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

by Robert Enright

  He led her by the hand down the street towards the car, deciding on a whim to take her to dinner before she had to dash back to her own flat to get ready for yet another nightshift. They sat across the table, enjoying delicious Italian food and sharing an intense conversation about the complexities of getting a mortgage in the current financial climate. When he dropped her off outside her block of flats, she leaned over and kissed him as hard as she could, grabbing his t-shirt by the scruff of the collar.

  “Goodnight, handsome!” She winked at him.

  He smiled back, waving as he pulled away to enjoy a relaxed evening of catching up on the latest TV show everyone at the station was talking about. She felt her heart flutter.

  She was falling in love.

  Starling visited his father the next morning, bringing him a few books that he’d requested but would probably never read. The weather on that Bank Holiday Monday was glorious and the friendly nurses allowed him and his dad to enjoy the well-kept gardens which sat behind Romford Hills Retirement Home.

  They sat and played chess for most of the afternoon, his father's stroke not affecting his ability to wipe Starling out in just a few moves.

  Starling cherished every moment of it.

  The pretty blonde nurse, Kimberly, brought over his dad's medicine along with his lunch and, as accommodating as always, even prepared a sandwich for Starling. He gratefully accepted and shared the meal with his father in the sun.

  He needed the time to recollect himself: the fury of Bailey's reluctance to chase the Draytons had made him question his career for the first time. He calmed down, ensuring he was relaxed when he was ready to tackle his night shift.

  When he began his shift at ten that evening, things were quiet. He thought of Annette, his mind wandering to the feel of her naked body and the smell of her as she sat on top of him.

  By eleven thirty, all hell had broken loose.

  In a side street just off Kilburn High Road, Lucas rolled his recently acquired car to a stop. It was the main road which ran through the centre of the London Borough of Brent like an artery. The road was lined with streetlamps, the majority encasing the street in an artificial glow. Vehicles dotted the sides of the streets in allocated parking spaces, the roads themselves being relatively quiet and the residents all in their homes preparing to return to work after a rare long weekend.

  The clock on the dashboard worked, however the bulb behind the numbers was dying a slow death. It was eleven fifteen and back in Harrow, baseballs would still be hammering the bloody cage where Lewis's head used to be. Lucas had expected an overwhelming rush of adrenaline to kick in afterwards: the act of killing a man should never be easy.

  Lucas sat calmly.

  He felt no excitement. No remorse.

  Nothing.

  He thought about Harry and how he could see ‘The Hive’ from where he was parked. The dreary, grey building was offensive just to look at. A tacky, neon sign sat above the door and almost seemed embarrassed to display the name. Either side of the single door were two burly bouncers, both on the overweight side who looked like they had seen better days. The beat of a dance song thumped through the walls.

  Somewhere inside was Harry Drayton.

  Lucas gripped the steering wheel with both hands, the thought of that man being involved in his wife's death making his knuckles turn white. The hard texture of the leather imprinted on his palms. The car smelt like stale cigarettes.

  “Remember the good, baby.”

  Lucas's hard eyes flickered to the rear-view mirror. They met the unblinking stare of Helen, her eyes shining like two bright, blue marbles. He took a breath, looking down at his lap.

  “You're not real.”

  He chanted it, repeating the words over and over, hoping they would have an effect on his wife’s ghost. Helen's white gown floated around her, like tassels in a wind machine. Her words were almost echoing.

  “Remember the good, baby,” the vision repeated.

  Lucas gripped the wheel again, closing his eyes and casting his mind back through his memories. He thought of Helen dropping a plate of hot sausages he’d just cooked one Sunday afternoon as they’d hosted a barbecue. He thought of her brushing her hair in the villa they’d rented in Gran Canaria four years before, the beaming sun setting behind the horizon through the window behind her. He thought of holding her arms at her side by the kitchen sink, and dabbing at her face with the foam from the washing up liquid as she playfully screamed.

  He opened his eyes, staring into the mirror at the haunting spectre of his love.

