A Dark Coffin

Harry rubbed his eyes again, as if there was some irritation behind them. ‘Better not. I’ve been drinking whisky. I’ll have some mineral water and coffee. Whisky makes me thirsty.’

Max told them what was best to eat that night and they took his advice: wild Scotch salmon, with cooked cucumber and salad.

‘The food’s good here,’ said Harry. ‘Not that I was in a noticing mood.’

‘Clever of you to find Max’s.’

‘No cleverness … I was looking for you.’ He rubbed his eyes again. ‘It’s about my brother.’

‘I didn’t know you had a brother.’

‘You’d know it if you saw him: like as two peas, we are. Henry and Mark. It didn’t matter which name we got, they just handed them out. Twins. Two halves of one egg. He got called Merry, although God knows he never was.’ Unless inside himself, he thought, he did have a secret laugh.

‘I have a brother,’ said Coffin, before he could stop himself. ‘But I didn’t know him, never met him or even knew he existed, until we were both adults.’

‘Well, I knew mine from the minute I could open my eyes. Before, I daresay, in the womb.’ He added with some bitterness: ‘And we were not happy little boys.

‘Too different, or too alike, I’m not sure. He hates me, I think, and I don’t exactly love him. He said I sat on him all through gestation, and I daresay I did.’

‘I don’t like my brother very much,’ said Coffin thoughtfully.

‘We have such different lives; I went into law enforcement, and …’ Harry hesitated. ‘And he went the other way.’

‘You mean … ?’ Coffin felt his eyebrows shoot up.

‘Yes, he’s a criminal. Even the army couldn’t control him, and chucked him out … I think he is wicked. He may be the most evil man I know.’

Stella was shocked. ‘You don’t believe in evil?’

‘I do when it’s in the family.’ He sounded weary. ‘And I only said may be … I always pray he isn’t.’

Coffin said sharply, ‘And you think he’s in the Second City?’

‘I think he is in Swinehouse,’ said Harry simply. ‘And if you are having trouble there, heaven help you, because he is probably behind it. In there driving it forward.’

‘And why do you think he is here?’

‘Because we were fostered as kids for a while, just a short while with a couple called Macintosh, strict, rigid even, but it suited him somehow; I think he has come back.’

Coffin thought about it. ‘He kept in touch with them then?’

‘He never kept in touch with anyone in his life.’

‘So what makes you think he’s here?’

‘I saw him on TV. On the news, at the riot, he was laughing.’

‘I see. Thanks for telling me. You’re sure?’

‘I know his face. I see it every time in the mirror when I shave myself … He might be staying with the Macintoshes. If he is here, he came because he remembered them.’ There was something heavy in his tone.

‘And you don’t like that?’

‘No.’ A bleak, cold monosyllable.

Coffin thought about it. ‘So what’s he running from?’

Harry dropped his head and looked at the table. ‘I dunno … maybe murder. He could have killed a woman in Woolwich. Strangled her and left her on Woolwich Common. He says not, but he would, wouldn’t he?’

‘I don’t know, Harry, he’s your brother. Did you believe him?’

‘I never believe a word he says.’ But Harry kept his eyes fixed on the table.

‘Look at me, do, Harry.’ He looked up, his eyes blind. ‘And? Come on … And?’

‘I’m worried for the old couple. How do I know what he wants? He may harm them. He is dangerous.’

A couple called Macintosh lived in Swinehouse, Joe and Josie who ran a mobile fish-and-chip van. They also served hamburgers, sausages, fried chicken and toasted sandwiches. With tea and coffee to drink. All good, all fresh and tasting well. They were popular local figures who were welcomed as they toured the streets of Swinehouse where eating houses were hard to come by. They regularly parked in spots around the theatre. Even Coffin ate there sometimes when Stella was away and he wanted a quick meal, and he was sure that Bob, their dog, hung about the van when he could get out on his own, while the cat probably ate there regularly when fish was frying. The cat was an animal with a strong character and a habit of roaming in search of good food.

Josie cooked and Joe served, except that sometimes the positions were exchanged and Joe cooked and Josie served – they were interchangeable. Josie was tall and thin, Joe was just as tall and very nearly as thin. They bounced jokes off each other like two old comedians.

The van was always parked in the shed beside the house in Tolliver Street. Once vandalized, the neighbourhood took such strong revenge on the lad that did it, that it was never again touched. Tolliver Street itself had changed radically since the Trent boys had lived there. Once a row of small houses, only the Macintosh house remained. On either side the rest had been replaced by blocks of flats. The Macintosh house, which had once, long ago, been a livery stable, sat in the middle of its own freehold.

The Macintoshes were nice, gentle, quiet people who were always very circumspect with the world outside and each other, as if they had been badly hurt once and were on the lookout for when it happened again.

That night, when Coffin was talking to Harry Trent, and while a tall man was just about to throw a brick through the window of Tallow Street Police Station, the Macintoshes’ van was parked near the theatre where it was doing a good trade in hot sandwiches, in spite of the heat of the evening.

This was not their usual beat on a Wednesday night, but the Macintoshes knew enough to keep away from Tallow Street where the crowds were gathering.

‘We’ve always managed to keep out of the rain, haven’t we?’ Josie nudged Joe.

‘It’s going to be a bloody thunderstorm this time, loved one.’ Joe was usually the gloomier of the two. ‘Pass me the sausages.’

Josie handed them over. ‘It can’t be that bad, can it?’

‘Guess it could be, lover.’

‘No, no, I won’t believe. We are imagining things.’

Joe did not answer, he just got on with cooking the sausages. ‘We could always get out,’ he said at last.

‘Get out? Do you mean what I think you mean?’

He turned the sausages in the big pan. ‘Yes. Not such a bad thing. Out.’

Josie was buttering the rolls. ‘Are we in the firing line then, Joe? No, I won’t believe it.’

Joe didn’t answer, just went on with the sausages, and Josie remembered something else.