom’s trigger finger, waiting, watching for him to start squeezing. Tom was weak, had no backbone for the dirty work of killing people. That’s what had always held him back, kept him from moving on up through the Mob, and what was keeping him from pulling the trigger right now.

But Coffin knew that he was only delaying the inevitable. Tom had no other way out. It was kill Coffin and Craggs, and Emma too, or be killed.

“Goodbye, Joe,” Tom said, softly.

There was a clatter from behind Tom, and he swung around, startled. The cadaverous old man was up close to him, had banged its hip against a table. Its clawed hands were outstretched, reaching for Tom’s neck, its jaws snapping open and closed.

Tom screamed and pulled the trigger. The blast of the shotgun was deafening in the confines of the club. The ancient cadaver was flung backwards under the impact of the shotgun blast, landing on its back on a table, and then falling onto the floor. Its chest and stomach were a mass of ripped flesh, where the pellets had torn through its frail body.

In one, swift bound, Coffin stood up and leapt off the stage. He landed on top of Tom, and had smashed his fist into Tom’s face before they even hit the floor. Tom screamed again, began squirming and struggling beneath Coffin’s weight.

“Please, dear God, please, Joe, don’t kill me!”

Coffin raise his fist again, and ploughed it into Tom’s swollen nose. There was a crunch as warm blood exploded against Coffin’s knuckles. Tom howled and started sobbing. Coffin grabbed his ears, scrunching them up in his big hands, and lifted his head off the floor. Tom screamed again as Coffin slammed his skull against the floor.

“Stop!” Emma shouted.

Coffin looked up. She was standing right beside him, looking down at him, her eyes wide and dark.

“You’re killing him.”

“That’s the idea,” Coffin said.

They both looked down at Tom, who was quieter now. His eyes had rolled up into the back of his sockets, and his whole body was twitching, in a spasm. Coffin stood up, flexing the bloody hand he had punched Tom in the face with. He looked around, his eyes fixed on the shotgun, lying under a table where Tom had flung it when Coffin had collided with him.

He walked over and picked the shotgun up.

“No, no,” Emma said, shaking her head. “Joe, you can’t shoot him, you can’t.”

Coffin racked open the gun. “You’re right, I can’t, he fired both shells.”

Coffin snapped the gun closed again, and flipped it around so that he was holding it by the barrel. He walked over to Tom, still lying on the floor, his body rigid with spasmodic movements. Coffin lifted the gun up high, and then brought it swiftly down.

Emma turned away at the last moment, but she still heard the wet smack of the stock as it smashed into Tom’s face. There was another, then another, and with each impact, it sounded like Coffin was hitting a piece of rotten fruit.

When the sounds finally stopped, Emma turned around again. Coffin was standing still, his breathing heavy and laboured. In his hands he still clutched the shotgun, the stock dripping with blood and scraps of flesh and hair.

“Joe?” Emma whispered.

She couldn’t take her eyes off him. Didn’t want to look at the shape on the floor, too scared to see what damage Coffin had inflicted. Tom was surely dead by now, his head like a squashed melon.

Coffin slowly turned his head and looked at Emma. At first he didn’t seem to be looking at her, but then his gaze slowly focused, and he came back from wherever his mind had retreated to. Without even looking down, he dropped the gun.

Emma could see Craggs behind Coffin, still straining at his bonds, grunting, his eyes wide with fear.

“What now, Joe?” Emma said, her voice little more than a whisper. “Am I next? Are you going to kill me now?”

Coffin said nothing, just stared at her. He seemed to be in shock, his face scrunched up as though he was in agony, and staring at Emma as though she was a ghost.

And then Emma realised he wasn’t staring at her, but at something behind her.

Emma spun around.

Steffanie had climbed to her feet. She was pushing her long, curly hair off her ruined face, completely unashamed of her nakedness. The right side of her face had been ripped apart. Her eye was an empty, red socket, and her cheek and ear were little more than ragged strips of flesh. Emma could see the shattered teeth through the holes in her cheek.

But the left side of her face was relatively undamaged.

She peeled her lips back in a ghastly imitation of a smile.

“Hi Joe,” she said.

i can't go in there

Frank Carter had driven all the way back to his sister’s house, and not seen Julie anywhere. He knew about the short cut through the woods in the park, but seriously doubted she would have gone that way. Not in the dark. She was a sensible girl, if a little too independent minded at the moment. It was her age, though. Hadn’t he been the same, when he was a teenager?

Frank sat in the car, the engine idling, the windscreen wipers keeping up a steady, metronomic beat as they swiped across the glass. After watching Julie disappear in the gloom of the heavy rain, he had decided on impulse to give her a lift home, after all. No matter how much she protested. Just thinking about that man in the hardware shop the other day had got him all unsettled.

Frank had grabbed his coat and run outside, cursing himself for being an idiot, fumbling with the car keys as the rain pounded him on the head and back. He kept telling himself to stay calm, that he would catch up with her in no time in the car.

But that wasn’t how it had worked out. Here he was, parked outside her house, and he hadn’t seen her on the way. He should have passed her. There was no way she could have walked, or even run, so quickly that he couldn’t have caught up with her.

Frank peered at the front door through the rain streaked windscreen, and debated going inside or not. He decided not to for the moment. If Julie was inside, she was safe and dry and getting ready for her night out with her friends. But if she wasn’t . . . well, he didn’t want to worry her mother just yet. Maybe if he did one more drive up and down in the car. Perhaps she had slipped and fallen, or somebody had stopped to give her a lift.

But no. If she’d fallen, surely he would have seen her. And if somebody had stopped and offered her a lift in his car, she would be home by now. Unless of course, he didn’t take her home.

Frank pushed that thought away. It was too ugly to examine closely.

Shoving the car into first gear and releasing the handbrake, Frank swept around in a wide U-turn on the deserted street. As he slowly retraced his journey, turning his head from side to side as he kept a lookout for his niece, he absently massaged his chest with his left hand. The anxiety he felt was turning into a dull ache.

His was the only car out tonight. Even driving slowly, sheets of water cascaded from under his wheels. Why had he let Julie have her own way tonight? He should have insisted on driving her home.

Frank slowed the car to a stop by the park. The dull shadow of the wood was just visible through the heavy rain, and the mist on the inside of the car window. Frank wiped a patch clear on the glass, and peered intently through the space, not really sure what he was looking for.

Was that something on the grass he could see? A dark, bundle of rags, possibly a body?

Frank pushed at the door, wincing at a sudden, sharp pain in his chest. He slammed the door shut, pulling the hood up over his head as the rainwater streamed down his face. Blinking away the raindrops, Frank walked through the puddles, approaching the dark shape on the ground in trepidation.

As he got closer the shape resolved itself into a gnarled old tree stump. Frank didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. Wiping water off his face, he took a deep breath. All of a sudden his lungs couldn’t seem to hold enough air in them. Probably the anxiety he was feeling.

Frank stood helplessly in the rain, staring at the tree stump, as though willing it to speak, and tell him what to do next. Because, other than going to his sister’s house and calling the police, he had no idea what he should do. Deciding that was now his best course of action, Frank lifted his head, tearing his gaze away from the tree stump, and something else nearby caught his eye. He walked over to it and reached down and picked it up.

A shoe.

Julie’s shoe.

“Oh, dear Lord, no,” he whispered.

Then he noticed the flattened strip of grass leading into the woods. Like somebody had been pulled in there, their feet dragging along the ground, flattening the wet grass. Frank stared at the dark shadows between the trees, the normally pleasant woodland suddenly appearing threatening and hostile. The anxiety swelled inside his chest, like a balloon, pushing painfully at his chest wall.

I can’t go in there, he thought, and despised himself for his cowardice.

No, it was best to let the police deal with this now. He needed to alert them right away. Frank shoved his hand inside his coat, searching for his mobile. It wasn’t there.

Frank squeezed his eyes shut. Where was it? Had he dropped it, or left it at the store?

No! Suddenly he remembered, it was in the car, charging.

Frank began stumbling back to the car, still clutching onto Julie’s discarded shoe. Suddenly the swelling pain inside his chest erupted, tearing at his insides like a bomb had gone off in there. Clutching at his chest, Frank fell to his knees, gasping for air.

Then he collapsed face down on the wet grass, and lay still.

edwards number 9

For Joe Coffin it seemed as though his world was tilting, turning on its axis. Only months ago he’d had to deal with losing his wife and son in a bloody massacre. And tonight he’d found out that Tom Mills had been behind that murder. Everything was already fucked up beyond what he had ever thought possible, but now . . . now . . .

It occurred to me, maybe those sheets over their heads were for protection.

Coffin staggered slightly, took a step back. The floor seemed to be moving beneath his feet, as though he was on the deck of a ship, in a gentle, rolling swell.

Protection? From what?

He could hardly bear the sight of the monstrosity in front of him, that looked like Steffanie, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.

From sunshine, daylight.

This . . . this thing, it couldn’t be Steffanie, it wasn’t possible.

You mean like, they were . . .

Steffanie was dead.

. . . vampires.

Coffin reached out, grabbed the back of a chair to steady himself. A grey curtain had descended over his vision, and his ears were filled with the sound of his own blood pulsing through his veins. He clung onto the back of the chair, afraid that he might faint, but focusing all his attention on staying conscious.

Joe!

Coffin took another couple of steps back, dragging the chair with him. His heels bumped into the edge of the stage, and he sat down. And all the time, his eyes were locked on the naked creature, dripping in blood, standing before him. A faintly mocking smile on her ruined face.

But not so ruined that he couldn’t see those elongated, sharp teeth.

JOE!

And her eyes. Her pupils were so wide they looked like black holes in her eye sockets.

“Joe!”

A hand on his shoulder, shaking him.

“Joe, come on, snap out of it, let’s get out of here.”

Coffin tore his gaze away from Steffanie and looked up, the sound of his pulsing blood fading away, his vision clearing as the grey disappeared like mist in a sudden breeze. Emma was standing over him, shaking him.

“No,” Coffin said, shaking his head. The word sounded slurred to him, came out as Nnnu. He worked some saliva into his dry mouth, tried again.

“No. I’m not leaving.”

“Go on, Joe,” Steffanie said, walking towards them, her naked hips swaying like a cat’s. “You should go now, like the little girl says.”

Coffin stiffened, his muscles painfully tense.

“Who the fuck are you?” he growled.

Steffanie stopped walking, rested her hands on her hips. “You know who I am, Joe.”

Her voice was thick with blood, the words mangled as she struggled to form them with her ruined lips and tongue. But he could understand her all right.

“No, it’s not possible, you’re lying.”

Emma bent down beside him. “Joe, she’s right, we need to get out of here—”

“Shut up!” Coffin hissed, and pushed her away.

Emma yelped as she fell over, onto the stage. She got up onto her hands and knees, crawled over to Craggs, still tied to the chair, the gag over his mouth.

Coffin stood up. He felt steadier now, stronger. This thing standing in front of him, it wasn’t Steffanie, it couldn’t possibly be. Steffanie was dead, lying in a coffin in the graveyard, next to his son. This naked creature, covered in blood and flecks of brain, it was some kind of abomination, some sort of . . . of . . .

“Joe, help me.”

Coffin spun round. That voice had been Craggs. Emma had pulled the gag off his mouth, and was working on untying the rope securing him to the chair. Craggs looked old and frail. His battered face was speckled with blood and grey matter, and his shirt was stained a deep red. He cried out as Emma released him, and grabbed his right arm just above the elbow, supporting it, protecting it from further movement.

“Go on, Joe, run away,” Steffanie said. “We’ll be seeing each other again, I’m sure.”

Coffin turned back towards the Steffanie monster. His lips peeled back in a snarl. This wasn’t Steffanie. This was all some kind of sick joke, Tom’s last laugh on Coffin. He was going to rip her apart, tear her limb from limb. Whoever, whatever, she was, she couldn’t desecrate his wife’s memory like this.

“Joe, please, we need to get out of here now,” Emma said.

Coffin turned around again. Emma was standing, supporting Craggs under one arm. Her eyes were round and pleading.

“You know what these things are like, you can’t kill them. The other one will be waking up again any minute now, and then you’ll have to fight two of them. Please, Joe, help me get Craggs out of here. We need to get him to a hospital.”

Coffin looked back at Steffanie. That mocking smile, those elongated teeth, and those dark eyes.

It wasn’t possible.

Steffanie was dead.

* * *

They didn’t take Craggs to a hospital after all. They put him in the back of Emma’s hire car, Mortimer Craggs complaining all the while that he was fully able to handle himself, and didn’t need a nursemaid. Especially not when that nursemaid was a reporter. Emma told him to be quiet, or else she was going to take a photograph of him, all beaten up and bloody as he was, and plaster it on the front page of the Herald.

Craggs stopped complaining.

Emma wanted to take him straight to casualty. She didn’t like the look of his arm, it was swelling up, and bruising badly, and he could hardly walk or put any weight on his ankle. Craggs said he wasn’t going to any hospital, and when Emma turned to Coffin for support, he shook his head, and said that Craggs was right, there would be too many questions to answer if they turned up at casualty.

“Take me to Eddie’s,” Craggs said, from the back of the car.

Emma, sitting in the driver’s seat, looked at Coffin through the open window. He was standing in the rain, in his leather jacket, holding his helmet tucked under one arm. He kept looking back at the club, as though he still couldn’t quite believe what he’d seen.

“Edwards Number 9,” Coffin said. “It’s a rock club, down on—”

“Yeah, I know what Edwards Number 9 is,” Emma replied, and looked at Craggs in the rear view mirror. “Are there any clubs you don’t own around here?”

“I own everything in this town,” Craggs said.

“Great,” Emma muttered.

“Follow me,” Coffin said.

He pulled the motorbike helmet over his head and climbed on the Harley. Emma followed him in the car as he rode out of the car park and onto the road. The rain was still coming down as hard as ever, and Emma had to put the wipers onto fast, just to clear the windscreen enough that she could see Coffin’s tail light ahead in the gloom.

The streets were almost completely deserted, the traffic lights changing from red to green at silent junctions. In contrast, the pub and shop windows, and the pizzerias and the restaurants, were all blazing with light and life.

Emma concentrated on following Coffin, but in her mind’s eye, all she could see was Steffanie, naked and dripping with blood, half her face ripped apart. She hadn’t been able to believe it, even though part of her mind had begun to accept the truth of what Jacob had said, until she saw Steffanie in the club, lying on the floor. At first glance Emma had thought she must be dead. But then she thought of Abel, and how he had refused to die, despite Coffin’s best efforts to kill him.

Steffanie and the old man, they were the ones Tom had smuggled out of the house, under protection of the blanket. They were the ones in the car, when Emma and Coffin chased them down the motorway. Coffin had come so close to discovering Steffanie then.

“What’s your name?” Craggs said, breaking into her thoughts.

Emma glanced in the rear view mirror. The old man was slouched in the back seat, his lined face a sickly yellow under the glow of the passing street lights. Hard to believe he was one of the most vicious and notorious gang leaders Britain had ever known.

“Emma,” she replied.

Craggs nodded, wearily. “I remember now. Emma Wylde, hotshot reporter. The one Joe shared a car with when he was after Tom yesterday.”

Emma’s eyes flicked off the road, glanced at Craggs again in the mirror. He wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were hooded, like he might fall asleep any moment.

“Has Joe tried to get in your pants, yet?” he said.

“The fuck?” Emma said. “No, he hasn’t!”

“Oh, he will.” Craggs chuckled, and then the laugh turned into a coughing fit.

Emma ignored him, and the coughing subsided. Craggs was silent for a minute, and Emma thought he might have drifted off to sleep, when he spoke again,

“You’re not going to write about any of this in your paper,” he said.

“That’s my decision,” Emma replied.

“No, it’s not your decision at all.” Craggs pulled himself up a little straighter, wincing at the pain. “Besides, who’s going to believe any of it?”

“Are you serious? It’s a bloodbath back at your club. As soon as the cops set foot inside Angels, they’ll have a lot less trouble believing what I tell them.”