  “It was all good.”

  His words were broken, hanging heavily in the air. He took another deep breath, pushed open the car door and stepped out. He looked at ‘The Hive’ from across the street, the dark, gloomy structure calling to him.

  He marched across the road, intent on killing Harry Drayton.

  Helen had vanished from the back seat.

  Officer Ravi Shah circled the roundabout, indicated and pulled off down the dual carriageway. Northwick Park hospital loomed beyond the trees to the left, the gigantic edifice fading into the night sky. He’d been part of the Harrow Response Team for over two years and had built up a reputation for being one of the toughest officers in the precinct.

  Firm but fair.

  Next to him sat Officer Daniel Carter, two months out of the Hendon Police Centre where eager new recruits were graduating more often, it seemed. Carter was a tall man which meant he carried his large bulk well. Shah, on the other hand, was always taking well-meant jibes, about his lack of stature, in his stride.

  What he lacked in height, he made up with competence.

  “So, what's the best arrest you have made?” Carter asked.

  Questions like this were expected from new recruits. Their idea of policing was diving through windows with two guns and getting a medal from the mayor. Shah always enjoyed the naïve enthusiasm, knowing it would soon fade under routine calls to ungrateful members of the public and mountains of paperwork. He’d begun to wonder if they sent new recruits out with him so he could teach them that as soon as possible.

  “All of my arrests have been personal favourites.” He kept the car at a steady thirty. “An arrest is an arrest. Plain and simple.”

  “Have you ever had to throw down with someone?”

  “Throw down?”

  “You know, fight someone.” Carter pulled his fists up and bobbed like an amateur boxer.

  “Look, Dan, you do realise that just because you have the police uniform on and have a police badge, you haven't suddenly become John McClane.” Shah said, his eyes squinting in confusion at the bright spotlight coming from over the hill.

  “I know, I know,” the young, eager officer replied.

  They sat in silence for a while, Shah maintaining his gaze on the bright light peeking over the hill ever so slightly. He checked the time on the dashboard and tutted to himself. Indicating, he turned off the road, calmly swerving the car up the slip road that cut through the grass toward the driving range.

  “Something's not right.” He said, more to himself than the oblivious Carter.

  “What about deaths? Seen anything gruesome?”

  Shah pulled the car to a halt across the front of the Golf in Class entrance, not even bothering with a parking space. The floodlight illuminated the batting cage and as both men stepped out of the vehicle, a loud thud crashed against mesh metal.

  “Have you?” Carter asked, irritating the senior officer with his persistence. Shah strode purposefully down the path leading down to the cages, his stab-proof vest rustling against his shirt.

  “There’s nothing exciting about dead bodies. All it means is bad news for someone and a shitload of paperwork. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Carter responded, his voice a shade of disappointment. “Why are we here?”

  “I'm not sure yet.'

  Shah walked confidently, hiding the nerves which had begun to creep into his mind. This was Drayton territory and he
prayed silently to himself that Lewis Drayton was just indulging in some late night swinging practice.

  Another metallic thud echoed through the air.

  It was so quiet apart from the distant humming of machinery constant in the background. Their police boots crunched on the stones beneath them as they approached the cages, the floodlight above burning its explosive gaze onto the first batting area.

  Another thud, the ball rocketing so hard against the fence the entire cage rattled.

  It was then, a few feet from the cage, when Shah noticed the blood hanging from the mesh like red stalactites. His eyes shot to the ground, blood pooling around the base of the cage, the floodlight providing it with a glossy, polished finish.

  Shah ran to the cage door with the heavy-footed Carter in pursuit and he pushed it open with a forceful shoulder.

  Both men stopped in their tracks.

  Shah's eyes widened in horror.

  Carter took a few steps back, hunched over and threw up the dinner he’d enjoyed a few hours before.

  Another ball crashed against the cage, under limp arms that hung from red chains. The feeble body swayed gently, the clothes sticking to it and thick with blood. The legs, chained a few feet apart, rocked awkwardly and were misshapen at the knees. The floor was covered in a mix of vomit, blood and bits of skull.

