Nails In A Coffin (Demi Reynolds Book 1)
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Authors: Luis Samways
Luis Samways
Nails in a Coffin
Demi Reynolds Book 1
Text © 2014 by Luis Samways
All rights reserved.
Cover Design by The Purple Book Co.
Luis Samways has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
EBook Edition first published in October 2014
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Table of contents
Demi Reynolds was sat at home, contemplating the pros and cons of her career. When she started out murdering people for money, she was a different person. Time had changed her. The more she did what she did, the more different she became — the deeper the lines around her eyes formed, the paler her complexion grew. Until one day, staring at herself in the mirror, she realized she was now a cold-blooded killer. Her face resembled sandpaper. She was rough. Her hair was cut short. Her eyes told a story no one wanted to hear. Her mouth was thin and bloodless.
The only thing that had remained constant through the years was her body. No matter how many people she killed for money, her body remained the same. It was slender and well-proportioned. Her breasts were perfectly shaped, and her legs were nice and long. It was good having her body. She was happy to turn heads as she walked down the street. And once in a while, she’d use her body to get her to her target. She’d sometimes seduce the guy and slip him a few playful whispers. Before she knew it, without fail, she’d be invited to his place, and that was when she’d strike. She’d kill them fast. Her preferred method of murder wasn’t with a weapon. She didn’t like it. Too messy. Far too aggressive. She preferred to creep up on her targets and get them in a choke hold. She’d squeeze down on their jugular until their face went red. She’d press down on their Adam’s apple and push it into the back of their esophagus. It would only take a couple of seconds. They’d die, and she’d leave. She’d go back home and stare at herself in the mirror, like she was doing right now.
She’d look at the deep, yet faint lines around her eyes. She’d evaluate her face. To most it resembled something approaching beauty. But to her, it stood for a life of pain. A life of hard decisions. Ones that made deep wrinkles appear, if only on the surface. Ones that made the skin go pale. Ones that tormented her inside.
“When will it stop?” she asked herself out loud. She was alone, so she could afford to talk to herself. Most people like her tended to live alone. She never knew anything different. Since she could remember, she’d always preferred her own company. Chances were, the only time she’d be with somebody was when she was killing that somebody.
That thought in itself didn’t fill her with joy. She broke down into tears. Most would see that as a sign of weakness, but even hard killer women like herself ended up in tears at some point. It was only human to do so. She’d never met anybody in her field who didn’t shed a tear once in a while. The ones who didn’t were the ones who were now dead.
You can’t cry when you’re dead.
Being stubborn could get you killed. So could burying your emotions. They could come back for you. They could drag you away. And Demi wasn’t interested in being dragged away.
That was why she found herself looking into that mirror. That was why she found herself doing what she was doing. She needed to cry, or she would die. That was how she saw things. After every hit, she’d sit down and evaluate. Much like she was doing right then. Evaluating. Contemplating. Adding and subtracting. Thoughts of regret. Thoughts of murder. Thoughts of pain.
She’d always see her last victim’s face when she sat down at her dresser, staring at herself after the kill. It was a regular thing. It made the skin on her forearms perk up, and the middle of her back curl as a shiver ran down it.
Like clockwork, those emotions would come and, like time, they would go. She’d brush herself off and stand up. She’d put some makeup on and slip into a black dress. A little spray of perfume here and there. A dab behind the ear. A hand in her purse. Money and cigarettes. She had everything she needed. Now that her routine was over and done with -
the mourning,
as she referred to it - she could move on to the next stage of her post-murder cool-off.
That next stage was sex. Pure and simple. That was what she needed after every hit. When the dust settled and the shells hit the floor. She needed that sharp contrast. She needed the sensation of pleasure after the gut-wrenching feeling of murder.
That was why she was dressed. That was why she was smelling nice and looking pretty. The deep red lipstick was the last touch in her flawless appearance. Coupled with a little eye shadow and a sensual stare into the reflection in the mirror, she was ready to get stage two of
the mourning
over with.
After that, she could get on with her life. Knowing how things worked, she could expect another call in a few weeks. They’d want her for another contract killing. She’d fight with the thought of taking another life, but she’d soon cave in and accept. She’d do the job and not think much more of it after another session in front of the mirror and a night between the sheets with a stranger.
What she didn’t know was that the next job she’d be offered would be her last.
As it is hard to cry when you are dead, it’s just as hard to work.
There’s no working when you’re dead.
***
Demi Reynolds lived in London, England. The East End, to be precise. East London is a sprawling metropolis. Many different nationalities walk the streets. Many different men to choose from. It wasn’t hard for a girl like her to get a man. Whatever she wore, whatever she said, chances were that, after entering a bar, she’d get a man. She wasn’t the “loving” type. She never had a boyfriend, and she didn’t like the idea of getting one. No, Demi Reynolds was about two things: sex and violence. She did a lot of both. She wasn’t ashamed to enjoy it, nor was she embarrassed to do either. They were both natural instincts that all humans shared. Some suppressed their inner urges to fuck and kill. Others did one and ignored the other. But then there were people like Demi. They did it because they could and would continue to do so until they breathed their last breath.
Demi walked down the south street of the borough she lived in. It was situated near the Tube that came up from Hackney. She lived a few miles from Hackney but still witnessed the same degradation of her small borough. Hackney and her estate were near enough the same. They shared the same postcode and the same crime rate. The only difference between the two was that one was famous for being the place of origin to a few famous faces, Alfred Hitchcock being one of them, and the other was famous for the East End don who ran the streets she walked on.
