A few rumours of suicide also rose to the surface.
Fletcher knew differently. He knew that Lucas was locked away in a dark corner of London, blaming himself for another loved one's death.
He had kicked the hornet’s nest, yet it was his loved ones who got stung.
Fletcher spent the whole of Saturday avoiding his memoirs, even taking a wonderful stroll through Regent's Park. The weather decided to treat him to a bright day, the sun painting London in a beautiful spring glow. Families gathered on the fields to build fun-filled memories, a few runners in numbered vests trotted by as they ran for a good cause. The ducks glided aimlessly down the vast stream shimmering in the sun's mighty rays.
He had hoped he would see Annabelle sitting on the same bench, book in her hand as the beautiful granddaughter, who he’d never met, played innocently nearby.
The bench was empty and he felt farther from his family than ever. He had been a pitiful father, weak when his daughters had needed strength. Now he had, indirectly, been the cause of another child growing up without a father. The sight of the empty bench seemed to darken his walk, the sun not feeling quite as bright anymore.
He willed the rest of the day away until the streets turned dark, street lights bursting into action and illuminating the world for the London population.
At eight o'clock exactly he got into his car and drove carefully through the London traffic until he arrived at Soho Square. The gates were still open, the public curfew had not yet been reached.
The King Charles II statue sat in its usual spot as the centrepiece.
In front of it stood Lucas.
Moments later, Fletcher pulled away, heading out of London towards the motorway, beginning the long, silent journey to Brinscall, in a car that radiated nothing but vengeance and guilt.
The crying had stopped a few days ago.
Starling stared into the mirror with red, strained eyes and didn't recognise his reflection. His jawline was now coated in dark stubble and his blonde hair scruffy. He hadn't showered since that night.
He hadn't done anything since that night.
Annette was dead.
The bags under his eyes aged his young face which twisted into a hate-filled snarl. Standing in the bathroom of his flat, wearing just his black boxer shorts, he angrily threw a fist at the wall. His knuckles struck the white tiles, the impact sending a sharp crack across his bone.
He took a few steps back, grimacing at the throbbing pain and picked up the bottle of vodka he’d brought in with him. Never usually one for drinking, Starling had found a refreshing companion in the clear liquid. He unscrewed the red cap, letting it drop onto the filthy bath mat and bounce near his feet.
He took a large swig. The burning was a wonderful release.
As the alcohol sloshed around inside his stomach, Starling could feel the pain of Annette's demise leap to the surface. The one person who’d made him forget about anyone else, the one person who’d made him feel loved in this world.
Taken from him.
Taken by Lucas Cole.
Just the thought of the name released an uncontrolled barrage of expletives, Starling cursing the man and wishing him dead. A clearer mind would maybe have prevailed, however the intoxication was leading Starling down a path of anger.
He could see in Lucas's eyes how much pain he was suffering that night when Helen had died. That he wasn't going to accept her death and move on. Starling saw it, but did nothing.
Now she was dead.
He could have stopped it.
A drunken hand lazily reached into the shower cubicle and flicked the button. Water crashed out of the shower attachment, sprinkling Starling as he eased out of his shorts. He climbed in, vodka in hand and let the water wash over him. For a few moments, he felt free. Free of all the pain and the guilt that had enveloped him for the last days.
He closed his eyes and saw Annette.
Her beautiful smile as he told her how gorgeous she was. The intensity in her eyes as they made love. The cold lifeless expression on her face as they’d hauled her corpse up through the window.
Starling stumbled slightly, his back slapping against the wet tiles. He slowly slid down the wall, his knees bending until he connected with the shower’s floor. Next to him sat her shampoo. She would never be back for it.
He felt his eyes watering as he raised the bottle to his nose, reminding of the beautiful aroma of her hair as she would lie in his arms.
Nothing mattered anymore. He hadn't been to see his dad, unable to face looking at the lost shell of the man whom he used to look at with heroic awe. He hadn't answered any phone calls from work, knowing that when he thrown his badge at that useless bastard, he’d thrown his career away.
Everything he’d wanted in life, eradicated in an evening.
He took a few more gulps of his vodka and sat in silence, allowing the water from above to fall on him as he finally made a decision he never thought he would.
The engine slowly rumbled to a quiet stop and Fletcher turned the key in the ignition. The car sat neatly against the curb, the small brick wall surrounding Lucas's house running alongside it. Fletcher yawned, feeling the stiffness in his back from the long drive.
Lucas sat in the passenger seat, his head resting against the window and his eyes closed. He’d slept almost the entire journey, the draining effect of more grief finally taking over his body. His hand was balled into a fist as he clutched something that Fletcher couldn't see, as tightly as possible.
“Lucas.”
Fletcher's voice was gentle, a soothing calm for Lucas to stir to. He blinked a few times, gathering himself and remembering where he was. He sat upright, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders, aches and pains easing away. His ribs shot a harsh twang of pain through his body.