  Another ball shot out at an unmanageable speed, crashing against the cage where the head should have been.

  Shah composed himself, his hand trembling as it reached up to the breast of his stab-proof vest and flicked on his radio.

  “Control Receiving. Officer seven-seven-two. I need units at Golf in Class, Harrow. Send everyone. Fast!”

  He waited, watched as another ball shot through the air, the impact resonating within him. He could only imagine the pain that had been experienced that night. He cast an eye over his shoulder, looking for his partner. Carter was leaning against the main building, his face pale and his legs shaking.

  The image would stay with Carter forever. It was the harshest of learning curves. His radio cackled.

  “Received. What’s the situation?”

  Shah watched another ball hurtle towards the recently deceased. He turned his head to the radio and spoke as calmly as possible.

  “Somebody has killed Lewis Drayton.”

  Whiskey swirled around the glass as it poured from the bottle, facing the same fate as the three previous helpings. Fletcher didn't even bother putting the top back on the bottle, instead firmly placing it on the table next to him. The woozy effects of alcohol were beginning to filter in as his hands sloppily patted at the open packet of cigarettes. The smoke from his last one still hung around the sofa like an ominous raincloud.

  A feeling of guilt had weighed heavily on his mind ever since the moment Lucas had left the night before. It wasn't just the Draytons he had put in danger, it was Lucas himself.

  He sunk the whiskey in one gulp.

  More splashed into the glass, his hand shaking as it gripped the neck of the bottle.

  The old police radio sat on his side table, a thick layer of dust wrapping around it along with the stale smell of a thousand cigarettes.

  It suddenly burst into life.

  “Somebody has killed Lewis Drayton.”

  The world went quiet.

  Fletcher sat for what felt like an eternity, a mixture of fear and remorse dancing a waltz through his body. It was only when his sock began to feel wet that he realised he’d dropped the bottle of whiskey on the unvacumed carpet, his favourite drink pooling around his feet.

  He lit another cigarette, his thumb struggling with the wheel to ignite the flame.

  As he drew the smoke in, he trembled, thinking of how ashamed Susan would have been. The idea of Lucas making a step he could not go back from was laid squarely at his door.

  Drayton blood was on his hands.

  He exhaled the smoke.

  'What have I done?'

  Lemar had been a bouncer at ‘The Hive’ for a little over two years. At forty-six years of age, his best days of bodybuilding were behind him. Still, he loomed over pretty much every sleazy man or workgroup who filtered through the door, their hands stuffed with notes and their minds fixed on other things. He had worked as a personal trainer for over fifteen years and was married with kids.

  Then the cocaine addiction had started.

  At first it was in small doses but soon his body relied on the substance and more money was thrown down the drug-induced drain. The wife, the kids, the healthy lifestyle had all left him, their memories fading with every sniff of white powder.

  Now he was happy to spend his evenings here, working alongside Phil, the confiscation of his beloved drug from weak, pathetic customers becoming more regular. After throwing out the foot draggers at the end of the night, he would go backstage, trading a few hits from his newly acquired stash for a blowjob from one of his fellow addict strippers.

  Phil, on the other hand, was nowhere near as tall as his partner, but was just as stocky. His large gut pushed the black shirt that he was required to wear to almost ripping point. Every night, he yearned for a customer to misbehave, to get in his face and challenge him. If there was one thing he loved in this world, it was smacking an arrogant little pervert in the face with his sledgehammer-like fists.

  Both of them hated Harry Drayton, agreeing on many occasions that he was nothing more than a weasel. He had an awkward, lanky frame and a mop of greasy, black hair which sat scruffily on top of his head. The man was a disaster, relying on the two bodyguards he kept with him at all times to keep people in line. He demanded Lemar bring him the majority of the procured drugs from the evenings, snorting line after line in the private booth at the back of the club.

