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

by Robert Enright

  Lucas raised the gun.

  Curtis closed his eyes.

  He pulled the trigger.

  Curtis screamed in agony, the gun not pointed at his head. The bullet burrowed its way through his crotch, ripping through his genitals. The pain grabbed and shook him with a violent rage, the blood pumping out from the wound where his manhood used to be.

  It was the final thing Lucas wanted to take from him.

  Curtis rolled around in anger, the blood and urine covering his back as he howled in agony. Lucas looked down at him.

  It was over.

  “Lucas. Don't go.”

  Curtis reached out a bloody hand as Lucas took his first step back towards the door, trying to grab at the cuff of his jeans. Lucas stepped back, looking down at Curtis with an emotionless stare.

  Curtis vomited a little to the side, his once snarling face a pale definition of fear.

  “Please, Lucas. Kill me. Just kill me.”

  Lucas looked at the window, the raindrops ricocheting off the glass panes and back into the sky. The sirens were nearly here.

  They were welcome to Curtis if they could save him.

  He looked down at the pitiful man clutching at him, begging him for the easy way out.

  “I have killed you.”

  With that, Lucas stepped away, his feet dragging him across the floor and away from the desperate reach of Curtis, his other hand pressing down on the feminising wound between his legs. Lucas's steps splashed through the blood of a rapist.

  As he got to the door, he dropped the gun and staggered a little, his moments fleeting.

  He reached down with difficulty, clutching his leather jacket as he returned upright. He slid it on, the leather accommodating a few bullet holes.

  Curtis screamed after him as he took the steps one at a time, his bloody hand leaving a smeared print down the entire wall of the stairwell.

  He glanced around the shop as he walked through, the three bodies all motionless, the blood still pooling from their respective bullet wounds. Starling lay motionless, his life, regrettably, had long since left.

  Underneath the room, Tommy's body lay flat on the mats, his insides lying beside him.

  The building was a chapel of death.

  Lucas, leaning against the long counter decorated with the odd speck of blood, made his way to the back door of the shop. He fell into it, pushing it open and disregarding the alarm it set off. It was immediately drowned out by the sirens now racing up the high street.

  Alone in the dark alley, the fresh rain fell over him as he shuffled further into the darkness and disappeared into an adjoining walkway.

  The tactical team cut through the shutter in mere minutes, the red hot blade slicing through with minimum fuss. The rest of the team stood in covered positions, assault rifles at the ready and their bodies covered in kevlar. Sergeant Marshall gave directive hand gestures, ensuring his men were ready to breach the building.

  Bailey and an army of officers stood further back, watching through the thunderous downpour behind the cover of their cars.

  Nobody had attempted to infiltrate the Drayton building and everyone was prepared for an onslaught of gunfire.

  There was none.

  With the shutter removed, the first officer approached the glass door, immediately reporting the motionless bodies lying in a room almost entirely carpeted with blood.

  They smashed through the large glass pane of a door and stepped in, sweeping the corners of the room and ready to unload a round of ammunition in a heartbeat.

  The directive was to take Lucas Cole alive. Curtis too.

  However there would be no second chances should they show aggression.

  Marshall emerged into the room, directing a few of his men to the staircases on opposite sides, his men stepping through the puddles of blood and tactically entering their respective stairwells.

  Marshall radioed out they needed paramedics and that one of the men was in uniform.

  Bailey raced to the door as soon as it came through.

  He stepped into the mess, his mouth ajar at the destruction and death decorating the room. He could see into the skull of one of the men, his body slumped forward behind him although he was sure he never felt a thing.

  Then he saw him.

  He looked away in anguish, not wanting to believe it was true.

  His radio screamed for a paramedic, that there was a man alive upstairs bleeding profusely from a pelvic wound. The medical team raced through, ignoring the corpses on the ground floor and rushed upstairs to try and save the only survivor.

  Another radio transmission came in, a report that a man of colossal stature had been killed downstairs. His entrails hanging from a sliced stomach. The entire police force, even those dealing with the gathering crowd in the freezing rain waited with bated breath.

  They confirmed it wasn't Lucas. It was Tommy Drayton.

  Bailey still couldn't bring himself to look, the guilt that not listening to the young man had led to this moment. What he was doing here, he would never know. Maybe he was trying to prove to Bailey that he was right all along. That going straight for the Draytons would bring everything to an end.

  Bailey reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the police badge that Starling had furiously slapped into his chest a few nights ago. He turned and looked down at his corpse, a pale blood soaked hand covering the hole in his throat, trying to stop his life from escaping.

  He shook his head as he squatted beside him, tucking the police badge into his pocket and letting him be carried out with some dignity.

  Careful footsteps echoed down the stairs and Marshall emerged from the doorway, approaching Bailey with a look of defeat.

  “No sign of Cole.”

  Bailey wasn't surprised, radioing to any available officers to search the surrounding area. More footsteps beat the wooden steps, as the two medics, with the help of a man in a bulletproof vest, carried a stretcher down. Adorning it, with a large bandage wrapped around his groin and a blood pack being held by another gun toting officer, was Curtis Drayton. His face was pale, lined with the streaks of tears.

