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

by Robert Enright

  The answer is you can't.

  Did I help him? No I didn't.

  Did I stop him? Again, no.

  Did I know what was coming?

  Truth be told, I did. However, I never believed it would come on such a scale, that a reaction could be so brutal and so forward.

  That moment, when Lucas had watched Helen get stored away within the confines of this planet, he changed.

  And there had been nothing ridiculous about it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Officer Starling slammed his locker door shut with a loud clang and rested against it. The week since Helen had died had been the longest of his life. Constant briefings about plans of action and fruitless follow-ups on witness accounts had led nowhere. He exhaled wearily, the air rushing out of him as his nightshift came to an end.

  Annette would be waiting at home - she was on nights as well this week which meant he got to spend more time with her. It was the only thing getting him through. Despite the warnings of his closest friends, he was happy to give her a key to his flat just four months into their relationship.

  He already knew he loved her.

  Dressed in casual clothes, he wandered out of the locker room and through the busy station, picturing running his hands over her smooth, bronzed skin. He passed the briefing room, where he noticed a few officers taking seats, a few others conversing at the back of the room about last night’s football.

  Officer Boulder was at the back of the room, pouring coffee from a canteen into a plastic cup. Starling ducked into the conference room, nodding politely at a few of his comrades before approaching his usually chirpy partner.

  “Hey Henry!” he smiled.

  “Hey Ollie!” returned in kind. “How you been?”

  “I'm good, man. I'm good. Yourself?”

  “Same old. No sleep. No sex.”

  “The joys of parenthood, eh?”

  Boulder chuckled, taking a sip of his piping hot coffee and struggling with the burn. His eyes were dark, the sleepless nights evident. Starling missed working with him, but the events of a week ago and the new born baby meant Boulder had requested day shifts.

  It made sense.

  Starling looked around the room, which was now almost full with officers about to begin their day. At the front of the room was a lectern, positioned in front of a whiteboard. Information and instructions were plastered all over it, the ink suggesting the wrong marker had been used. The smell of coffee filled the air and Starling realised how tired he was. The clock on the far wall was at almost half past eight.

  Annette would be home any minute now. He turned to Boulder, who was struggling with another boiling gulp.

  “What's the briefing?”

  “Fuck that's hot!” Boulder held a hand to his mouth and Starling chuckled. He could always count on him to make him smile. “Oh, Bailey is on his way in.”

  “Sergeant Bailey?”

  “No, the Old Bailey. Of course Sergeant Bailey!”

  Before Starling could ask why, Sergeant Robert Bailey strode into the room, immediately commanding attention. Bailey was a towering man, his broad shoulders sitting beneath a powerful jawline. Age had caught up with him, but he still had much of the large, heavyset physique that had made him so feared when he was on the beat. His hair, whilst still thick and well parted to the side, was a fine shade of grey. Some officers made the odd comment that he’d gone soft, that the last six years spent behind the desk had whittled his fear factor away.

  The intensity in his bespectacled eyes told Starling something different.

  “Right people.” His voice boomed as he marched to the front of the room. He forcefully slammed his helmet on the lectern, all heads turning to the front.

  The room fell silent.

  “It's been a week. And... Starling, what are you doing here?”

  “I was on my way out, sir.”

  “You’re welcome to stay. You’ll hear this later anyway, but it may be of interest to you.”

  Starling nodded, hiding a smile that that threatened to form due to the fact that Bailey knew him instantly despite limited time working together. Bailey addressed the room, powerful hands on powerful hips.

  “It's been a week. A goddamned week! And we have nothing, not one sniff of a fucking lead and that, people, is not good enough.'

  A few murmurs flew around the room, worried whispers that Starling couldn't place. He looked to his right and was surprised to see Fletcher standing in the doorway. The old man was leaning against the doorframe, his clothes neatly ironed as always. He was wearing a smart tie and a warm smile. He sent it in Starling’s direction.

  “I don't need to tell you how it works around here, do I? The powers above have sent word down that unless we can find something on the Cole case quick, and I mean fucking lightning, then resources will be pulled and it will most likely get benched.

  “Let's get one thing straight here. I don't want what happened to this poor woman to be forgotten. We’ve all got families. Loved ones. Most of you probably have a gorgeous wife or girlfriend to go home to. Or a fella, I don't give a shit. But all of us have what was taken from this woman. A life.”

  The words resonated around the assembled officers, all taking the words to heart. A few uncomfortable shuffles as they thought about losing the person they loved the most. Bailey didn't move, his power stance appearing to cast a shadow over the entire squad before him.

  “We will not let this fall off the map!” His words were hard and Starling knew he meant every one of them. “So if anyone here has anything they’d like to suggest, or has an idea they’d like to throw out, then now is the time.”

  He cast his piercing brown eyes over the sea of faces, pupils burning like coal behind his glasses. Several of the officers looked around, expecting someone else to show bravery. Starling looked to Fletcher, whose caring, experienced gaze fell upon the room. Bailey was looking less compassionate.

  “For fuck’s sake, this poor girl was brutally murdered!”

  “What about the Draytons?”

