The Nursery

by Asia Mackay

  Praise for

  ‘A lethally addictive blend of domestic suspense and hard-driving thriller. Set aside some time for this one – you won't be able to put it down’

  A.L. GAYLIN

  ‘A cracking book – funny, thrilling, touching. It’s as if mum-lit was on crack with shades of Killing Eve. This is a thrilling, original and funny read which takes spy fiction to a new level. I loved it’

  CLAIRE ALLAN

  ‘I ABSOLUTELY LOVED IT!!! It’s so new and different and refreshing and I found it such fun (also loved the feminist message)’

  MARIAN KEYES

  ‘A riotously fun read . . . James Bond should retire now: Lex Tyler shows him up for the tired, old has-been he is. With prose as sharp as her heroine’s (actual) killer heels, Asia Mackay puts the sass in assassin as it’s never been done before’

  L. S. HILTON

  ‘An annoyingly brilliant and funny first novel’

  HUGH GRANT

  ‘This might be the best fun I’ve ever had reading a book. Funny, observant and proper adrenaline inducing thrills, I now solely aspire to be even half the woman Lex Tyler is. A badass with a baby: every mother’s dream’

  GEORGIA TENNANT

  ‘Witty . . . fun . . . clever. BRILLIANT!’

  SOPHIE ELLIS-BEXTOR

  ‘An urgently contemporary, kick-ass action heroine for our times. Lex Tyler is the ultimate female trail-blazer: as dextrous with a breast pump as she is with a gun. We’re so excited to be going on a thrilling action adventure with Lex, to cinematise her battle with returning to work, trying to take care of a young baby and, of course, trying to save the country . . .’

  RORY AITKEN

  ‘What new mother can’t relate to murder? This is the funny and thrilling story of how one woman does what all women do all the time – manage every single thing. Brilliant’

  ARABELLA WEIR

  ‘Fresh and fun, and adroitly combines social and parenting comedy with detail-rich derring-do’

  SUNDAY TIMES

  ‘Dark humour, a twisty plot and a healthy dose of genuine emotion . . . a thrilling ride’

  HEAT MAGAZINE

  ‘Move over James Bond – Alexis Tyler proves that women really can do it all. Bring on the next mission.’

  THE SUN

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Part Two

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Part Three

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Part Four

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Part Five

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Part Six

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Note from the author

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  For Trotts

  You’re fun, funny and mine

  I feel lucky, I really do

  But when you say I have PMT

  I really want to kill you

  X

  ‘GET DOWN! GET DOWN!’ I shout at the man in front of a dilapidated warehouse, as I pull up opposite him in a black van. He ducks to the ground just as a stream of bullets tear up the wall where he had just been standing.

  ‘Your cover’s blown.’

  Another shot rings out.

  ‘Lex? That you?’ comes the muffled shout from behind a four-foot-high carefully ordered pile of wooden planks. We are at an old deserted gasworks in East London. Building work had stalled last year due to a bankrupted building company and retracted permissions.

  ‘I’m here with Jake. We’re going to get you out,’ I shout back.

  We’ve been ordered by Platform Eight to undertake an emergency extraction. As assassins in an elite underground branch of Her Majesty’s Secret Service it’s a slightly different remit to what we are used to. But the target under attack is one of our own. Simon Black has been undercover with a drug-dealing syndicate, tasked with taking out the newly appointed Head. This morning we’d intercepted communication that they knew about him.

  I slide out of the driver’s door, keeping low. The gunfire continues. I hear it ricocheting off the roof. Why are they aiming so high? I look up just in time to see a plank of wood come crashing down, knocking Black off his feet.

  There’s another burst of gunfire and in my earpiece is Jake Drummond. ‘Hostiles down.’

  I run to Black and pull the plank off him. He’s out cold. But there is still a pulse. I drag him the few feet to the van. Jake screeches up next to us on his motorbike. He jumps off and together we sling Black into the back of the van.

  ‘I’ll call in the Clean Team. You get him out of here.’

  I get into the driver’s seat and accelerate fast. I just need to get back to the relative safety of the industrial park. Witnesses and CCTV should halt a further attack. I speed along the ramshackle road. Two turns and I will be at the alleyway leading back to the main road.

  My phone rings through the van’s Bluetooth. I ignore it. A large black four-by-four roars around the corner.

  They’re coming for us.

  I push into fifth gear as I accelerate further. I need to somehow outrun them.

  ‘Hi, just a quick one.’ Will’s voice crackles through the hands-free.

  What the hell?

  I must’ve clipped the answer button on the steering wheel. Now is not the time for a chat with my husband who remains oblivious to what exactly being a data-analyser for the Government Communication and Data Specialisation Branch really entails. He thinks the biggest danger I face in my supposed desk-bound job is square eyes from staring at a computer screen all day long.

  ‘Can you pick up my dry-cleaning on your way home?’

  I reach for the hang-up button. Just as the four-by-four rams into the side of us and I’m flung against the driver side window.

  ‘Hello, Lex? What was that bang? Are you OK?’

  I peel myself off the window and grab hold of the steering wheel and slam my foot down on the accelerator, powering slightly ahead of the four-by-four. The collision has slowed them down more than me.

