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

by Robert Enright

“Look man, I don't know who you are, but I got money. Yeah? I can get you money, drugs, women. You name it.”

  Lucas remained silent as he returned the man’s side, his hands gripping his findings but hiding them from Harry's view.

  “What do you want?” Harry exclaimed in naïve hope.

  “I want to tell you a story.” Harry looked at Lucas in puzzlement. “There was a man who, let’s say, strayed from the path. For years he was doing things, feeling things and thinking things that no one should. For a long time. A long, dark time.

  “But then, at the age of twenty one he meets not only the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, but also a reason. A reason to live in this world like everybody else does. Also a reason to lock away all those bad thoughts and feelings, and to get himself back on the path. A reason just to wake up in the mornings.”

  Lucas almost smiled, reminiscing about the splendour of his dearly departed. That look quickly vanished as he turned and stared straight at the tear-stained face of the man on the bench.

  “Then two weeks ago, she was abducted, beaten, raped and killed by your, soon to be deceased, family.” Lucas leant in, his face a few inches from Harry’s.

  “So when you ask me what I want, I think you can answer that for yourself.”

  “I’m sorry,” Harry murmured quietly.

  “What?'

  “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

  Lucas closed his eyes, taking a calming breath. When they opened, the calmness had been replaced by the purest form of hatred.

  “You're sorry? For what? For taking the only woman I’ve ever loved and putting her through a living hell? Tell me Harry, how many other women have you and your brothers killed that you’re sorry for? Huh?”

  Harry tried to look away, but the restraint meant he could only turn his head so far. All he could see was darkness. Lucas leaned over again.

  “Answer me!” His voice portraying the threat that ignoring him would bring.

  “Loads, okay? Loads. I don't know how many. It's Curtis, you have to believe me. The man is twisted. Something went really fucking wrong a long fucking time ago.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he has this real fucked up need to feel powerful. Every chance he gets, he tries to shit on people. Talk down to them. It’s happened to every one of us. His ego feeds off it. That's what happened to your wife.”

  “An ego boost? Listen to me Harry, my wife did not die because some pathetic man needed to feel like a king.” Lucas hated even saying it. “She died because you and your family made the conscious decision to take her.”

  “I told you, man. It was Curtis. He's the one you want.”

  “Oh, he is. And he will be held accountable for his actions.”

  Lucas finally pulled up his hands, placing a large hammer and a blunt, rusty chisel on the table. Harry wriggled against his restraints to no avail.

  “As will you.”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “And I believe you are. But not for what you did, just that I found you.”

  Harry wept, his pathetic sobs not even registering with Lucas as a reason for pity. His hand slid inside his jean pocket, the cold feel of the wedding ring reminding him of why he was here.

  Every step he’d taken, each one leading him further beyond the point of no return. They would never stop hunting him, especially as by now they would have found the remains of Lewis Drayton, strung up and left to die like the animal he was.

  Lucas firmly squeezed the ring one more time, before reaching to the bench and picking up his recently-acquired tools.

  Starling pushed young Adrian Helms through the station doors, the arrogant kid dragging his feet to make things difficult. Starling had dealt with the young offender before, this being the third time in the last year he’d arrested the eighteen year-old. He had tried compassion, warning the slightly-built wannabe street gangster exactly how many husbands he would have in prison but it never seemed to register with him.

  Now he’d decided to bring him in, book him and let the family decide whether or not to press charges. If so, it would be interesting to see how a Crown Court would perceive his third strike for burglary.

  He pushed the smart-mouthed offender to the check in desk, when suddenly the imposing frame of Sergeant Bailey appeared through the glass double doors to the left.

  “Starling. With me.”

  Starling obliged, leaving Adrian in the capable hands of the desk officer. Bailey strode at an alarmingly fast pace for a man of his size, hurtling through the corridors like a one-man stampede. Starling struggled to keep up.

  “Everything okay, Sarge?” Starling asked over loud thudding of police boots.

