London in Black

the ticking-bomb police procedural set in a near-future London, for fans of Hanna Jameson and Luther

Jack Lutz

• Publisher: Pushkin Vertigo
• Year: 2022
• Print ISBN:
  9781782278061
• eBook ISBN:
  9781782278054
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Science Fiction
• Index: Literature

THE ATTACKS WON'T STOP. NEITHER WILL SHE.

LONDON 2027
Terrorists deploy lethal nerve gas London Black at Waterloo Station, killing 10% of London's population. DI Lucy Stone should have died-but she didn't, all because of something she'll spend the rest of her life atoning for.

LONDON 2029
Two years later, Lucy is kept alive by precious booster shots. Copy-cat strikes plague the city. When London's most important scientist is brutally murdered, Lucy discovers he was potentially working on an antidote. But her booster shots are no longer working as well as they used to, and time is running out.

Will Lucy find the antidote - and catch the killer- before it's too late?

7

CHAPTER ONE

London, 2029

I just threw a fucking chair through Wilkes’s window.

Lucy looked down at her shaking hands. The red tint was fading. Breathe. Looked back up, around the squad room. Six other cops, all men: cheap suits, stubble. All staring. She saw six, knew there were more, hidden in the dark edges of her tunnel vision.

Her thoughts came in bursts.

I just threw? A fucking chair? Through Wilkes’s window?

She had.

She could see the chair. There it was, crumpled in the corridor, covered in bits of frosted glass. Black letters stood out against the flooring, and for a split second she thought of trying to fix it, trying to glue the thing back together like a giant puzzle. First, the big letters: LONDON METROPOLITAN POLICE—HOMICIDE COMMAND—MIT19. Then the small type: Commanding Officer, DCI Marie Wilkes.

Wilkes.

Wilkes’s brand-new window.

Fuck me.

She tried to think, to process what she’d done. Why? Why would I…

A rustle behind her. She spun around, saw DS Andy Sykes.

Oh.

Sykes.

She couldn’t remember what he’d done, which button he’d pressed. Touched my stomach? No. Trapped me? Can’t have. It was gone, vanished into the red. But he’d done something to set off an attack. Must have done. Sykes knew her triggers. Pretended 8not to, but most certainly fucking did. And now there he stood, shoulders shrugging, acting shocked. Playing the victim.

Bastard.

A young DC reached out a hand—it’s okay, Lucy—but Lucy was too quick. She pushed it away, took off. Out of the bullpen, away from the stares, into the corridor, slamming the metal door behind her.

DI Lucy Stone, the Met’s youngest homicide detective, was on fire.

Her hands shook as she stomped down the hallway. She jammed them into the pockets of her baggy black hoodie and focused on her breathing.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

Fuck me.

Lucy reached the end of the corridor, rounded the corner. Ahead, she could see the gleaming New Scotland Yard lobby. It was late, had been dark for hours, but the lobby still bustled. Two uniforms sauntered down the hall towards her. She split them, sending coffees flying.

Focus. Breathe.

Just an attack. It’s now. It’s now, not then, stay now…

Images from two years ago burst into her mind, rapid-fire. Heaps of bodies, skin blistered, sloughing off. Green hazmat suits. A shrieking child, running naked. Drones.

The Scourge.

And then, she saw—It.

The Thing That Happened.

She held back a scream and willed herself forward, towards the exit.

Inhale, exhale.

Lucy wiped away a tear as she shot into the night.

9Outside, the chilly November air felt soothing on her face.

The panic faded as she passed the New Scotland Yard sign and turned down the Embankment. Big Ben loomed ahead, a giant hypodermic pricking the night sky. She pulled a hand from her hoodie and held it out as she walked. Better. It trembled, but she could at least read the tattooed script curving round the inside of her right wrist: JACK. She rubbed it and thought of her older brother.

Oh Jack, help me. I fucked up.

Would Wilkes take it personally? Hard not to. Twenty-five years on the job, no kids, whole life given to the job. Finally made up to DCI, finally her name on the window. Her window. And then, in an instant: smash.

Lucy’s stomach twisted.

I didn’t mean it, Ma’am. Truly.

Just, Sykes did something, set me off, an attack. Fucking Sykes…

The Tube roundel came into view and, next to it, the yellow lights of the Carpenters’ Arms: MIT19’s local. Lucy slowed, took a breath. Checked her mobile. Eleven. An hour. Fine. Plenty of time for a quick one. She threaded through the punters smoking on the pavement and ducked inside.

The Carpenters was a shit pub. Grim, threadbare carpets. Whiffy. A coach party of tourists in matching red anoraks clogged the entrance. She pushed through them easily, arms strong from years of boxing. Past the blinking fruities, straight for the empty rear of the bar. She sat down on a stool.

Harry the bartender came over.

“The usual, Lucy?”

She said nothing, just gave a final exhale.

