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

by Robert Enright

  He ran a finger lovingly down her spine and she moaned slightly, shifting between the sheets. Starling smiled.

  He was falling in love.

  The events of the morning still resonated with him, his anger at the lack of justice and bravery was gnawing at him like a termite. He tried, unsuccessfully, to get back to sleep.

  Fletcher drove lazily back from the station, the day having shifted seamlessly into night without him noticing. Sergeant Bailey had almost forced him out of the door.

  “You have to go home at some point, Fletch.”

  He was right, but since Annabelle's damnation and Helen's death, Fletcher had felt nothing but coldness in the real world. Behind his desk he had a place, where he was contributing.

  Outside the station and away from his desk, he felt as if he was just taking up space.

  He turned off Southampton Row and headed up to Euston. He had fifteen minutes until he would be parking outside the empty house, to spend another evening accompanied by cigarette smoke and Jack Daniel’s.

  The dusty folder sat, amongst many others, on the passenger seat.

  He wanted to smoke, but he’d promised Susan years ago he would not smoke in the car and as foolish as it might seem, he’d decided to keep his word.

  Under the glow of street lamps, Fletcher guided his car home without incident, pulling into the space allocated to his house within the small housing estate where he resided.

  He juggled the forms in his arms, his hand fiddling with his jingling keys until he pressed the button to remote lock his vehicle. The wind had grown, a wild gust funnelling through the narrow streets, sending a few papers shooting from the sheets he was clutching.

  “Shit!”

  He struggled to bend down, the aches of age sending a painful reminder. As he scrambled a few of them from the ground, one blew across the street slightly, until a hand reached down and lifted it from the cold, wet concrete. Fletcher saw shoes behind it and his gaze followed up, past the leather jacket, to the unshaven face of Lucas Cole.

  He stood in stunned silence. In the distance he could hear traffic, submerged under a faint whistle of wind.

  Lucas offered a smile.

  “Need a hand?”

  Fletcher couldn't find any words, shaking panic from his head. Lucas gently reached out and took the large pile of forms from him, the papers almost weightless in his powerful arms. Fletcher looked around quickly, the street was empty.

  “Thank you, Lucas.” He nodded towards the door. “Come on in.”

  Lucas smiled his thanks, the wind blowing his hair chaotically. Fletcher unlocked the front door and ushered his unexpected guest into the warmth of the house that he found so cold.

  As Lucas disappeared into his home, Fletcher took one last careful scan of the street, assessing the situation, and then shut the world behind him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Look at you; you're pathetic.”

  Curtis Drayton was only eleven years old when he’d seen his father's dark side for the first time. George Drayton was nothing more than hired help for the local crime lord, Billy Mulgrave. Although George didn’t have much of an education, he had a lot of muscle and a short fuse. That night, George had faced the wrath of Mulgrave over being too light on those who owed him money.

  Mulgrave had humiliated him in front of everyone.

  When George returned home to their small rundown house just outside of East Ham, it only took him ten minutes to strike Curtis's mother. The dinner was modest, the healthiest meal a mother could string together on a shoestring budget. It wasn't good enough in his rage-filled eyes and he thanked her with a right hook. She packed her bags and left her children behind with their violent, brute of a father.

  Curtis never saw her again.

  He’d wished death upon her every day until he heard of her passing.

  George wasn't finished, his rage taking over. Curtis put Tommy and Ashley in their bedrooms, each one shared with the younger Lewis or Harry. Curtis returned to the dinner table where George was waiting.

  'What the fuck are you looking at, you little prick?'

  George was already halfway through his fourth beer, a small speckle of white powder clinging from his nose hair.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing what?” George thumped the wooden table, the cutlery and plates leaping off it.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “That's right! Some respect, at fucking last!” He finished his beer, crushed the can in one mighty hand and threw it at Curtis. It struck him just under the eye, drawing blood and leaving Curtis with a permanent reminder.

  “Don't you dare fucking cry!” George pointed at his son, who was holding a blood-covered hand to his cheek. “I will not have a fucking pussy for a son, do you hear me?”