“”You’re not involving the police in my business, Emma,” Craggs said, quietly.

“The fuck I’m not,” Emma snapped.

Careful, she thought. He looks vulnerable now, but you’ve got to remember who you’re talking to. This is the man who removed Tony Henley’s fingers and toes one by one with a pair of pliers, even after he’d started talking.

Craggs doubled up with a coughing fit again, his face screwed up in pain.

“What’s wrong?” Emma said. “Is something hurting inside?”

“I fell down the stairs,” the gang boss said. “What do you think is wrong?”

“We should take you to a hospital. What are they going to do for you at Edwards? Play you some shitty Goth rock music, and hope that will make you better?”

“I’ve got my own doctor to take care of me,” Craggs said, his voice hoarse from the coughing.

“Not that incompetent bastard who sewed Joe up, I hope,” Emma replied. “If that’s the case, why don’t we stop wasting time, and I just drive you straight to the funeral home?”

Craggs laughed quietly. “You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that. I can see why Joe likes you.”

Joe likes me? Emma let that one go. The last time she’d been involved in a conversation about who liked who, she’d been a teenager at college. In her present circumstances, this didn’t seem like the same thing.

“You know what? There’s nothing stopping me from turning off now, and driving you straight to City Hospital.”

“Do you really think so?” Craggs said.

Emma watched the orange glow of the light on Joe’s bike ahead of her. Craggs was right, of course. As soon as Emma turned the car around, Joe would be after her. Stop trying to be a fucking hero. Drop Craggs off at the club and then get the fuck out of there. Then you can call Nick, get the entire fucking West Midlands police down to Angels, and you can blow your story wide open. You’ve got enough, now, especially with the evidence on the USB stick.

Emma’s grip tightened on the wheel as she thought of the video footage of Coffin shooting Terry Wu. The USB stick was locked safely away in her drawer, at the Herald’s offices, but she had her iPad with her. Her eyes flicked over to her bag, lying on the passenger seat. If Joe or Craggs decided to search her stuff, and saw the video she had uploaded onto the tablet, she would be in big trouble.

“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” Craggs said.

“We’re here,” Emma said, as she pulled up outside Edwards Number 9.

Coffin got off the bike and came around to Emma’s side of the car. The rain had eased off a little, but it was still coming down fairly heavy. Coffin opened her door and bent down to her level.

“Help me get Mort inside,” he said.

Emma didn’t make any kind of move to get out of the car.

“I’ve got someplace to go. You’re a big fella, Joe, you can handle Craggs by yourself.”

Coffin held out his hand. “Come on inside with us. We need to talk.”

All of a sudden, Coffin looked strangely vulnerable. Emma flashed back to the club, Steffanie risen from the dead, naked and covered in blood.

“All right,” she said, quietly.

“Bring your bag with you,” Coffin said, as she started to get out of the car.

Emma stiffened, her arms springing out in goose pimples. “Why?”

“You don’t know who’s around. You leave it in your car, it probably won’t be there when you get back.”

“Yeah, sure.” Emma grabbed her bag and climbed out of the car.

They helped Craggs into the club, and took him straight upstairs, ignoring the stares from the Goths and the rockers and the punks. Emma had read about the fancy office that Craggs had at Angels, with the big desk and the sofas, and the drinks cabinet in the world globe, like something the villain in a James Bond movie would have. Nothing like that here. Just a bare room, with a tattered settee in it, and a basic kitchen in the corner, a table and some chairs.

Coffin lowered Craggs carefully onto the settee.

“Joe, call Frankie for me,” Craggs said. His eyelids were fluttering open and closed, and his lips drew back in a grimace of pain.

“I already did,” Coffin said. “He’ll be here any minute now.”

Craggs reached out and took Coffin’s hand. “You’re a good boy, Joe. I’m sorry you had to see all that shit tonight. Everything’s all fucked up right now, but we’ll sort it out, right? You’ve just got to stay strong.”

“Sure,” Coffin said. “We’ll sort it out.”

Emma turned away, suddenly uncomfortable in the presence of these two men, and the look of something approaching love that passed between them.

“Holy fucking shit! What the hell happened?”

A tall, gangly man stood in the open doorway. He had probably been good looking once, but with the row of studs along his bottom lip, and the spikes sticking from his cheeks and nose and eyebrows, and the spidery tattoos crawling over his face, you couldn’t really tell what he even looked like anymore.

“There’s been trouble over at Angels,” Coffin said.

“You’re not fucking kidding! You want to round up the boys, go over there and sort it out?”

“No!” Craggs said. “Leave that to me and Joe. You’ve got this place to manage, Rob.”

Rob shifted from foot to foot. It looked very much to Emma as though he hadn’t offered to ‘sort it out’ because he was a loyal member of the team. From the disappointed look on his face, Emma suspected he just thought it would be fun.

“Are you sure?” he said. “Me and Stut, we can—”

“I said, no!”

Emma reflexively tightened her grip on her bag. Charlie ‘Stutterer’ Boyd, now known as Stut for short, was a vicious, cruel little psychopath, who wore his hair like a young Elvis, and strutted around town chewing gum, and acting like he was in a 1950s rock and roll movie. His idea of a relaxing night out was raping some poor girl who had been taken in by his smooth, if stuttered, chat up lines, and then maybe finding somebody to slice up with his flick knife.

Emma had thought he was still in jail, for carving up that young lad who’d protested when Stut tried feeling up his girlfriend in the Yard of Ale one Saturday night.

Obviously not.

“Go on downstairs,” Coffin said. “And when Frankie Shaddock arrives, show him right up here.”

“All right,” Rob said, looking even more disappointed.

“Look, I’m not really sure what I’m doing here, and I’ve got places to be,” Emma said. “I should—”

“You should stay here, we need to talk,” Coffin said.

Emma didn’t like the look on Coffin’s face as he said that. Maybe it had been a bad idea to come up here, after all. Coffin would surely want answers from Emma about her involvement in this, about her dealings with Steffanie and the video footage of Coffin murdering Terry Wu that Emma had been about to publish.

She flinched as her mobile started buzzing. She pulled it out of her bag.

“Hey, Barry, what’s up?” she said, working hard to keep her voice calm and neutral.

“It’s the Birmingham Vampire,” Barry said, sounding breathless and excited. “He’s snatched some poor kid. Karl said to call you, you should come down here, the police are crawling all over the place.”

Emma glanced at Coffin.

“Where are you?”

“Selly Oak, down by the canal on Linden Road.”

“I’ll be right there.”

She flicked the connection off.

“Our friend’s back in action,” she said to Coffin. “I need to go.”

Coffin held out his hand.

“Give me your phone.”

“What?”

“Give me your phone. I’m going to put my number in your address book. You find out anything, you give me a call. That bastard is mine.”

Emma handed over her mobile, and Coffin tapped in his number.

“You can’t go down there, Joe,” Craggs said. “The cops will be everywhere.”

Coffin handed the mobile back to Emma.

“I know. I’ve got something else to do first.” He looked at Emma. “I’ll call you later.”

coffin buys a spade

First thing Coffin did when he left Edwards Number 9 was go to the nearest B&Q and buy himself a spade, some bungee cord, and a chainsaw. The store was almost empty, and the speakers, usually playing anonymous pop music, were silent. Coffin’s footsteps echoed faintly as he walked up and down the silent aisles until he found what he was looking for.

Outside, under shelter of the canopy thrumming with the sound of the rain, he ripped open the chainsaw’s packaging and strapped it and the spade onto his back with the bungee cord. Then he climbed back on the Harley and left the deserted car park.

It took him ten minutes of riding before he arrived at the church where Steffanie and Michael were buried. He walked through the graveyard, past the white tent the police had erected in the park where the tramp had been murdered, until he found Steffanie’s and Michael’s graves. He unstrapped the chainsaw and the spade from his back and squatted down between the two graves. They both looked undisturbed, just as he had last seen them.

Here, by her final resting place, Coffin found it impossible to believe that he had seen Steffanie only an hour or two ago. The woman at Angels was an impostor, she had to be. Some final plan of Tom’s, to fuck with his mind.

But why? That didn’t make any sense, and was totally out of character for Tom. He had never had any imagination. Tom liked using guns or strong arm tactics. He never would have cooked up a plan involving Coffin’s dead wife’s doppelganger. And what would be the point?

And yet, that woman had resembled Steffanie so closely, had even talked like Steffanie. And if she had been murdered by Abel, the Birmingham Vampire, as Tom said, and Abel really was a vampire, didn’t it make sense that Steffanie would return from the dead?

Coffin squeezed his eyes shut, letting the rainwater run down his face.

Vampires did not exist. Undead creatures of the dark, that prowled the night looking for victims to suck dry of their lifeblood were nothing but shadows in books and films, and folklore. Figments of the imagination.

Vampires did not stalk the real world.

And yet . . .

Coffin opened his eyes and gazed at Steffanie’s grave.

Only one way to know for sure if that woman had been an impostor.

Coffin picked up the spade and stood up.

He started digging.

* * *

The physical act of digging proved easier than Coffin had expected. The grave still being relatively new, the soil hadn’t had chance to become impacted, and the heavy rain had softened the ground.

Mentally, though, Coffin felt totally unprepared, and found himself battling warring desires. The thought of seeing his wife’s decomposing body, lying in her coffin, filled him with despair. How far would the decomposition have gone? Would he even recognise her? He imagined staring into her eyeless sockets, maggots crawling over her skull, eating the last remaining scraps of flesh clinging to the grey bone. As he worked, digging deeper into the soft ground, Coffin imagined that skull grinning up at him, Steffanie reaching out with a bony hand to embrace him.

Coffin paused in his digging for a moment, wiping rain water and sweat off his face. He had seen worse at the club, hadn’t he? His wife, alive, her face ripped apart by a bullet, standing before him. And there, that was the reason he wanted to see Steffanie’s decomposing body lying in her coffin. Because if her body was there, then that proved the woman in the club was an impostor.

But what did it say about the things Coffin had found out tonight? That Steffanie had been fucking Terry Wu. That she had conspired with Tom to set him up for Terry Wu’s murder. Had she been sleeping with Tom, too? Coffin had loved Steffanie, but had she not loved him? Had she hated him?

Coffin looked around the graveyard, checking for observers. He was fortunate that the weather was so foul, keeping people away. But still, he needed to get digging again, before he was discovered. His thoughts slipped away again, to Emma. How much had she known of all this? Had Steffanie really been trying to sell her story to the papers, complete with evidence that would have put Coffin away for a long time?

And the break in at his house. Emma and the baby wipes.

Coffin gazed at the puddles of dirty water forming in the hollows of the soil at his feet. Once he had finished here, he would meet up with Emma, and have a talk with her. He didn’t like it when people kept secrets from him.

Wiping water off his face, Coffin started digging again. The hole grew deeper, and the mound of earth beside him taller. After a while he lost himself in the physical hard work of digging the black soil out of the ground. There was peace to be found in a task like this. Coffin was a man of action, and could only truly be at one with himself when he was working, or wrestling with a problem.

Finally his spade hit the coffin lid with a flat thud. Joe Coffin continued digging and scraping the soil away until he had cleared a space at the end of the coffin where Steffanie’s head would be. This part of the lid had been open at the funeral service, for viewing. The funeral parlour had done their best with the makeup, but Coffin’ chest had ached at the sight of her lifeless face.

Coffin threw the spade on the ground beside him, and tilted his head back, letting the rain run over his face, washing the sweat away. He closed his eyes. Here was the moment of truth, and suddenly Coffin realised that maybe he didn’t want to know the truth. What good would it do him?

He thought about the plans he had once had, for a new life. His family’s murder had changed all that, but perhaps now was a good time to rethink it. Tom Mills, the instigator of those murders, was already dead. And once Coffin had dealt with the Birmingham Vampire, what was left? He could disappear forever, start again in another country, leave the old life behind.

Forget the truth. The truth was over rated.

Coffin opened his eyes.

No.

Maybe the truth was over rated, but he still needed to know.

Coffin knelt down and grasped the edge of the coffin, working his fingers between the wall of earth and the lid until he had a good grip. In one firm, strong motion, he pulled it open.

The coffin was empty.

He was not surprised. All along he had known it would be. Dark spots began forming on the light velvet interior as raindrops hit it. There was a single strand of Steffanie’s red hair lying on the velvet padding.

Coffin shut the lid.

Stood up.

As impossible as it seemed, Coffin knew there was no other explanation.

Steffanie was a vampire.

Joe Coffin pulled himself out of the grave and picked up the spade. He looked at Michael’s grave.

Coffin knew he had no other choice.

He had to know the truth.

jessica rabbit

Barry was sheltering beneath a large golfing umbrella, with a print of Jessica Rabbit on it. She was in a classic pose from the film, holding a microphone, one long, bare leg revealed from beneath her skin hugging red dress, barely covering those impossibly large breasts.

Emma sheltered from the rain with Barry, uncomfortably aware of his childish delight at being able to stand this close to her.

“The mother called the police after trying to get hold of her brother at his shop,” Barry shouted over the thrum of the rain against the umbrella. “She was worried about her daughter, had expected her home some time ago, but then when she couldn’t get hold of Frank, she started panicking.”

Emma looked at the police cars parked along the side of the road, and at the officers walking through the park, towards the belt of woodland on the far side. They were all holding big, powerful torches, and the beams of light cutting through the gloom and the rain made Emma feel like she was in a Hollywood thriller.

Or a horror movie.

“What happened?” she said.

“They found the girl’s uncle over there, lying face down in the grass.” Barry pointed into the park, past the police officer standing guard, keeping curious onlookers, and reporters, out. “He’d had a heart attack. But get this, he was holding onto one of Julie’s shoes, they had to prise it out of his fingers.”

“What do they think, that he had something to do with her disappearance?”

“No, he was still alive and he managed to tell them he’d been out looking for her. They took him to the hospital, and now this place is crawling with cops. I told Karl there was no point you coming down here, the police aren’t saying anything, but he insisted.”

Flashes of light from in the woods, more police with their torches.

“What makes them think Julie was abducted by the Birmingham Vampire?”

Abel. That’s his name.

“I don’t know that they do, like I said, the police aren’t saying a thing. But who else could it be?”

“What about the dead maid they found at Keele services?”

Emma already had her own thoughts on that one. Steffanie, or the thousand year old man she kept company with.

“Maybe he decided the pickings were better back in Birmingham,” Barry said. “Serial killers are supposed to return to the scenes of their crime, aren’t they? Maybe they are like sharks, as well, and prefer to stay in the same feeding ground.”

“There’s that sharp detective mind of yours, working overtime again,” Emma said.

Barry looked at her, like he wasn’t sure if she was teasing him or not.

Emma watched as another police car pulled up, and a uniformed officer climbed out. Part of her hadn’t wanted to come down, in case Nick was here. The likelihood was that he would turn up at some point, if he wasn’t here already. After what had happened today, Nick was the last person she wanted to see. Witnessing Joe Coffin beat Tom Mills to death, did that make her an accessory to murder? As long as she kept silent about it, she supposed it did.

But how could she explain this situation to him, without sounding like she had lost the plot?

Hey, Nick, guess what? You know that killer you’re after, the one all the newspapers have nicknamed the Birmingham Vampire? Well, guess what? He really is a vampire! And he’s not the only one. Steffanie Coffin’s no longer lying at rest in her grave, but she’s up and about and causing all sorts of mischief and, you got it, she’s a vampire too. Oh, and then there’s this creepy old guy, looks like he’s about a thousand years old, and he’s another vampire.

Oh, and by the way, I stood by and watched while Joe Coffin beat Tom Mills’ head into a bloody pulp, and then helped him take Mortimer Craggs to a safe place at one of his other clubs.

She couldn’t see that one going down too well.

Or was she just stalling, trying to delay the inevitable? Earlier, driving Craggs to Edwards Number 9, she’d had every intention of giving the whole story to Nick as soon as she got away. But now that she had got away?