“We're here.” Lucas looked at Fletcher, who returned a warm smile. Lucas looked out of the windscreen, his eyes cautiously flicking towards the building before them.
The Cole residence.
He took a deep breath, waves of memories crashing over him as he viewed the home he and Helen had made for themselves. It now sat as nothing more than another building, cold and empty with no shred of life peeking through.
No one lived here anymore.
He unclipped his seat belt and pushed open the passenger side door of the car. The chilled air of the night swept in, slapping Lucas awake.
“Lucas.”
He turned in his seat, one leg out of the car as Fletcher adjusted uncomfortably.
“I guess it would mean nothing if I told you I was sorry. For everything that’s happened.”
Lucas forced a small smile.
“Thank you, Fletcher.”
He extended a hand, one that Fletcher knew had been responsible for more death than he’d wanted to remember.
“For everything.”
Fletcher took it, shaking it firmly and feeling the sincerity in Lucas's gratitude. They nodded their goodbyes and Lucas stepped out onto the road he’d trodden every day for eight years. The car purred into life, its headlights illuminating the road ahead as Fletcher slowly pulled away and Lucas watched the car until it had disappeared to the right at the end of the street.
He stood still for a few moments, the wind whirling around him as he forced himself to open the small gate and enter the garden. Someone had been there to cut the grass, Kelly he assumed. It smelled fresh, and small piles sat sporadically around the lawn. His steps felt lumbering: he heard each one as if he were treading on balloons.
He entered his key and slowly pushed open the door.
The moonlight shone brightly behind him as he stood in the doorway, casting his impressive shadow into the hallway.
He took a few steps in, expecting Helen to greet him at the door to the living room, her makeup off and her hair wet. She would give him a sloppy kiss, her mumbled greeting inaudible as she crunched on popcorn. She would then dart back into the front room and he would follow her in lovingly, seeing her drop to
the sofa in her dressing gown and turn her attention to the last five minutes of a reality TV show that he would never understand the appeal of.
But there was nothing.
A hollow silence hung eerily in the air.
He closed the front door and leant against it, taking a few deep breaths before slowly wandering into the front room.
There was no reality TV show.
No beautiful wife enjoying every minute of it.
The room was tidy but was missing any sense of life. This used to be his home, yet he felt no connection to it anymore. The days where this was the only place he’d wanted to be had ended when Helen had died. He slowly walked past the small side unit, the shelves filled with books, all of which had once rested in Helen's hands as she consumed their words. Along the top, photo frames were arranged neatly, snapshots of a life that had been so wonderful.
The two of them dressed up as Frankenstein and his bride for Hallowe'en one year.
Helen panicking at a pottery wheel on their trip to the south of France.
The two of them kissing on their wedding day.
He gently reached out, running a finger along the top of the frame, forcing himself to remember how beautiful she’d looked.
How beautiful she’d always looked.
“Lucas.”
He turned sharply, her voice ghosting into the room and out of it just as quickly.
There was no one there.
No loving wife.
No ghostly, imperfect vision either.
He carried on perusing the photos, stopping in his tracks as he picked up the final frame.
With boxing gloves proudly displayed, he and Alex were standing side by side. They were both smiling, sweating after what he remembered was a particularly vigorous sparring session.
They were both smiling.
Alex was always smiling.
Lucas frowned, remembering the reason he was back home and slammed the photo down angrily. The impact rocked the unit, other frames toppling over. He went into the kitchen, remembering the rich aromas wafting through when Helen indulged her interest in cooking. He stood in its doorway, watching as she busily navigated her way from the stove to the chopping board. A cooking book lying open, ingredients thrown wherever there was space. She would get so flustered, always panicking that she was doing it wrong but it had always tasted so delicious.
He smiled to himself, remembering the time Helen had accidentally set a tea towel on fire and screamed her head off thinking she would burn down the house. He had simply walked in, thrown it into the sink and turned the tap on much to her self-deprecating embarrassment.
The kitchen was empty. The only sign of life was from the shadows of the outside trees rustling in the wind.
He took gentle steps back through to the hallway, a vision of Helen running towards him in her underwear to give him his morning 'present' on their anniversary.
His shoes clomped loudly while climbing the stairs, walking past a few photos from Helen's youth, a time of her life he hadn't been a part of.
Her young, pretty smile as she stood with her proud father when she graduated.
Her and Kelly on a see-saw in the garden of her family home.
This house used to be full of a life that itself was filled with love.
Now it was empty.
He pushed open the door to the bedroom and there she was. Sitting at her dressing table, gently brushing her face with the oversized blusher brush. Her hair was pinned back with the small, metal pins that Lucas would find in every corner of the house and jokingly complain about. She was wrapped in a towel, her smooth legs shimmering as droplets of shower water ran down them to her delicate feet.
Her phone was in the speaker dock he’d bought her for a birthday one year, playing one of the latest indistinguishable pop songs.
Wherever she was going, she was going to own the room with her beauty.
