Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 55756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
At the same time as the man dies, lightning claps. Outside the leadlight kitchen window I can see that the day has gone dark. Rain is suddenly pouring, and the wind is howling. It was sunny not half an hour ago. But I can't worry too much about the weather, because I am trying very hard to make the mental adjustment to having just fucking killed someone. I’ve done a lot of terrible things in my life, but I have never killed anybody before.
I don’t even know who he was. Might have been a lost German tourist for all I know. My god. What if I've killed a German tourist? I mean, a man. That’s all that matters. Someone’s brains have just been bashed out and it’s my fault. Because I physically did it. With a mythical hammer. That works pretty much the same way a modern hammer does. Probably. I don't know. I’ve never hit anyone in the fucking head with a hammer before. Am I freaking out? I am definitely freaking out.
Now there's only one thing left to do.
Run.
Thor
I am in Direford, making some inquiries. It’s not that big a village. Someone is going to know who the curvy little Gothic chick is. I have a still from the security footage and I’m asking about the sorts of places she might work or go. The record store. A cafe. I have a suspicion that a couple of people I've spoken to do know who she is, but nobody has said anything of use.
“Never seen her,” a tattooed young man tells me.
The way that his pierced brows rose when I showed him the picture makes me think that’s very untrue.
“Never seen her?”
“No. Definitely not. Who are you?”
“Father Larsen.”
“Uh huh. Why is a priest looking for … her?”
“I have something for her. A small inheritance.” I hand him a twenty pound note. Enough to perk his interest and greed. “Let me know if you do see her. There’s more.”
"Well, actually. Now you mention it…”
Before he can tell me a new lie, the sky opens and my silent hammer calls me with a voice of thunder. I dash outdoors, ignoring the all-too-late information being spouted behind me. I know where she is. I know where my hammer is. And I know that it has been used.
My hammer should not respond to the will of any other than myself. It should certainly not open up the heavens for a mere human. What is happening? Why is this little English village the site of so much strangeness?
Having seen where the lightning struck, I know where to go. It is not far from where I am. Just a few streets over. I break into a run, feeling the residual static electricity left in the air sparking against my skin. I feel like a hound giving chase to his prey, a beast with a singular intention to reclaim what is his. I do not have to go far to find it.
The girl is running as fast as she can away from the scene of what I can assume is a crime scene. I overhaul her easily in a few steps and grab her around the waist. I’m not letting go of her again. Not for anything. I am not letting her out of my sight.
My car is not far away. Fortunately, the thunder and rain has sent the general public scuttling for cover and nobody sees me bundle the girl into my car like a sack of proverbial potatoes.
She’s crying hysterically as we pull away back to the abbey, making incoherent pleas for mercy. I turn my head over my shoulder for one brief moment and make harsh eye contact with her.
“Do you have the hammer?”
“Yes,” she sobs. “In my rucksack.”
“Good. Put your seatbelt on.”
I don’t have any patience for tears. Not from her. She’ll get no mercy from me.
Anita
What have I done? I always knew that one day I’d go too far. I just didn't know how far I was going to go. Not that I didn’t think someone would end up dead. I just thought it would be, I don't know. Me?
Stealing stuff is bad. Not just, I now suddenly realize, because people don’t like it when you steal things, but because of what it leads you to next. One minute you’re swiping a cool hammer, the next you’ve killed someone with that cool hammer. Like most life lessons, it comes just too late to be useful. I sit next to Thor with my eyes full of tears, and my fingers wrapped around the shaft of the murder weapon.
Fuck. Why am I holding this? I don't even remember getting it out of my bag. I’m drawn to this tool, even after what I just did with it.
“You can give that back,” Thor says, suddenly noticing that I still have it. He grasps it just underneath the head, fisting the shaft. Putting his fingerprints all the fuck over the murder weapon.