  “No, it's not okay.” Bailey opened the door, inviting Starling in first. “You could say a hell of a lot of shit has just hit a very big fan.”

  They entered the main office of the station, none of the desks being manned. Officers working the nightshift were assembled in the conference room, none of them there a few days earlier when Bailey had chewed Starling out in front of everyone.

  Starling was grateful for that fact.

  As they’d entered, Bailey strode to the front, immediately commanding everyone’s attention with his authoritative approach. Starling stood, arms folded across his Met vest, at the back of the room.

  “Right, listen up!” Bailey stood in his usual stance: legs apart, fists on hips, and a cold gaze panning the room. “I'm not going to beat around the bush. Lewis Drayton is dead.”

  Excited murmurs passed around the room like a quick-fire game of Chinese whispers.

  “We don't know who did it, or why it was done. What we do know is it was a methodical and violent attack.”

  “How was he killed?” Officer Marsden sensibly asked.

  “He was strung up in a batting cage, tortured and then left to be somewhat decapitated by an onslaught of baseballs.”

  Stunned silence can sometimes be louder than any reaction. Bailey nodded agreement with their shock.

  “Not exactly a robbery gone wrong, eh? I’ve spoken with the Captain who stated that any station within what is now being called the 'Drayton Zone' is to treat this as top priority.”

  “I thought we were supposed to ignore the Draytons?” Starling asked, immediately regretting it. Judging the look that Bailey gave him, he knew he was right.

  “Starling, things change. The Draytons have been informed of the murder and now we are preparing for what may be a very volatile retaliation. Now we don't know if this was gang- or business-related. Hell, it could just be the fact that the family are a bunch of arseholes. The bottom line is, we need to establish any connections between anything that could have led to this.”

  The room of officers obediently scribbled in their notebooks. Bailey gave them one final look before he marched to the door.

  “Let’s nip this one in the bud before it starts.”

  Just as Bailey was about to leave, the young desk officer appeared in the doorway, slightly out of breath.

  “Sarge?”

  “Yes?” All the officers turned to attention. Starling pushed himself from the back wall, his focus on the young officer.

  “I just got a call from Sergeant Patel from Brent.”

  “I know him, he's a good man.”

  “He said that there was an attack at ‘The Hive’ nightclub this evening. Six men were badly beaten and the owner, a Harry Drayton, is missing.”

  Starling exhaled, realising the situation had just got a whole lot worse. The officers all looked at each other and another game of Chinese whispers instantly began.

  Sergeant Bailey only needed one word to convey his reaction.

  “Shit!”

  “Harry, I want you tell me about Curtis. Now if you tell me what I want, then things will be easier for you. If you lie to me, or I think you’re lying to me, you’ll suffer more pain than you have ever imagined. Is that clear?”

  Lucas relayed his instructions from the head of the tab
le, Harry's hands splayed out a few inches away from him. Harry didn't respond, his weeps had grown in volume and regularity.

  “Harry, I suggest you respond.”

  Harry sniffed, hope was leaving him fast.

  Lucas brought the hammer down with the full force of his upper body, the metal swinging in his right hand. The left hand held the chisel, the blunt, jagged edge pressing against the bottom of the left index finger.

  The connection was perfect.

  A spray of blood and Harry's severed finger fell away from his hand. He screamed in agony, blood pouring from the wound. Lucas swept the finger from the table with the hammer, like it was a dead insect.

  He felt nothing.

  “Harry, where can I find Curtis?”

  “I don't know!”

  Harry was answered by another hard strike from the hammer. This one sent the chisel through flesh, muscle and bone until it dented the wood underneath. Harry screamed through his tears, the pain burning into his hand like a blowtorch. Lucas flicked the finger to the floor where it dropped near the other one, splattering fresh blood to join his wife's.

  “They don't see me ever. I swear! I swear!”