Emma was scared that she was in too deep. She had withheld vital information about Jacob’s abductors and Peter’s killers. She was also a witness of the assault at the service station, and had been spending time with members of the Slaughterhouse Mob. Most damning of all, was the fact that she had been holding back the information she held on Craggs, and Terry Wu’s murder.

But she had no other choice. She couldn’t sit on what she knew any longer. Best option was to head back to the office and organise her files, and her evidence, and then phone Nick, explain everything.

“Emma? Are you all right?”

“”Yeah, sure,” Emma said. She looked up and down the empty street. “Have you talked to any of the neighbours yet? Anybody see anything?”

“Nope. Seems like the whole street is glued to their televisions, watching Strictly.”

“Never did see the appeal of that programme. Past their sell by date celebrities and ex politicians, dancing badly.”

“Me neither,” Barry said. “I prefer I’m a Celebrity. There’s usually a couple of fit birds wandering around in bikinis on that show.”

“You’re a real culture vulture, Barry, you know?”

“Hey, the human body is a great work of art, and I’m an admirer of art.”

“I’m going to go for a wander, see what I can see,” Emma said. “Why don’t you stay here, try and get one of these upstanding officers of the law to tell you something.”

Emma took hold of the umbrella. “I’ll take Jessica with me, she’s looking a little bored standing around here.”

“No way!” Barry said. “I’ll get soaked.”

“That’s right,” Emma replied, smiling. “But you’re a gentleman, and you would hate to see me ruin my hair in all this rain, right?”

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 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 blood 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 returned 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.

This was what the crying sounded like. A tiny child who had managed to put a lid on the screaming, crying fit, and was desperately trying to keep it there. Because she knew, if she lost control, she’d be in even more trouble than ever.

Emma thought about opening her eyes, find out who was crying, maybe ask why. But her eyelids felt like they were glued shut, and her head ached something awful. Best just to stay lying where she was, not move a muscle. If she moved, she had the feeling she was going to open up a whole new world of hurt.

Emma tried ignoring the soft crying, tried remembering why she hurt so much. Had she been drinking? Must have been one hell of a night out, to be feeling like this, and no memory of it at all. Seemed a little unfair, really, to have had such a good time she now felt so crap, but couldn’t even remember it.

There was a dream, though. She could remember that. Faces, hovering over her in the dark. Teeth. Long, sharp teeth.

The Bloofer Lady.

Who was the Bloofer Lady?

You never read Dracula, did you, Emma?

The Bloofer Lady was dead. Van Helsing and the others staked her through the heart, and then cut off her head and stuffed her mouth with garlic.

Emma shifted slightly, trying to ease out the kinks in her neck and back. A spike of pain stabbed through her head, and she uttered a small groan.

This wasn’t a hangover. The dreams were fading now, but still she could see the teeth, and red, glowing eyes. Emma remembered being at the club, seeing Coffin murder Tom Mills. When had that happened? It seemed like it could have happened years ago, or maybe it was just now.

Anxiety began flooding Emma’s stomach and chest as she began remembering more. Steffanie, the old man, taking Craggs to Edwards.

Emma tried opening her eyes. The lids were stuck together, coated in something that had dried up, and was now gritty and hard. She managed to lift a hand and rubbed at her left eye. The stuff flaked off beneath her fingers, and she managed to open that one eye.

Her vision was blurry, and she had to squint against the sickly yellow light. She tried rubbing at the other eye, and winced at the touch. Now that she thought about it, she realised the whole right side of her face was throbbing.

As her vision cleared, she could see that the ends of her fingers were coated in a red powder, like dried blood.

Memory returned. The narrowboat, floating like a ghost ship out of the canal tunnel. The man at the tiller, waving to her, pulling up alongside her. Abel, reaching out, with his gloved hand, his fingers closing around her jacket and pulling.

That was all she remembered.

The sound of soft crying was still coming from somewhere to her side. And movement, too. It was difficult to pinpoint the noise over the sound of an engine grumbling away.

Emma closed her eye as she realised what had happened. She was on the narrowboat, Abel’s prisoner. She must have hit her head when he pulled her on board, and bled into her eyes from a cut on her forehead.

Why was she still alive? Why hadn’t he killed her? Or maybe he had, and this was the moment she woke up as a vampire.

That didn’t feel right, though. Weren’t vampires supposed to be sexy, and lithe and powerful? Emma felt like a ragged collection of throbbing aches and pains, and the thought of the dried blood on her face made her feel ill.

Some vampire she would make.

No, Abel had kept her alive for some reason.

But she doubted that state of affairs was going to last too long.

Emma looked towards the sound of soft crying. She was lying on the floor in the cabin. It felt like she had been dumped at the far end of the boat’s narrow interior. There was seating either side of a table. A girl was lying on her back on the table, at least Emma assumed it was a girl, as she could see her long hair hanging over the edge of the table, almost touching the floor. Other than that, all she could see of her were her bare feet, and slender ankles. A small figure squatted on top of her, with its back to Emma, and she was weakly pushing at it, trying to fend it off. But the figure was too strong, and was bent over her. Emma could see its head moving up and down, as though it was licking at something.

Emma could guess what.

Slowly, and as quietly as she could manage, thankful to have the sound of the narrowboat motor to cover her, Emma braced her hands against the floor and started pushing herself upright. A spike of pain, stabbing through her head, and the right side of her face began throbbing even more.

The vampire on the table, and Emma was sure that’s what it was, another vampire, was too small to be Abel. And besides, he had to be steering the narrowboat. Which meant there were more of them than she had realised.

Emma stifled a groan as more pain shot through her head and down her neck and back. She paused, held herself still, wondering if the vampire might have heard her, but it didn’t pause in its feeding, didn’t turn and look at her. The sound of the engine was acting as a cover for her. Clenching her mouth shut tight, Emma screwed her eyes shut and pushed herself up into a sitting position. Her head swam with the pain, and for a terrifying moment she thought she might pass out. But then the dizziness passed, and the agony in her head subsided a little.

Emma watched the vampire with her one open eye. So small, looked almost like it could be a child. It stopped its feeding, and sat up, its back still to Emma. Had it heard her? Had she been discovered?

But then the child vampire giggled and gathered up some of the girl’s long hair in its hands. It seemed fascinated with it, winding the long, fair strands around its fingers, and stroking it, softly. The vampire opened out its hand and let the girl’s hair fall between its fingers. With another revolting giggle, it grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked hard, and the girl screamed.

Emma watched, appalled and fascinated and terrified. The girl screamed and cried, and begged the child to stop pulling on her hair, but this just encouraged the vampire to pull harder and more often, increasing its delight. It was like a spoilt little brat, finding fun in hurting others.

A vampire child.

Dear God, no.

How old could this child have been when he was bitten and turned? Four? Five?

About the same age as—

Oh no. Not Michael.

As if hearing his name, although Emma had not spoken it out loud, she was almost sure of that, the boy stopped pulling on the sobbing girl’s hair, and turned slowly around.

Despite the blood and dirt smeared over his face, the red, puffed lips and the pointed teeth, and the eyes narrowed down into a cruel, curious stare, Emma recognised him immediately.

Michael Coffin.

Her insides shrivelled up and contracted beneath that stare. The little boy showed no signs of recognising her, but then why would he? Steffanie had brought him with her to their clandestine meetings, but the boy had only ever shown interest in his toys or his snacks. And did he even have any memory of what he used to be, or his mother or father?

The vampire jumped from the table, landing directly in front of Emma, almost on top of her, due to the confines of the cabin. Squatting in front of her, like a bloody imp from hell, Michael examined Emma with a strange mixture of childlike curiosity and naked hunger. Emma pushed herself flat against the cabin door behind her, twisted her head away when the boy reached out with a blood stained hand to touch her face.

“Michael, no, don’t,” she whispered.

The vampire snatched its hand back when she spoke, as though it had been stung. Was he still unsure of who he was? What kind of creature had he now become? Emma noticed his fingernails had grown thicker and stronger, more pointed. They now looked like claws.

He reached out again, touched her hair, ran his clawed fingers through it. Clumsily, he pushed it off her face and draped it behind her ear. Her face twisted away, Emma still watched him from the corner of her eye. The little boy’s face had relaxed, some of the hunger gone from its expression.

It was as if playing with her hair was soothing him. Was this something Steffanie had allowed him to do? Did he still have a trace memory of his life as a normal little boy?

“Michael,” Emma whispered.

The vampire cocked its head its head, like a dog noticing something interesting. Did he understand? Did he know his name?

“Michael, I want you to listen to me,” Emma said, softly, working hard to keep her voice level and as soothing as possible. “You’re a very sick little boy, Michael. A poorly boy. But I can get you help. We can make you better.”

The child vampire leaned in close, eyes alive with a sudden interest. His breath stank of clotted blood and putrefaction, and Emma could feel waves of cold emanating off him, as though he had the complete inverse of a fever. His fingers were in her hair again, stroking, the claws against her scalp.

He opened his mouth, and his pink tongue darted out and licked at the crusted blood on his lips. Emma pushed back against the cabin wall, willing it to magically dissolve behind her, so that she could pass through it and disappear into the cold, dark canal water outside.

The engine cut out. The sound of the old boat creaking, a splash of water outside, the soft crying of the girl lying on the table, and the gentle thrum of rain on the cabin roof, all of these noises filled the gap left by the silence of the dead motor.

Michael looked up at the sound of footsteps above them. Abel, moving around, securing the narrowboat to a mooring post. Michael squatted on his haunches, no longer interested in Emma. He tipped his head back and followed the sound of Abel’s footsteps as he walked around on the deck.

Emma took the opportunity to slip her hand inside her pocket. If she could call Coffin, even just alert him to her situation before the mobile was taken off her, there was a chance he might find them.

Her pocket was empty. Carefully, with no sudden movements, watching Michael staring intently at the ceiling, Emma tried her other pocket.

Also empty.

Fuck!

Abel must have searched her when he dragged her on board. Maybe he’d thrown the phone over the side, and it was now lying at the bottom of the canal, keeping company with bicycles and shopping trolleys.

Abel’s heavy footsteps were now travelling down the length of the boat’s cabin roof, and Michael was tracking him all the way, his head craning around. Was Abel coming down below?

Emma closed her one good eye, trying to keep the debilitating fear at bay enough that she could think. Without her phone she was cut off from everyone. Who knew how long she had been unconscious, and how far Abel had travelled down the canal in that time. They could be miles away now, from the park where the police were conducting their search.

The cabin door opened, and Abel ducked inside.

Michael rushed up to him, bounding over the girl, who cried out as he stepped on her stomach, and shouted, “Daddy! Daddy!”

His voice was thick, and slightly slurred, deeper even, than Emma would have thought.

Abel patted the boy on the head, but all his attention was on Emma.

“You just can’t keep away from me, can you?” he said.

“At least—” Emma croaked, but her mouth was too dry to speak properly. She worked a little saliva up, and tried again.

“At least you’re wearing some fucking clothes this time.”

Abel chuckled, drew a little closer. “I can soon change that.”

Emma closed her one functioning eye. She felt so fucking tired.

“No, that’s okay.”

The cabin was so small, crowded out with the four of them in it. And it felt hot in here, and stank of blood and sweat and shit.

There was movement, the sound of the girl crying out.

Emma opened her eye, tried opening the other one, but it was stuck closed. Abel had pulled the girl upright, so that she was sitting on the table. He grasped her head in both hands, her long, lank hair trailing over his fingers and across her shoulders. Some it was matted to her face, and Abel wiped her hair off her forehead and out of her eyes, whilst holding her up with his other hand around the back of her head.

“Julie,” Emma said. “Julie look at me.”

Her wide eyes, brimming with fresh tears, were fixed on Abel’s face, only inches from hers. Her lips were trembling, but she was holding herself together. Just.

Her top was slashed and red with blood, and now that she was sitting up, Emma could see the wounds on her arms. Abel had been keeping the girl alive, so that Michael would have a steady supply of fresh blood, for a while at least. Just like they did with Jacob, kept prisoner in the cellar for the old man to feed on.

Abel leaned forward and kissed the terrified girl on the lips. She tried to pull back, but he was too strong, his grip on the back of her head too firm. The kiss was tender, almost loving. When Abel pulled back, Julie’s tears had cut long, thin streaks through the blood and dirt on her face.

“There, there,” Abel whispered. “There’s no need to cry. We’re all one big, happy family here.”

“Julie, look at me!” Emma hissed.

Julie’s eyes flicked towards Emma, but Abel’s grip kept her head firmly locked in place.

“We’re going to get out of here, Julie. Okay? The police are looking for you, hundreds of them, scouting the area. They’ll find us, and they’ll get us out of here, and they’ll put this sick fuck behind bars, and you’ll never see him again.”

Abel was chuckling softly. He let go of Julie, and she fell on her back on the table, and cried out in pain.

“Stop feeding this poor girl’s head with your lies,” he said. “I left them far behind, they’ll never find us now.”

Emma smiled. It hurt, and it felt more like a snarl than a smile, but she managed it. “Fuck you, nature boy. You know who else is looking for you? Joe Coffin. And when he does find you, he won’t make the same mistake as last time, he’ll make sure you’re dead.”

Abel didn’t reply. He sidled around the edge of the table, the boy vampire following him constantly. When he got to Emma he held up a coil of thick rope.

“Turn around,” he said.

“Fuck off,” Emma said.

Abel grabbed her by the shoulder and twisted her around. Emma screamed as bolts of pain shot down her back, and she fell on her face on the cabin floor and cried out again at the sudden throb of pain in her skull. Abel used the rope to tie her hands behind her back, and then to her ankles. Her feet were pulled up under her bottom, and she had to arch her back to keep the pressure off her shoulders, as he pulled the rope tight.

Abel backed out of the cabin, a terrible grin on his face the whole time.

When he got to the door, he said to Michael, “Keep an eye on them. And drink more of the young girl’s blood if you like, but leave the other woman alone. I’ll have my fun with her later.”

Michael squatted on one of the seats, and watched them like a dutiful guard dog.

A fucking guard dog from the depths of hell, Emma thought.

She listened as Abel walked up and down on the boat, and started the engine up. Soon they were moving again.

Maybe that’s a good thing, she thought. Maybe I haven’t been out of it as long as I thought, and we’re not very far from where Abel snatched the girl. He’s moving on because he’s worried that he’s still too close to the police, searching the park. If that’s the case, we might have a chance yet.

Listening to the motor grumbling along, and feeling the gentle movement of the boat, Emma tried hard to believe that might be true.

antiques

Coffin opened the car’s boot and gazed down at the pathetic collection of guns, lying beside Coffin’s chainsaw.

“Oh, shit,” he sighed, and picked up a pistol, a Browning Hi Power. “Was this the best you could do?”

Rob stood beside him. He’d been looking pleased with himself, but now his grin faded.

“What? You said bring guns.”

“This thing is older than Craggs. Does it fire?”

Stut joined them, standing the other side of Coffin. When he saw the gun in Coffin’s hand he burst out laughing.

“Fffffuck me, where’d you get that from? An antique shop?”

Rob raised his hands in exasperation. “Joe said, bring guns, all right? It was the best I could do!”

“At least we got this,” Stut said, leaning into the boot and picking out a sawn off shotgun.

“Give me that,” Coffin growled, and pulled the shotgun out of Stut’s hands, swapping it for the pistol.

“Yeah, yeah, of course, J-Joe.”

Rob leaned in the boot and pulled out a Russian Tokarev pistol and held it out at arm’s length, pointing it across the car park.

“It’s fucking impossible to get your hands on a gun these days, not like it was when I were a kid. The only way I got hold of these pistols is because they’re classed as antiques, and they’ve been decommissioned.”

“Shit, are you t-t-telling me these are d-dummies?” Stut said.

“Course not, you stupid fucker,” Rob snapped. “They’ve been adapted. They’ll work all right.”