“Right.” He poured a Coke from the gun, fiddled with the coffee machine, sunk two shots of espresso into the glass. Pushed it across to Lucy. “The usual.”

She took it without looking up.10

Good bartender, Harry. Deserves a better pub.

Across the room, the tourists laughed at something. Lucy glanced over, saw they had discovered the poppy box. A cardboard box filled with black paper poppies stood next to the till, and the tourists were taking turns plunking in a pound coin and pinning a poppy to their Gore-Tex. She caught snippets of the coach guide’s commentary: “…second anniversary…worst terror attacks in…drones, all releasing London Black. Yes, yes, precisely, a nerve agent, no antidote…”

One of the tourists fished a black rubber wristband from the box.

She squinted. London Strong was printed in white on one side of the band. On the other was a number. It was too far away for her to read the digits, but she knew it all the same: 32,956. Every Londoner knew that number.

Christ. A fucking death-count band. What sick fuck—

Her mobile phone began to vibrate. She pulled it from the pocket of her faded black jeans, glanced at the screen: Incoming call, DCI Marie Wilkes. Lucy mashed the red button and thumped the phone down on the bar. Not in the mood for a lecture, Ma’am. She took a sip from her glass. After a moment, texts began to bubble up.

Suspended.

A pause.

Unofficially.

A longer pause.

Lucy…please. For me. Try the Counsellor. Just once.

More ellipses appeared, but Lucy ignored them. She shoved the phone back into her jeans pocket and put her head down on her forearms. Took a deep breath. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Suspended. She felt like vomiting. Wilkes can’t. I need to work. She knows I need to work. Else, what am I? If I can’t work, if I’m not a cop, how can I ever pay the Debt? How can I—11

A squeak, as someone sat down on the stool next to her.

“Long day?”

Man’s voice. Unfamiliar. She didn’t bother to look up.

“Lot of things flying around,” she said into her bicep.

Do I look like I’m up for it? Really?

He paused, then tried again.

“Saw you just now as you came in. Haven’t we met before?”

Christ. Of all the lines to pick. Well, Romeo, let’s see. She raised her head, sighed, then stared up at his face. Squinted. Felt the gears turn, her little Party Trick working its magic.

And…nope.

“No,” she said. “No, we’ve never met.”

Out the corner of her eye, she noticed Harry grin. Wait. Harry knows I’m a Super Recognizer? She filed this away. Meant to be private, a goddamn medical condition, but some other MIT19 regular must’ve let it slip. Probably Sykes. Wanker.

“Oh,” said the man. “Right. Course. Sorry.”

She watched him scan her face. Inspecting the goods, yeah? Lucy had a broad, square jaw tapering to a pointy chin. A cute chin, men told her. Which, fuck that, it’s a strong chin. Chin that can take an uppercut. Espresso hair, chopped short. Big almond eyes, bigger purple bags beneath. Thin nose, hard mouth. Twenty-nine years old. Like what you see, buddy? Too bad. Not on offer. Item out of stock.

His eyes lit up.

“Oh, sorry…but it’s just, I think I know…”

She saw where he was headed. For fuck’s sake. Not the Actor now.

“I mean,” he continued, “this is awkward, I know, but you aren’t by any chance—”

“No. Not her.”

People had made the comparison at least once a week for years. It annoyed her more and more each time. Yes, flattering, yes, the Actor is pretty, really she is, but how can they not see how 12different we look? Apples and oranges, oranges and apples. And I’m the wormy fucking apple.

She stood, finished her drink, pushed the empty glass back towards Harry.

“Now if you’ll excuse me…”

“Wait, wait. I didn’t mean…” He rose from his stool, hands raised, but Lucy was already moving. She brushed past. Tried to avoid contact, slip him like a punch, but his arms were too long.

She felt his fingers graze her stomach.

Oh fuck.

Not again.

Images began to flash.

She put her head down and bolted for the door, crashing through the tourists with their poppies and their smiles and their ghastly fucking wristbands. It was raining now. Her black trainers squeaked as she fled down the steps into the Tube station.

She was calm ag...

Table of contents

• TITLE PAGE
• DEDICATION
• CONTENTS
• CHAPTER ONE
• CHAPTER TWO
• CHAPTER THREE
• CHAPTER FOUR
• CHAPTER FIVE
• CHAPTER SIX
• CHAPTER SEVEN
• CHAPTER EIGHT
• CHAPTER NINE
• CHAPTER TEN
• CHAPTER ELEVEN
• CHAPTER TWELVE
• CHAPTER THIRTEEN
• CHAPTER FOURTEEN
• CHAPTER FIFTEEN
• CHAPTER SIXTEEN
• CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
• CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
• CHAPTER NINETEEN
• CHAPTER TWENTY
• CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
• CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
• CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
• CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
• CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
• CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
• ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
• COPYRIGHT