Joe Coffin Season One Read online

  Contents

  Season One

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  Joe Coffin 1

  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

  Joe Coffin 2

  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

  Joe Coffin 3

  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

  Joe Coffin 4

  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

  Joe Coffin Season Two

  spider-man is a pussy

  36 hours earlier...

  GET JOE IN A BOXSET

  Acknowledgements

  Join The Slaughterhouse Mob!

  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: Xavier Comas

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  EPISODE ONE

  99

  Jacob Mills’ best friend, Peter Marsden, had been begging him for months to break into 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 bannisters as they shuffled down the stairs, blood dripping from their empty eye sockets. That’s how Jacob wanted it to stay, a house 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. Two stone gargoyles guarded the steps, 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 vented 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.

  The police arrived and arrested Jacob's father 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 sca
red 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 existed 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 99 Forde Road 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 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 worked 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 Number 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 Number 99. The sky was overcast and the light dull. Already, at two o’clock in the afternoon, it appeared 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 he wouldn’t get stung, and approached the cellar door.

  The clasp had been wrenched from the rotten wood, and it lay beside the trapdoor, 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 Number 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 the house 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 entire 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 crept 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 sounded nowhere near as confident as he had when he first talked about breaking in to Number 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, black 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 it looked like a grave. There was an empty wooden box inside, like a coffin, stained a dirty, dark brown.

  Beside the hole lay a sledgehammer 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, 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. Uneven slabs of stone formed a floor of sorts, and the walls were 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 an enormous 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 table.