  Lucas knew Harry was in too much pain to lie. He picked up Harry's blazer which he’d hung on the nearby cupboard, along with his own leather jacket. He tore the sleeve off with minimal fuss, bunched it up and pressed it against the flowing blood pouring from Harry's hand.

  “How do I find him? What about Tommy?”

  “Ask Lewis. I only see him to buy my drugs. That's it.”

  “Lewis is dead.”

  “What?” Harry's words were getting weaker, only spluttering out of his pale face. He was turning as white as a sheet through the blood loss.

  “I killed him earlier tonight.”

  Harry began to cry, not through pain but through sheer terror. Realisation was kicking in, outweighing the shock and he again tried to fight his restraints. The chains held tight; Lucas had ensured he’d trapped his prey perfectly. Lucas pressed the chisel to the thumb.

  “Harry, how do I contact them?”

  “You could try Matt? Or Ashley?”

  “Who are they?”

  Harry lay silent.

  “WHO ARE THEY?!”

  Harry's thumb came off just as cleanly as the previous two digits, the top of the bench being painted red with the young man's blood. After losing the thumb, Harry fell into an almost dream-like state. He began to float out of his own body, looking down to see his physical self being tortured by this maniacal avenger.

  Harry's body gave the required information to Lucas, telling him exactly where he could find more members of his family, who would experience a similar fate. Harry watched as Lucas thanked his body, before taking the chisel to his throat, pressing it against his Adam's apple. With three thunderous whacks of the hammer, the chisel drove through Harry's windpipe until it cracked into his spinal cord.

  Harry drifted away, the final view he had was of Lucas walking into the darkness and a metal chisel standing upright from his own neck, blood pumping out like a burst fire hydrant in an American street.

  “And that I like some company.”

  Lucas remembered that morning, Helen nibbling his ear and then giving him a display of her naked body before disappearing into the bathroom.

  He remembered how he’d joined her, making love to his wife under the hot, heavy bullets from the shower above.

  The sink forced out some orange liquid, trying to pass it off as water.

  Lucas held his hands underneath, washing the stains of revenge from his skin.

  He thought of Helen, that morning three weeks ago when they were so in love.

  For a brief moment, he remembered what it was to be happy.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Matt Drayton took a final drag on his cigarette before flicking it against the wall of his brother's betting shop. The cold of the night was not in the rain beginning to fall, but drifting on the wind that carried it. He blew the smoke out of the side of his mouth and stepped up to the door.

  Locked.

  He reached out without even looking to the metal panel on the side of the wall, pressing an oil-stained finger on the button. A buzzer rasped, signifying his arrival. He stood patiently, looking at his reflection in the glass door.

  He didn't look like a Drayton. That always pleased him, his African mother's gene's immediately setting him apart from the rest of the clan. His dark blue overalls were coated in dry oil, battle scars from another long day at the garage he ran in Brixton. Although Curtis owned the business and used it to store and distribute copious amounts of cocaine, he left Matt to his own devices.

  Through the glass, Matt saw Tommy emerge from the door to Curtis's office, nodding his hello. Keys jangled from a fist that had broken many a man.

  The door was unlocked and Matt wasted no time pushing through.

  “Hello to you too!” Tommy said, slamming the door shut and twisting the key.

  “Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on?” Matt stormed into the centre of the room, noticing the space on the wall where a monitor had once hung.

  “Curtis wanted to make sure everyone was okay.”

  “Why? Because Lewis went and got himself killed?” Matt said, sympathy absent from every word.

  “Because I fucking said so.”

  Curtis stood in the doorway, the stairs behind him disappearing up to his office. He glared at his half-brother, taking measured steps into the room. Curtis’s tie was loose, hanging to the side of an open collar. A half-filled glass of expensive scotch was clutched in his hands.

  “Well, all due respect Curtis, I'm a big boy. I can look after myself.”

  Curtis continued his entrance, smirking appreciatively at Matt's comment. Tommy took his usual position, leaning against the counter, phone in his hand.