Coffin opened up the shotgun and slipped two shells inside, then snapped it shut again. He shoved more shells in his pockets.

Stut lifted his shirt and shoved the handgun in the waist of his trousers.

Rob said, “Are you fucking serious?”

“What?”

“You’re going to blow your balls off doing that.”

“I know how to handle a piece, I left the safety catch on.”

Rob snorted. “Yeah, you’ve usually got your piece in your hand, all right.”

Stut and Rob looked at Coffin, waiting for their orders. Coffin cursed inwardly. A gangly kid covered in tattoos of naked women and tigers, and a stuttering Teddy Boy. Was this all that was left of the Slaughterhouse Mob? Where had all the tough guys gone? The old school, like Craggs.

Coffin’s Harley was parked next to the car. Did he really need to go inside the club, and face Steffanie again? Why not send these two idiots in to clean up, while Coffin climbed on his bike and headed off somewhere, anywhere? Permanently. Maybe he could stop by the hospital, and collect Laura and Jacob.

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 skin around them 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.

Nick had thanked him, and said he would make sure she attended for police questioning at the earliest opportunity. But that was almost twelve hours ago, and a lot had happened since then. One of the cleaning staff at the Hilton Park Travelodge had run screaming down to reception a couple of hours after the assault in the car park. When the reception staff had followed her back to the room she had been cleaning, they found the bathroom walls, and the bath and the sink, dripping with fresh blood.

Then there had been the discovery of the dead maid at Keele services, her throat ripped open just like the Birmingham Vampire killings in the city. What the hell was he doing? Travelling north?

And now this Julie Carter girl going missing.

What the hell was happening?

That poor boy kept prisoner in the cellar, by the Birmingham Vampire, at the house on Forde Road was Tom Mills’ kid, and Tom Mills was part of the Slaughterhouse Mob. Was it coincidence that Mills was at Hilton Park services around the same time of the discovery of that blood soaked bathroom? And why had Coffin been there?

But most pressing of all in Nick’s mind was, why had Emma been there?

Nick picked his way carefully through the woodland, wishing he had brought a torch with him. Under the canopy of the trees, he was sheltered somewhat from the rain, but he still had to put up with large drops of rainwater falling from the leafy covering.

He swore as he stepped into a hollow in the ground, almost losing his balance as his foot disappeared into a wet, spongy mass of vegetation, and water seeped through into his shoe. The ground squelched as he pulled his foot back out, and saw the hem of his trouser leg was soaking wet.

“Shit,” he muttered.

This was exactly why he had chosen to be a city policeman. He hated the countryside.

“Hey, over here!” someone shouted. “I’ve found something!”

Nick followed the sound of the voice, suddenly losing interest in his muddy shoes and wet feet. The woodland ended at the brow of a small decline, down to a canal. There was a police officer on the towpath, shining his light at an object floating in the dark canal water.

Nick scrambled down the footpath, his expensive shoes slipping and sliding in the mud, threatening to topple him on his backside, and make him the laughing stock of the station.

“What have you found?” he said, when he was beside the constable.

He was young, obviously fairly new on the force. He held out his torch and shone the beam on the object floating in the canal. It was a brightly coloured umbrella, still open, but bashed in, the spokes bent. Nick glanced around until he saw a dead branch lying on the embankment. He picked it up and, forgetting about the mud and his shoes and trousers, he knelt down and reached out to the umbrella, snagging it with the end of the branch.

After a few failed attempts, Nick managed to snag it properly and drag it into the side. Pulling the umbrella out of the dirty water, he got his first proper look at the printed design.

Jessica Rabbit gazed back at him, eyes hooded with desire and faint mockery.

“Put out a call,” Nick said, his stomach and chest tight with fear. “We’ve got another missing woman.”

harry styles

“Julie,” Emma said.

The bloodied girl on the table had curled up into the foetal position, and was crying softly, just audible over the sputtering narrowboat engine. Michael, despite having been given guard dog duty, was curled up in a corner, fast asleep, his thumb in his mouth.

Emma tried shifting into a better position on the floor, in an attempt to ease the pain in her back and shoulders. Abel had tied her up tight, and the rope was biting into her wrists and ankles.

“Julie,” Emma said again, trying to keep her voice low enough not to wake the sleeping boy, but loud enough that the girl could hear her. “Listen to me, Julie. We can get out of here, I can get you out of here, back to your family, but you’ve got to help me first.”

No answer. Just the sound of soft sobbing.

Emma shifted position again. Much more time spent with her back arched like this, and even when she was untied she wasn’t going to be able to stand up. She was losing sensation in her feet, and down the back of her thighs. And all the while, Abel was sailing the narrowboat further and further away from the police, and any chance of rescue.

All Emma could hope for right now was that Abel’s progress was halted by a lock. But even then, what could she do? She had already tried screaming, but that had achieved nothing, other than agitating Michael. He had scrambled around the tiny cabin, jumping over the terrified Julie, hooting and yelping, and hissing at Emma, and baring his fangs at her.

That had soon put a stop to any attempts at shouting for help.

And now that he was asleep, she was even less inclined to make a noise. It was a relief to not have him staring at her, licking his lips, a look of hunger mixed with an unsettlingly adult look of desire on his blood smeared face.

No, Emma’s only hope was Julie. If she could just get her to stop crying, and listen.

Emma had been softly pleading with the young woman for help since Michael had fallen asleep, with no reply other than the relentless, exhausted sound of crying. It was time to change tactics. Emma had an idea why they were being kept alive for the moment, but it wasn’t going to last. They were running out of time.

“Julie!” Emma hissed. “For fuck’s sake, pull yourself together! We are going to get out of here, but I need your help to do it, and you’re no fucking use to me lying in a heap crying like a fucking baby.”

Emma stared intently at the top of Julie’s head, her long, blond hair hanging over the edge of the table. The gentle sobbing stopped, to be replaced by snuffles.

Well, it was a little progress, at least.

“I know this is bad, Julie,” Emma whispered. “It’s a complete, fucking nightmare, and you’re terrified, I know. I’m scared, too. But we can get out of this, Julie, we can escape, all right?”

The girl on the table top didn’t move, seemed to close herself into her curled up position even tighter, if possible. Emma glanced over at Michael. He was still fast asleep. Emma shifted position again, the pain in her lower spine and across her shoulders becoming intolerable. If she didn’t get released from these ropes soon, Emma thought she might start crying herself.

“Julie,” Emma tried again. “Are you listening to me? Do you understand what I am saying? Speak to me, Julie, let me know that you can hear me, that you understand what I am telling you.”

Emma waited, the silence stretching out beneath the thrum of the engine. Maybe the young girl had lost her mind already, was in some kind of catatonic state of shock. If that was the case, they were most certainly dead.

Or undead, even.

“Oh, fuck,” Emma whispered. “Not that, please not that.”

The note of the engine changed down a notch, and Emma realised they were slowing down, and stopping. What now? Had Abel decided they had moved away from the police presence in the park far enough? Was he hungry, maybe? If he came down here now, and decided to kill them both, Emma was helpless to stop him. He could sink his teeth into her neck, and she could do nothing but lie here, and hope death came quick, and that she wasn’t going to wake up again with a taste for blood and wandering around naked.

The thump of Abel’s footsteps crisscrossed the roof over her head for a few minutes, and then stopped. A moment later Emma heard a metallic clanking noise, like a chain being pulled.

A lock! They were at a fucking lock!

This was their best, maybe their only, chance of an escape, while the Birmingham Vampire was distracted with taking the narrowboat through the canal lock, and the boy vampire was asleep.

“Julie!” Emma hissed, ridiculously attempting to keep her voice low so that she wouldn’t wake up Michael, but loud enough to attract the young woman’s attention. “Pull yourself together, this our best chance, right now, of getting out of here. But you have to help me. You have to untie me.”

Emma watched the girl, willing her to move, to raise her head, or just speak. Anything to show that she understood, that Emma’s message was getting through.

Julie raised her head, and looked at Emma. Strands of her long hair were matted across her face, blotchy from crying. Her eyes were big and round, the lids puffy, and her lower lip was quivering. She was dangerously close to going into meltdown again.

“That’s it, Julie, that’s great,” Emma said, trying to keep her tone of voice even, free from the panic she could feel filling her chest. “Now, I need you to come down here and untie me. I can’t do anything to help you tied up like this, but when you’ve untied me, we can . . .”

The girl was lowering her head back down onto the table, as though she had given up completely, the thought of escape an absurd impossibility. Emma could still hear the metallic ratcheting from outside as the lock gates were slowly swung open.

She risked raising her voice slightly.

“Julie, don’t you fucking give up on me,” she growled, the pain in her back making her want to scream. “Now get down here right this instant, and untie me.”

The young woman slowly raised her head again, as though the weight of it had become a terrible burden. She looked at Emma with pleading eyes.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I’m too scared.”

“I know you’re scared,” Emma replied, think that at least this was progress, that she was talking now. The problem was, they didn’t exactly have time for a chat. “I’m scared too. But we can’t just lie here, and let that bastard take us off somewhere to drink our fucking blood, all right? We can’t let him do that.”

Tears spilled over the girl’s lower lids, and her lips trembled even more. “But he . . . he raped me. He raped me and he made me . . . he made me . . .”

The rest of Julie’s sentence was lost as she started crying again.

Emma closed her eyes.

She was so tired, and in so much pain, she just wanted to give up now. And this girl, Emma felt sorry for her, but didn’t she understand, that if they didn’t get out of here they would die? Didn’t she realise that they had a chance to escape, and instead of acting on that slim opportunity, she was lying here crying?

“Julie, snap the fuck out of it,” Emma said, opening her eyes again. “Do you want to lie down here, waiting for that monster to come back down and rape you again? I don’t care what the hell he did to you last time, he’s got worse in store for you, I guarantee it.”

There was thud from above them as Abel climbed back on to the narrowboat. Emma listened as he moved around for a few moments, and then the engine picked up a note, and they started moving forward.

Shit! They were moving again? So fucking soon?

Emma’s head sank to the floor, her cheek pressed against the carpet. That was it, they were done for, unless Abel came to another lock very soon. But even then, Emma still had to snap Julie out of her paralysis. What was left then, except to lie here, and wait for Abel to be happy that he had sailed the narrowboat far enough away from the police that he had the time to come down below, and finish them off.

Emma had no doubt that he would rape Julie again, before he killed her. And then it would be Emma’s turn.

The tiny cabin stank of blood, the air thick with the smell of death, and Emma was finding it hard to breathe. Maybe that was because of the unnatural position she was in, her back arched, hot pain across her shoulders and down her spine. She tried moving into a better position, to relieve the pain in her back, but whatever she tried only increased her discomfort.

The barge bumped to a halt, and the engine’s throb settled down to a low rumble.

Stopping so soon? What next?

No, wait. We’re still at the lock.

Of course! Abel had steered the boat into the lock, but now he had to close the gates behind him, raise or lower the water level, open the next gate, and then sail out. They still had time, but they had to act quickly.

The young woman had lain her head back down on the table and was crying again. Emma checked to see if Michael was still asleep, and he was, his thumb stuck firmly in his mouth.

“Julie, you listen to me, now!” Emma hissed. “If you don’t pull yourself together, and get off that fucking table and down here and untie me, we are going to die. Do you understand me? I know that you are terrified, that you are just a teenage girl who should be home right now, mooning over Harry fucking Styles, but you’re not home. You are here. With me. And I need you to show some backbone right now, and get up, and come down here, and untie me. And then we will get the fuck out of here, and I will personally buy you front row seats at the next McFly concert.”

Julie’s crying faded away. Emma listened, waiting for her to say something, do something. She could hear Abel struggling with closing the lock gate. He seemed to be having some trouble.

“Julie,” Emma whispered. “Come on, help me out here.”

“One Direction,” Julie said, her voice faint and trembling.

“What?”

“Harry Styles.” Her voice hitched, and Emma thought she might start crying again. “He’s in One Direction, not McFly.”

“You can do this, Julie. Untie me, and let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Painfully slowly, Julie pushed herself up, her arms trembling with the effort. She glanced back at the cabin door, and at Michael.

“Don’t worry, he’s fast asleep,” Emma said. “But you’ve got to move quickly, we don’t have much time.”

As if to emphasise her point, the two women were both startled by the sudden noise of rushing water. The narrowboat began slowly rising.

“We are at a lock, Julie. We’re going through a lock, and we’ve only got a few more minutes before he’s finished. When the boat finishes rising, that bastard’s got to open the lock gate before he can steer the boat out. That’s going to be our only chance, when he’s occupied opening the gate. He will be down the opposite end of the boat, and with a bit of luck we can sneak off without him seeing us.”

Julie looked like she was about to start crying again.

“I know, I know, it’s a fucking pathetic plan, but it’s the only one I’ve got. We can do this, Julie, but you need to get your shit together, and untie me.”

“I am so scared,” the girl said, her lips trembling.

“I’m scared, too, Julie,” Emma said. “I’m scared of what he’s going to do when he comes back down here to finish off having his fun.”

Julie got herself up to a sitting position, her hands slipping on the blood smeared table, and she swung her legs over the side. Every now and then she glanced back at the sleeping boy.

To Emma, the young woman was moving painfully slowly. But she held her tongue. At least she was moving now, and if Emma tried to rush her, she had the feeling that she would panic her, and halt what little progress they were making.

Julie finally pulled herself off the table and squatted down beside Emma.

The boat was still slowly rising, seemed to have been moving upwards for a long time. But in the dark confines of the cabin, Emma had no way of telling how near the top of the lock they were.

“Untie me, quickly,” she said.

“I . . . I can’t, I’m shaking too much.”

“Just take a deep breath,” Emma said, keeping her voice flat, and calm. “You can do this.”

What she really wanted to do was scream at Julie. They were so close to escaping, but they had such little time left. Emma could feel the girl’s fingers fluttering weakly against her wrists. Maybe there was knife in the cabin, something she could use to cut at the rope, instead.

Both girls started at a clunk from outside, and the sound of rushing water stopped. The boat was no longer rising.

Emma wanted to cry.

“Now would be a really good time to untie me, Julie,” she said.

“Wait, I think I’ve got it.”

The rope biting into Emma’s wrists slackened, and then the pressure on her back and shoulders eased a little. Stifling a groan as blood began rushing back into her limbs, she pulled her arms free of the rope. Already the pins and needles were firing up in her feet and hands. She wasn’t sure she would be able to stand up, let alone walk.

But she had to.

Abel was opening the lock gate.

“Go and open the cabin door,” Emma said.

Julie stared wild eyed at the sleeping vampire boy, curled up on the seat next to the door.

“Just do it!” Emma hissed.

Holding onto the table to steady herself, Julie edged her way towards the door. Emma, her feet feeling like they were on fire as sensation rushed back into them, crawled after her over the stinking, blood soaked carpet. There was so much blood down here, it squelched beneath her as she moved. How many other people had Abel and the boy murdered on this boat?

Julie reached a trembling hand out to the door and pulled it open. The rattling sound of the chains pulling the lock gates open grew louder, and fresh, cold air rushed inside the foul smelling cabin.

Michael stirred, and mumbled. The two woman stared at him, waiting for him to wake up. He sucked on his thumb, and settled again.

“Just poke your head outside a little,” Emma whispered. “Check where that bastard is, that he’s not looking this way.”

Julie’s eyes were welling up with tears, but she nodded. She grasped the edges of the narrowboat deck with both hands and lifted herself slightly out of the opening. A breeze tugged at her hair. She twisted her head, looking around, and then looked back down at Emma.

“He’s got his back to us,” she whispered. “He’s struggling with the lock gate, he’s bent over it.”

“All right, this is it. As quietly as possible, but quickly too, get yourself onto the towpath and get away as fast as you can. I’ll be right behind you.”

Julie nodded, and without waiting for anymore instruction, she climbed the steps and got out onto the deck. Emma’s hands and feet were still tingling, but the pins and needles had worn off some, and she thought she could walk now. Wincing with the pain, she followed Julie up the steps.