Demi didn’t know much about
Alfred Hitchcock,
but she certainly knew a lot about the East End don,
Donny “The Hat” Harrison
. She ought to know a lot, seeing she worked for the don. He was a particular man. In her eyes, she saw him as ruthless and calculating. But to the untrained eye, you’d see a friend. Someone you could confide in. And then it would be too late. He would have sucked you in. Got your guard down. Then he’d pounce and take every last scrap of you to the depths of hell. That was the sort of guy Donny “The Hat” was. Smiles on the outside, rot on the inside.
She never crossed him. She knew what lay in store for her if she did. It was best to avoid crossing her boss. So she was always quiet around him. Not that she met up with him a lot. He was an elusive man. A man you don’t expect to bump into. He had his own circle. And they had their own. And she had hers. That was how it worked. It was a system, and she always followed it.
Until that night. That night, she broke the system. Unintentionally or not, she still broke the code. It would cost her everything. She didn’t know it yet, but she was walking into the lion’s den. And its teeth were gnashing. Whether she liked it or not, she would pay for breaking the code.
Demi took a left on Hansel Street, just north of her tower block, and walked down a small cobbled alleyway. In it, a couple were kissing against a wall just outside the back of an off-license. The man had the woman against the brick, and her left leg was hoisted up onto a beer barrel. The gleam of her red shoes shone off the metallic surface. The woman being kissed gave Demi a wink. She winked back.
She wasn’t into women in that way, but she didn’t mind watching. She couldn’t spare another minute. As she looked down at her watch, she realized that it was nearly half eleven. She only had an hour and a half left of social time before the pub closed, so she hurried herself up. Her high heel shoes clipped against the cobblestone bricks under her. She was feeling a little off balance, and the uneven ground was making her calf muscles hurt. She gritted her teeth as she saw the alleyway widen a little. Right at the end was a quaint little beer garden. It acted as a dead end. As she approached it, she felt her legs muscles relax a little. She was now on even ground. She regularly visited the beer garden. It was her hangout, if you will. Even people like her needed a place where they could be themselves. It was a strange place. The only way into the pub was through the alleyway. There was no front door. It was barricaded shut. From the other side of the street, it looked as if the pub was boarded up and disused. But anybody who was anybody knew that was far from the truth. Everybody in Hackney knew that the building belonged to Donny the Hat. If you didn’t know, it was because you were a nobody. And nobodies were not allowed in.
As she reached the first of three little steps up into the beer garden, a man’s hand pressed against her chest. She could feel the strength in the owner’s arm. It was tense and throbbing. She looked up and smiled.
“Hamish!” she nearly cried out in awe.
The man smiled back at her and quickly wrapped his arm around her.
“It’s good to see you, Demi,” he said, his arm constricting her breathing a tad.
“Watch out now, you’re gonna choke me out!” She laughed.
Hamish immediately let his grip go and apologized with his face. “I didn’t mean to Miss Reynolds,” he said, quickly resorting to a much more formal approach.
“Don’t you worry about it,” Demi said, looking Hamish up and down. He was around six foot six. A massive man, indeed. He had big burly arms and was wearing an immaculate XL suit. He was bold and had a massive scar on his face. It looked fresh. That was because it was. No more than ten days old fresh. She’d witnessed Hamish getting the scar. So she knew why it looked a little sore.
“Good to see that it’s healing,” Demi said, breaking the silence.
Hamish looked at her for a long while and pondered what she meant. Demi could see that he was confused, but he then touched his face with his left hand and immediately remembered. He resembled a child recalling something for the first time. His face lit up.
“Yeah, it’s not as bad as it looks,” he said, still smiling.
He was a sweetheart. He had certain “difficulties” and was a few eggs short of a basket, but he was a tough man and knew when to use his considerable force. The only thing was, there was nothing he could have done to prevent himself from receiving that scar. No matter how big and strong you are, somebody much stronger will come along and show you just how weak you are.
“I think Mr. Harrison is sorry for what he did,” Hamish blurted out, looking a little taken back by the emotions that were running through him.
“I’m sure Donny is sorry,” Demi offered, and grabbed Hamish’s big hand and squeezed it. “I know I am,” she said.
Hamish nodded his head and stepped aside. “Enjoy your night, Miss Reynolds,” he said.
Demi smiled, and walked up the steps and into the beer garden. A few dozen people were quietly drinking and smoking. She could hear a few youths behind her. She turned around and saw Hamish standing with his arms out.
“Sorry, guys, you can’t come in. This is a private pub,” Hamish said, his voice a lot deeper than it was a few seconds prior when she was talking to him.
“Come off it, bruv, just let us in. Stop being such a wasteman,” one of the youths said.
“I’ll go and tell Donny Harrison that you called him a wasteman,” Hamish said.
The look on the youth’s face was priceless. He went white and apologized. He and his “posse” walked away sharpish. They weren’t having none of it. Demi didn’t blame them, really. If she could avoid mingling with the likes of Donny the Hat, she would, too. But unfortunately, you couldn’t choose your boss, especially when he practically owned you.
Demi walked past the smokers and drinkers sitting in the heated outdoor beer garden. It was decked out with chairs and tables made out of mahogany. A small radio was propped up in the corner, it was playing old-time blues whilst everybody chatted amongst themselves. Demi wasn’t one for idle chitchat. She wasn’t after that sort of social experience tonight. What she was after wasn’t hanging out in the beer garden with the old-timers. What she was looking for could be found playing pool or on the fruit machines.
As unglamorous as it might sound, it was the best a girl like her could get.