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

by Robert Enright

  He missed her more than he could bear.

  And now, here he was, looking down at newly turned soil. A few weeks before, they’d spent their time discussing the future and now it was nothing but mud. A life, ended cruelly, and the remains stored away from the living.

  He reached slowly into the inside of his leather jacket and produced the phone which Matt Drayton had offered him just moments before his death.

  With a scowl, he thumbed through the numbers and then lifted the now wet mobile to his dripping ear.

  The phone only rang twice.

  “Well I know this isn't Matt, don't I?”

  Curtis's voice sent a shiver down Lucas's spine, his fist clenched of its own volition. The calmness of the man, the tinge of arrogance in his voice only added to the fury.

  “Tell me, Lucas. How's Alex? Still dead?”

  “You’ve taken everything from me.”

  “Have I?”

  “This needs to end.”

  'Hmmm, I don't know Lucas. The way I see it, you’re still two up on me aren't you? You're just lucky I don't come back up there and send your little friend's wife and kid to meet yours.”

  Lucas gritted his teeth, the very idea of anything happening to Dianne and her unborn child made him shudder.

  Curtis sipped his drink, letting out a satisfied sigh at the end of it. Tommy leant against the counter, his suit stretching as his bulky arms crossed against his chest.

  “I'm tired of killing people. I only have two left.

  “And I only have one.”

  The two men let the silence speak, agreeing on the solution without using words. Curtis finished his drink and slammed the glass down on the counter.

  “My door is open, Lucas. If you want the address, I have this nifty little app called Phone Finder. You may remember it?”

  Lucas stared at the ground, the tilled soil sitting freshly above grass level. Below it, his best friend, murdered by the man at the other end of the call. He felt his fist clench again.

  “I'm on my way.”

  The phone line went dead before Curtis could retort and he snarled viciously at the screen. He scanned the apps on his phone, activating the location device to beckon Lucas to him.

  To his death.

  He reached for his glass, cursing under his breath upon the realisation that it was empty. He pushed himself from the stall, shooting a glance at Tommy.

  “Make some calls, get some of the boys round here. I'm not taking any chances with this prick.”

  “This is everyone,” Tommy stated, motioning to the room. Curtis raised his eyebrows and turned his head. Two men sat at one of the high tables, smoke pouring from the cigarettes both men were enjoying. Curtis recognised one, Mark, an ex-security guard who Tommy had used a few times for debt collecting. The other young man, known as Banner due to his ridiculous temper that drew comparisons with the comic book character 'The Incredible Hulk', sat beside him.

  Behind them, on a single chair against the wall, the young man who’d emerged earlier sat silently, rain still dripping from his nose while he warmed himself up with the coffee Tommy had begrudgingly made at Curtis's order. He turned back to his brother.

  “Really? Where the fuck is everyone else?”

  “Dead or inside. Plus, people ain't exactly lining up to help us out at the moment.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since Lucas started killing us off.”

  Curtis shook his head in rage, looking back at the dwindling numbers of his army. He felt his control ebbing away.

  “Well, once we gut this piece of shit I want the names of everyone who backed out and I’ll give them something to really be afraid of.'

  Tommy rolled his eyes and Curtis took a few intimidating steps up to the young intruder. He saw the fear in the stranger's eyes: he ran a hand through his wet, blonde hair.

  It made Curtis smile.

  “Seems that we’re going to need you sooner than we’d thought. Get your arse home, gear up and get back here.”

  The young man nodded nervously, fumbling with the mug as he set it down on the floor. As he got up and made a few steps towards the door, Curtis reached out and grabbed his shoulder, spinning him slightly.

  His face was a mask of sheer terror.

  “If you fuck this up, you are as good as dead.”

  The young man nodded frantically and hurriedly shuffled through the door and into the rain.

  Curtis basked in the young man's fear.

  The wind carried fragments of blossom with it, colourful leaves dancing erratically through the cemetery grounds. The rain had picked up, water spotting against the screen of the phone as Lucas memorised the address.

