She walked beyond the building, noticing the police car sitting out the front on the other side of the road, with a peculiarly attractive police officer seated in the front, boredom etched across his sullen face. On the near side of the street, a black Fiat Punto sat with two men watching her in the mirrors. She recognised one as 'Tombs', a muscle bound letch who worked for her brother.
Both cars were there for her protection, just with different ideas of what it entailed.
She walked past, her head down, not wanting to even acknowledge what was happening, lest it remind her of the part she had played. She took quick steps, her high heels clicking off the wet pavement as she silently cursed her decision to not bring an umbrella.
Soaked through, she entered the small, privately owned sushi restaurant at the end of the street. She waved hello, her regular custom greeted with smiles as she ran her delicate fingers through her wet hair.
She needed to wash it before her next romantic rendezvous.
She sat at the booth, ordering some Salmon and Cucumber Maki and some prawn Nigiri. As she twiddled the chopsticks in her left hand in eager anticipation, she removed her Kindle from her bag, returning to her novel. She wouldn’t start her shift at Hamden Trading until six, however she would go in at five to catch up on any work missed. With the recent upgrade to the servers, the team that she proudly managed would be working well into the night ensuring the systems responded to the server change and that the trading applications never faltered.
At ten minutes to five, she settled her bill, put away her novel and walked out into the rain which had softened over the last ninety minutes. She felt better, that things would be sorted by the end of the night. Her brothers would make sure nothing ever happened to her.
So content was Ashley that she walked straight past Lucas Cole as he stood in the alleyway opposite her building. He watched intently as she scurried between fast moving traffic to enter her workplace.
It hadn't been too difficult for Lucas to find another room for the night. After ambling through London for almost an hour, he eventually paid seventy pounds cash to check into the Luxury Hotel just off Gower Street. The rooms were anything but, the dank colour scheme making the room feel smaller, and the cleanliness of the bed was suspect. The cupboard-sized bathroom had been lazily sprayed with multi-purpose surface cleaner, but hadn't been wiped properly. The hard aroma of disinfectant enclosed in the room like a secret.
Still, it would do.
For the rest of the afternoon, Lucas had wandered around the Brunswick Centre, an arcade of shops littered between eateries and chain restaurants. He bought himself a new jumper and a baseball cap from River Island, changing into it by the counter, much to the delight of the young girl behind the till. He stuffed his now-redundant shirt in his sports bag, which would soon be followed by a large bottle of vodka which he’d bought from a nearby newsagents.
Walking past the Tesco Express opposite Russell Square station, he decided to stop in and purchased a set of tea towels.
Before continuing his walk towards Holborn, Lucas ventured through a sea of umbrellas and shoulder barges into Russell Square itself.
The park, which would be so vibrant and busy in the coming summer months, was almost deserted, the only people those using it to cut through to other streets.
Just like Helen had.
He stopped, looking around at the beautifully maintained grounds, the small café with nobody sitting outside. The water feature, the centre piece of the square, was in full flow, but its impact was emasculated by the rain. Lucas closed his eyes, sending himself back to that night.
He could see Helen running, sheer panic on her face.
He could imagine Harry and Lewis, laughing and grabbing at her as Harry had described to him before he’d died, as they’d chased her hurried steps with large, foreboding strides.
His fists clenched.
Upon leaving the park, Lucas walked straight up Southampton Row, beyond Holborn Station. He continued through the avalanche of tourists until he came to the Tool Hire shop. Within five minutes, he was walking out with twenty metres of industrial grade cable that was wrapped and stuffed in the bag, along with a pair of navy overalls.
He made his way to Canada Water via the Jubilee line, after walking to Waterloo Station and taking in the sights of Big Ben and the London Eye while crossing a rain-battered Waterloo Bridge.
There was some beauty left in this city, he’d thought, however his mind refused to allow him a moment to appreciate it. Not when real beauty had been lost here.
