Copyright © 2016
Rebecca R Sherwin
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, places, events and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Please do not copy, alter or distribute GRIT Sector 1: Elias. By purchasing this content, you agree to abide by copyright laws and will not copy, trade, pirate or replicate any of the content within this book.
If you have not purchased GRIT Sector 1: Elias by Rebecca Sherwin, or it was not purchased for you, please return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.
You can contact Rebecca via email to [email protected] if you have any questions or concerns.
Thank you.
The London you are about to enter is not the London of the twenty-first century as you know it.
Once you’re in, there’s no way out…
1995
One
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Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
GRIT Sector 1: The Revolution
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other Titles
Snow fell. Moisture glittered on the concrete. A thin sheet of ice settled, covering the footsteps of hundreds of pedestrians who had walked the streets just moments earlier. The moon shone brightly against the dark sky above the deserted streets of the city.
London wasn't safe once darkness had descended. The veil lifted with every slither of sunlight that disappeared until the portal opened and the demons of the capital emerged from hiding.
A family of three—two stupid adults who thought they could protect their little one. Because they had money. Because they had status. Because they underestimated the evil of the underworld.
Stupid, stupid people. He'd make them pay for their ignorance. He'd make them see the streets for what they really were; a maze with no escape. A game with only one victor. Evil. He'd remind them where they were from, where they lived, and why they should have stayed in their mansion until the sun rose.
The father wore a charcoal-grey overcoat; his expensive suit and hat, scarf and glove set would protect him from the cold, but not from the punishment he deserved for his intrusion in the world where he wasn't welcome. His wife—her shoes click-clacked on the pavement, catching the orange glow of the streetlight as they passed it. Her dress swayed against her stocking-clad calves as she walked, her fur coat billowing out as a snowy breeze weaved its way along the street in warning. Between them was a child, just a little one of four or five-years-old, but she needed to be taught about the world she lived in. She needed to be educated the only way she could be in London, at night, at the mercy of those who owned the streets. Her red pea coat and matching beret made him lick his lips, his gaze falling on her crimson patent shoes.
There would be blood. He hungered for it. He thirsted for it, the gushing viscosity and the warmth of a soul leaving its body.
Shoving his hands in the pockets of his dirty, rat-bitten trench coat, he followed them, concealed by the shadows. He'd marked this family. He'd claimed them and he would stay with them until it was time. The family walked hand-in-hand with the little raven-haired girl between them, swinging from a hand of each of her parents. Their footsteps echoed around the street, bouncing off the walls of empty shops, working their way through the grates in the drains to where the others waited. Where the sick members of society, banished for their refusal to conform to Her Majesty's laws, hoped for their chance to strike.
He wouldn't allow it. The family was his.
They stopped at a gate and the father produced a key from his pocket to unlock it. He stood on guard, holding the gate open as his wife picked up their daughter and descended the steps first. The father followed, locking the gate behind him and the family disappeared under ground.
The man cocked his head. He was curious. He wanted to know where they'd gone, what they were doing and what was hidden beneath the shop. But he didn't care enough to be reckless. He was hungry. Not for food; he'd salvaged some scraps while waiting for night to fall. His stomach was full, but his soul was empty and craving a fix. His fingers flexed, closing around the handle of the screwdriver in his pocket. Severing contact with his only friend, he retrieved his cigarettes and lighter from his other pocket. He slid down the wall into a crouch, smoking one after the other, tossing the butts into the drain—a warning that he was here. He was waiting.
They emerged later, the father first, ready to protect his family with a defence that would prove futile. The child was tired, stumbling over her own feet and pulling on her mother's arm. The father picked her up and gathered her in his embrace. Her head lolled on his shoulder, her arms hanging loosely from him and her knees bent up to snuggle closer. The man smiled and got to his feet, leaving just enough distance between him and the family to get full satisfaction from the hunt. He stayed in the shadows, the areas eclipsed by shop canopies and old overhanging architecture. London itself aided him in the game. In the race to feel alive again. It became his companion, the juts and dips of sporadic builds, conflicting eras and their signatures, modernisation and its feeble attempt to drag the capital out of the past. The father laughed with the mother, shifting the sleeping child onto one side so the other was free to hold his wife.
The man's smile grew wider. His heart beat a little faster with the promise of the impending thrill.
The family turned a corner into the alleyway they'd stepped out of earlier and he followed, tossing his cigarette, laying it out like a ‘do not disturb’ sign. He closed the distance when he spotted the Rolls Royce. Fucking rich people. They'd have been safe if they hadn't let their money blind them. He stroked his body, feeling the hard lump of the screwdriver, and smiled again. This was it. His blood began surging through his veins, his ribs creaking under the force of his hammering heart. He licked his lips back and forth.
