Tuesday Falling

by S Williams

  Loss smiles. ‘Actually, I probably would. Where do you think she is now?’

  ‘God knows. Underground? Home, wherever that is. Seeing what happened to her daughter, I just don’t know.’

  They look down at the pavement, where only a few short weeks earlier, the chalk drawing of Tuesday Falling had been. Before London went into meltdown. Before everything was undone. Loss thinks of all the pain that Tuesday must have felt. First, because of whatever it was that had driven her to the streets, back when she had a home, parents, whatever. Second, because the daughter to whom she had only just given birth was murdered, and then because of the knowledge that her daughter’s organs were going to be harvested. For parts, like some old appliance being recycled. Loss cannot even comprehend what she must have gone through. Is going through.

  Finally, Loss asks, ‘What about the organ-selling?’

  Stone dips a finger in her lemonade, then draws an elaborate ‘T’ on the metal table, marshalling her thoughts. ‘The police were definitely involved. Border control as well. It probably wasn’t many, but they were hand-picked, and the trail goes high up. In fact, our precious leader seems to be in some very hot water indeed. So hot, in fact, that it’s evaporated, leaving him completely fucked. Heads will be rolling for quite some time, and the dent in the sheriff badge is probably unfixable. The government has set up a special division; they’re liaising with Interpol and some top secret unit in Latvia.’

  ‘And Slater?’ says Loss. Even saying his name seems to suck the warmth out of the day.

  ‘Mr Scary Hyde Park?’ says Stone, reaching over and taking Loss’s lemon from his drink. ‘Put out a bounty on Tuesday’s head that you could raise an army with. The assassin who tried to snuff Tuesday was arrested at Charing Cross Hospital trying to break into her room, and is being assessed in a high-security, i.e. never-fucking-coming-out, detention centre. Half the schoolgirls on Sparrow Estate are in rape centres. It looks as though Mr Slater’s business ventures will be quite low-key for a while.’

  ‘Not in jail, though?’ Loss is watching the violinist. Behind the busker is the man with his back to them, reading a newspaper. He still can’t quite place the tune.

  ‘No bloody chance. He’s squeaky-clean, apparently earns all his money in stock market milli-deals, and has nasty friends in high places. Even higher than our boss. Ex-boss.’

  There is a pause as the two detectives listen to the music. Loss definitely recognizes the tune.

  ‘Lily-Rose?’

  ‘A ghost. Like Tuesday.’

  ‘I still can’t believe it was going on … the baby shops.’

  ‘A city this big? It’s probably got everything going on. At least Suzanne was onto it. Tried to do something about it. You should be proud of her.’

  ‘I hate myself for not being there. Not saving her.’

  ‘With all respect, Detective, don’t talk such utter bollocks. She was a grown woman, not some little princess. She lived a good life and died a brave death. Stop being so fucking selfish and get over yourself, yeah?’ Stone finishes her drink, and places the empty glass firmly on the table.

  Loss stares at his partner. ‘You know, there are various techniques you can learn. To control your verbal tics.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘What about your boyfriend? What does he think about your swearing?’

  Stone grins widely at him, and Loss notices she has beautifully crooked teeth. He wonders idly why it is that he has not noticed this before.

  ‘Wrong pronoun, Poirot.’

  It takes a while for Loss to understand what his partner has just told him.

  They share a smile.

  ‘What about Five? What do you think her role is?’

  ‘Fuck knows. She seems to have her own agenda. The hospital where we last saw her has been cleaned-out, again. Deserted. The company who employed her have no idea where she is. According to her passport, she left Britain on the Eurostar the same day she told us where Tuesday’s hideaway was.’

  ‘Well that’s something.’

  ‘Yes. Except the train she was on left two hours before she spoke to us.’

  Loss thinks about this. ‘So she’s got a partner then.’

  Stone grins. ‘Don’t we all? You know, I’m not even convinced she’s Muslim. If it was her who drew the picture of Tuesday on the pavement,’

  They both involuntarily glance down again at the area of ground where Tuesday Falling had been portrayed in chalk and rain. ‘Well, she definitely wasn’t wearing a hijab then, was she?’

  Loss takes a sip of his drink.

  Stone persists. ‘And another thing, apropos to fuck all. You know that thing on the door, with the solar system?’

  For a second or two, Loss doesn’t know what she is referring to, then remembers. ‘On Five’s door at the abandoned hospital, yes. What about it?’

  ‘Well you were right, there was something odd: Mars was missing.’ Stone looks at him expectantly. When he doesn’t say anything she sighs loudly. ‘Knows all there is to know about the mail, but sod all about classical mythology. Mars is the Roman god of war, right? Their equivalent to Ares, the Greek God of vengeance.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Both are associated with Tiw, the Norse god of War.’

  ‘Fascinating. Does it have any relevance to anything at all?’

  ‘Little bit. The word “Tuesday” literally means “Tiw’s day”, also “the day of Mars”.’

  Loss digests what she is telling him, and then growls, ‘We’re just being fucked with, aren’t we?’

  She grins cheerily at him and nods. ‘Like little art pawns, yeah. I’m looking forward to meeting Five again. There is definitely a discussion to be had about the appropriate use of modern art.’

  ‘Is there one?’

  They drink in silence for a while.

  ‘Will you miss the force?’ she asks.

  ‘Well, as the entire Metropolitan Police are in a state of civil war, I think it was best to leave before I was pushed.’

  ‘Possibly off a cliff,’ she agrees.