He’d waited for only twenty minutes outside the front of Hamden Trading, when, just as Harry had told him between screams of anguish, he spotted Ashley scurrying across the road and through the glass doors, speaking an unheard greeting to the security guard.
Lucas noted the police car and couldn't quite determine if the officer was asleep or not.
He noticed the black Punto, but safely assumed they would not know exactly who they were looking for.
He had already hidden a carrier bag in the alleyway, behind a badly dented dustbin sitting in front of a darkened doorway. The doors were chained shut and strewn in graffiti.
As Ashley disappeared into a lift, he casually picked up his sports bag and walked across the zebra crossing, his feet hitting the wet, striped road in time with the chimes from the traffic lights.
None of the occupants of the two cars paid him any notice, as he entered the large block of student halls that sat next to the Hamden Trading Company, separated by a thin alleyway.
They also didn't notice when he stepped out fifteen minutes later, without his sports bag or baseball cap.
“What a day, darling.”
Fletcher always greeted the smiling image of his wife hanging proudly on the hallway wall. A photo taken on a whim, when the two of them had taken a trip to the New Forest. There she was, leaning against a tree, her summer dress hugging the figure she kept well into her fifties. Her hair was just showing signs of a grey tinge.
The smile looked as vibrant as the day he’d met her all those years ago.
Fletcher meandered into the front room, dropping his jacket onto the back of the sofa and making a beeline to his kitchen counter. There sat the half empty bottle of Jack Daniel's, his trusty companion, and he knocked a small glass back in one tilt.
The fiery liquid burnt his throat, causing him to cough slightly, the flames helping to burn away at the guilt. Two men had been brutally slain because of him. Lucas was now wanted for murder. And to make it worse, the most dangerous family he had ever known were out for blood.
The day had been an endless wave of paperwork, the two murders causing all kinds of mayhem within the police station. Many young officers, bored of routine house calls and vandalism cases were like kids at Disney Land, buzzing with excitement as more information unravelled. Fletcher had sat stiffly all day, his stomach in knots as he wondered how long before they pulled the thread hard enough to trace it back to him.
He would likely die in prison if they found out what he had done. He would never get a chance to meet Laura. Hold her. Kiss her. Love her.
Another swirl; his glass was refilled and his feet had led him to the sofa, the well-worn carpet flattened from years of the same journey. He collapsed into the chair, dust lifting off like a morning fog.
The house, like himself, missed Susan's touch.
He reached up, fondling his coat until he retrieved his cigarettes, lighting one up and letting the smoke filter slowly into the dusty clouds engulfing the room. He shot a look at his desk, the untouched laptops and the fading dream of writing a memoir looking back him with pity.
Another night, drinking and smoking until sleep claimed his consciousness, awaited him.
With his free hand, he removed the manila folder from his jacket, the file on Lucas Cole that twenty four hours ago was doing nothing but gathering dust and taking up space. Now it was hotter property in the office than the latest Dan Brown novel.
&
nbsp; He dropped it onto the table, hiding cigarette butts, piles of ash and water rings from the world.
From Susan.
How had he let the house get into such a state? He looked at the clock; it was almost twenty to eight. The next door neighbours had two young children, so the idea of vacuuming would have to wait until tomorrow.
He had another glass of Jack Daniel's instead.
The beating on the front door startled Fletcher to the point that he dropped his cigarette on the carpet. Quickly composing himself, he picked it up and stubbed it out in the overflowing ashtray, sending even more butts scattering over the desk.
He straightened his shirt, realising he still had his security pass hanging from the lanyard around his neck. He tossed it onto the empty pages of his memoir marked 'I'll start tomorrow'.
As he walked to the door, he promised himself he would start tomorrow. He promised himself that he would fix the house up, and make it a home Susan could be proudly displayed in. He would stop smoking too.
He opened the door, his usually friendly smile freezing halfway through. His eyes widened.
“Good evening, Paul.”