  Curtis nodded, holding back the pain. George retrieved another beer from the fridge, leaning against the kitchen side. He sneered at his son, who was taking deep breaths.

  “Eat your dinner.”

  Curtis looked at his plate over his hand, the chicken and vegetable serving suddenly looking very unappetising.

  “I'm not hungry.”

  “Excuse me?” George pushed himself off the wall, taking another large swig of his beer. Curtis tried not to cower.

  “I'm not hungry. I don't feel well.”

  “That's because a growing boy needs his vegetables.”

  George scooped a handful of vegetables off the plate and slapped Curtis across the jaw with them. Curtis crashed off his seat and onto the floor amongst vegetables and blood, the cold concrete floor colliding hard with his wrist. He refused to cry.

  “Eat your fucking vegetables!” His father screamed, saliva shooting out between his violent words. George's eyes were manic and Curtis knew his dad had gone to that place, somewhere he wouldn’t come back from until morning. He lay on the floor, the pain emanating from his wrist.

  “EAT!”

  Ever so slowly, Curtis reached out with the hand that wasn't throbbing and slowly picked up a green bean. It was squashed and covered with dust from the unswept floor.

  His father looked on, a twisted smile below his burning stare.

  “Come on you little faggot. Eat your vegetables.”

  Curtis placed it in his mouth, his teeth sinking in and making him shudder. He refused to cry. He heard the sound of another beer can being opened and his father dragging a chair across the kitchen. He sat down opposite his son, now a bleeding mess. He took a sip of his beer, satisfied with himself.

  “You are not getting off that floor until it is fucking spotless. Are you?”

  Curtis lay very still, trying hard to swallow the bean and not let his dad see any weakness in him. His shirt was covered in blood. His wrist had swollen.

  “Are you?” George repeated, louder and angrier.

  “No,” Curtis managed.

  “No, what?”

  “No, sir.”

  Curtis felt the birth of an uncontrollable rage build as he scooped up the next part of his dinner. His father sat back in his chair, a sadistic grin revealing broken teeth. He lit a cigarette and made himself comfortable.

  As Curtis sank his teeth in, he heard his father chuckle.

  “Look at you. You're pathetic!”

  Curtis put the empty glass down on his desk, the brandy washing the back of his throat. He hated thinking of his father. The only satisfying memory he had of that old bastard was when he’d watched him die. He still had the knife he’d used, the blade still stained with his father’s blood.

  His desk, a large mahogany semi-circle, stood at the far end of his office and looked at home amongst all the other expensive furnishings. The leather sofa running along the wall adjacent to the door was a faded cream colour, matching the cream bookshelf. Stacked neatly along the shelves were account books, filled to the brim with betting slips from the last six years.

  All above board.

  All legitimate.

  Curtis, wearing a tailor-made suit, pushed himself
up and wriggled into his blazer. He checked his thinning hair and his tie in the mirror on the far wall, above the hand-carved globe doubling as a drinks cabinet.

  He needed to look his best when handling business.

  He marched across an expensive rug and out of the door, descending the stairs to the shop floor.

  Curtis owned 'Odds On', a private betting shop just off Brixton High Street. It was an efficiently-run and well-established betting shop catering only for high stakes betting. Curtis was, in the eyes of the HRMC, a tax-paying citizen. Knowing full well the police would never interfere with his or his family’s business, Curtis used the gambling industry to filter through the money his brothers pulled in through the other 'legitimate' businesses he had granted them.

  He knew they looked up to him.

  London belonged to him.

  “Not so pathetic now, am I, Dad?”

  He marched across the shop, four tall tables standing symmetrically in the room on long, metal legs. Bucket stools accompanied them, four to a table, all facing an array of flat screen monitors hanging neatly from the walls. At the back of the room was a betting counter, usually filled with the money from the day’s betting.

  Curtis had cashed up for the evening and appreciated the silence of the shop, the only sound the click his Italian leather shoes made as he walked across the hardwood floor.

