Nails In A Coffin (Demi Reynolds Book 1) (7 page)

The sound of an engine coming to life startled Demi as she began to hyperventilate. At first she thought she was dreaming, but then the droning engine became louder and louder. After a minute or so of uncertainty, the vibrations from the engine died down a little, and the sensation of movement could be felt. That was when Demi began to panic. She really began to breathe heavily. The thought of her moving was all too much.

She had two things running through her head: How was she going to get out of a coffin, and where were they driving her to?

She was overcome with emotion. At first, all she wanted to do was dig her nails into the wooden sides of the coffin and attempt to claw her way out. But that wasn’t going to work. Not with her hands bound up and her feet tied as well. Donny had put a lot of thought into his plan. He had her locked away in a dark room for what felt like at least a week. And when she emerged, her fate had changed. Whilst she was in the room, she’d thought she would die in the dark. But then she was allowed out and met with Donny, only to find out he wasn’t going to forgive her for her sins. She then thought that she’d be beaten to death. Maybe even beheaded, especially after hearing what his two cronies had told her when they forced her out of her flat and into their car.

But now she didn’t know what to think. Was she destined to die in a coffin, or was he moving her someplace? Would he leave her in the back of whatever vehicle she was in? Just drive to someplace remote and leave her there? Was he capable of such a thing?

Absolutely! The man was capable of a lot of things. Demi found herself thinking of all the possible ways she could perish at his hands. None of them sounded fun. He was known for torturing his victims. Making them cry for death, beg for it, even! But she wasn’t going to beg for her death. She wasn’t built that way. It just wasn’t who she was.

The driving continued. She remained silent in the coffin. The pitch dark was seeping into her pores. She felt as if it was comforting her into some sort of silence. A peacefulness that was unexpected. It amazed her that she was able to come to terms with her fate so quickly. She was prepared for the worst. She was expecting nothing but the worst when they came knocking on her door and told her they knew what she did. But she wasn’t expecting this. This was indeed a surprise.

“I wonder if I’ll suffocate?” she found herself saying under her breath.

As soon as she came to the realization that she might actually suffocate in there, she decided to refrain from hyperventilating. She needed to keep a cool head. She couldn’t afford to panic. It wouldn’t get her anywhere, anytime soon. She was stuck there, and she knew it.

It was time to reflect on her life. Reflect on the decisions she’d made…the good ones and the bad ones.

“I need to get right with fate,” she said under her breath once again.

She wasn’t a religious being, but she did believe in something other than herself. She’d never had the time to entertain religion, but now that she was cooped up in a coffin, being driven around by her maniac boss, she thought she had plenty of time to reflect on what got her there.

The early years, so to speak. The years before she became what most would consider evil.

“Good a time as any,” she said, a little louder this time.

She closed her eyes and relaxed. She wanted to savor her last moments on earth. She wanted to remember everything that ever happened to her. Maybe come to some conclusion about her lifestyle.

She’d killed many men in her time. The one thing she realized when it came to their last moments on this planet was that they all looked as if they wanted a little more time. Which was natural. Who wouldn’t want a little more time? But Demi was lucky in one sense. She had some time. A little time. And she wanted to savor it.

Before it was all gone.

Hamish looked at his watch. It was a quarter past ten. The pub was locked. The beer garden smelt of stale beer and cigarettes. He sat on one of the benches to the side of the garden, the railings surrounding the drinking hole encasing him and the empty lot of chairs and beer kegs. He looked at his watch once again. The time was still a quarter past ten. The little hand and the big hand were moving very slowly. He tapped on the face of his Hugo Boss watch and listened for a response. It still ticked the same slow way. Maybe that was what time was like? Slow and jaded. Not moving one minute, and then fast the next.

He remained seated on the bench. An ashtray sat in the middle of the table, and he stared at the black tarry residue that laced the glass ashtray. He could smell last night’s smoke. It hung in the air like an unwelcome odor. Hamish coughed a few times and moved the ashtray a little to the left away from his nose. In the morning, he was a particular man, a man who didn’t like smelling certain smells or witnessing certain things. He was easily made queasy in the a.m., so he was used to avoiding things that made him feel ill.

