One by One: A brutal, gritty revenge thriller that you won't be able to put down.

by Robert Enright

  ONE BY ONE

  BY ROBERT ENRIGHT

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  .CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  EPILOGUE

  A WORD FROM ROBERT

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  For Charlotte, Dan & Anthony,

  You never let my head drop.

  PROLOGUE

  An extract from ‘Life on the Beat: Memoirs of a thirty-year police officer.’ by Paul Fletcher.

  I was never a massive believer in the five stages of grief. It always felt a little distasteful for someone to write out a set path for another to follow.

  A blueprint for coping.

  As somebody who has worked a lot of murder cases throughout his long career and broken his fair share of bad news to those who have lost loved ones, I can safely say that I still don’t believe in it.

  The Kubler-Ross model, its original title, is generally considered to be spot on. To accept or to recognise this cycle of grief means you will be well on the road to recovery. As a police officer, the more deaths you investigate, the more you can see the logic. It still breaks my heart when I think of the breakdowns unsuspecting mothers have had after I’ve informed them that their son had been executed in a gang-related incident. Or the sheer, almost statue-like stillness that comes over husbands when I notify them of an accident and their wife had been killed.

  The denial that people show in times of great loss demands to be seen. However, is it really a denial? Or is it more of an acceptance of what society and the findings of others have put forward as a coping mechanism? I don’t know, I’m not a psychologist.

  All I know is, when I lost my dear Susan to the cold, relentless grasp of cancer six years ago, all I felt was numbness. I didn’t cry nor did I deny what had happened. I was simply numb. My wife had been a teacher for as long as I had been an officer of the law, teaching geography at the local university. She was a tremendous woman, full of life and quick wit and the kind of beauty that people used to write poetry for. A life lived with nothing but love for the world, for our two beautiful daughters, our impending grandchildren and for me. Effortlessly and completely, she loved me every day for thirty-nine amazing years.

  When I decided to retire after thirty years as a police officer and detective for the Metropolitan Police, Susan described it as the first day of the rest of our lives. Little did we know that only five months later, that would be a life I would face alone. We took a few of the trips we had spoken about, a wonderful week in Beijing was certainly a highlight, but eventually, as her health deteriorated, so did the future we had worked toward.

  Numbness. That’s all I felt then and to some extent, all I feel now.

  I didn’t deny any of it was happening - I had seen too many deaths in my years of service to know what was coming. I think it was that cold, black and white look of things that drove both Annabelle and Christine, my estranged daughters, away from me when their mother finally left us.

  I didn’t get angry, although my dependency for sitting up in the evenings and nursing a few whiskeys has led to a few outbursts from time to time. Bargaining? Depression? Acceptance? I couldn’t follow the rules of the model, it just wouldn’t work. I was numb.

  To the world.

  To my daughters.

  To the inevitable.

  I will never forget my Susan, nor will I ever relinquish the wonderful memories that we built together. But I skipped all the stages and accepted it from the very beginning. What more could I have done?

  That question was asked so many times throughout my career, by the desperate family members of the recently departed - a question that was always followed by the tried and trusted ‘There was nothing you or anyone could have done.’ That was the stock answer. That was what many officers had sworn by for years, as it showed compassion yet it meant not having to get further involved.

  That all changed when Lucas Cole decided to deal with his grief in the way he saw fit. The ripples of those two weeks are still shaking the Metropolitan Police Service and the city of London itself. When I look back on that tragic period I always wonder about the part I played in it all. Could I have stopped it from happening?

  I doubt it.

  And whilst I sit here, allowing the archives of my memory to pour out from my fingers, I doubt Lucas would have wanted me to. His grief manifested into something that shook everyone to the core. Lucas asked the question; ‘what could I have done?’ and then set out to answer it.

  I remember the pain in his eyes when he looked at me.

  I remember the anger in his voice when he spoke.

  And I remember the purpose radiating from him as he set off to bury his grief.

  There was no five stages. No Kubler-Ross model. No denial, no anger, no bargaining, depression or acceptance.

  There was only violence.

  And thinking about it now, I am happy that when tragedy struck my family, I remained numb.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The alarm clock went off at five a.m. and as soon as the first note rang out, Lucas Cole immediately hit the off button. He had been lying awake for the past twenty minutes, his eyes gazing upon Helen. As he watched her peacefully sleep, he couldn’t help but be moved by how lucky he was, the feeling of effortless happiness just being next to her.

  He slid out of the bed, making a special effort not to wake her. He glanced out of the window as he pulled a t-shirt over his muscular physique followed by a zip up hoody, the sun not yet breaking the horizon line to say hello. He finished getting dressed and hoisted his gym bag onto Helen’s dressing table. He had already pre-packed, but ever the perfectionist he checked again.