  “You don't like me, do you Matt?” Curtis didn't look at him as he asked.

  “Not really.

  “Even after everything I’ve done for you?' Curtis finished his drink calmly, his fingers clenching the glass tumbler.

  “It is what it is, Curtis. I run the business and I run it well. I also make sure your party powder gets cut and sold and I make you a shit tonne of money. So what do you want me to do? Bow when you walk in a fucking room?”

  The glass hurtled across the room, skimming Matt's left shoulder. It burst into hundreds of pieces as it collided with the fresh wall space from the hurling event earlier that evening.

  “YOU SHOULD OBEY ME!”

  Matt took a step back, Curtis's immaculate teeth gnashing the words like a rabid pit bull. Tommy barely flinched, thumbing through the numbers on the screen in his hand.

  “I'm out of here.” Matt angrily made for the door. But Curtis stepped across, cutting off his route.

  “Sit the fuck down!” Curtis's eyes were wide, full of unpredictable violence.

  As his two brothers stood nose to nose before an impending outbreak of fists, Tommy selected 'Harry' from his contact list and calmly raised the phone to his ear.

  Blood dripped onto the cold concrete floor, dyeing the dust around it deep red. Each splatter resounded around the room, sliding down from the puddle of blood pooling around Harry's lifeless body, while the single lightbulb shone a glaring spotlight on Lucas's handiwork.

  Lucas turned the tap, stopping the flow of rusty orange water and then dried his hands on the remainder of Harry's blazer. He replayed the events of the evening in his mind, how he’d set off a chain of events that would only escalate. How he had revisited a side of himself he’d thought was long since locked away.

  How he’d kept his promise to Kelly.

  They’d screamed for help.

  They’d begged for mercy.

  They’d died in agony.

  Creeping doubts began to sneak into his thoughts, the fingers of Helen's memory attempting to reach out and show him what he was doing.

  A buzzing sound sliced through the silence.

>   Lucas shook the thoughts clear, his ears trying to hone in on its origin. It buzzed again, the sound of plastic rattling against a solid surface.

  He slowly walked to the table, the motionless corpse lying within a deep red outline. Harry's pocket shook, the vibration of his mobile phone rumbling loudly against the wood. Lucas carefully slid his hand in and pulled out the device, drops of blood falling to the table.

  The name 'Tommy' flashed on the screen.

  His fist clenched beyond his control.

  He took a deep breath and raised it to his ear.

  “Harry, why the fuck do you never answer your phone? We have been trying to reach you all evening!” Tommy said with measured anger.

  Curtis and Matt stayed inches apart, their eyes locked on each other. Tommy stood patiently, concern spreading across his hard face after a few more moments of silence.

  “Harry?”

  “Hello, Tommy.”

  The cold, calm words of a stranger had Tommy standing straight, his eyes widened with worry. He pushed himself away from the desk as his brothers watched on with intrigue.

  “Who is this?”

  “I think you know.” Lucas said calmly, his breathing soft. The room was silent, the dripping blood the only audible company. Lucas stared at the lifeless body before him.

  “Listen, let me speak to Harry, okay?” Tommy's voice conveyed little concern. “Let me speak to him and we can talk this out. We can handle this like men.”

  “Men?” Lucas chuckled. “Tell me Tommy, what kind of men abduct a woman, rape her and then leave her for dead? Tell me!”

  Curtis's Italian loafers shook the room as he stomped across the betting shop. He violently snatched the phone from his brother's hands, before turning on his heels and walking back to the middle of the shop. He thumbed the screen, amplifying the conversation through the speaker phone.

  “Listen here you fucking piece of shit. You're a dead man.”

  Saliva hung from Curtis's mouth, his words spraying venom around the room.

  “Hello, Curtis.”

  Lucas gritted his teeth, holding back the sickening feeling brought on by hearing the voice of the man who raped his wife. He took a deep breath, his powerful arm holding the phone in place.