Curtis Drayton, despite having aged in the years since they’d last seen each other, still had a smile that would send a shiver down your spine. Fletcher almost shuddered. Their eyes met, the dark almost pupil-less eyes of Curtis looking straight through him. Sharply dressed in an undoubtedly custom made suit, Curtis barged his way past Fletcher and into the house.
Fletcher looked up at the man-mountain that was Tommy, his arms rippling, struggling to burst from the captivity of his t-shirt sleeves. The rain fell gently behind Tommy, small patters like someone delicately shaking a maraca. Fletcher stood to the side and Tommy offered an empty smile of thanks as he walked through and into the Fletcher family home.
He closed the door slowly, pressing his hands against it and trying to control his breathing. He stood straight, taking a glance at Susan once more, then followed the two Draytons who had commandeered his front room.
As he walked in, he saw Tommy standing over his desk, shifting through papers covered with loose notes and indecipherable scribbles. Curtis was standing by the fire place and Fletcher felt a dangerous fury rise up like a volcano within him as he saw what he was holding.
The photo of Susan on holiday.
“Is this Mrs Fletcher?”
“Please put that down.”
“You're very hostile, Paul.”
“Just put it down.”
Curtis smirked, even letting a small chuckle drift from his lips. He slammed it back on the mantelpiece a little too hard, making it wobble and fall back from its stand. Fletcher took a step to correct it, to return his beloved to her rightful position, but a powerful hand from Tommy shot out, latching onto his shoulder like a mechanical vice. Before he could even relax, Tommy guided him to the single chair and shoved him down. He hit the cushions with a thud, daring not to move again.
“W-w-what do you want?”
Despite his best efforts, Fletcher couldn't hide his terror, something he knew Curtis would enjoy.
He was right.
“I want to have a little chat, Paul.”
Curtis lazily opened the drinks cabinet, scoffing at the number of cheap labels housed inside. He pulled out two glasses and slowly walked to the coffee table. He tutted mockingly at the state of it, before placing the glasses down and topping them both up with the bottle Fletcher had been enjoying earlier. He handed one to Fletcher, ignoring Tommy who had given no indication he was remotely interested in one.
Curtis sat on the edge of the coffee table, a few feet from the panic-stricken face of Fletcher and smiled.
“To good health.”
He raised his glass. Fletcher didn't move. The glass shook in his hand. The whiskey sloshed.
“Cheers.”
Curtis knocked it back, shaking his head in disapproval.
“Wow. That is awful. I didn't realise the police pension was so bad these days.”
“I get by.” Fletcher responded, his eyes flickering to his cigarettes. Curtis followed his gaze.
“Would you like a cigarette, Paul?”
He handed one to the retired officer, even leaning forward to light it for him. Fletcher never took his eyes off him.
“Would you mind if I had one?”
“Be my guest.”
“Very kind.” Curtis smiled, sliding a cigarette out of the box, holding it within his crooked smile. Tommy remained like a statue as a second plume of smoke engulfed the room.
“Right. How do I find him?”
The question whipped through the smoke and caught Fletcher by surprise.
“Who?”
“Don't bullshit me, Paul. Where do I find him?”
Curtis's smile had gone. The friendly, mocking tone had abandoned his voice.
“I'm sorry, Curtis. But I don't know...”
'WHERE THE FUCK IS LUCAS COLE?'
Curtis snatched the glass of whiskey from Fletcher's trembling hand and hurled it as hard as he could at the mantelpiece. It smashed just above the photo of his daughter's graduation, the picture coated in a downpour of cheap glass and cheaper liquor.
“I don't know, I swear.”
“Oh come on, Paul. Don't treat me like one of those dozy smack heads you used to harass. I know he has been to you, of course he has. You were the only person to believe his little sob story all of those years ago, weren't you?”
“Excuse me?”
Curtis forced a smile, a bad attempt at covering his frustration. He took another pull on his cigarette, the orange tip illuminating. He let the ash fall on the carpet.