  The man looked pathetic, his eyes begging for mercy as the powerful Bailey approached the stretcher.

  'Curtis Drayton. You are under arrest for the rape and murder of Helen Cole and the murder of Officer Oliver Starling.'

  More pathetic tears fell from the man's once vicious eyes.

  'Do I really need to say the rest to you?'

  Bailey nodded to the paramedics, indicating for them to take him to the hospital. He wanted a few of his officers to tail them, knowing that Drayton was a priority that they needed to keep safe.

  They carried him out, one of the most dangerous gang lords the city had ever known was now under arrest. He watched as they loaded him into the back of the ambulance, almost smiling at the man's tears.

  He then pulled a small chair from the corner, not knowing that Starling had sat in it earlier that day, and sat down. He cast a careful eye over Starling's motionless body, wanting to sit with him until they could carry him out of the building like the hero he should be treated as.

  He would still find Lucas.

  But as far as Bailey could see, this whole war of vengeance was over.

  Fletcher pulled up further down the high street, seeing the gathering crowds ahead and beyond that, blue lights sparkling in the night sky like a firework show. He clambered out, the rain smothering him within seconds as he slowly began to ease through the crowd of people. A sea of local residents and street urchins, hands in the air with mobile phones aimed at the commotion ahead of them.

  He knew that if Bailey spotted him, he was confirming his suspicions. But as he squeezed past a few excitable teenagers, he didn't care. Lucas was either in custody or dead.

  And he had to know.

  As he got near to the front of the cordon line, he saw Officer Patriski, his first night of duty since he’d been attacked earlier in the week by the very man he was there to see. He
approached the young officer, his handsome looks attracting the attention of a pretty, blonde woman huddled under an umbrella.

  His radio cackled with Bailey's voice.

  “Lucas Cole is not on the premises. I want all available units sweeping the vicinity and I want Brixton Station shut down.”

  Fletcher turned and rushed back through the crowd, ignoring the moans and insults as he pushed his way through.

  After barging through a jungle of rain-soaked shoulders, he jumped back into his car. With swift ease, he skidded out of a three point turn and sped away from the crime scene.

  The rain splashed against Lucas's face, washing away some of the blood clinging to it like sadistic war paint. His nose was cracked, his eye swollen and blood gently dripped from both.

  His ribs shook loosely with each laboured step, his stab wound leaving a trail of blood from the metal gate on the wet concrete like a trail of breadcrumbs. He couldn't even remember how he’d got there, half recalling a discussion with a taxi driver.

  He couldn't remember hobbling onto the next street down, the wailing sirens behind him surrounding the betting shop where he’d completed his vengeance. A cab stopped almost immediately, a helpful middle-aged driver with a beer belly and a thick, east London accent helping him into the back.

  As he fell onto the seat, the driver wrapped his own coat around him, trying to help this man who had been savagely attacked. Once behind the wheel, he informed Lucas he was going to take him to the nearest hospital.

  That was when he spoke, demanding the man take him to a specific location. The cabbie refused, but when Lucas lazily dropped a thick roll of fifty pound notes through the plastic partition, the man obliged.

  Who was he to deny a man his final wish?

  The journey cost Lucas over five thousand pounds, but he didn't even register it as an expense.

  He took a few more steps, the well-maintained grass lawns empty of people and shrouded in darkness.

  A white pavilion loomed to the right, pelted with rain drops but Lucas could barely see in front of him.

  He shuffled another step.

  He saw Alex smiling at him from across the dinner table after a cheeky comment to Dianne, who in turn lashed out with a playful slap.

  Another step through the rain.

  Helen waving goodbye to him from the train platform, the last time he’d seen her when she wasn't covered in blood.

  He continued forward.

  His mind began to flash, the various members of the Drayton family screaming in pain or begging for mercy. The blood, the pain and the death of the last few weeks laid out in a highlight reel of memories.

  The next step was a struggle. His bloody soaked body shaking on legs close to giving up.

  Life was leaving him more quickly now.

  He took one more step.

  It was Helen.

  Not a memory.

  But actually Helen.

  He stepped into her arms, feeling the warmth she emitted as she embraced him. Her hand ran up his back, stroking his hair as she gently rocked with him. He couldn't feel the rain anymore, the drops falling next to him and casting his surroundings in wetness.

  He felt dry.

  The King Charles II statue watched them once again, the return of a love that had christened this spot all those years ago.

  The pain in his side had subsided, his fingers clutching to the back of her dress, his head buried in her shoulder. He couldn't feel the broken ribs freely dancing in his chest, or the violent gash courtesy of Curtis Drayton's knife.

  He clung to his wife.

  The heartbreak subsided, the empty void of losing her vanishing in mere moments.

  She held him tightly.

  He brought his head up, his face a few inches away from hers. She gazed at him with deep blue eyes.

  His face no longer wore the scars of battle, his handsome smile returned in all its glory. She ran her fingers across the side of his face and pulled him in.