The rain had stopped, but the deck was still slick with water. Emma was surprised at how far they had travelled along the canal. Abel had taken them further into the city, and Emma could see houses, and a road, a single car driving past, its headlights picking out puddles of water before its tyres sloshed through them.

She knew where they were, and she thought she knew where they were headed.

Abel was winding the crank handle again, having resolved whatever problem he’d had. Julie was stepping gingerly onto the towpath. For the first time, Emma let herself believe that they might actually make it.

Emma hauled herself up onto the deck, clenching her jaw to keep from crying out as bolts of pain shot through her back. Julie turned around, held out her hand to help Emma off the boat. Being outside, seeing how close they were to other people, to freedom, seemed to have given her some confidence.

Emma reached out her hand, took a step towards the young woman. As she did so, her foot caught against the lip of the deck, and exploded with a fresh bout of painful tingling. She cried out with the pain.

Abel straightened up and spun round at the sound.

Emma dropped to her knees on the boat’s deck, unable to stand anymore.

“Run!” she screamed at Julie.

The girl was frozen in terror, and before Emma could shout at her again, Abel was on top of her, like a dark angel of death. She fell on her back on the muddy towpath, and Abel clamped his hand over her mouth before she could scream, and yanked her head back, exposing the white of her neck.

Emma screamed again, hauled herself towards the girl, who was struggling beneath the vampire pinning her to the ground.

He lunged at the young woman, and sank his teeth into her neck. Emma reached out clawed fingers for his back, to pull him off her, but he pushed her away as though he was swatting at a bothersome fly, and she fell on her back on the boat’s deck.

Emma began crying as she watched the vampire sucking at Julie’s neck, her struggles growing fainter, until finally she was still.

stut doesn't shoot his balls off

“Is that really Tom?” Rob said, leaning over the corpse on the floor, its face a mess of broken bone and pulped flesh.

“I th-think so,” Stut said.

“Bloody hell, Coffin did a real fucking job on him, didn’t he?”

“I thought him and C-C-Coffin were friends?”

“Nah, Coffin’s got no friends.” Rob stepped back, and pointed at a scattering of small, white shapes on the floor. “Fuck, look over there. Are those his teeth?”

“C-C-Coffin didn’t tell us w-w-we were cleaning up a b-b-bloodbath.”

Stut wandered over to the bar. Instead of walking around it, he jumped up and swung his legs over, knocking a glass off, sending it shattering to the floor.

“Fucking hell, Stut, what the fuck are doing?”

“G-getting myself a drink,” Stut said, on the other side of the bar, bending down and peering into the chiller cabinets. “We m-m-might as well help ourselves while we’re here. It’s going to t-t-take us all f-fucking night to clean up this m-m-mess.”

“Yeah, especially with you making a mess smashing glasses.”

“Cool it, m-man.” Stut put a couple of bottles on the bar top, and then pulled the caps off with a silver bottle opener.

“Shit, I don’t think it’s a good idea, you helping yourself to the booze. We’re here to clean up, remember?”

Stut took a long swallow from the bottle. Condensation on the glass glinted in the soft light behind the bar. Rob had to admit, a nice cold lager would go down well right now.

“Like I s-s-said, we’re gonna be here all f-f-fucking night, cleaning up. Aren’t w-w-w-we allowed a drink?”

“I don’t know,” Rob said, walking over to the bar. “If Coffin comes down and finds us, we’ll be in deep shit.”

“Just have a d-d-drink, and then we’ll p-put on our aprons, and act like cleaning ladies.”

“Okay, just the one,” Rob said, and picked up the bottle, and gulped down the cold, refreshing lager.

“What the hell d-do you think’s going on with Coffin and his w-w-w-wife? Do you believe him, that she’s alive again?”

“I don’t know. It’s fucking weird isn’t it? Even Craggs was talking about fucking vampires and shit.”

“This whole situation is ffffucking weird. Look at that p-p-poor bastard over there. Coffin didn’t just kill him, he p-p-pulverised his face in.”

Rob looked back across the club at Tom’s body. “Yeah, Coffin must have been angry.”

“Angry? He must have been ffffucking mental. And why does he k-k-k-keep going on about his wife? She was murdered, right?”

“Hey, I don’t know what’s going on, okay? Just finish your fucking drink and then we can start cleaning up this mess.”

“Okay, okay, k-keep your knickers on, Shirley. I just th-think it’s all weird, that’s all.” Stut upended his bottle and drank the rest of the lager. “You ever see Steffanie dancing here? Fucking hell, she c-c-could give a corpse a b-boner. What the hell do you think she sssaw in an ugly bastard like Coffin?”

“I don’t know, but the women all go for him. His first wife, Laura, was a looker, too. And I think he shagged half the dancers in this place over the years.”

“You reckon his cock’s as b-b-b-big as the rest of him? That’s got to be it, hasn’t it? They’re looking at this guy, and he’s h-h-h-huge, and they’re thinking to themselves, wondering if he’s h-h-h-huge in the trouser department as well. I bet he is, I bet he’s got a dick the size of a d-d-donkey’s.”

Rob finished his lager. “You’re starting to sound like a fucking queer. You’ll be asking him to unzip himself and slap it out for you next, let you have a feel.”

“F-fuck off,” Stut said, and threw his empty bottle at Rob’s head.

Laughing, Rob ducked, and the bottle flew over his head and rolled across the floor.

“I told you not to make any more fucking mess,” he said, still laughing, and turned around to go and find the bottle and pick it up.

There was a man standing behind him, just visible across the club, in the shadows.

“Who the f-f-fuck’s that?” Stut said.

“How the fuck should I know?” Rob said. “Why don’t you fucking ask him?”

Stut walked around to the front of the bar, pulling the gun from the waistband of his trousers. He flicked off the safety catch.

“Hey, you, come over where we c-c-can fucking see you!”

The man didn’t move.

Stut looked at Rob. “You think I should sh-shoot him?”

“Fuck, no, we’ve got enough fucking mess to clear up as it is,” Rob hissed. “Go over there and talk to him, find out who the fuck he is.”

“Hey, come on over here,” Stut shouted.

The man stayed where he was, and Rob was reminded of the living statues he saw sometimes, in the city centre. They stood so still, staring into empty space. And you could jump up and down in front of them, and wave your hands in their faces, and shout at them, and they didn’t move a muscle. Until you were least expecting it.

And when one of those living statues did make a movement, it always made Rob jump, and then look around, embarrassed, to see if anyone had noticed.

This was the feeling he had now. That the man in the corner was a living statue, and that at any moment he would make a move, and Rob would flinch as usual, and make a fool of himself.

“He’s too scared to come over here,” he said. “Especially with you waving a gun around. Go over there and talk to him, find out who he is. Might be he’s new staff here, or one of Craggs’ associates, or something.”

“I still think I should just sh-sh-shoot him.”

“Right, and that’s going to look fucking great, isn’t it, when we find out that he’s actually Craggs’ right hand man.”

“I thought C-Coffin was his right hand man?”

“Coffin is his right hand man.”

“Then who the f-fuck is this guy?”

“I don’t know, he could be a fucking silent partner for all we know, just go and talk to the bastard, find out who the fuck he is.”

“Who made you the f-f-fucking boss, ordering me around like a piece of shit? Why don’t you go and talk to him?”

“Because I’m the one who got you this job when you came out of prison, and I think you fucking owe it to me to show fucking willing and fucking do some work!”

“Ah, fuck, I knew you’d d-d-do this to me, pull rank and shit, and mmmake out like you’re better than me.”

Rob punched Stut in the shoulder. “Don’t be a fucking idiot.”

“Don’t call me a f-fucking idiot, you f-fucking stupid f-f-fucker, and keep your fucking hands off me!”

“You want me to tell Coffin you were fucking around behind the bar, drinking the stock, when you should’ve been clearing up, like you’re supposed to?”

“Fuck you, d-dickwipe, I don’t see you doing anything useful, and. . . Whoa, fuck!”

Stut and Rob had both been facing each other, whilst they argued, the figure standing silently in the darkened corner, forgotten. Now they both spun around as they saw him approaching, shambling towards them, his mouth working as though he was chewing on something.

Stut pointed his gun at the old man, and said, “Stay right there, you fucking cocksucker, don’t move another fucking step.”

The skeletal, ancient man stopped walking, his jaw still moving up and down, chewing or sucking on something.

“Fucking hell, look at him,” Rob whispered. “He’s been shot, looks like he should be fucking dead, already.”

Stut nodded. The man in front of them had a huge, gaping hole in his chest. His bloody suit hung in tatters, amongst strips of torn flesh. It didn’t seem possible that he could still be alive.

Stut lowered his gun. “What the f-f-f-fuck are we going to do with him?”

“I don’t know,” Rob muttered. And then, louder, “You want to tell us who you are? We can help you.”

The man stared back at Rob, silent. Rob didn’t like the look of his eyes. They were red, like he had a terrible case of conjunctivitis, and his skin was white. He still seemed to be chewing or sucking on something.

Stut shoved his gun back under the belt of his trousers.

“F-fuck this, I’m getting myself another drink.”

Putting one hand on the bar’s top, he jumped up, and then screamed and doubled over as his gun went off in his trousers. Stut fell down, and landed on his back on the floor, a dark patch of blood spreading across his groin.

“Oh fucking hell,” he moaned.

Rob got down on his knees.

“You fucking stupid bastard, you forgot to put the safety on, didn’t you?”

“I shot my f-f-f-fucking balls off, didn’t I?” Stut groaned through clenched teeth.

“No, you’re okay, you shot yourself in the thigh. You’re bleeding bad, though, I’ve got to get you out of here.”

Rob jerked upright as felt the teeth sinking into the back of his neck, and by the time he realised the old man was on top of him, and that he was much stronger than he looked, it was already too late. As he struggled to free himself, the warm blood pulsing from the artery in his throat, a distant, calm part of his mind wondered who was screaming.

And then he lost consciousness.

* * *

Coffin bolted for the door when he heard the gunshot, all thoughts of Steffanie forgotten for the moment. Before he reached the door he felt a hand grasping his ankle, holding on tight, and he tumbled forward, landing heavily on the floor. The impact of the fall knocked the shotgun from his hand, and it skittered across the floor, out of reach.

Still something held onto his ankle, and Coffin twisted around to see what.

It was Velvina, her grip stronger than it ever could have been in life. She pulled herself towards Coffin, slithering along the floor like a lizard. Hand over hand, she crawled up Coffin’s body. Her mouth opened and, although her teeth hadn’t grown into long, pointed fangs, Coffin could already see that she was changing, becoming like Steffanie.

He kicked her in the face. Her head whipped back under the force of his foot, but when she looked at Coffin again through her hair hanging down over her face, ribbons of scarlet dribbling from her nose, he could see the hunger for his blood in her expression.

Someone downstairs screamed, but Coffin couldn’t tell who it was. He kicked out at Velvina again, but she grabbed his other ankle, and deflected the blow. Where was she getting her strength from?

Letting go of his ankles, she crawled rapidly over his body, climbing on top of Coffin as he scrabbled backwards, trying to get out from underneath her. Velvina was panting, and sometimes making tiny growling noises, and her hands clawed at his shirt. Coffin punched her in the side of the face, knocking her off him.

He sat up. Steffanie was still standing by Craggs’ desk, and she was laughing. There was another scream from downstairs, this one weaker than the last. Coffin stood up and, with one last look at the woman that had once been his wife, he bolted out of the office. He took the stairs two at a time, and was at the bottom when he realised he had left the shotgun in Craggs’ office.

No time to go back for that, he thought, and smashed through the door, into the club.

The ancient monstrosity that Coffin had seen wandering around the club earlier was crouched over Rob, sucking at a gaping wound in his neck. Rob’s struggles had grown weak, and he was pounding feebly at his attacker. Stut was crawling away, leaving a trail of blood from a wound in his thigh.

But what caught Coffin’s attention was the sight of Addison and Clevon stumbling into the club, from reception. They both looked like they had just awoken from a deep sleep, their faces groggy and slack with confusion. Addison’s white bartender shirt was drenched with blood, and Clevon had a torn, red hole in the groin of his trousers. When they saw Coffin, the confusion on their faces cleared a little, and Coffin saw an expression that he was starting to become frighteningly used to.

The need to drink. The thirst for his blood.

In that moment, Coffin came to a snap decision. He ran over to Stut and, grabbing him from behind, and underneath his arms, he hauled him to his feet.

Stut screamed at the movement. Coffin wrapped an arm around Stut’s middle to support him.

“What about Rob?” Stut said, gasping with the pain.

“He’s dead, we’re leaving him.”

Coffin half carried, half dragged Stut through the club, past tables and chairs, and down the back, towards the fire escape, and the car park. They had a car boot full of guns, but Coffin didn’t rate his chances against five vampires, even with that kind of fire power. All it would take was one or two to overpower him, and he would be spending the rest of eternity avoiding the sun, and drinking blood.

Didn’t sound like much fun.

In a flurry of movement, and growling like a rabid dog, Velvina flung herself at the two men, from the stairs. She slammed into Coffin, hands flailing at his neck, and they fell over, Stut screaming. Coffin got his hands up just in time as Velvina lunged for his neck, her mouth wide open and ready to bite down. He wrapped his hands around her face, and pushed, but she was strong, stronger than she should have been. The sound of her teeth clicking as she snapped at his hands, trying to bite them, filled his ears, close to driving him mad. He couldn’t let go, not even with one hand, not for a moment, or she would be able to sink her teeth into the flesh of his palm, or his arm, before he had chance to hit her again.

But then she managed to turn her head a fraction within Coffin’s grip, and her teeth found his index finger on his left hand, and clamped down over the first knuckle. Coffin roared, and let go. Trickles of red blood ran down his finger and his hand, and over his arm. Velvina ground her teeth together, until the bone snapped, and she ripped the end of his finger off, blood spraying from the severed joint, across her face.

Coffin punched her in the chest with his right fist, and she fell back. As she landed on the floor, she spat the end of his finger out of her mouth, and it rolled across the floor. She sat up, and started giggling. Addison and Clevon stumbled through the door at the end of the corridor.

“Joe, d-duck down,” Stut screamed.

Coffin ducked and twisted around just in time to see Stut, lying on his back but propped up one elbow, holding his gun out at arm’s length, just before he squeezed the trigger. The sound of the gun’s retort filled the corridor, and Velvina flipped over onto her front. After a moment, as Coffin’s ears began ringing, she pushed herself back up again, and stood up.

Stut shot her again, and then he turned his gun on Addison and Clevon.

“Stay back!” he screamed. “Stay back or I’ll f-f-fucking shoot you, I swear to God, I will.”

“Just do it,” Coffin growled, as he hauled himself past Stut, through the growing pool of blood from the wound in his thigh, and out of the line of fire.

Stut began shooting, squeezing the trigger over and over, until the chamber was empty, and the gun clicked harmlessly.

Coffin didn’t bother looking back, to see what damage Stut had done. However accurate his aim, it wasn’t going to slow those freaks down much. They had to get out.

Standing up, Coffin grabbed Stut under the arms again, and hauled him upright, ignoring his screams of pain. He pushed through the fire escape door, and outside. His finger was throbbing, and he could feel the blood pulsing from the wound. Dropping Stut on the wet ground, Coffin slammed the heavy fire door shut and leaned his weight against it.

Stut started crying.

“I’m d-d-d-dying, I’m fucking dying,” he wailed.

“No, you’re not,” Coffin said. “But I’m going to kill you myself if you don’t stop crying.”

They would have to use the Harley to escape. Stut was in no condition to drive the car, and Coffin was too big fit in the driver’s seat and use his feet on the pedals. Stut was going to have to do his best to hang on to Coffin, at least until they got far enough away that he could sort out a tourniquet for his leg, and for Coffin’s finger.

Coffin dragged Stut to his feet. Already a large pool of blood had gathered on the wet tarmac, mingling with the puddles of rainwater. Stut was floppy in his arms.