  It was time to meet Curtis.

  He shut the phone down and slid it into the pocket of his jacket, his black tie flailing rapidly as a strong gust blew through.

  “Are you happy now, Lucas?”

  He stood still, the sound of the voice turning his entire body cold. He shuddered, knowing she wouldn't quite be her.

  “All this death?”

  He turned, his face revealing the pain caused by the words. There she was, almost floating before him, her white gown emitting its own source of light. The rain fell around her, yet the vision remained dry.

  “It should never have come to this. Never. I should have been beside you. I should have been there with you in London.”

  “No, Lucas.” The ghostly voice was tinged with an unnatural echo. “You should have accepted what happened. I begged and I pleaded with you not to pull down every wall we’d worked so hard to put up.”

  Lucas shook his head in desperation. He slowly reached out a hand towards hers, the tips of her fingers were smudged and hanging in the air like smoke.

  His words were quiet as he looked at them.

  “I had to.”

  “Why?”

  “All I ever did was love you, Helen. Every day with every part of me. But because of the actions taken by bad people, I will never get to see you again.”

  Lucas looked up from her fading hands, his eyes meeting the swirling blue gems sitting back in her slowly-fading face. They latched onto Lucas with a pain-stricken stare.

  “That's why I had to pull the walls down. To put things right.”

  “And this is right?” She pointed a spectral finger towards the ground that encased Alex. “Alex is dead.”

  “I never meant for things to get so out of control.”

  “But they have, Lucas. There’s only one way this will end. You know that.”

  Lucas nodded his head sheepishly, his eyes watering at the realisation of her words. His hand dipped into his jean pocket and returned with a small, gold ring in its palm. They both looked at it as the rain splashed against Lucas's skin.

  “When I gave you this, I promised you I would love you until the day I die.”

  Her arm floated forward, rain falling either side of her hand as it hovered above his. He looked at her, his heartbreak plastered across his face.

  “It's a promise I intend to keep.”

  His hand balled into a fist and he turned on his heels and made to exit the cemetery. Helen stayed where she was, her eyes fixed on her husband.

  “Please don't go, Lucas. If you go you’ll die.”

  He stopped, and turned back to look at his wife's image one last time.

  “Then I'll die fighting. I'm going to make someone else give a damn that you're gone.”

  Lucas continued his march, his footsteps trudging through the squelching grass. Helen watched on, seeing her husband grow smaller and smaller as he disappeared towards a destiny she’d never wanted for him.

  “You were enough, Lucas. You always were.”

  Her words were empty, disappearing alongside a thousand raindrops. The mud covering Alex's coffin was now thick and damp, locking his body away for an eternal rest.

  Helen vanished.

  Lucas got to his car, wet and heavy from the downpour. He turned the key and pulled out, heading fo
r London.

  Fletcher could barely keep his eyes open.

  His desk was awash with files, loose papers and a few empty mugs that had half helped when they’d been filled with coffee. He shuffled a few papers on his desk, trying to wake himself a little as he let out a large yawn.

  The long drive home had been uneventful, the roads had been clear and the only deterrent had been the patches of rain falling in random showers.

  When he had finally arrived home, it was a little past four in the morning and he longed for the days when he and Susan would sleep in on Sundays before enjoying a walk through a village she’d recently discovered outside of London. They would stroll through, their arms linked, taking in the narrow, cobbled streets and the old, Victorian houses. Lunch would be delicious, usually from a quaint, family-ran eatery that would be one of the cornerstones of the community.

  How life had changed.

  He adjusted his position on his seat, his back aching from hours of driving. His mind wandered to Alex's funeral, wondering if Lucas had even attended or not. Either way, Lucas was home now and hopefully he could find peace.

  “Jesus. You look like you have been dragged through a hedge backwards by your bollocks.”