  That and the metallic snap as he cocked his 9mm Beretta pistol.

  Pushing open the door in the far corner, his hand pressed just under the ‘Staff Only’ sign. The door creaked on its hinges, irritating Curtis. Before him were a few narrow wooden steps which made way to a larger staircase leading to a grand, open basement. Fully illuminated with long, halogen bulbs, the private gym was dank with the sweat of ferocious training and bloodthirsty competition. His steps reverberated as he descended into its depths, finally stepping onto smooth, wood panel flooring. A few resistance machines sat to the right hand side, along with a bench surrounded by dumbbells which had just recently stretched muscles to breaking point. The hard crash of a body hitting the matted floor of a cage rang out and Curtis whistled with approval. He threw his blazer back, resting his hands on his hips, the gun loose in his hand.

  “Not bad, Tommy. Not bad.”

  In the centre of the vast, private gym, stood a full-size octagon cage, its black mesh sides all erected and nailed from floor to ceiling. Inside, Tommy Drayton spat out his gum shield as one of his trainers handed him a bottle of water. The other trainer was trying to push himself up off the floor, severely winded from his last putdown. Tommy nodded at his brother, his shirtless body rippling with muscles and prominent veins. The man was a specimen and towered over both of his trainers.

  “Where the fuck is he then?” Curtis asked, rolling back his sleeve to check his gold Rolex watch.

  One of the trainers yelled at a storage cupboard and the doors suddenly shot open. Two burly henchmen, both wearing identical black suits, dragged out a small, round man, his clothes a little bloodstained. Dilip Parmer was forty-seven years old and was already making peace with the fact he wouldn’t see his two young boys again. His nose had been broken by a hard fist thrown by one of the men dragging him, although fear had gripped him so much that their faces had become blurred. All except the one he was dropped in front of.

  Curtis Drayton.

  He tried to stand up, but one of the henchmen pushed him back to his knees, Curtis standing before him. He had his hands behind his back and he shook his head.

  “Mr. Parmer. What are we going to do with you?”

  Dilip felt cold sweat dripping from the back of his hairline and down his spine. His hands were shaking and he slowly looked up at the rather inconvenienced look on Curtis’s face. Somewhere behind him, he heard somebody getting thrown into the mesh metal fence.

  “Don’t answer that, okay? It was a rhetorical question.” Curtis smirked down at Dilip, who was struggling to control his breathing.

  “Look, Curtis, I am…”

  Curtis swung out an arm and caught Dilip across the face with the back of his hand. The clap echoed through the gym, the sound making Tommy turn to watch.

  “Mr. Drayton to you, you brown piece of shit.”

  Dilip held back from expressing the pain of both the strike and the racist comment. Curtis returned his hand to behind him, standing almost to attention.

  “It would appear, Mr. Parmer, that you have an issue with dates. Like, for instance, we agreed that you would pay back the first instalment of the loan you received by the end of the month. Now we have moved into the next month and I have yet to receive any type of payment.”

  “I know and believe me, I’ve been meaning to contact you. We had a break-in at my showroom and I haven’t been able to open for the last two weeks.”

  Curtis held his hand up, cutting Dilip off. The gun still hung from the hand resting against his spine.

  “Excuses, Mr Parmer. Excuses.”

  “I swear, on my kid’s lives, I will have it for you next week.”

  'This is next week, Mr. Parmer.' Curtis squatted down, coming to eye-level with his cowering customer. He slowly drew his arm from behind him, the gun shining in the bright lights. Dilip’s breathing immediately escalated as Curtis held the gun to the bottom of his jaw.

  “And your kid’s lives mean absolutely nothing to me.”

  “Please!” Dilip begged, his voice cracking as the realisation of his own mortality took over. Tears began falling down while a smile formed on Curtis’s face. He stood up sharply, his arm extended and the barrel of the gun stopping a few inches from the top of Dilip’s head.

  “For fuck’s sake, Curtis. Not in here.”