“Come on, pull yourself together,” Coffin said, manhandling him onto the back of the Fat Boy.

“I’m cold, Joe, so fucking cold,” Stut said, his voice slurred slightly.

The fire escape door swung open, rebounding off the wall with a loud clang. Velvina was at the front, her hair in wild disarray, blood seeping through her clothes where Stut had shot her. She bared her teeth and snarled, reminding Coffin for a split second of a wolf, ready to tear him apart.

Addison and Clevon were right behind her, jostling to get through the doorway.

Coffin climbed on the bike and gunned it into life.

“Wrap your arms around me and hold on tight!”

Stut had only just grabbed onto Coffin before they were moving, and Coffin tore past the three vampires, arms stretched out to grab them, fingers brushing at Coffin’s shoulder, before he was out on the main road.

Coffin put his head down and opened up the throttle. They sped down the road, droplets of blood flying from his amputated finger in the wind.

marge

Nick looked up and down the towpath, still holding onto the Jessica Rabbit umbrella. To his left was a tunnel. A tiny sign on the brickwork above the arch said it was the Erdington No. 7 Tunnel. As a child, Nick had played here with his friends, and explored that tunnel with torches. It led to an abandoned iron foundry, where goods were loaded and unloaded. The canal opened out into a canal basin wide enough for boats to turn around, and the tunnel was the only exit.

In the opposite direction, the canal snaked out of Birmingham, joining up with many other canal routes along the way. From this point here, the Birmingham waterway was connected to the rest of the country. A person could steer a narrowboat, or walk or cycle along the towpath, and go as far as London, or Manchester, or further, up into Scotland, or down to Cornwall.

A thought had begun to form in Nick’s mind.

Was it possible that the Birmingham Vampire was hiding out in a narrowboat?

It seemed ridiculous, and yet standing here, by the canal and not far from the site where Julie Carter had been abducted, it also seemed entirely plausible. Frank Carter had found his niece’s shoe far into the park, near the woodland. And the drag marks in the wet grass suggested that Julie had been snatched by the road, but then dragged through the park.

Down the footpath through the trees, and onto a narrowboat waiting here, perhaps?

Had Emma been thinking the same thing? She had come down here to investigate, and the Birmingham Vampire had discovered her, and then what? Killed her and dumped her body in the canal? Pulled her onto the boat, with himself and Julie? But where had he got the boat from? Had he simply stolen an empty barge moored by the canal side, or had he discovered one that was being used, and murdered the occupants?

Nick had already sent police officers to investigate the disused foundry, but Nick suspected that if he was right, the Birmingham Vampire would have taken the opposite route, and getting as far away as possible, before he was discovered.

But did he have Emma with him?

Nick took his mobile out and speed dialled Emma’s number.

“Come on, Ems,” he whispered, as he waited for the connection to be made. “Answer this time, please.”

The ringing tone started up. Nick automatically counted off the number of times it rang out. At the fifth one, it cut into her recorded message, the one he’d been getting all day.

“Hi, you’ve reached Emma Wylde, hotshot reporter for the Birmingham Herald. Leave me a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon—”

Nick cut the connection.

“Hey, you!” he shouted, at an absurdly young looking policeman, standing nearby and appearing to be at a complete loss for something to do. “Give me your torch.”

Without waiting for a reply, Nick snatched the torch off him and headed down the towpath, away from the tunnel.

* * *

Abel shoved Emma through the cabin door, and she fell onto the blood soaked table. She slid off the sticky surface, and onto the cushioned bench, and then off that and onto the floor, where she lay on her side, her cheek against the moist carpet. Julie’s body was thrown in after Emma, and landed with a sickening thump on the table. One arm hung over the edge, her hand only inches from Emma’s face, blood dripping slowly from the fingers.

Abel slammed the cabin door shut, leaving her alone with the young woman’s body, and Michael. The vampire hadn’t bothered tying her up again. Was that because he knew he’d crushed her spirit, that she had no fight left in her?

Emma squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back the tears. She’d had to do something, they couldn’t just sit in the narrowboat cabin, waiting for that psychotic freak to get wherever he was taking them, and then murder them. If they had stayed where they were, and waited long enough, Julie would have been dead anyway.

So why did Emma feel so desperately guilty, and responsible for the young woman’s death?

But it didn’t really matter anymore, did it? Whatever reason he had for keeping Emma alive, it wasn’t going to be for long. And then what? Would she stay dead, or would she come back as a vampire?

The table creaked above her as Michael climbed on top of Julie’s body. He had woken up during all the excitement. Emma could hear him pawing at Julie’s body, and then her stomach turned over as she heard licking and sucking noises.

Emma twisted her head away, trying to block out the disgusting noises. Her head throbbed, and her whole body ached from being trussed up like a Christmas turkey. The Birmingham Vampire hadn’t bothered tying her up again. Maybe he could see that Emma had lost all her fight. She was too tired to carry on.

All she wanted was to fall asleep, and then wake up at home, in bed next to Nick, and realise that this had all been a vivid nightmare.

The throbbing in her head took on a rhythmic, insistent note, burrowing deeper into her brain. It was almost like an alarm clock, buzzing her awake in the morning. An alarm clock, or . . . a mobile phone.

Emma opened her eyes. Michael was still sucking at Julie’s dead body on the table, above her. The mobile was on silent, just buzzing repetitively, demanding to be answered. It sounded like it was coming from under the seating, running alongside the cabin. Her face resting against the sticky carpet, Emma could see under the bench, where bulging, black plastic bags had been stuffed out of the way.

But she couldn’t see the mobile.

The buzzing stopped.

The service would have gone into voice mail by now. But whose phone was it? There was the possibility that it might be Emma’s mobile. It could have fallen out of her pocket when she was dumped down here. But equally, it might be Julie’s, or it could belong to whoever owned the narrowboat.

And if that was the case, and access to the phone was through a PIN number, it was useless to her.

Slowly, quietly, Emma stretched out an arm, her fingers tracking their way through the carpet sodden with blood. Michael stopped slurping at the dead body, and Emma went rigid, holding her breath. A moment later, he began his feeding again.

The urge to cry almost overpowered her, but Emma knew she had to fight it. Once she started crying, she would give up the fight, and she might as well just offer herself up to the vampire. She began extending her arm again, until her fingers encountered one of the plastic bags.

Could the mobile have slid under one of these bags? She pushed at it, but it was heavier than she expected, and whatever was inside had a solid, but slightly spongy feel to it. Emma tried pushing at it again. It moved slightly. Her fingers curled around the edges as she tried to get a better grip on the plastic, and she tore a hole through it.

A dead, bloodshot eye stared through the ragged hole at Emma. Unable to contain herself any longer, she started wailing.

This was the perfect nightmare, and she was never going to wake up.

Michael stopped feeding, and leant over the table, and stared at Emma. Smeared in blood and dirt, his hair sticking out, and his eyes dark and lacking in life, he looked like a demon from hell. After gazing quizzically at Emma, he returned to licking the bloody corpse.

Emma stifled her cries. Fixing her gaze on a point just to the side of the black plastic bag, so that she could still see it, but didn’t have to look directly at that dead eye staring back at her, Emma pushed at the bag again. The head moved, shifted slightly to the side, and then rolled over, and rested against another black plastic bag, containing who knew what gory body part.

But there, on the floor, was her mobile phone.

With trembling fingers, Emma slid it across the floor and under the table. She picked it up and hugged it to her chest, like a talisman, and waited, convinced that Michael would suddenly reach down and snatch it from her. Or that Abel would crash through the cabin door, and sink his teeth into her neck, ripping at her jugular, before she had chance to use the phone.

The narrowboat engine rumbled steadily away, the boat moving slowly forward. Emma realised she was holding her breath, and gasped.

She was shaking badly, and her fingers wouldn’t work properly, but she managed to activate the phone, and wake it up. The glow from the screen was startlingly bright, and Emma had to squint, and clapped a hand over the phone.

Had Michael noticed anything?

No, Emma could hear him fumbling with Julie’s body, the rip of fabric, more slurping noises, and grunts of pleasure.

She uncovered the phone, but shielded it with her palm, so that the glow of the screen didn’t illuminate the boat’s cabin. There was a missed call, from Nick. Her finger hovered over the ‘Return Call’ icon.

No, not Nick. He had no idea what he was up against. He would bring a team of police officers with him, and they would be too noisy, too demanding. They would deal with the situation like it was a regular hostage scenario, and they would try to negotiate. And they would fail.

Emma flipped open her phone book, and scrolled through until she found Coffin’s number. He knew what he was up against.

Joe Coffin would know what to do.

she isn't ordering pizza

Coffin had no choice but to get Stut to a hospital. As he lost blood through the bullet wound in his leg, his grip on Coffin began lessening. By the time they pulled up outside the emergency department, he was barely hanging on.

Coffin pulled him off the bike and helped him in through the sliding double doors. The woman on reception saw them, her eyes widening, and she picked up a telephone and spoke briefly into the handset. The waiting area was quiet. There was an old man cradling an untidily bandaged hand in his lap, sitting with his wife, another man sat slumped in a corner, and a young Asian couple with their daughter, who was running around chattering. When she saw Coffin and Stut, she froze, and then ran back to her parents, wide eyed.

A male nurse ran to meet them, from around the desk. He grabbed hold of Stut, looping his arm around his shoulders whilst Coffin continued supporting him on his other side.

“This way, let’s get him onto a bed,” he said.

They half walked, half dragged, Stut through into the treatment area, leaving a thin trail of blood on the floor behind them. They were met by another nurse, pushing a bed, and they eased Stut onto it. A young doctor approached them, pulling on a pair of plastic gloves. He glanced at Coffin, and then bent down to examine the bloody wound.

“How long ago did this happen?” he said.

Stut’s eyes were fluttering open and closed. His face was white, he looked dead already.

“About fifteen minutes, maybe longer,” Coffin said. He held his hand in his pocket, where nobody could see the trauma to his finger. Warm blood soaked into the material, against his leg.

“This is a gunshot wound,” the doctor said, glancing at the female nurse. “We’ll need to get him into theatre, give him a blood transfusion, get that bullet out.”

They were still walking as he talked. The female nurse left them. Coffin watched her as she hurried over to the nurse’s station, and leant over the desk and spoke to the ward clerk. She nodded, and picked up the telephone.

Coffin had a good idea that she wasn’t ordering pizza. If he didn’t get out of here soon, the police would arrive and start asking questions, and it wouldn’t take long at all before someone realised this was Joe Coffin they were talking to, and didn’t he just get out of jail a few days back, and wasn’t he around at that service station on the M6 when that poor man was assaulted and his car stolen?

Coffin turned around to leave.

“Hey, where are you going?” the male nurse said. “Take a seat in that cubicle, we need to check you over, you’re covered in blood.”

“I’m fine,” Coffin said. “The blood’s all his.”

“Even so,” the nurse said, leading Coffin to an empty cubicle, with a bed and a chair, and the curtain pulled to the side. “Sit down here, and I’ll be back in a minute.”

Coffin sat down and watched the nurse hurry away. In the cubicle next door, someone was retching. A nurse was walking by, pushing a trolley with a silver tray, containing white bandages and instruments. Someone called her name, and she turned, and then hurried away, leaving the trolley where it was.

Coffin stood up, glanced right and left. The waiting room had been quiet, but in here they were busy. Telephones ringing, nurses and doctors rushing around, carrying case notes, x-rays, dealing with patients or concerned relatives.

Big as he was, no one was looking at Coffin. In two quick steps he was at the trolley. He picked up a roll of bandage and a roll of micropore, hiding them in his fist. He walked over to the ward clerk at the desk.

“I need the toilet,” he said.

She pointed to her left, at a pair of blue doors, one marked Male, the other Female.

Inside, Coffin locked himself into a cubicle and examined his mutilated finger. It had been bitten off at the first knuckle, and he could see the pale nub of bone in the red flesh. The bleeding had slowed down a little, and now that the adrenalin had worn off, he was aware that it hurt like a bastard.

Coffin unrolled the bandage and wrapped it around his finger. He wound the micropore around the bandage, as tight as he could, to act as a tourniquet, and stop the bleeding. The finished dressing didn’t look pretty, but he was sure it would do the job.

When he stepped out of the toilet, he saw two policemen standing at the station, talking to the ward clerk. They had their backs to him, but they weren’t far away. To get out through the waiting area, and collect his bike, Coffin would have to walk right past them.

Not good.

Coffin turned the opposite way and walked down past the row of cubicles and pushed through a set of double doors. A corridor, a blue sign on the wall opposite, pointing to the X-Ray Department. He headed down it, past a porter pushing a patient in a wheelchair, a young woman in theatre blues running by them both, an older man in a suit and tie, with a clipboard, talking to a ward clerk.

No one looked at Coffin.

He shouldered his way through a set of double doors, his finger throbbing and hot, and entered another waiting area, packed with dull faced patients, slumped in metal framed chairs bolted to the floor. Hanging from the ceiling was a blue sign saying, ‘Exit’, and pointing down another corridor.

Coffin walked through the waiting room. One or two heads looked up at him, eyes widening at the sight of this huge man, face disfigured with scars and T-shirt smeared with blood. No one had paid much attention to him in the emergency department, but now he was out of an environment where seeing a man covered in blood wasn’t that unusual, Coffin wondered if he was going to draw more attention to himself.

Nothing he could do about that at the moment. Outside the X-Ray department, Coffin found the main corridor. He stood back as a porter pushed an old woman in a bed by him. The porter was tall and fat, and had to hunch over the rail at the end of the bed to push it. Coffin fell in step behind him, following him down the corridor to the main exit.

Once outside he would have to double back down to emergency, where he could collect his Fat Boy. As long as there were no cops keeping a lookout over it.

Coffin was walking past the WHSmith when his mobile started buzzing. He pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the screen.

Emma.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”

Coffin placed his other hand over his ear. The voice on the other end of the phone was barely audible.

“You’ll have to speak up, I can’t hear you.”

“Joe, he’s got me.”

Her voice was coming through a little stronger now, but still quiet. Coffin thought he could hear an engine in the background.

“Where are you, Emma?”

“I’m . . . oh God, Joe, he killed her, and . . .”

There was a pause, Emma’s silence filled with the faint sound of that engine, rumbling on in the background.

“I’m on the canal, on a barge. I think he’s taking me back to the house.”

Coffin didn’t need to ask which house.

“Oh, fuck,” she hissed. “He’s stopped the boat, I think he’s coming down here. Joe, help me, help—”

The connection was cut, Emma’s voice and the noise of that engine replaced by silence.

“I’m coming for you, Emma,” Coffin said.

Outside, the air felt cool and fresh on Coffin’s face. His T-shirt was stuck to his torso with dried blood, and he was exhausted, and emotionally spent after everything he had seen. All Coffin wanted to do was clean himself up, and maybe climb on his bike and ride out of here, somewhere far away.

But he couldn’t do that.

Joe Coffin wasn’t the kind of man to leave a job unfinished.

And nothing about this situation was finished yet. Far from it.

Coffin had to cut through borders of shrubs between car parks to get back to the Emergency department. His Harley was where he had left it, and no one was standing guard over it. Unfortunately the police car was parked beside it, and in full view of the waiting room and the reception desk. If the cops were in there, and they happened to be looking outside, they would see him straight away.

An ambulance pulled up, lights flashing, but its siren off. The rear doors opened, and the crew climbed out, and slid a trolley out of the back, a young man strapped into it. They rushed him in through the double doors.

Coffin stepped from his hiding place in the shrubbery. This was his best chance, while everyone was preoccupied watching all the excitement. He climbed on the bike, and gunned the engine into life.

One quick glance into the Emergency room showed him he had been right. No one was paying him any attention at all.

He didn’t waste anymore time getting out of there.

let's see you come back from that, you fucker

Nick cursed as his smooth soled, expensive shoes slipped in the mud. If he took a tumble into the cold, filthy canal water, he wasn’t sure he would get back out again. He shone the powerful torch beam up ahead, illuminating the muddy towpath, filled with large puddles. How far had he gone?