  They kissed, the rain falling around them.

  He kissed her as hard as he could; he’d returned to his one true love and he would never lose her again.

  He pressed a hand to her stomach, free of a stab wound and housing the child he couldn't wait to meet.

  They let go of each other and he reached into his pocket, pulling the wedding ring he’d protected with such ferocity. She splayed her delicate fingers and he slid it on, returning the symbol of their love to its rightful place.

  They turned together, clasping hands, as they walked on their own dry path through the downpour.

  Together.

  Fletcher locked his car and ran to the wet, rusted gate to Soho Square shaking violently in the wind. Despite his age, he managed to navigate it easier than before, dropping down within the grounds and jogging gently into the darkness. He remembered the pathway, the well-trimmed grass shimmering wetly in the light of the moon.

  He spotted the pavilion, a white block in the distance.

  He jogged further, the rain slamming against him until he neared the statue of King Charles II taking centre stage in the popular square.

  As he arrived, he took one glance and then looked away with heartbreak.

  His eyes began to water.

  He slowly turned around and began to cry at what he saw.

  Slumped against the base of the statue, soaked in blood, was the body of Lucas Cole. His broken face was soaked in bloody rainwater, which dripped into the puddle that had formed by his side.

  He was not moving.

  In his lifeless hand resting on his leg, was a modest gold ring that had once belonged to Helen.

  Fletcher stood for a whole minute, his eyes locked on the body of a man who’d given everything for the woman he’d loved.

  He wiped his eyes and exhaled a deep breath.

  “Take care of him, Helen.”

  He hoped his words would find them somehow, carried on the whistling wind shooting through the park.

  Fletcher took another look at the motionless body of Lucas Cole and nodded a silent goodbye.

  The rain continued to fall on London.

  EPILOGUE

  An extract from ‘Life on the Beat: Memoirs of a thirty year police officer.’ by Paul Fletcher.

  This is the final entry to this memoir that relates to the Cole case. If that disappoints you, then I apologise profusely. If it was the reason you bought this book, then hopefully you got your money's worth. But I don't want to type more than I have to out of respect for what happened and to the people who suffered.

  When they swept Lucas's house after Dianne had notified the police, a note was found that Lucas had written. I feel it is a fitting tribute to the man that I print it here:

  To whoever finds this note,

  I, Lucas Cole, am writing this as my final will and testament. I know what I have done will never be forgiven and I seek no forgiveness. I don't expect the world to understand my actions nor do I expect it to turn the other cheek and forget them either.

  I know I will not be coming back. This journey will end and I will never return. I once told a policeman, Officer Fletcher was his name, that sometimes bad people need to see what bad truly is. I saw him at Helen's funeral and listened to his pathetic plea that I leave it to the police. I am glad that I have not seen him since due to their inability to bring the Draytons to the same level of justice that I have. That is why my journey must continue and why I know I will never return from it.

  So with that ahead of me, I wish to leave a few things to those who deserve them.

  To my sister-in-law Kelly, I leave you this house. Helen was happy here and a number of those memories were with you. She loved you so much, as did I. You always made me feel welcome, like part of the family and I will always be truly grateful for that.

  This home housed my family. I feel it is only right that you should have the keys. The jewellery box is on the bedside table.

  Our savings, which Kelly will have access to, are to be given to Diann
e Thornley. I know it will never bring Alex back, nor will it make right what has happened. An apology would seem pointless as how can I ask for forgiveness for depriving you of him? I loved your husband, he was the closest thing I ever had to a brother. Please accept the savings, if not for you but for your child. I never thought things would spiral this far out of control and if you hate me until your last day on this planet I will forgive you for it.

  My apologies I leave to Graham and Patricia. I loved your daughter more than this world could ever imagine. She saved me from a world that I couldn't bear, pulling me out from the shadows and letting me live.

  I promised her, and you both, on our wedding day that I would protect her and I failed. She is gone and I can only say I am sorry for not being the husband I should have been.

  I know you will not condone what I have done. Nor will you want to see me again. But I truly am sorry.

  And finally, to my darling wife, Helen. I leave you my love. You looked through the darkness of this world and saw a light in me that no one else ever tried to. You reached out and brought me to you and I have loved you for every minute of every day since we met. I know you would hate what I am doing in your name, but I am truly lost without you.

  This is the 'me' that I am without you.

  I miss you more than words will ever tell.

  I leave you my love and I will be with you again one day.

  I love you.

  Lucas.

  I will never condone the barbaric slaughter of the Draytons, but when I read that, I realised that it wasn't out of violent urges or a psychopathic rage that Lucas was retaliating.

  It was simply out of grief.

  Out of losing the love he relied upon.

  It made me realise that there are things in this world worth fighting for, even when you are down to your final minutes. If you can find those things, hold them dear, for your life will forever be richer.

  I stopped volunteering with the Metropolitan Police shortly after Lucas's death, Sergeant Robert Bailey dropping the investigation against me. We amicably shook hands and he wished me a wonderful retirement.