  ‘Dropped my phone. I can’t really talk now. I—’

  ‘Please, Lex, it’s not that hard a question. I’m going to be stuck here until late. I’m on my last shirt and I’m so swamped I’ll need to be back in the office early tomorrow.’

  ‘I . . . just, hang on.’

  I jolt forward as the four-by-four hits the back of the van. A turning is coming up on my right, I pull down hard on the steering wheel, swerving round the corner at speed. The four-by-four can’t brake fast enough and overshoots it.

  I speed down the road before taking another hard right. Having memorised the small network of roads back towards the motorway I know I’m close.

  ‘You there?’ Will sighs.

  ‘Yes. I’m here.’

  There is still no sign of the
four-by-four. They’re going to try to cut me off. But where?

  ‘Look, I get it. You have an important job, you’re busy, I’m busy, but come on, Lex.’ His voice is pleading.

  If I keep on this road, I just need to pass two side streets before reaching the motorway. It’s worth the risk.

  ‘I . . . I’m thinking.’

  I sail past the first side road. Nothing.

  I check my side mirrors; maybe I’ve lost them.

  ‘Well?’

  I approach the second side street just as the four-by-four roars out and slams against the van. I am again thrown against the window. I don’t let go of the wheel as I pull down hard to correct our path.

  ‘Darling?’

  I try to think of my schedule for the rest of the day.

  I’m drawing a blank.

  ‘OK, yes. Fine. I’ll do it.’

  ‘Hallelujah. See, it wasn’t that—’ I cut him off.

  The four-by-four is now rammed right up against my van – together we are careering down the road towards the small alleyway.

  Only one of us is going to get through and it’s going to have to be me.

  I must time this just right. My foot is already fully down on the accelerator. I need to jolt the car out the way with enough time to make it through the alleyway and not hit the wall. I take a deep breath and calculate the distance ahead.

  Twenty feet, ten feet, six feet and I swing down hard and fast on the wheel. The force clips the four-by-four and sends it spinning to the side and crashing into a warehouse.

  I pull down hard on the wheel again and hold my breath as we speed through the narrow opening. The wing mirror breaks off as we skim the side of the wall and go full pelt through the alleyway and out into a small slip road that joins the motorway.

  We are clear.

  ‘Lex, you copy?’ Jake crackles into my earpiece.

  ‘Black is secure. Entering the A1020 now. I’ll take him back to the Platform.’

  ‘No,’ Jake’s voice rises, ‘meet me at the service station on junction six. You’re the one that needs to make the pick-up, remember? You can take my bike.’

  He’s right.

  It has to be me.

  I check my watch. I have fifty-three minutes to get to the other side of London. The recriminations if I don’t are not worth thinking about. I pull into the service station and fling open the van door, getting out just as Jake screeches up alongside us. He takes off his helmet and hands it to me as he gets off the bike.

  ‘Go now.’

  ‘Roger that. Look after him.’ I nod over my shoulder to the still unconscious figure in the back of the van.

  Speeding through the busy streets of London, weaving in and out of traffic, I grit my teeth. I have to make it. I just have to.

  When I finally pull up outside the main gate, I jump off the bike and look around. The large green Portakabin is just up ahead. The whole area is deserted. Not a good sign. I check my watch. Fuck. Despite the full speed and the shortcut, I’m twelve minutes late. I pull off my helmet and tear up the metal steps, the rattling thuds announcing my presence to those inside.

  The door opens and there is Yvonne. Ruler of this strange kingdom with the peeling walls and air with the faint smell of sewage. She’s wearing all black and her curly hair is tied back in a tight bun. Her mouth is set in a thin line.

  ‘Sorry I’m late – had a small setback. Hope everything is OK here.’

  ‘We’ve had our own problems today. Come through. I need to show you.’

  I follow her into the small hallway. She reaches for the iPad on the table by the door and shows me the screen. On it is a photo of an arm with two distinctive red marks. You can just make out indentations.

  ‘Who is this?’ I ask.

  ‘You know I can’t tell you that.’ She folds her arms. ‘This is meant to be a safe haven, not a place of violence. We were given no warning this could happen.’

  ‘I understand completely. You must accept our apologies. I’ll sort this out.’

  She nods curtly and motions towards the double doors behind her. I open them and there sits the perpetrator in a red plastic chair, fidgeting with an empty plastic cup.

  With just one look at my face she comes running at me.

  And into my arms.

  ‘Mama! Mama!’

  I pick Gigi up and give her a kiss on the head.

  I had at least kept the promise I had made leaving the house this morning: that after weeks of hardly seeing her, I would be the one to pick her up from nursery today. The memory of her reaction – great big smile, lit-up eyes and cries of ‘Hurrah, Mama, hurrah, Mama’ as she jumped up and down – meant failing her would have undoubtedly traumatised me more than her.

  Yvonne comes up behind me. ‘I told you Mummy was coming. That she hadn’t forgotten about you. She was just running a tiny bit late.’

  I’m reminded that we are both in trouble.