Lucas stepped across the rug that they’d picked out together and rested his hand on the back of the empty chair. Bottles of perfume and stacks of make-up products lined the circular mirror, a thin sheet of dust resting on top of it all.
He felt his heart throb slightly as he stared at the empty chair, its vacancy reiterating her absence from his life.
“Lucas.”
The voice whispered again and he turned, but was quickly aware he was alone in the room. This room, where they’d lie together every night, where they had made love countless times. Where they had lain lazily on Sunday mornings when he didn't train, putting the world to rights and making big plans for their future.
Where the child he would never hold was conceived with the wife he would never touch again.
He reached out across the dresser and his hands slid around the small jewellery box. Kelly had returned it to its rightful place when he’d left and he held it closely against his chest. The jewellery inside rattled loudly as he lifted it. With slow, heavy steps, he made his way to the well-made bed and sat down. His ribs ached.
Very slowly, he opened the lid of the box, the small, plastic ballerina flicking up like a jack in the box and began her pirouette. The musical chimes rang out and Lucas broke.
Tears rolled down his cheeks, losing themselves in the thick stubble. He stared at the miniature dancer twirling slowly and he sat and thought of Helen. How this small box had meant so much to her that, even now, it adorned her dresser.
She was gone.
Alex was gone.
With a trembling hand, he slowly raised the plastic box and rested it on the dressing table next to the small pen and pad that Helen had used to make the large number of lists that she’d loved so much and that he’d ridiculed her for.
He picked up the paper and pen and sat for the next half an hour, his hand scribbling away.
He then fell back on the bed and slept one last time where he was always happiest.
The jewellery box played him a night long lullaby.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
The first thing Dianne heard on the worst day of her life was the drumming of rain against the window above her bed. She slid a tired hand over her stomach, cradling the bulge of her baby and holding it close. Her other hand fell on the empty side next to her, her skin touching the cold, unruffled pillowed.
She wept for over an hour.
She lay in emotional anguish for as long as possible, wondering how she would cope not just with the day, but with carrying on with the rest of her life. How could she raise their baby when 'they' had been reduced to just her?
She stared through teary eyes at the photo of her and Alex proudly displayed on the bedside table. His arm around her, his peculiarly attractive smile owning the entire shot.
“I miss you, baby.”
Eventually, she calmed herself with the thought of making him proud, and showing him that she was strong, and that she would honour him today by holding it together. She pulled herself from the sanctity of their bed and shuffled to the bathroom, the soft kicking of their baby reminding her that there would be a life beyond this day.
A life which had been irreparably destroyed by the actions of others.
She turned on the chrome taps of the bath and the let the cascading flow fill up the tub while adding some Radox. As it gradually filled to the top, she brushed her hair, its brown strands swaying freely with each stroke.
She then de-robed and looked into the mirror, amazed at how holding this life within her had altered her body so much. She desperately wanted to hear Alex's upbeat voice, telling her how beautiful she looked despite her constant complaints about the effects pregnancy was having on her body.
She bathed leisurely, allowing the warm water to wrap itself around her discomfort. More tears as she recalled the times her and Alex had sat in the same tub together, their naked bodies entwined as they spoke about the future.
She already missed him but she knew it would only get worse.
He wasn't perfect. He spoke too much. She chuckled at the memory of him having an ans
wer for everything.
There were no answers anymore, only questions.
She wandered back into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around her, the bulge of her child testing its width.
“How are you, sweetheart?”
Dianne's mother stood in the doorway of the guest room, her black jacket sitting over a white shirt. She’d come to stay with her only daughter as soon as the news of Alex's murder had reached her, remembering what it was like when she’d lost her own husband. She’d always loved how protective of her daughter Alex had been and keenly felt his absence in the house.
Dianne smiled sheepishly before treading small, wet footprints to her bedroom where she shut the door.
The hearse would be arriving within an hour, to make their way to St. Joseph's church. Floods of people with black ties and sad faces would witness her burying her husband in the cold ground.
They’d say all the right things, and make promises to be there for her. They’d also curse the world, offer their condolences and all of them would be genuine. Then afterwards she would bring them back home for the wake, trays of nibbles begrudgingly prepared by her mother whilst they all rehashed the memories of times when Alex had lightened their lives.
But none of it would bring him back.
She wept silently as she eased into a black dress. Then, sitting at her dressing table brushing her hair again, she decided mascara would be a mistake. The emotional tides of the day would inevitably hide her behind a black, streaky mask.
She yearned for Helen, her best friend, to be sitting next to her and say how everything would be okay.
But she was also gone.
Everyone she’d cared about had been taken from this world within a week.
That included Lucas, although the very thought of the man caused her tears to turn from sorrow to hatred. She understood Lucas's pain, the sheer turmoil of having your soul mate wrenched from you like a page torn from a notebook was unmanageable.
Yet it was Lucas who had guided that hand to Alex.
She gritted her teeth, hating herself for hoping the police caught him soon before he or anyone else got hurt.
One by One: A brutal, gritty revenge thriller that you won't be able to put down. Page 33