  Fletcher cast a tired glaze upwards, seeing the beaming smile that usually accompanied the thick, Irish accent. McCarthy hobbled up to the desk, his knee still causing him serious discomfort which was evident with each step. Suddenly, the noise and hustle of the office broke through and Fletcher felt involved in the day again.

  “I didn't sleep too well,” Fletcher lied, not even sleeping the night before and treating himself to several glasses from a new bottle of Jack.

  “Aye, me neither,” he winked. “Mrs McCarthy saw to that.”

  Fletcher chuckled politely, the thought of his large colleague in the act wasn't an image he particularly cared for. McCarthy looked over the mess which Fletcher claimed was a desk and shook his head.

  “Anyway, look alive. Bailey wants to see you in Interview Room A. Said it was urgent.”

  “Really?” Fletcher's caution evident in his tone. “What for?”

  “How the bloody hell should I know? No one tells me anything round here.”

  Fletcher nodded, easing himself up from the chair and battling the stiffness in his spine. He straightened his tie and tried to flatten some creases on his unironed shirt. He walked through the office, watching McCarthy struggle with lowering himself into his chair. He walked past the locker rooms and the toilets, before approaching the white door to the interview room. A few officers walked past, politely smiling at the old retiree who then rapped the door with a gentle knock.

  “Come in!” Bailey's booming voice returned from within and Fletcher obliged. He slunk in through the door.

  “Hello, sir.”

  “Fletcher. Please, close the door and grab a seat.”

  Fletcher did as he was asked. Bailey sat opposite him, a mug of tea on the table and a manila folder next to it. Fletcher painfully lowered himself into the plastic chair, knowing full well it would only add to his aching back. Bailey opened up the arms to his glasses and slid them over his stern face.

  “You look shattered, Fletcher.”

  “Rough night.”

  “I see. Well, I just wanted you to know that we’ve found him.”

  “Who? Lucas?”

  Bailey nodded, his powerful arms crossed over his police uniform.

  “When?”

  'Dianne Thornley rang to inform the police that Lucas had visited her after Alex's wake earlier this afternoon. She said he tried to apologise but she wasn't having any of it.”

  “Did they arrest him?” Fletcher asked, worried that the concern in his voice was too obvious.

  “'No. He’d already left by the time she’d called. An Officer Chamberlain then led a search of Lucas's old residence and found a pile of worn clothes on the floor so we can assume he’s been home. Other things recovered were a jewellery box that was lying on the bed, alongside a handwritten note.'

  “What was in the note?”

  “We’re still waiting for the report.”

  “So where’s Lucas now?”

  Bailey unfolded his arms and leant forward, his biceps bulging against the short, white sleeves of his uniform.

  “We don't know. The police are searching the village and keeping an unmarked car outside his home. Fresh flowers have been recovered at the grave of his wife, so we can assume he’s been to visit her.”

  “When he went to pay his condolences to Alex?”

  “Makes sense.”

  Fletcher nodded in agreement, trying to mask the concern he had for Lucas's freedom. It would only be a matter of time before they caught up with him.

  Bailey brought him back into the room with his commanding voice.

  “Now, the question that I had, was how did Lucas know what had happened to Alex?” Fletcher shuffled uncomfortably. “Questions have been asked and no one up there has had any contact with the man since Helen's funeral over a week ago. No one knows where he’s been or where to find him. Yet he turned up the day of the funeral.”

  “I don't know, sir. Maybe he just wanted to go home?”

  Bailey stared at Fletcher, his gaze unrelenting.

  “I did a little digging once we got the call earlier this afternoon of his sighting and asked them to search any nearby CCTV cameras to try and identify him, see how he’s travelling et cetera et cetera.”

  Fletcher sat very still, a little impressed with Bailey's detective work but becoming increasingly aware of how alone he was in the room. The walls felt a lot nearer to him, the door further than he recalled. Beyond the mirror, he wondered how many sets of eyes were locked on him. Bailey opened his folder, lifting a sheet of paper.