  He glanced into the large vanity mirror on the dressing table, surrounded by different moisturisers and make-ups and smiled. The centrepiece of the dressing table was the jewellery box Helen had clung on to since childhood, its tacky plastic outer shell housing a small, cheaply painted ballerina who pirouetted to a tuneful chime. His wife lay asleep, a smile indicating a pleasant dream. The same smile she had given him the moment she’d walked into that interview room. The same smile she had shared with him for the last eight years of marriage.

  Lucas zipped up his gym bag and threw it over his shoulder. Without the sun shining, it was hard to predict the outside world, however the recent cold showers that the sky had enforced on the town led him to pulling a woollen beanie hat over his short, messy brown hair. He took another look in the mirror, deciding he could proba
bly get away with one more day of not shaving before Helen called him on it. ‘Like kissing a cactus’ she usually joked.

  He walked over to the bed quietly and leant down to the love of his life. He reached out and brushed the blonde fringe that strayed playfully across her gorgeous face and kissed her gently on the temple. She stirred warmly and he muttered he loved her and then headed for the door, ensuring every step was silent so as not to disturb her sleep.

  A light haze of rain greeted Lucas as he left the house, another sign that the weather wasn’t quite ready to give up its current run of unpredictability. He walked to the end of the garden path, pulling his hood up over his hat. He turned and looked back at the quaint little house he shared with his wife. The garden, usually maintained to the highest standard had perished over winter and even as they entered April, the weather had played such devilish games they hadn’t been able to restore it to its former glory.

  Lucas turned and began to jog up the street. The milkman drove past, his small white float gliding through the empty roads and he waved a good morning at Lucas who responded in kind. As he continued his jog, the small town of Brinscall was still on the cusp of waking up. The village existed behind the glamour and the business of big city living, a true community where everyone knew everyone. As he continued his jog towards Abbey Village, he passed the resident’s homes, all steeped in individuality and character, set back from the large roads, hidden behind their well-kept gardens.

  Lucas loved the town; it had allowed him to escape from the harshness of London and the pain-stricken years before he’d met Helen. The quietness of the mornings and the sheer tranquillity of the surroundings had enabled him to move on, start afresh and put those darker moments in a faraway place.

  He put his head down and picked up the pace.

  Alex Thornley reversed his car into his reserved parking space outside of Abbey Village Sports Centre and lifted the handbrake. The drive had been a pleasant one, albeit only fifteen minutes. He let out a deep sigh and checked his reflection in the rear view mirror, the lack of sleep evident on his face. He couldn’t complain though - his beautiful, yet heavily pregnant, wife Dianne, was having an uncomfortable evening and it was an honour for him to lie awake with her, discussing the possibilities of their rapidly approaching foray into parenthood.

  He wondered about what kind of father he would be; having lost his at the tender age of five he’d never had a role model. It was the untimely death of his father which caused him to embrace his Mother’s Thai roots, who had moved to England to marry his dad before he was born. He didn’t exactly look like a ‘Thornley’, but Dianne said it gave him a unique look. His skin was slightly tanned and his straight, black hair was swept to one side. He always thought he looked a little odd, but if Dianne liked it then that was enough.

  He yawned and then pushed open his car door. A slight chill filtered through the breeze, making him shudder slightly. The wind carried a moistness that wasn’t quite rain but it was enough for him to pull his hood up. As he closed his car door, a voice startled him.

  “Morning!”

  He spun round immediately and saw Lucas smiling back at him.

  “Jesus, Lucas!” he said, frustrated. “You nearly gave me a flipping heart attack!”

  “I thought you were, as you say, always prepared.”

  “Not at five thirty in the morning I’m not.” He took a calming breath. “And I don’t say that anyway. Makes me sound like a boy scout.”

  He opened the boot of his car, pulling out a large gym bag which he slung over his shoulder. Lucas took off his wool hat, his hair flattened from the pressure. Alex reached in and pulled out a few thick, blue shin guards and handed them to Lucas, who helpfully took them.

  “We are going to work on your kicks this morning.”

  “Fine by me.” Lucas replied.

  “God, I’m shattered.”

  “Long night?”

  “Dianne’s back was giving her all kinds of grief. I’ll tell you what, people always say you should be as helpful as possible during the first few months of parenthood. They don’t tell you how helpless you feel in the nine months leading up to it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s okay,” Alex shut the car boot gently, adjusting his bag as he turned to face Lucas. “Just want to feel useful again.”

  “I couldn’t imagine it myself. If I knew Helen was in pain and there was nothing I could do about it, I’d probably go crazy.”

  “Yeah, let’s not go down that path.” Alex smiled at him, the rain starting to come down a little heavier. “Ready?”