  The entire room fell deathly silent, the walls absorbing the remnants of Bailey's voice so only Starling's hung in the air. Every face and set of eyes in the room swivelled and fell on Starling, who immediately began to feel the room closing in. Boulder directed a few gazes at the man, motioning with a flick of his head that he himself didn't suggest such a thing.

  Bailey loosened his arms at his side and brought one of them up, running his large, powerful fingers over the bridge of his nose. He massaged under his glasses and sighed. Starling nervously swallowed. The rest of the room watched the Sergeant with anticipation.

  “Starling. Let's not go there, shall we?”

  The room fell silent, all eyes back on Starling.

  “But sir, like you said, we need options otherwise this will just get blown away.”

  “I’m very aware of what I said, Officer.”

  'Then why are we not considering the Drayton's?'

  Starling suddenly became aware of the raised volume of his voice and the furious expression on Bailey's face which told him he had overstepped his mark. Boulder looked sheepishly at the floor. Fletcher had moved, no longer attending the meeting.

  Starling felt completely alone. A lone voice in a vast sea of emptiness.

  “Seeing as how Officer Starling wants to know so badly, why don't I tell him, and all of you, while we’re here?” Bailey straightened up, immediately restoring the authority that the young officer had challenged.

  “We are all aware of the Draytons, what they’ve done in the past and what many claim they still do. However, it is always easy to pin crimes on them because you know they’ll go away. And I will NOT allow that to happen with this case, despite how much Starling may want it.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, that was not my intention.” Starling told himself to be quiet, but he didn't listen.

  “With all due respect Starling, I was out on the streets dealing with the Draytons while you were sucking mi
lk out of your mum's tit, so I will tell you what we are going to do.

  “We are not going to try and implicate the Draytons in this attack. I know for a fact that we have people in different places looking into them. The last thing they want is one of you lot sticking your nose in, and the last thing I want is the fucking headache that will bring.”

  Starling stood silently, looking around at the room of people who had retreated into their shells.

  No one stood alongside him.

  It was a tough lesson. One he would learn again in the week to come.

  Bailey had calmed, the veins in his large, triangular neck no longer throbbing. His face had returned to a normal colour. He still commanded respect.

  “The Draytons is a cage we do not want to rattle.”

  Starling nodded, holding back his tongue. Bailey stared at him, his curiosity piqued by the scrappy, young officer. Starling turned and stormed out of the room, pushing past Boulder, who had done nothing to back his partner up. Bailey raised his eyebrows, almost in admiration that one person in the room had the stones to stand up to him. He turned back to the weakened herd in the room.

  “So, if any of you have anything you want to chase up or look into, today is the day to do it.” He picked up a small manila folder on the lectern and slid out a sheet. He pinned it to the whiteboard and all eyes drew their attention toward it.

  It was a photo of Helen. She was smiling.

  The smile was for her husband, who was on the other side of the camera.

  “I don't want people to forget that this girl was brutally murdered.” Bailey looked at the photo, a twinge of compassion jolting him like a cattle prod. “Dismissed!”

  Fletcher lowered himself slowly into a leather seat, the pain stabbing his back like a dagger. Age was catching up and since Helen had died he’d hardly been at his house.

  He thought back to the pain in Lucas's eyes, the realisation that his entire world had been decimated. His future, once decorated with the fruitful hopes of a family life and the wondrous chuckles of children was replaced with a barren wasteland of isolation.

  He needed to work for the distraction.

  Poor Helen.

  He raised his hands to his eyes, rubbing away the sleep that was trying its best to wrestle control. As his eyes readjusted to the light of the room, he saw an angry Starling storming through the doors and out into whatever his day held for him.

  Fletcher liked Starling. He was going to make a fine detective one day, however he didn't want to witness Bailey rip him a new one in front of the other officers. It appeared that was exactly what had happened.

  Fletcher let out a sigh and flopped open the plastic binder on his desk and flicking a few pages. He picked up his red pen and immediately began highlighting the areas that needed his attention.

  It was coming near to the end of the month and a lot of budget cuts had been ordered from above. Fletcher was looking through the last six months of expense reports, highlighting trends and potential places to save money.

  Sadly, he found himself enjoying it.

  Hours passed, coffees were drunk and lunch was consumed in spite of its tastelessness. Fletcher was down to the final few pages, knowing full well he had another two folders to get through by the end of the week. He pushed his glasses up his nose and concentrated, the figures not quite adding up. He clicked the back of the red pen in preparation.

  A dusty folder dropped onto his desk.

  The noise startled him and he sat upright in his chair. Dust lifted gracefully off the file and settled down like snowflakes over the papers on his desk. He looked up, into the warm, freckled and overweight smile of Officer McCarthy.

  “Thanks,” Fletcher pretended to cough and splutter, fanning away the dust cloud with his hand.

  “Don't mention it!” McCarthy's strong, Irish accent was happier today than the last time they’d spoken.

  “What is it, can I ask?”

  “I don't know. Some pretty young lass from Archives brought it to me. She’d confused me for you, the cheeky mare. I'm twenty years younger than you, I told her.”