The cold air clung to his face as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile. The screen displayed the time as 10:18. He quickly raised his watch arm and looked at the face. The exact same time, just in analogue.

The day was already dragging, and that wasn’t a good sign. Usually Hamish knew when he’d have a good day or a bad day. The good days would fly by, but the bad ones would stick around like relatives on Boxing Day.

He placed his mobile on the cold wooden picnic-style table and reached in his jacket for a Wrigley’s Extra. He took one out and started chewing. He was about to nod off when his mobile rang. The Crazy Frog ringtone sounded off. He was one of the only people in Britain, probably even the whole world, who still had that ringtone. His mobile was an old-school WAP color phone. No smart apps or cameras for him. Just polyphonic ringtones and 32-bit-depth screens.

He quickly grabbed his ringing mobile and pressed the green button. He popped the cheap phone to his ear and answered.

“Yes, boss?” he said, immediately recognizing the voice. He hadn’t caught a look at the caller ID. He always forgot to do that. The excitement of a ringing phone was a little too much for poor Hamish to remember such a crucial thing as checking who was calling him!

“Hamish, you wanker,” his boss, Donny the Hat, heckled down the phone. “Meet me down the car park near Chimney Court.”

“The one near the roundabout?” Hamish asked, stuttering a little. He did that often. The sound of his boss’s voice made him very nervous indeed.

“Yes, you fat cunt. Just get down here, or I’ll have you for breakfast! You hear?”

Hamish nodded and then realized his boss wouldn’t see it when Donny said, “Hello?”

“Yeah, no problem, boss. The car park by the roundabout.”

“Get there sharpish. No fucking excuses. I want you here as soon as possible!”

The mobile went dead, and Hamish blinked a few times. The cold air was affecting his eyes. They were stinging. The morning sun was nonexistent, and his boss was already having a go at him. He put the phone in his pocket and got his car keys out. He had no idea why his boss wanted to meet him so badly. Usually he’d show up for work at around 10 a.m. and help load up the lager and beer. Maybe change a few barrels. Then at eleven the pub would open, and he’d be sat outside making sure no rival firm or normal civilians got in. That was his job.

“Keep the cunts out,” as his boss would eloquently say.

Hamish walked to his car and hopped in. He turned the key, and the car’s engine sputtered to life. He reversed and made his way to the car park, not knowing what was in store for him.

He wouldn’t have gone if he knew what lay ahead, that was for sure.

Demi estimated that she had been in the back of the hearse for at least two hours now. They had been driving around. At first she thought they were doing it aimlessly. Just cruising around, maybe in circles, trying to get some sort of rise out of her. But they weren’t driving in circles. They were speeding, which meant that they were late for something.

She knew that her boss Donny had a thing about speeding. He didn’t like doing it. He thought it drew too much attention and it was a stupid thing to do if someone was in the field they were in. So the mere fact that Donny was speeding meant only one thing: Wherever they were headed, they were keen to get there in as little time as possible. Maybe a scrap dealership. They closed at certain times, and if you wanted to get rid of a car, then the scrapyard would be a good bet. But Demi didn’t think they were going to a scrapyard. It just didn’t make sense. Why would he put her in a coffin and drive her around just so he could crush the car and coffin with her in it? Surely it was going to be a little more spectacular than that? Donny was a perfectionist. He wouldn’t waste a good car or a coffin on something that wouldn’t get his message across. He’d much rather make a show of things.

Demi lay there, breathing hard. The car was swerving left to right. She was still thinking about the things that had gotten her there, tied up and placed in a coffin. The life sequences that had led to her current situation. She believed that everybody made choices in their life that influenced their death, including the victims of murderers. Even assassinated presidents. Nearly everyone played a part in somebody’s fate. It was as easy for some people to wake up one day, go to the kitchen, grab a knife, walk into the bedroom where their lover slept, and slit his or her throat. Everybody had that potential. Everybody on this planet could end someone’s life. But not everybody chooses to do so. Many mask their primal instincts by following religious texts and leading a righteous life, while others do the opposite and denounced all religions. It doesn’t matter who they are or what they stand for — Demi knows that when push comes to shove, most people, given the chance, that is, would strike somebody down in a fit of anger and deceit.