  “Sir, yes sir!” Lucas exclaimed, accompanied by the Scout salute.

  “That’s the army.” Alex rolled his eyes. “Idiot.”

  The two friends broke into laughter and walked briskly towards the building entrance.

  Inside the Sports Centre, Alex and Lucas walked through the main doors to the right of the large oak desk in reception. They continued down a long, pale green corridor, lined with framed pictures of sporting events that the venue had held, a tool used to encourage children to participate in the variety of activities the centre offered. They turned right and headed down another corridor, this time lined with Muay Thai themed décor. Silhouettes of traditional Muay Thai stances and attacks were painted onto the walls, surrounded by uplifting words of encouragement. At the end of the walkway a trophy cabinet stood proudly to the right of the door, a substantial oak cabinet fronted by thick glass.

  Inside, championship trophies were displayed, along with photos of Alex in the middle of some hard-fought victories. They stopped in front of it as Alex rooted in his pocket for the keys. Lucas gazed upon the trophies, letting his gym bag slide from his shoulder so it hung down by his side.

  “That could so easily be you, Lucas.” Alex said, as he slid the key into the lock.

  “Never competitively. “He smiled back, walking past Alex as he opened the door to the dojo. Alex followed in behind him, muttering to himself.

  “I know. I know.”

  With the flick of a switch, the lights burst on one after another, illuminating the dojo in stages. The red and black mats that occupied half of the floor were first to explode out of the darkness, well-worn and beaten from years of training. The heavy black punch bags hanging almost from ceiling to ground were next, some of them wrapped in masking tape to add extra thickness and increase the weight. The long weight rack was next to jump into visibility, with its assortment of weights, all organised in order of heaviness, shimmering like the freshly polished steel that they were. Then the traditional Muay Thai ring in the far right corner was suddenly hauled out of the darkness as the final light flickered on. The red ropes hung low, connected to the padded, black beams in all four corners. Lucas smiled as he saw it, reminiscing about the many sparring sessions he and his best friend had had in there.

  To the left of the dojo was a small door that Alex had already unlocked and ventured through. The light flicked on and Lucas knew that Alex was booting up the computer in his office. Classes didn’t begin until ten thirty, however Lucas knew Alex liked to get his own workout in after their morning session. He dropped his bag to the side and unzipped his hoody. He peeled off his tracksuit bottoms to reveal his traditional Muay Thai shorts, black and white in colour, and then sat on the short, white wooden bench running the length of the wall up to the office door. As he was putting on his ankle supports, Alex walked out, already in his training gear, carrying a large black body pad. It had two latches on the back for the holder’s arms and was thick enough to withstand the most vicious of kicks.

  He walked over to Lucas, past two large posters positioned side by side on all four of the dojo’s walls. They were canvases that Alex had commissioned professionally. They were neither elaborate nor fancy. A faded red background, adorned with a few Muay Thai symbols painted in black in the bottom right corner. In the middle of them, they had a single word painted on each:

  Discipline.
<
br />   Control.

  This was a message that Alex conveyed at every single training session he held, the potential fighters lapping up every word of it. Alex had spent twenty three years practising Muay Thai, something that Lucas admired and respected. Alex had honed his craft, dedicated himself to its practice and become one of the best. His trophies and accolades in the cabinet outside rang true to that. Lucas wished he had spent twenty years studying the sport, not just the seven he had been. He was good, very good according to Alex, but he wouldn’t compete.

  He couldn’t compete.

  As his mind wandered to the reasons why, and what his life had been prior to Helen, prior to Alex and Muay Thai, his best friend snapped him out of his reverie as he approached.

  'Oh, did I tell you about Jeremy?' Alex asked casually, putting the fighting gear to one side. Lucas pulled on his last ankle support and immediately started wrapping the boxing tape around his wrist, crossing it across his palm and around his thumb. He looked up with interest, shaking his head.

  “Well, he was this guy, no more than twenty years-old. Big guy, built like a brick shithouse. Not the kind of guy you want to mess with.” Alex began his own wrist taping, speeding through with the experience of a man who had done it every day of his life for the past twenty or so years. “Anyway he walks in here, tells me he wants to fight. Not learn Muay Thai. Fight. So I tell him, there is more to fighting than being big. More to fighting than being strong. He gives all the talk in front of the group, telling me he could knock anyone in the room out.”

  “Sounds like a nice guy.” Lucas said through a wry smile.

  “I know, right? Anyway, I told him to glove up and to meet me in the ring. I know I shouldn’t have risen to it, but I think it’s a good idea every now and then to show my pupils why I’m their trainer.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “So Jeremy gets in the ring with me, he’s got his gloves on, he’s got his gum shield in and he is bouncing, right. Like this.”