Nick was beginning to wonder if he had made a bad decision. Was it reasonable to think that a psychopathic killer, who apparently had a vampire fixation, would hide out on a narrowboat? It wasn’t exactly the speediest form of transport, and how long before someone reported their barge missing?

Besides which, Nick couldn’t work out how this tied in with the murder at the M6 service station. They had all assumed the Birmingham Vampire was making his way north, but now?

Maybe Emma had slipped in the mud, and dropped the umbrella in the canal. Or maybe she had fallen in the canal, and Nick was wasting time looking for her up here. He pushed that thought away. If she had fallen in and drowned, then surely they would have seen her body, floating on the water.

No. Nick’s intuition told him that he was on the right track. Emma had been onto something, and she had discovered the Birmingham Vampire, and he’d taken her. They were up ahead somewhere, they had to be. The open gate at the lock he had passed had confirmed that suspicion. Only someone in a rush wouldn’t have bothered to close the lock gates after them.

He had to keep pushing on, until he caught up with them. Could he move faster than a narrowboat? Possibly not, but every time they came to a lock, that would delay them.

Nick swore as he slipped again, and grabbed a hanging branch to steady himself. The branch showered him with rainwater.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he said.

He should just turn around, go back and get help. What was he thinking of, trying to play the hero, all by himself? He had let his emotions take over, the thought of Emma being taken by that psychopath had clouded his judgement. The narrowboat idea had seemed so convincing to him, and yet he had been so sure it would appear ridiculous to everyone else, that his instinct had been to take the initiative alone. As soon as he had seen the Birmingham Vampire he would have called in backup, but he’d needed to find him first.

Not anymore. Stumbling along the muddy towpath in the dark was only allowing that psychopath to escape. Nick fumbled for his walkie talkie, and paused. He needed to orientate himself before he called this in. The canal looped around so much, he had no idea where he was anymore.

The canal disappeared behind a bend just ahead. If he walked around there, maybe he would see something that would help him find where he was. Sloshing through the puddles of muddy water, Nick ran as fast as he dared along the towpath, the flashlight beam bouncing up and down with his movement.

When he rounded the corner he pulled up short. The canal ran into a long, straight stretch, with mooring pitches along the edge of the towpath. Gardens backed onto the canal, a series of high fences with gates running alongside. Nick knew where he was now. One of these fences separated the house on Forde Road from the canal.

And up ahead, Nick could see a narrowboat, the glow from its curtained windows illuminating it in the dark.

The bastard had come back to the scene of his crime. What was he going to do? Stuff Emma and that Julie Carter girl into the cellar, and keep them prisoner? Bleed them, like he did Tom Mills’ kid?

But why back here?

None of that mattered right now. He needed backup, and he needed it fast. No telling from here if Emma was still on the narrowboat, or if she had been taken in the house with the girl, but he couldn’t take this any further on his own.

Before he could make the call, Nick was grabbed by the shoulder and spun round. A fist smashed into his face, and everything went black.

* * *

Joe Coffin stared at Nick Archer, sprawled on the muddy towpath. He hadn’t meant to hit him that hard, but he’d needed to stop him calling in reinforcements. The last thing Coffin needed was a load of cops crowding him out. Archer had blacked out when he hit the ground, but his eyelids were fluttering open, he was coming round already. The torch lay in the mud next to him, the light flickering on and off.

Coffin bent down and ripped the walkie talkie from the detective’s jacket and threw it into the canal. After a quick search he found his mobile, and threw that into the dark water, too.

Archer reached up a hand to his cheek. A large bruise had formed where Coffin hit him.

“Coffin?” he said, his voice groggy. “What the hell did you do?”

“Stopped you from making a stupid mistake,” Coffin growled.

“You’re the one making the mistake.” Nick propped himself up on his elbows. “Or maybe not, maybe you’re in on this with that psychopath, maybe you’ve been a part of it all along.”

“Yeah, you are stupid, aren’t you?”

“What about all those scars on your face? You two get into a fight, have a little disagreement over who was going to cut the kid up? What is this, some kind of sick revenge plot you’ve got going on? Did Tom Mills shop you to the police, or something?”

Coffin placed a hand on Archer’s chest and shoved him back into the mud.

“You have no idea what you are dealing with here,” he said. “You’re girlfriend’s down there, and I’m here to come and get her, and take care of that sick fuck once and for all.”

“How’d you know Emma was here?”

“She called me.”

Archer shook his head. “No way. Why the hell would she call you? If she needed help, she would have called—” Archer’s eyes widened. “Fucking hell, Coffin, is that a chainsaw strapped on your back?”

Coffin stood up. He’d forgotten all about the chainsaw, and the Samurai sword he’d collected from his flat, on the way over.

“Yeah. I already tried killing this sick bastard once. This time I’m going to take care of him permanently.”

“And what the hell is that, a fucking sword?”

“You’re a sharp guy, Archer. Yeah, it’s a Samurai sword. It’s even been signed by David Carradine. You remember him, don’t you?”

“This isn’t a fucking movie, you know,” Archer said. “You’re not in Kill Bill, or The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”

Coffin stepped over Archer.

“Wait here,” he said.

Coffin walked slowly down the towpath, towards the boat. It had been moored to the side. He could see movement in the cabin, shadows against the curtains. More than one person moving around. The other one looked smaller, like a child, maybe. Hard to tell. But if there was a kid in there, this was going to make it even more difficult.

Coffin pulled the chainsaw off his back and put it down in the grass beside the towpath. That was for later. He pulled the Samurai sword out of its leather sheath he had found inside the presentation case, and gripped it by the handle. If he could take the bastard by surprise, get a good whack at his neck with the sharp blade, he might get him down long enough that Coffin could take care of him properly. He wasn’t sure if you could kill a vampire forever, but he figured that if he chopped him up into little pieces with the chainsaw, that might help.

Coffin walked softly alongside the narrowboat, hands gripping the Samurai sword, the narrowboat lights reflecting in its blade, his eyes fixed on the cabin windows. The two figures inside seemed to be circling each other, in the confines of the cabin. The smaller one sometimes jumped onto something, perhaps a table, whilst the other, larger figure, seemed to lunge from side to side. But there was something odd about the movement, something Coffin couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Coffin stepped onto the boat’s deck. If the Birmingham Vampire was in there, and had a child, Coffin had to get inside, take care of him fast, before he sank his teeth into that poor kid. Maybe he already had, maybe he was bleeding him, like he did Jacob, for that ancient vampire they dug out of the ground.

Coffin stood in front of the cabin door. He lifted a foot, and smashed the door in with one powerful kick. Moving fast, he ducked through the doorway, the tiny door hanging off its hinges. He raised the sword as high as he was able in the confines of the cabin, his eyes flicking from side to side, taking in the situation in an instant.

He froze.

The tiny cabin stank of blood and sweat and fear. Emma was crouched at the back of the cabin, hands tied behind her back, and her mouth gagged with a filthy rag. It had been her silhouette that Coffin had seen moving around. Wide eyed, she stared at Coffin, trying to scream something at him from behind the gag.

There was a body lying face down on the table, and a child was crouching on the body with its back to him. The child was snarling at Emma, and Coffin could see its fingers with their long fingernails growing into claws, its tousled hair and ripped, dirty clothing.

The vampire child turned around, the snarling growing louder, and bared its teeth.

Coffin’s surroundings, the narrowboat cabin, the cool evening air, Emma’s muffled screams, all of it disappeared, as he stared at his son. Since discovering Michael’s empty grave, Coffin had buried the truth of the evidence, that his son was a vampire. Even after seeing Steffanie, a part of his brain had hidden it away somewhere deep in his subconscious, where he wouldn’t have to deal with it.

But now he was faced with the truth. Michael growled at Coffin, his face and lips smeared with dried blood, hideously reminiscent of meal times, when he was a toddler.

“Michael?” Coffin said. “It’s Daddy.”

Maybe Coffin had been hoping for some sign that Michael knew who he was, even the tiniest flicker of recognition in his dark eyes. But there was nothing.

Emma was trying to shout something. Her eyes were bulging from their sockets, her head straining forward, the tendons on her neck standing out with the effort.

Where was Abel? Why wasn’t he here, on the boat, with the others?

Coffin was propelled forward as something slammed into his back. Crashing into the table, his face pushed against the dead girl’s thighs, he dropped the sword.

“Daddy! Daddy!” Michael screamed, and started hooting with delight.

Coffin looked up, desperate to believe that perhaps Michael had recognised him after all, that maybe he wasn’t completely turned, that there was hope for him yet.

The Birmingham Vampire stood over Coffin, grinning. It was him that Michael was looking at.

Coffin swung his fist at the vampire’s face, intending to obliterate that stupid, mocking grin forever. But his movements were slow and sluggish, and the vampire grabbed his wrist, and twisted his arm back.

Still hooting and gibbering, Michael leapt onto Coffin’s chest, and lunged at his neck, the boy’s red mouth open. Coffin reached out with his free hand and grabbed a fistful of Michael’s hair, and yanked his head back. Michael screamed, and Coffin instinctively let go.

Abel grabbed his other wrist, and twisted Coffin’s arm back, and down by the side of the table. His face was over Coffin’s. His cold breath stank of blood and rancid flesh. Michael jumped up onto the dead girl’s back, and his upside down head loomed into Coffin’s vision, the top of his head touching the vampire’s head.

And Coffin realised they were both going to feed on him together.

Coffin’s shoulder, where his arm was twisted down alongside the table, was red hot with pain. He had no strength left to resist, no fight left in him.

His fingers brushed the blood soaked floor, and then encountered the handle of the Samurai sword. He stretched his fingers out, managing to grab the handle, and jabbed the blade forward.

The Birmingham Vampire screamed and let go of Coffin’s arms. He jumped back and the tip of the blade pulled free from his groin. Coffin sat up, pushing Michael out of the way, who landed on the floor, squealing. Abel was standing in the open doorway of the narrowboat cabin, gripping the wooden frame, his legs spread as blood blossomed in the crotch of his trousers.

He was getting ready to leap again. Coffin switched his hold on the sword to an overhand grip, so that he held it tip forward like a spear. He threw himself at the vampire, and plunged the blade into his chest. They stumbled outside, and the vampire fell down on his back, Coffin on top of him, leaning his weight into the blade, which sliced through the vampire’s torso and into the wooden deck.

Abel grabbed Coffin by the throat, but his grip was weak. Blood spurted from the wound in his chest, and out of his open mouth. Coffin kept the pressure on the Samurai blade, staring into the vampire’s eyes. He opened and closed his mouth, like he was trying to say something, and then he let go of Coffin’s neck, and his arms fell to the deck.

Coffin rolled off him. Michael appeared at the doorway, looking curiously at the monster he had called Daddy. He stood, frozen in a crouching position for several seconds. Coffin tensed, waiting for him to leap, wondering what he could do to defend himself against his own son, without hurting him. Or killing him.

The boy vampire finally turned and scuttled back inside the cabin. Coffin hauled himself upright and, with one last glance back at the Birmingham Vampire to confirm that he wasn’t getting up too, he ran after Michael.

He had expected to find him attacking Emma, but instead he had curled up in a corner, and was whimpering.

Emma stared wide eyed at Coffin. He edged around the table and pulled the gag off her face.

“Oh, thank God you’re here,” she said.

She looked like she was about to fall over, and Coffin grabbed her and eased her down onto a bench.

“Who’s the girl?” he said, as he worked at the rope around her wrists.

Emma’s head had slumped forward, and her hair hung over her face in lank, dirty tangles.

She was crying.

Coffin released her hands, and she massaged her wrists. Coffin waited silently, letting her cry herself out.

They both snapped their heads around at the thud of a shoe on the narrowboat deck. A shadow fell across the doorway, and Coffin cursed himself as an idiot, for leaving Abel alone.

Nick Archer stepped inside the cabin.

“”Oh, fuck,” he said, his voice trembling. “Emma, I thought you were dead.”

Emma got to her feet, reached out for Archer, but she couldn’t get past Coffin. They reached over the dead girl’s body, and clasped hands.

“Is that Julie Carter?” Archer said.

Emma nodded, struggling to hold back more tears.

“Fucking hell, this place is like an abattoir.”

Emma pushed her hair back off her face. “There are body parts in plastic bags under the seats.”

“Shit. I need to call this in, but this fucking gorilla chucked my radio in the canal.”

Coffin stood up. “That’s all right, there’s really no need to thank me for saving your girlfriend’s life.”

“Fuck you, Coffin! You should have let me deal with it. Instead you interfered with a police operation, putting people’s lives at risk, and committing an unlawful killing.”

Archer flinched at the sound of a snarl from the corner of the cabin, and pulled free of Emma’s hand.

“What the fuck?”

Michael was still tucked into the corner, but he was staring over his shoulder at Coffin, a look of utter hatred on his face.

“I might need some help,” he said, to Emma.

“Wait a minute,” Archer said, holding his hands out. “What the hell are you going to do?”

Coffin ignored him, pushed him out of the way. Michael tracked his movements, and growled, low and soft deep in his throat.

Coffin glanced at Emma. “Say something. Anything to get his attention.”

“Hey! Michael!”

The boy vampire kept his dark eyes fixed on Coffin.

Emma slapped the table. Michael glanced over at the noise, and Coffin lunged at him, grabbing him by both arms. He spun him around and pinned him to the floor, the boy squirming, and twisting his head from side to side, his teeth snapping at Coffin.

“Give me the rope,” Coffin said.

Emma passed him the long coil of rope that had held her. Coffin looped the rope around Michael’s wrists, and then around the fixed table leg, pulling it tight so that Michael’s back was dragged up against it. He quickly tied a knot, and shuffled back, out of reach of the boy’s snapping jaws.

Michael was like a feral animal, growling and lunging at Coffin, baring his teeth at him.

“What are you going to do with him?” Emma said.

“I don’t know.”

Coffin stood up, having to keep his head bent under the low roof. He stared at Archer, blocking the doorway.

“Out of my way.”

“Why, so you can go and murder somebody else? Who’s next, big fella? Me? Emma?”

“Nick, no,” Emma said.

Archer spun round, his eyes wide, his face a sickly yellow under the narrowboat’s lights. “What? Are you on his side?”

“It’s not about sides, Nick.” Emma reached out to touch his shoulder, but Archer recoiled.

“What then? What the fuck is all this about?”

Coffin pushed past Archer, climbed outside, onto the deck. Looked at the vampire’s body, sprawled on its back, the sword sticking out of its chest.

“Joe came here to rescue me,” he heard Emma say.

“And that was something you couldn’t trust me to do, huh?” Archer said. “Coffin told me that you phoned him. Not me, not the fucking police, but you phoned him!”

Coffin gripped the sword handle and pulled. The blade slid out, and blood dribbled down the front of the corpse. He dropped the blade on the deck, bent down and grabbed the vampire’s body, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Hold it!” Archer shouted, stepping out of the narrowboat cabin. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Coffin sighed, and dropped the vampire’s body onto the towpath. Rainwater ran down Coffin’s scarred face.

Archer stepped up close to Coffin, having to look up to meet his gaze. “You’re like all the other big guys I’ve ever met, think you can do your own thing, and forget everybody else. But I’m a policeman, and by moving that body you’re disturbing a crime scene.”

“You got some cuffs on you?” Coffin said.

Archer’s hand instinctively went to his hip, and then stopped. “What?”

Coffin leaned over and unclipped the handcuffs from Archer’s belt. They were the speed cuffs, with the rigid grip in the middle, instead of the old fashioned chain. He grabbed Archer by the arm and bundled him around, twisting his arm behind his back. He snapped the cuffs onto his wrist, ratcheted them down tight.

“Joe, what are you doing?” Emma said.

“Get the fuck off me!” Archer shouted, as Coffin dragged him back inside the cabin.