  Curtis looked up at Tommy, resting against the inside of the cage, his arms up above his head and his fingers interlocked with the black metal. Curtis drew his lips into a tight line and sighed. The two henchmen stood to the side, watching with amusement. All that could be heard were the pleading sobs of the man on the floor.

  “I don’t know. It may be the only thing that gets through this thick fucking skull of his.”

  Before Tommy could respond, the sound of the door creaking filtered through, followed by the loud, sharp echoes of high heels on the wooden stairs. All the men in the room turned to the stairs and Curtis disappointingly exhaled.

  “Christ, Ashley. I am in the middle of something.”

  “Obviously.”

  Ashley Drayton stepped onto the hardwood floor, her shoes clacking as she strode languidly across, her black pencil skirt and white shirt hugging her well-toned body. Her beautiful, tanned face was framed by her blonde hair, pulled back into a smart ponytail.

  She approached her eldest brother, looking at him, the gun and then at Dilip Parmer, the quivering wreck on the floor. She shrugged, having seen this a hundred times before.

  “Don’t you look grown-up?”

  “Well Curtis, surprisingly, I am a grown-up. Besides we still have a week more of graveyards until we completely migrate the servers over to the new cloud system.”

  “Computer shite to me, my dear.” Curtis gave her a sarcastic smile, unable to mask his lack of interest in her job. “You should work for me, like your brothers do.'

  “No thanks. I’ve already done my work for you.”

  “And she was terrific, by the way.”

  Ashley grimaced, the thought of her brother raping that poor woman made her stomach turn. She hated every aspect of it.

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Ah, so you spoke to him. What did he say?”

  Tommy took a swig from his bottle of water and listened intently. Ashley smiled at him before turning to Curtis, who still held the gun directly at Dilip.

  “Basically the police are coming to the end of their search. They pretty much know it was you but they are refusing to come anywhere near to ask questions.”

  “And why is that?” Curtis asked, pride streaming from his words.

  “Because they are scared of you.”


  “No. It’s because they’re fucking terrified of me. They know that nothing will happen, or can happen, because this is my fucking city. They associate the name Drayton with death and rightfully so. Isn’t that right, Mr. Parmer?”

  “Oh god, please don’t kill me!” Dilip begged, reaching out for Curtis’s trouser leg and receiving a kick in face from the finest of Italian leather. Ashley shook her head and turned.

  “Whatever, Curtis. I have a job and a life to get back to.”

  “Speaking of which, I still haven’t met your boyfriend, Ashley.”

  “I know. I’m fully aware of that.”

  “That needs to be remedied.”

  Ashley didn’t answer, her high heels slapping against the wood as she stormed up the stairs. Curtis watched her leave, suppressing the rage that built up every time she defied him. Suddenly, the sounds of Dilip’s sobs pulled him back to the room and he looked down at the feeble man and smiled.

  “Look at you. You’re pathetic.”

  Dilip closed his eyes, pushing a few more tears that he was sure would be his last. He took a deep breath and thought of his two sons and his wife. He thought of how much he loved them.

  “I’m not going to kill you, Mr. Parmer.” He pushed the barrel of his Beretta down so it parted Dilip’s hair and pressed against his skull. “You’re not worth my bullet.

  Curtis pulled the gun away and Dilip gasped for air, a relief washing over his sweaty, shaking body. Curtis re-engaged the safety on the gun and handed it to one of the henchmen as they came over. They roughly hauled Dilip to his feet, a look of panic still etched across his tear- and blood-stained face.

  'Give him five minutes with Tommy.'

  Curtis gave the order and stood on the spot, hands on hips and an evil glint in his eye. Dilip struggled, but the henchmen easily overpowered him, dragging him to the cage entrance. The two trainers left and they shoved him through, his feet slipping and he hit the mats hard. He coughed air back into his lung before shakily pushing himself onto to his feet. His body ached and his knees trembled. Fear shot through him, as the hulking Tommy Drayton finished pulling the Velcro straps of his boxing gloves down. He towered over Dilip, his strength and power obvious.