  “It's because you look wise beyond your years, Pat.”

  “The hell I do. It's because I'm a fat, overweight bastard and they think I look like a volunteer.”

  Fletcher laughed out loud, a few heads in the office turning to see why. McCarthy was well known for his sense of humour.

  “Thank you for bringing it over.”

  “No problem. I only got a dodgy knee an' all, but don't you worry.” McCarthy began to limp away, overacting the difficulty his injury caused him.

  “I owe you a beer for this.”

  “Oh I know, Fletch,” he smiled back over his shoulder while hobbling away. “I'm keeping tabs.”

  Fletcher grinned at his friend, who limped his way to the door and disappeared into the corridor. Suddenly, a sense of guilt fell over him as he placed a hand on the yellow folder, a thin layer of brown dust coating it.

  He thought of failing people, those who had depended on him but whose faith had never been justified.

  He thought of Susan, her beautiful smile even to her dying day. How she’d never let go of his hand, even in death.

  He thought of the past. How people could bury pain and trauma so far into it, behind so many walls and locks that they believed it would never return.

  He ran a hand across the folder, wiping away the dust to reveal the writing.

  He took a deep breath as his eyes fell on it.

  London Institute of Mental Health – Classified

  Cole, Lucas Joseph (No: 33875)

  The National Express coach ground to a halt just outside Marble Arch Underground Station. The door flapped open with a loud hiss, the passengers all flocking out onto the walkway below. For a Sunday morning, Oxford Street was relatively quiet, although Lucas was more than familiar with this being the less busy end of the famous road. He casually exited the coach, not needing to wait around for the driver to pull the huge luggage bags from the storage compartment, an impatient mob forming around him.

  He swung the sports bag over his shoulder and pulled the collar of his beloved leather jacket up with his free hand. The air was calm, one of the finer days that spring had offered so far. He looked around, taking a deep breath as he slowly stepped onto London concrete. Besides the horror at The Royal London hospital a week ago, it was the first time he’d voluntarily ventured to the capital in eight years.

  The traffic sounded the same; buses hurtling down the main road, black cabs ducking in and out of small pockets of space between the traffic. A large group of German tourists, kids mainly, trundled by, excitedly taking pictures of buildings that were identical to ones anywhere else in the city.

  The journey down had been relatively smooth, a few minor build ups of traffic but it was expected on a Sunday. Lucas had not slept properly since the night before he’d buried his wife and suddenly that tiredness began to constrict him like an anaconda.

  He checked the envelope inside his jacket, thick and rectangular. The conversation with the bank manager on the previous Friday had been awkward, almost intrusive, but Lucas had somehow channelled Alex's power of speech and talked his way through. He had taken a large chunk from the savings account he’d had with Helen, almost eight thousand pound.

  That would be enough.

  That would see him through.

  He couldn't remember much about Saturday, only the image of the coffin being lowered into the ground, his wife's body being stored away like unwanted furniture.

  A shot of pain jolted Lucas back to life. He marched up Oxford Street, weaving in and out of slow-moving shoppers and map wielding tourists.

  He passed Selfridge’s and Bond Street Station, continuing up the long stretch of concrete jungle. The smells of the inner city filtered through and memories of feeling trapped and imprisoned came back. Lucas longed for the open fields of green surrounding his village.

  As he got to Tottenham Court Road, he turned righ
t, heading down to Leicester Square. A lot of theatre-goers were already waiting to see the latest shows, which had added lunchtime matinee showings at weekends to the bill. Through the waves of faceless people, Lucas eventually made his way to Soho Square. He walked through the gates and into the well-maintained park. On the small, trimmed fields, a few dogs ran off the lead, their elderly owners struggling to catch up with them. On the far field, some students were tossing a frisbee back and forth. The sun threatened to peek its head over the clouds and share itself with the world.

  Lucas continued down the pathway cutting through the grounds, spotting at a large white pavilion sitting proudly to the right of the square.

  Throughout the park were a number of sculptures, designed to bring a sense of culture and beauty to these already calming grounds. Lucas had always loved this place; this was where he and Helen had always come when they were allowed time outside.

  He continued onwards until he rounded a small corner leading to the far exit. There, in the middle of a clearing, stood Kind Charles II, proudly carved in stone and displayed to the world.

  Lucas ambled up to the royal figure, circling until he came face to face with it. Memories flooded back, the dam breaking as they came flowing through. Feeling weak, Lucas stumbled over to the damp, wooden bench opposite, his bag dropping to the ground between his feet.

  His hand slithered into his pocket, the fingers gliding over the gold wedding ring.

  He tilted his head back, closed his eyes and thought of Helen.

  The sounds of the world faded out.

  He didn't even feel the hours pass while he slept.

  Starling lay awake in his bed, naked and still sweaty. Annette had met him as soon as he’d walked in, her mood also soured by a long, night shift. Their combined frustrations exploded into rather aggressive intercourse which had knocked the life right out of them.

  Starling had woken earlier than he’d intended. He didn't need to be back at the station for another few hours. He turned onto his side, staring at the smooth curves of Annette's back, her blonde hair lying carelessly across her shoulders.