  ‘Now listen, Gigi, you’ve been very naughty. You must never ever bite anyone. You know that.’ I look into her big blue eyes and silently implore her to not show me up further in front of her headteacher.

  ‘Gigi bite.’ She smiles up at me.

  ‘No, Gigi. NO bite.’ I look at Yvonne. ‘Are you sure you can’t tell me who it was? I’d like to apologise to their parents.’

  She is already shaking her head. ‘Our policy is very clear. Data protection. We never inform parents of the name of the victim or the abuser.’

  I laugh. ‘Abuser is a little harsh, don’t you think? I mean, she’s only two.’

  Yvonne stares at me. ‘Abuse is characterised as hurt or injury by maltreatment. And believe me, this individual was maltreated by your daughter.’

  Gigi giggles. ‘Bite. Aarumph.’ She gnashes her teeth together.

  It’s very hard to not laugh. One look at Yvonne’s frowning face helps.

  ‘No, Gigi. Biting is bad. Very, very bad. And if you do it again you may not be allowed to come to this nursery. And you love it here, don’t you?’

  Gigi nods. ‘Gigi like school.’ Gigi had walked through the Portakabin door for the first time just a few weeks ago at the start of the school’s autumn term. She had thankfully taken to it immediately. I was probably the only mother who had had to cart a crying toddler away from school. Looking around the rundown classroom, the grey partition walls brightened up with children’s drawings and finger paintings, it was hard to comprehend just what exactly made it so magical.

  I turn to Yvonne. ‘So I’m hoping it’s not a three strikes and you’re out policy?’ I try a smile.

  Yvonne’s face remains impassive. ‘This should never happen again.’

  ‘Of course, of course. We will make sure she understands. I really am very sorry, she’s never done this before.’

  ‘I should hope not.’

  ‘Bye bye, Eeeyvon.’ Gigi waves and grins at her. She seems immune to just how terrifying this woman is.

  ‘Bye bye, Gigi,’ says Yvonne. ‘Now you enjoy your special time with Mummy.’

  *

  Mother. Secret agent. Two roles. Two lives. There are days when it’s tough. Of course there are. But today is one of those winning days. Where I crammed it all in. Saved a colleague. Picked up my daughter. Whipped up some fish fingers for her dinner. Succeeded in getting her to eat three pieces of carrot. And got her to bed after only six bedtime stories and three threats of banning pudding for a week. Victorious days like this are few and far between and it’s important to revel in them.

  Will arrives home as I’m sitting on the living room sofa, toasting myself with a large glass of red wine.

  ‘My dry-cleaning upstairs?’

  Shit.

  Part One

  Bite

  bite, v.

  1. Use the teeth in order to inflict injury on.

  2. Take the bait or lure.

  Chapter One

  A BUSKER WITH A TOPKNOT was singing about ‘running’ in an enthusiastic falsetto at the bottom of the es
calators at Holborn tube station. I recognised it as a Florence and the Machine song. A few commuters winced. It was a little too high-pitched for early Monday morning.

  I gave him a nod as I walked past him and joined the escalators up into the daylight.

  The weekend had been quiet. All active missions were on hold. My orders had been to not leave London, keep my head down and await a full update at today’s briefing. After two days of a husband still grumpy about ShirtGate and a daughter wielding a glue gun demanding craft time, I was ready for whatever the Platform could throw at me.

  I walked up to the grey office building adjoining the tube station. I swiped my specially modified Oyster card against the double doors and entered. In the small reception area was a waiting lift. I walked in and pressed a combination of buttons that took me down to the hallowed halls of Platform Eight.

  Our offices were situated in a disused underground network of rooms and tunnels coming off Platform Eight at Holborn tube station. It was a fitting location for our covert branch of the security services – we could roam all over London hidden from the all-seeing CCTV, whilst the sounds of the trains helped mask the noise from uncooperative interviewees. Only we knew the dark truth behind the seemingly innocuous tube announcements. ‘Signal failures’ were often caused by over-enthusiastic interrogating shorting the electricity supply and affecting the whole underground grid. A ‘person on the tracks’ could be a person who would rather die than answer our questions – it was a particularly effective disposal method as ‘splatters’ were near impossible to do autopsies on.

  I entered the lift an everyday commuter and exited an underground secret agent.

  This was our world. Officially we were the Government Communication and Data Specialisation Branch used by MI5 and MI6 for specialist data analysis. Unofficially we went by the catchier Platform Eight and were a covert division tasked solely with missions that left no paper trail and no target alive.

  We were Rats.

  We scuttled around underground doing the unpalatable work necessary to keep everyone in Britain safe.

  We were the Security Services’ dirty little secret.

  I ran my hand against the concrete wall as I walked towards my meeting room. The division was a hive of activity. There were people hurrying up and down the corridors. Phones ringing. Shouts from office to office. Around sixty people work out of Platform Eight. Only half were Rats, the rest were Tech Support or working in departments like Surveillance, Special Projects and Research and Development. We may all have different skillsets, differing motivations, but all of us who worked at Eight shared the unfaltering belief that what we were doing was vital to national – and international – security. Sanctioned assassinations for the greater good. Saving lives by taking lives.