“Lucas had a shit life, boo hoo. He beat people up, sob. He got put in a mental home, shagged his doctor and they lived happily ever after. Now I know he has been here and Paul, I think that you set him on his little mission.”
“Curtis. I honestly don't know what you’re talking about.'
Curtis leant forward, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Tommy stared at the coffee table, intrigued by the folder that sat atop the neglect below.
'This is useless. I would have thought that a highly decorated man of the law such as yourself would have had the bollocks to admit to such a bold move.'
“The same way I thought a man like you wouldn't need to rape and kill women to make himself feel like a big shot.”
Curtis sat back slightly, almost in admiration. Fletcher's body shook in fear but he did his best to control it.
“Whoa. Calm down, Paul.” Curtis leant forward. His smile evaporated. “It's like you’re trying to hurt my feelings.”
Fletcher let smoke drift from the side of his mouth, feeling the fear escaping within the white cloud.
“Bollocks that you have feelings.”
“I don't know. I'm feeling pretty fucking angry right now.” Curtis took another drag, more ash falling to the carpet. “Some prick is out there, killing members of my family, Paul. So, before I really lose my rag, and even worse, before Tommy does, why don't you tell me where I can find him and I promise I’ll make it quick, before we have any more carnage.'
“It's not carnage.'
Curtis tilted his head in aggravation.
“Excuse me?'
'It's not carnage, Curtis.” Fletcher sat forward a little, noticing the worry that was slowly etching itself across Curtis's face. “Carnage implies there’s no control. Wild. That's not what this is. He knows exactly what he’s doing and that’s what scares you the most.'
“Fear isn't a trait that I have time for.”
“Well make time for it.”
“Careful, Paul.”
Tommy had slowly circled the room to the coffee table and he reached down and lifted the folder, the pages detailing Lucas and his life resting in the palm of his hands.
The conversation continued around him, words echoing in a smoky tomb.
“No, Curtis. I think for the first time, it's you who needs to be careful. Lucas isn't
some ill-advised crack addict or a street urchin trying to make a name for himself. He's someone who knows violence better than you and your brother here.”
Tommy's ears picked up and he turned.
“Is that so?”
'Yeah, that is so.'
Tommy looked at Curtis and smiled.
“Sounds like my kind of guy.”
'Shut up, Tommy.' Curtis snapped. Tommy rolled his eyes and continued reading. Curtis took a final drag on the cigarette.
“So he’s a violent guy with a vendetta. I've seen it a million times, Paul.”
'Not like this. Not like Lucas. You go around pushing everyone and eventually someone will push back with all they have.”
'I will kill him, Paul, for what he’s done to my family.
Fletcher leant forward, his eyes meeting the dark coal like spheres of Curtis Drayton. He could see behind it, there was a genuine fear. Lucas had kept his word.
“What he’s doing, you mean?”
Curtis raised his eyebrows in confusion.
“Because by my count, Curtis there are still four of you left.”
Curtis suddenly shot forward, grabbing Fletcher by his right forearm. Surprisingly strong, Fletcher began to struggle until Tommy stormed around the sofa and planted both hands on his shoulders, pinning him to the chair. He leant down, his lips a few inches from the old man's ear.
“Don't move.”
Curtis held up the cigarette he’d finished, the tip of the butt still lit, the final shards of nicotine sizzling off into the world.
“When this is all over with and he tells me that you helped him as he begs for his life, which he will, I will be back here.”
Curtis brought the cigarette down onto Fletcher's forearm, the smell of singed hair and burnt skin filling the air. As Fletcher let out a howl of pain, Tommy's murderous hands clamped over his mouth.
The young kids next door would not be disturbed by the noise.
Fletcher breathed heavily, his brain shooting out thunderous signals of pain. His skin roared with a fiery fury. Curtis leaned in, his face an ugly twist of a raging scowl.
One by One: A brutal, gritty revenge thriller that you won't be able to put down. Page 24