It wouldn't be long now.
He halted when the wife slipped on the ice and her husband stopped to catch her. His final act of protection. They continued walking, a little slower, a little more carefully. The weather was working with him, too. The elements were on his side and the frosty air, void of w
ind but thick with the chill of winter—of death and infertility—elevated his excitement.
Finally.
He crept up on them, not caring if they heard him. It was over already. He reared up, his long arm extending behind him with the screwdriver firmly in his grasp. He plunged it into the wife's neck, severing her spinal cord, rupturing her carotid artery and tearing her open. He knew. He felt it, the release, as her head lulled and she fell in a heap on the ground. She had a minute, if that, and he hoped she'd get it all. He wanted to watch every one of the sixty seconds she had left. The next few seconds moved in slow motion. The wife gushed blood and gargled, every litre in her body quickly pouring out to add another sheet over the layer of ice. Thick red, almost black in the dark of night. So much blood. So much invigoration to absorb. Then came the husband's shock as he turned, two sets of male eyes connecting—one with fear, one with sheer pleasure. He glanced down at his wife as her neck pulsed in its final efforts to keep her alive. No good. She was dead. Dark eyes, no focus, a petite body quickly exsanguinated. The husband paled, turning the same shade as his wife, and hugged his daughter in fear. He was frozen. In shock. In terror. In realisation...he should have kept them safe indoors. The man cocked his head, swiping the screwdriver between his lips. He grinned, teeth smeared with blood, eyes full of pride, body full of life. He said nothing as he took confident steps, slow and calculated, towards the husband...father. He was a husband no more. Brandishing the screwdriver, he flicked it like a knight showing off his sword skills. He felt like a knight now—a knight of death. The father flinched and cried. Then the three steps began.
Bargaining. He promised not to tell anyone. To go home and forget it had happened. The man tipped his head from side to side, feigning contemplation. He didn't need to. The father was as good as dead. Next came anger. Empty threats because he knew he didn’t have the capacity to overpower. He was, after all, cradling a princess. The man shook his head slowly, enjoying every second of the game. Then came his favourite part. Begging. The father pled for their lives. He begged for mercy. The man was close now, close enough to smell the fear radiating off the father. Close enough to listen to his pathetic snivelling, to watch his tears and snot and sweat.
Not so high and mighty now, huh?
Even the rich weren't invincible.
The man took another step, grabbed the back of the father's head and dug the screwdriver into his neck, just so the tip pierced the skin. He'd take great pleasure in the next part, his arm holding the child, his hand keeping the father in place as he killed him. Slowly he tore him open, showering in his blood and breathing in the scent of death. Inch by inch the father was ripped open, the contents of his throat oozing out of the gash, his coat smothered in blood as it cascaded to their feet. He looked at his daughter, still sleeping in the arms of her father and his murderer. And then he fell, leaving the child suspended as she stirred and snuggled into the blood of her parents.
The man stepped back, holding onto the bundle of innocence and purity in his arms, and drew delicate symbols on her cheek with the tip of the screwdriver dripping with her father's blood.
He would take her next, steal her from this world before she'd gotten a chance to live in it. He'd send her to the next world; to a world of perpetual darkness and eternal loneliness. Perhaps she would have survived had her parents not been so stupid. But she would live on in him; he would absorb her innocence, bathe in it and remember this kill forever. His youngest. His most hopeful. His souvenir and totem. She'd be his; he'd adopt her soul and tarnish it with evil.
He'd won.
He pressed the blade over her pulsing vein and applied just enough pressure to draw out the first trickle of blood.
5am.
Woke up before the alarm. Switched it off and sat up, stretching and looking around. Calm. Silence. Just how I liked it.
Climbed out of bed, stretched again and crossed the room. Gym clothes, trainers—laces double knotted.
5.15am.
Gym. Relaxation. Freedom. Silence. Five miles on the treadmill with an uphill gradient. Sweat. Discipline. Peace. Five more miles. Tight legs, wet t-shirt, dry mouth. Water. I took a drink from the machine and wiped my face with my towel. Weights next. Resistance. Strength. A challenge to overcome. Thirty minutes with dumbbells and machinery.
6.30am.
Shower. Hot water, cascading from the head and shooting from the jets. Warmth. Cleanliness. Silence. Just how I liked it, alone with no thoughts or distractions, only routine. Body wash, the same brand and scent I’d used since I hit puberty. Shoulders, underarms, stomach, legs, feet. Skirting over my groin, spending only enough time there to ensure cleanliness. My body stirred. I growled and glanced at the clock as I wrapped my soapy hand around the hardening length. Not now. But I had time. I would make time; a few quick pumps with an empty mind.