  But they both knew what his surname meant and the weight that it held.

  They never said a thing.

  Phil was the one who noticed the man stride purposefully across the deserted main road. As he approached, Phil tried to position himself in a more imposing way.

  The man didn’t stop.

  As he walked into the glare of the flashing neon sign, he appeared to Phil as a physical specimen. A challenge.

  Lucas attempted to walk through the door when the bald, burly bouncer stepped in his way. The large, black bouncer, his dreadlocks tied back, stood a few feet behind, his hands resting on his hips.

  “Hold up. Membership card.”

  Phil didn't so much as request it, but threaten him with it. Lucas stared him straight in his eyes. Phil could feel pure hatred radiating from the man in front of him. He made sure his hands were ready.

  “Are you deaf? Membership card.”

  “I'm here to see Harry Drayton.” Lucas's voice was calm, unflinching. The two door men looked at each other and then back at the man before them. Phil chuckled. This guy had guts, he would give him that.

  “What business do you have with Harry?”

  “My business.” Lucas made to walk past and Phil stepped up to him, invading Lucas's personal space and making his first mistake. Lemar stood between Phil and the doorway, where an avalanche of dance music burst through.

  “Listen you dozy cunt, I asked you a question. What fucking business do you have with Harry?”

  Phil prodded a stubby round finger into Lucas's chest, pushing him back a step. Lucas looked down, the finger causing a small, greasy smudge on his prized jacket. His eyes flashed up, meeting Phil's after his second mistake.

  Suddenly, the night seemed silent. No sound except the calm, stern words of Lucas.

  “I'm here to kill him.”

  Phil immediately swung a fist at Lucas, but was too late. Lucas took a step to the side, sliding his arm behind Phil's neck and wrenching his arm upwards. The burly bouncer bent over forward, his arm aloft as Lucas pushed down on the back of his head with his forearm, his other hand wrenching his arm upwards by his thick, tattooed wrist. As Phil groaned in pain, Lemar took a few steps forward only for Lucas to stamp forward, the sole of the shoe connecting
perfectly with the incoming kneecap.

  His knee locked, the pain causing him to yell out, disturbing a few of the smoking customers situated round the side of the building. He dropped to his knee in the flashing beams of the neon sign, trying to gather himself as Lucas wrenched Phil's arm further upwards, the ligaments twisting and detaching themselves quickly. Phil struggled, still hunched over, blindly swinging his left arm back across to try and attack his captor. Lucas brought his elbow down hard on the back of Phil's skull, sending a shock wave of pain through his spine. In one fluid motion, Lucas spun Phil to his right, driving the top of his skull into the crumbling, brick wall surrounding the doorway.

  Phil dropped to the concrete below, motionless. Blood escaped from the deep gash caused by the impact.

  “Get the fuck out here, now!”

  Lemar held the radio in his hand, screaming into it as Lucas approached. It was the last thing Lemar would remember as Lucas sent him to sleep with a hard knee to the side of the head.

  Both men lay motionless, their silent pain alternately brightened and darkened by the sign above the door. The music roared a loud welcome to Lucas as he continued his journey and entered ‘The Hive’.

  The inside was as depressingly unwelcoming as it was outside, the narrow bar area brightened by a single light hanging from a low ceiling. The music pumped out of speakers placed around the entire venue, and through the bar it opened out into the main stage area. There were two of them, small and elevated above the floor and guarded by metal poles, eager punters leaning on them with their heads resting on their hands. On the stage, Sapphire, the main attraction of the club, slid down the pole, her exposed breasts bouncing as she came to a stop. She wore a thin, glittering thong that had a few notes hanging out of it and as the music echoed and the customers cheered, she began to ease it off.

  In the private booth at the far end of the room, Harry Drayton arched forward, sniffing another line of cocaine from the table, whilst two of his employed strippers sat either side of him, running their hands over his thighs and his crotch. The bottles on the table were numerous and, combined with the drugs, meant that nobody at the table was mentally themselves.