  “Imagine my surprise when this was taken from a Shell garage, just outside of Brinscall at two minutes past two this morning.”

  Bailey slid the sheet across the desk, as Fletcher slipped on his own spectacles. It was a grainy black and white image relaying the courtyard of the station. Three petrol pumps stood empty, nothing but a few oil stains before them. The fourth pump was in use, a grainy outline of a figure holding the nozzle to the car. Any identification was impossible due to the poor image quality.

  The car however, was a little clearer and was identifiable as a new model Ford Fiesta.

  “Look at the license plate.”

  Fletcher didn't need Bailey to instruct him. He had already noticed it and knew why he’d been called into the room. Bailey sat back in his chair as if he was awaiting a response.

  There was none forthcoming.

  The car belonged to Fletcher and they both knew it. Fletcher gently rubbed his forearm, the pain of the burn had evaporated a few days before but the skin was still charred. Bailey sniffed and then placed his hands on the table.

  “What were you doing in Brinscall last night, Fletcher?”

  Fletcher sat silently. He could try muster up a lie, but he knew the process here. Anything he said would be used against him. Bailey grunted, clasping his hands together.

  “The way I see it Fletcher, is you just so happen to be leaving Brinscall in the early hours of the morning the day Lucas turns up for a funeral. So I'm led to believe that you drove him there last night. Didn't you?”

  Again, Fletcher remained silent, staring at the incriminating evidence before him and wondering how long he would last in prison. Bailey got up, looming over the old man with his awesome stature.

  “But even still, you would have had to have been able to make contact with Lucas. Let him know what happened and arrange to meet for your journey. Which then leads me to the question as to how he knew who we suspect had killed his wife.”

  Bailey slowly walked around the table separating them until he was beside Fletcher. He placed both hands on the desk and leant down so he was close to Fletcher's ear level.

  “If you have helped him in anyway Fletcher, I will find out. So anything you tell me right now will help me t
o help you when that time comes.”

  Fletcher sat still for a few moments, trying to control the panic creeping into his breathing. Bailey was regarded as one of the best interviewers, his reputation for getting the truth out of people one of the reasons he was such a commanding Sergeant.

  “How can I find him? Or how is it that you make contact with him? Tell me before the Draytons decide to avenge another family member he’s killed. I can't help him and I can't help you, Fletcher, if you don't give me anything.”

  “I haven't done anything wrong.”

  “Then what have you done?”

  Bailey sat on the edge of the table, looking down at Fletcher who slowly twisted the lanyard that his ID card hung from. Bailey waited for a few more moments of silence to pass before he stood up, sighing deeply.

  “Fine. You’re suspended pending an investigation. Give me your ID and then please leave the premises.”

  Fletcher quietly pushed the chair back and stood up quickly, his back tightening and causing him to wince. He lifted the lanyard over his thin, grey hair and placed it in Bailey's outstretched hand. He headed for the door.

  “Fletch. Everything always comes out in the wash. You know that as well as I do.”

  Fletcher opened the door, turning back to look at the Sergeant who was willing him to respond.

  “I’ve done nothing that I can see as wrong.”

  Bailey nodded.

  “I hope that's true. Otherwise I can't help you.”

  Fletcher walked through the door and headed back to his desk, ignoring the muffled voice of McCarthy as he passed. He collected his coat and made a speechless exit towards his car. Bailey sat in the interview room, looking at Fletcher's ID badge. He looked at the photo of a man he admired, but could never trust again.

  He tossed it onto the table and then sat back, his hands pressed against his head as the toll of the last few weeks washed over him.

  He awoke half an hour later, thanking his lucky stars no one had caught him grabbing a quick power nap.

  Starling had finally got round to shaving. A small, red rash burnt his neck but he felt a little more human. When he’d walked in through the front door of his flat, he’d dripped rain drops over the small pile of unopened letters on the doormat. It was the first time since Annette's death that he hadn't been drinking, the sobriety giving way to an uneasy confrontation with his grief.