Emptiness. Dullness. Silence.
I cleared away the evidence, and squirted bleach down the plughole after the last drop washed away.
Regret. Guilt. Anger.
I washed my hair, spending less time massaging my scalp than I did on mornings where my body didn’t demand attention. I shouldn’t have done that. I needed to be careful. I broke the rule every few days and I knew I’d be in trouble if I got caught.
7am.
Showered, shaved, dried. Naked. I pulled open the second drawer, selecting today’s underwear. Black boxer-briefs, socks, and a white vest. Left leg, right leg, pull. Arrange, cursing my anatomy. I needed to be focused this morning. Masturbation, for me, had the opposite effect to what it should have had. I needed to find composure. Watch next, black leather. Still on time. Clothes, a black suit from the left side of the wardrobe, a white shirt from the right. Top drawer. Black tie, cufflinks. Hair styled. Shoes on.
7.15am. Ready.
7.20am. Breakfast. Growling stomach. Busy day ahead. I stepped into the breakfast room, pausing to look outside at the garden, alive with summer, flourishing under the bright sun of a new day. I sat at the head of the table with a glass of orange juice to my left, a cup of coffee to my right, the Business Express in the centre.
“Good morning, Mr Blackwood,” Lola, the maid, said as she opened the napkin and placed it on my lap.
She pulled breakfast together quickly, a plate of two perfectly toasted pieces of bread, a bowl of muesli, a small jug of milk, and a ramekin of berries. She worked quietly, knowing I wouldn't talk to her. She was decent at her job, at my beck and call when I was home, most of her tasks completed adequately. She seemed nice enough, but I didn’t do small talk. I didn’t talk at all in the morning, beyond the perfunctory.
“Thank you,” I rasped, before she curtseyed and disappeared to where she waited on standby.
7.50am.
Breakfast eaten. Newspaper read. Almost ready to begin.
I stood from the table, leaving Lola to clear up, and crossed the foyer to the bathroom. Teeth cleaned, hair checked, appearance double-checked. I left the bathroom and grabbed my jacket, pulling it on as Lola scurried ahead to open the front door and hand me my briefcase and umbrella. I took them with a nod of thanks and left the house to where Percy was waiting with the car door open.
“Good morning, Mr Blackwood.” He dipped his head and I nodded in return as I slid into the back of the car.
Once Percy was in the driver’s seat with his leather gloves and hat in place, he pulled away from the house as the gates opened. I took my phone out of my pocket, finally turning it on and preparing to begin the day.
Just another day…
Blackwood International, the oldest bank in the United Kingdom, older than the official eldest. I owned it. My family did, and had done since the 1400s, almost three hundred years before the documented oldest British banking institution. Blackwood International, named Blackwood and Co. before we went worldwide two hundred years ago, was undoubtedly the shadiest and sneakiest English bank—why we were left off all the records—and had been run by Blackwood descendants for fourteen generations
.
That was probably the simplest story of Blackwood family history—and even that got complicated the further down the rabbit hole you went.
I thanked Percy when he pulled up outside Blackwood International Headquarters on Fleet Street and told him to stay close by. It was Monday. Mondays were always unpredictable and I didn’t deal well with unpredictable. I needed to know what was going to happen, when, how and where. I hated Mondays.
Percy opened my door and I stepped out, took a deep breath and smoothed down my suit, accepting the briefcase when he handed it to me.
“You shouldn’t need the umbrella today, sir.”
I pursed my lips in recognition of his utterance but said nothing else, looking up at the understated exterior of my family’s empire. Appearances were more than deceiving. I climbed the first few steps and headed into the building when the door was held open for me. I was followed everywhere I went; minions and servants hid around every corner ready to assist and comply. I reached for the next door into the vestibule, but it was opened again. Giving up on expecting to be able to do anything with the muscles I’d worked on this morning—I shuddered—I squared my shoulders, stood tall and stepped through all the passageways with authority and an arrogance that meant I didn’t even thank them. I wasn’t supposed to.
I stepped into my office, passing my assistant, Emily, quickly so she couldn’t jump up and let me in. My office was where Blackwood International had been run since the building was first constructed in 1470. The building had undergone many refurbishments and reinforcements over the centuries, but this room had remained untouched. History clung to every particle of dust that drifted around the vast space; Blackwood ghosts hid on the shelves of bookcases and perched on the picture frames that hung from the walls. It was dark, both starved of light and furnished with the macabre colours of the fifteenth century. I slipped out of my jacket and hung it on the hook, stepping behind my desk and placing my briefcase on top before turning to look at over the city.
Elias (GRIT Sector 1) Page 1