  ‘What about you? What about your no-doubt magnificent career, all left in the gutter? You know, you didn’t have to leave as well. You could have stuck it out.’

  Stone reaches over, picks up the glass containing the last of his drink, looks at it, and then downs it.

  ‘I don’t think they would’ve allowed me to keep swearing. What do you think of the sign?’

  They both turn and admire the shiny new brass plate beneath the one advertising the antique shop on the top floor.

  Loss and Stone

  Detective Agency

  ‘Well, it’s brief. I’ll give you that,’ says Detective Loss.

  Detective Stone smiles straight into his eyes. ‘Fuck off, partner. At least I put your name first.’ They get up and walk into their office.

  A few moments later the man reading the newspaper folds it away, throws some coins into the ragged busker’s hat, stands up, and leaves. The busker finishes his rendition of ‘London Calling’, and packs away his violin.

  108

  What sort of ending do you want?

  I’m sitting on the ground with my back against the headstone of Suzanne Loss. She hasn’t got a real grave. Like most of the people in London she was cremated. Only the mega-rich get to be buried in London these days. Who’d’ve thought being eaten by worms would become such a privilege. The graveyard is on a hill, and all of London is below me, like some glittering beetle.

  I’m so tired I can barely keep my heart open, but I lean back and remember the doctor who looked after me. Who never judged me and tried to save my baby.

  Slater has got my tablet, so at least that worked out.

  That’s his name.

  Slater.

  Constantine. He thought I was the honeytrap. He thought I’d set myself up to bring him and his goons in. To trap them underground and expose them and fuck them up.

  Always so cock-sure and stu
pid.

  I wasn’t the honeytrap; the tablet was.

  I look at the ghost-tablet on my lap. It’s a mirror of my other one; the one in Slater’s fortress of a flat. It’s got a clone section in the hard drive that acts as a virtual copy of the one he’s got. At the moment it’s downloading all the data off his computer.

  That’s how I know his name. Not just the name he uses, but his real name. And Caleb’s. And Constantine’s. All of them.

  Really, these people are so fucking stupid. Do they really think I’d spend three years of my life planning something and then make a mistake like losing my tablet? Of course they do. That’s how arrogant they are. How mind-numbingly easy to read.

  So now I know his business. I’ve got his contacts in Eastern Europe. I know where he stores all his drugs. I know the name of everybody who has ever sat down and done deals with him. I know who in the government he has bribed. Who he owns. With all of this I can not only stop his clock, but smash it into a million pieces.

  But what to do now? I’m so tired. I thought I knew. I had it all worked out on the street. Night after night of being empty, filling myself up with hate. Find him. Fuck him up. Kill him. Slap him alive then kill him again. But now I don’t know.

  I’m seventeen-years-old and I feel a thousand.

  I could turn myself in. A pretty girl; pretty fucked up. I’ve only killed rapists and monsters masquerading as people. They’d probably just put me in a loony bin. Or Celebrity Big Brother.

  Frankly, I’d rather kill myself.

  I could go after Slater. I see from my tablet that the Hyde Park complex has a tunnel leading to a top London restaurant.

  Oh dear. That’s got my name written all over it.

  Or I could send all the stuff I’ve got to Loss and Stone; let them do the vengeance. After all, his daughter was murdered too. I could go back underground. Just tick. Just exist. Hope just living will make me not feel so numb.

  But I just don’t know if I can be bothered.

  I’ve been thinking about Lily-Rose. Those chats we had in the Interzone. There was so much pain, but underneath there was so much hope.

  I don’t know, maybe I could do something with her?

  Then again, two broken girls don’t make a mended one.

  Too tired.

  Too tired to choose.

  I lean back against Suzanne’s grave and look at the city. I swipe at the screen in front of me.

  I’m all over the ether.

  Terrorist. Victim. Fucked-up girl school murder-bomb. They can’t decide.

  Still, nothing about me from before. Now I’m out in the open it’s bound to happen, sooner or later. The line between then and now. Between her and me.

  I scout and scan, but there’s nothing there. Nobody home.

  Close down.

  Sit still.

  Tune out.

  I’m so tired I can’t choose.

  I lean back and close my eyes.

  You.

  I’m going to leave it to you.

  I’m not in control anymore.

  You choose.

  Acknowledgments

  I first discussed writing a thriller whilst living in a halfway house for ex-cons and drip release psychiatric patients with my friends Jonathon and David, so my first thanks goes to them; had they ridiculed the idea, Tuesday may not have happened.

  I’d like to thank Stickgirl, Thaddeus, Hester, Cassian and Magdalene for putting up with me, and giving me meaning.

  Next to my readers, who helped shape the novel into something resembling a story: Archie, Christine, Frances, Guy, James, Josephine, Loretta, Martin, Michael, Michelle, Oliver, Philip and Wai. A special thanks to David, Dominique and Leonie; you know why.

  Also to Asha, for helping me over many years with the swearing; there is none finer.

  Thanks to Gog, whose flat I just completely stole and put into my book.

  Thank you to Kate and the team at Killer Reads who have made the whole process a pleasure.

  Finally, I’d like to thank my agent, Anne-Marie, who believed in me and, more importantly, believed in Tuesday. Thank you Anne-Marie; thank you for the phone calls and the support. For the advice and the staying power. This book would be lying in a drawer if it weren’t for you. Words cannot express. I’ll try and write one with less cussing in next time.

  And, of course, thank you to all those who read this.

  S. Williams

  About the Author

  Tuesday Falling is S. Williams’s debut novel.

  About the Publisher

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