If somebody did someone else wrong – wrong enough to kill them – then they would do so. It was just how people were. Demi knew that. She knew it all too well. She pondered some more as she lay there, trying to ignore her impending fate. She realized that she had no control over what was about to happen to her, so she lay there thinking, analyzing, and attempting to understand herself.

She knew she had it in her to kill from an early age. She didn’t know she’d become a contract killer for the London underworld, but she did know she had it in her to end someone’s life. Her earliest memories of such thoughts were when she was seven years old. She was standing in the middle of the playground at her primary school, Avishayes. She was surrounded by six or seven kids. She stood in the middle of them. They formed a crude circle around her. They were all holding hands and skipping in a united circle. They chanted many horrible things at her, things that still made her feel sad to this day. She remembered vividly the complete lack of control she had that day. The teasing was bad, but the lack of control was what hit her worst. She remembered thinking that she never wanted to feel like that again. She never wanted to feel as if she didn’t have control of her limbs or her brain. So she planned and she schemed. One way or another, she’d get her control back.

At three-thirty in the afternoon as the final bell rang and the kids rushed out of class, she stayed sat in her seat, her head in her hands, sobbing her little heart out. The teacher immediately attempted to console her. But she didn’t need consoling. Her plan was working. Day by day, she cried some more. The teachers began to notice her a lot. The girl who cried. The girl who held in secrets. Until there weren’t any secrets to hold in anymore.

The kids continued to bully her. The boys would punch and kick her. They wouldn’t leave any marks, but it still hurt nonetheless. She wanted to kill them. She wanted to hurt them bad. But she didn’t. She came up with a better plan. After months of her crying and not speaking, the teachers grew so concerned that they held a meeting with her mum and dad. Demi stayed quiet at first during the meeting, but as her plan began to unfold, she was smiling inside. It was time to make them pay. It was time to take their control away.

“The boys touched me,” she finally said out loud to her teachers.

She remembered the look on her father’s face. He was confused.

“What do you mean they touched you?” he asked.

She pointed down at her dress and lightly brushed her private area. She then tilted her head down and began to cry. The teachers were horrified. Her parents were close to vomiting, and Demi was nothing but smiles inside.

Those kids never touched her down there, but Demi knew from that moment that with a little bit of patience and a whole lot of planning, someone could hurt somebody really bad without even lifting a fist to strike them. It hurt just as bad, if not worse.

Those kids were all expelled, and she was never bullied again. Some of them carried around the stigma of molesting a little girl for years before it was too much, and they either moved away or killed themselves.

She knew that two of the boys from her school who bullied her actually went on to rape a girl. They got sent down and were killed in prison.

Demi remembered the feeling of justice that ran through her when she found out that her tormenters were finally silenced. They couldn’t hurt anybody. Their control was gone. But a funny thing happened. She now had their control, just like they had hers before. And it felt great to have it. Did that make her a bully now? She didn’t know. But she wanted more control. And as the years went on and she grew older, the amount of control she had doubled, then tripled, then quadrupled, until she was the girl with the most control.

Demi lay there in the middle of that tight coffin with an expression on her face. The darkness was concealing it, but it was an expression of sadness. Throughout all those years, all Demi wanted was her control back. But now she had none. It was like she was back at square one. As if the kids were teasing her in the playground once again. Calling her names. Laughing. Dancing around her.

It made her angry. That was when she balled up her fists and began to pull them apart. She was working on releasing herself from the restraints around her wrists. She wasn’t going to let Donny the Hat dictate her fate.

She wanted her control back.

Suddenly, the movement slowed down. They were stopping. It was a race against time to get her control back.

Before it was too late.