Archer struggled, but he had no chance. Coffin shoved him to the floor and pulled his cuffed wrist back, slipping the rigid cuffs through the handle on the oven door. He grabbed Archer’s other wrist, and snapped the cuffs over that one, too.

“Hand me that tea towel,” Coffin said.

Emma looked at the tea towel, hanging off a hook on the wall. She looked back at Coffin.

Sighing again, Coffin stood up and grabbed the tea towel himself. He rolled it up, and shoved it into Archer’s mouth, and tied it up tight around the back of his head. Archer whipped his head from side to side, leaning forward and straining against the cuffs. The oven door opened a fraction, and then stopped, blocked by Archer’s body.

“If I couldn’t gag him I would have had to kill him, just to shut him up,” Coffin said.

Michael strained at the ropes tying him to the cabin’s table leg, snarling, snapping his teeth at Archer, who was just out of reach.

Coffin turned his back on them both.

Stepping back outside was like stepping into a shower. The narrowboat deck was slippy, and Coffin had to place a hand on the cabin roof as he climbed off the boat. Picking the vampire up, he slung the mud and blood splattered corpse over his shoulder and retrieved the chainsaw.

He walked down the muddy towpath a little way, and stopped.

He turned around.

Emma was standing on the deck of the boat, watching him.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to where it all started,” Coffin said. “No. 99.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“It’s not going to be pretty.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“You want to help, find me some diesel, and some matches, or a lighter. We’re going to have a bonfire.”

Without waiting for a reply, Coffin turned and continued walking along the towpath. Within a minute he was at the house. The garden fence was tall, and the gate was padlocked.

Coffin smashed it open with one kick.

He walked down the garden, past the tree. The house had been boarded up by the police, but nothing had been done with the cellar door, except for a new padlock. Coffin dropped the corpse on the ground, letting it slide from his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. He put the chainsaw down.

The wooden door creaked but held under the impact of Coffin’s first attack. He raised his foot and stamped on it again. The door still held firm, but there was a louder, more satisfying creak. On the third attempt, the wood began to splinter.

Once he had got the cellar doors open, Coffin picked up the vampire corpse and shoved it down the steps. It tumbled down, arms and legs flailing, and hit the ground with a dull splat. Coffin picked up the chainsaw and followed the corpse into the cellar. He was growing uneasy about the time.

He had no idea how long it took for these creatures to start coming back to life, but he knew he had to act quickly.

Coffin kicked the vampire’s body into the hole, and jumped down beside it. He pulled the starter cord on the chainsaw. It failed to fire up, so he pulled it again.

The stink of diesel filled his nostrils as the chainsaw roared into life.

* * *

Emma found a jerry can of diesel on the narrowboat, and a box of matches in the galley. As she searched for the matches, opening the cupboards and pulling out drawers, she avoided looking at Nick. The boat moved as he kicked and bucked, trying to shout through the gag stuffed in his mouth. At least Michael had settled down, no longer straining at the rope. He was squatting on the floor, staring intently at her.

Emma avoided looking at him as much as possible too, and she was relieved to find the matches and get off the boat.

Outside, standing on the towpath, the rain flattening her hair to her scalp and streaming down her face, she paused.

What the hell are you doing? You are going to end up in jail for this.

Looking back at the narrowboat, rocking slightly as Nick struggled to free himself, she thought about going back.

It’s not too late. Nick can cover for you, he can explain away your involvement in all of this. Or at least testify as to your good character, and your good intentions before the shit hit the fan. You were after a story, a career defining story, and your book. And then you just got sucked in too far.

Emma snapped her head around when she heard the sound of the chainsaw roaring into life.

Oh fuck. He’s carving up the body, and then he’s going to burn the pieces.

It was too late to back out now. If Emma released Nick, and he got the police down here in force, what would happen? They would take Michael away, and arrest Coffin, and maybe arrest Emma too. But that still left two vampires, at a minimum, out there. Steffanie and that ancient monstrosity with her.

The police would get organised, and go down to the club, and there would be a massacre.

Nick didn’t realise what they were dealing with.

Joe Coffin did.

Putting her head down, Emma walked slowly down the towpath, her feet sloshing through the mud. Every fibre of her body seemed to be screaming at her to turn around and run away, to escape this nightmare. But she kept walking. She pushed through the gate and headed for the cellar steps.

She paused in the garden, halfway to the cellar, and waited until the chainsaw fell silent.

A dark shadow against the house, Coffin climbed out of the hole in the ground, looking like a monster from hell. His eyes peered from a crimson mask of dark red. The scarlet blood covered his scalp, and was splattered up his arms and down his torso and legs. Raindrops hit him, and mingled with the blood, sending thin rivulets of red coursing down his body.

Emma dropped the jerry can on the wet ground. Coffin picked it up and held out his hand, and she dropped the box of matches into it.

He walked back to the cellar steps, down them, back into the hole where the nightmare had started, not just for Jacob and Peter, but for all of them.

Emma followed him down the steps. Coffin twisted the cap off the jerry can and upended it, pouring the contents into the oblong hole in the cellar floor. From where she stood, Emma couldn’t see into the hole, couldn’t see Abel’s dismembered body.

Coffin threw the jerry can away, and it rebounded off a wall and hit the ground.

He struck a match. Held it out over the hole. Dropped it in.

The cellar bloomed into orange light with a loud WHOOSH! as flames leapt out of the ground, licking at the wooden ceiling. To Emma it seemed that Coffin was dangerously close to the fire, but he didn’t step back.

He stared at the flames, his battered, blood splattered face lit by its glow. “Let’s see you come back from that, you fucker.”

“What are you going to do?”

Coffin flinched, looked at Emma like he’d forgotten all about her.

“I’m going to kill them all,” Coffin said. “Steffanie, the old man, Addison, Clevon, Velvina. They’re like a plague, they need eradicating, before they can spread anymore. I’m going to chop them up into little pieces, and then I’m going to burn them, too.”

“What about Michael?”

Coffin gazed at Emma for a long time, the roar of Abel’s dismembered carcass burning up, and the rain beating against the sodden ground outside, the only sounds breaking the silence between them.

Finally Coffin turned and stared back into the flickering light of the fire, as if seeking an answer in the flames.

Read the First Chapter of Joe Coffin Season Two

spider-man is a pussy

Garrett Stone gazed out of the cabin window, down at the wisps of white cloud below. It was a sight he had seen many times before and he was bored of it. International air travel was, for Stone, like driving on the motorway was for everyone else. Tedious, but necessary.

Stone returned to his meal. Braised beef in coconut milk, served on a bed of Basmati and Wild rice. Silver cutlery and bone china tableware. Eating was also tedious but necessary. Protein, carbs, vitamins and minerals, all vital not just for the continuation of life, but for the building of muscle and bone density. The beef and the coconut milk in this meal weren’t the healthiest of options considering their high fat content. But on the long haul flights Stone liked to treat himself.

Garrett Stone wore a smartly pressed shirt and tie, expensive cufflinks, dark trousers and black shoes. He was handsome, with a square jaw and dark eyes, and his broad, muscular frame filled his seat.

The airline stewardess passed him, pushing her trolley and collecting dishes and cutlery. Stone smiled up at her and let her take his empty plate. She was pretty, with long hair tied back under her hat, and smooth, unblemished features. But Stone wasn’t interested. She was an identikit copy of every other airline hostess he had encountered. Some days, Stone was convinced that none of them were real. That they were Stepford Wives robots, or they were grown in a lab, all cloned from the same tissue sample.

Not like the woman sat next to him.

Now she was an individual.

She wasn’t slim, but neither was she fat. What was the best way to describe her?

Oh yes. Voluptuous.

And she was exposing plenty of that voluptuous, olive brown skin in the simple, black dress she wore. Stone checked the screen in front of him. When they had left New York the weather had been unseasonably mild, but not exactly warm. Of course the environmentalists had been in the news, proclaiming the end of the world yet again. Pissed Stone off every time they opened their stupid mouths. New York might be unseasonably mild but, according to the data on the live feed, Birmingham was a hell of a lot colder. A typical November day, in fact; cold and blustery, and threatening even more rain than usual.

Environmentalists weren’t mentioning that, were they?

Stone risked another peek at the woman. Unless she had something warm to wrap up in when they landed, she was going to be bloody freezing when they left the airport.

Stone looked away and then back again, glanced at her face. He couldn’t help himself. She was striking. Not beautiful, but handsome. His gaze swept down her neck, over her collarbone and down to her cleavage. The other striking aspect of her appearance were the tattoos. Curving, pointed black lines and shapes. Swirling over her skin and disappearing beneath the lines of her dress. The design was almost dizzying if he looked at it too much. And the more he did glance at it, the more convinced he became that it was all one design, and that most of it was hidden by her dress.

The black lines and tiny shapes seemed to have swarmed down her arms of their own accord. Her right arm was more covered than her left. The design swept over her shoulders and down her back and chest. When he glanced down at her legs, Stone could see the tattoo emerging from beneath the hem of her dress, creeping along her thighs.

He couldn’t make sense of it. Wanted to pull her dress down and expose her breasts and her abdomen to see the full design.

It would be easy. One quick movement, and it would be off.

And he was certain she wasn’t wearing a bra.

Stone looked out of the window again, steadied his breathing. Best not to get distracted. Best not to get caught looking, too. The last thing he wanted was to create a commotion, get accused of being a lech.

A stewardess passed by again, pushing another trolley with newspapers. Was she the same one as before? Stone couldn’t tell. The woman sitting next to him asked for a paper.

She opened up the newspaper, the Times, and began leafing through the pages, quickly scanning the articles. Having found what she wanted, she folded the newspaper in on itself, and began reading.

Stone glanced at her again, trying to work out what had attracted her attention. But this time she caught him looking.

“Would you like me to buy a newspaper for you?” she said.

Stone chuckled, held up his hands. “You got me. I’m afraid it’s a bad habit of mine, looking over people’s shoulders, see what they’re reading. Years ago, when I travelled to work by train, I managed to read a whole book by sitting next to the same woman every morning, and reading over her shoulder.”

“That’s the kind of thing that will get you in trouble one day.”

Her voice was rich, and warm, with a slight husk to it.

“That’s a lovely accent you have,” Stone said. “Let me guess, Louisiana?”

“Pretty good,” she said. “Although, over the years, I’ve lived everywhere you can imagine, and some places you can’t.”

“Sounds intriguing,” Stone said. “A woman of mystery, but I like it.” He held out his hand. “I’m Garrett.”

The woman smiled and took his hand. Stone had expected her palm to be warm, hot even, although he couldn’t have explained why. But her touch was cool, and she shook his hand lightly.

“Leola,” she said, and smiled.

“Pleased to meet you, Leola,” Stone replied. “So, what will you be doing in England? Business or pleasure?”

“You sound just like passport control. Is that your job?”

Stone laughed. “No, although I do work in the defence sector. If I could tell you the capacity in which I work, and what I actually do, I would, but a lot of it is very sensitive, classified stuff.”

“Now you’re the one who is sounding mysterious,” Leola said.

“No, not really. I just don’t want to bore you, that’s all.”

Stone noticed that Leola had folded her newspaper up, one hand resting on it. All the signals he was receiving from her indicated that she was interested in him, that she wanted to talk.

Here we go again, Stone thought. He’d promised himself, and Lucy, that he wouldn’t. But, what the hell. You only got one life, right?

“Where in Louisiana do you live?” he said.

“New Orleans, the capital of Mardi Gras.”

“Sounds like fun.”

Leola smiled, and nodded slowly. “Oh yes, it’s always fun.”

“And what do you do?”

Leola turned and gave Stone the full force of her gaze.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“There you go with that woman of mystery thing again. Who would have thought it, that two random strangers could meet on a flight, and have professions so mysterious they couldn’t tell one another what they did?”

“Maybe that is a mystery in itself. Or maybe we are both simply being careful.”

Stone shifted in his seat. That dress really was too much. Such a thin layer of cotton, to do the job of covering her nakedness. Definitely not wearing a bra. And now Stone found himself wondering if she was even wearing any underwear.

“You know, I hate mysteries, and I have a violent aversion to being left in the dark.”

“Is that what makes you so good at your job?” Leola said.

Stone laughed. “How do you know I’m any good at my job?”

Leola raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Working in the defence sector, flying 1st class, the expensive clothes you’re wearing? I’d be surprised if you weren’t.”

Stone resisted the urge to tug at his collar. That would be a dead giveaway to his discomfort. Not that he was unhappy with the sensations coursing through his nerve endings right now, just that it was a slightly inappropriate setting to be this aroused.

“With those deductive powers of yours, you must be a detective,” he said, trying to shift his focus away from the attractions of Leola’s body.

Leola chuckled, shook her head.

“You really are going to make me guess, aren’t you?” Stone’s hand was lying on the armrest, just inches from Leola’s left thigh. With one swift movement, he could have lifted the hem of her dress, found out for sure if she was wearing any underwear or not. “Let’s see, you can’t tell me what you do because it’s so fantastical I wouldn’t believe you, and you also have to be careful who you tell. It’s obvious. You’re a secret agent, working for the American government, right?”

Leola flashed him a full on smile, bright white teeth a contrast to her brown skin. “You’re way off base.”

“But if you are a secret agent, you’d deny it,” Stone said. “So how can I trust you?”

“You will just have to take my word for it.”

“All right, let me think. Maybe you’re an ultra-rich, billionaire playgirl, come to the UK to buy it up, and use us as your sex slaves.”

Leola tilted her head back, and laughed. “And that’s why I’m traveling with the common people, when really I should be flying here in my own private jet.”

“Hmm, good point,” Stone replied. “I know, you’re a superhero, on the way to the UK to save the world from an English, eccentric, supervillain.”

“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 its 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.

Leola 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.

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Acknowledgements

Joe Coffin was born in a dark corner of my mind, one that I knew existed, but I had never really visited before.

I first came up with the idea of a vampire killer, whose wife is a vampire, sometime around the beginning of 2013. In my first attempt at bringing him into the world, Coffin was a cop, the head of an elite unit set up to fight the vampire menace. If you have ever watched the TV series The Shield, you will understand when I say I had Vic Mackey in mind in this version.

But it didn’t work, and the story stalled.

In my next attempt, he was a skinny university lecturer, who has to man up after his wife is transformed into a vampire.

That one was abandoned very quickly.

And then something happened.

Have you seen The Evil Dead? Remember when Ash locks the zombie in the basement, and it keeps rattling the trapdoor, never giving him any peace?

I’d had a trapdoor in my mind that something had been rattling and banging for quite some time. June 2013, that trapdoor sprang open, and I was dragged down into the basement.

For the next few months I found it near impossible to write a shopping list, never mind a novel or a short story. My mind, and my life, had been derailed, ground to a halt, and I wasn’t sure how I could get it back on track again. Thanks to a wonderful doctor, two counsellors, my family and friends, I came through, and out the other side.

And then I started writing Joe Coffin again, scrapping the previous versions, and working afresh from the beginning.

I believe Coffin was truly born down in the darkness of that basement of my mind.

First of all, I want to thank my wife Jo for her support, especially through the difficult year of 2013. I know it wasn’t easy.

I also want to credit the two counsellors, with whom I discussed, amongst many other things, the darker areas of the mind, and the role that life’s difficulties can sometimes play in the creative process.

Thanks also are due to my good friend Nick Thompson, who is a consistent encourager, and an honest critic. Also Daniel Fazey and Richard Gallon, with whom I draw encouragement from our talks about creativity and writing.

I am also indebted to Patrick Fox for his fantastic cover design. As usual, you took the rubbish mock-up that I sent you, and transformed into something much better.

Finally, I owe a big debt of thanks to Carrie Rowlands, who read the manuscript for me, helping pick out some of those typos, and in particular one glaring continuity error which would have made me look very silly indeed if it had passed through to the publication stage undiscovered.

You also helped shape the story, taking Season Two into a direction I had not expected.

Thank you.

Joe Coffin Season Two

Joe Coffin Season Two Amazon