This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Ebook Edition © October 2016 ISBN: 9780008180218

Version: 2016-12-20

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Author’s Note

The Hammer and the Goat

About the Author

Also by Peter Newman

About the Publisher

Author’s Note

I don’t know about you, but I hate reading things out of order. So, in case you’re like me, I wanted to say that this story takes place parallel to the events in

The Vagrant

and is best enjoyed after you’ve read that.

I have a lot of love for The Hammer that Walks and, despite myself, the goat. It’s been a real treat to be able to revisit these characters and give them more space to play. Thank you for coming along.

The Hammer and the Goat

The Hammer that Walks wakes up, her mouth dry. It is often that way after the dreams come. The Hammer’s dreams are not the same as other people’s, more like memories viewed over and over. A silver-green face stretched wide, split by horns, a stub-winged shadow that looms over her, holding her fears in one hand, her anger in the other, making them one.

Making her.

It is true to say that she has not seen the Usurper for almost a year now, but it is also true to say that she sees the Usurper every day. That its imprint is seared so deeply into her essence that she cannot help but see it whenever she closes her eyes.

Sweating, she tries to sit up. Underneath fresh bandages, scabs pull tight on her skin, blotches of brown marking her flesh from collarbone to toe, freshly plugged holes where rivets once sat. She is not used to feeling weak, does not like it. As with most obstacles, the Hammer tries to fight, growling at her new opponent: herself.

The struggle is brief, painful, but at the end of it the Hammer is upright. She paws the area immediately around her, growing more frantic until her thick fingers find the coin.

Aware of the tremble in her limbs, the Hammer moves carefully, curling her right index finger as if there were a gun in her hand, invisible, and placing the coin on top. She touches her thumbnail to the underside of her finger, and makes some final adjustments. Fixated on her work, she does not notice the tip of her tongue peeking between lips.

The coin is tossed and the Hammer looks up, hopeful. It wobbles as it spins, humming softly. She cannot make it sing the way the man does but even the hint of song is enough to bring her blunt teeth out of hiding.

For the few moments it is airborne and alive, the coin distracts her, and the Usurper’s presence feels further away. Three blinks of relief before it lands, smacking softly into her palm.

Then, almost immediately, the sense of rage returns, knotting muscles in her shoulders. Quickly, she places the coin on her finger, tossing it, watching, enraptured, savouring each second of distraction before catching it, tossing it again.

Her lack of finesse begins to irk, the coin not quite resonant enough to satisfy. Movements become more hurried, the need to make song all-consuming.

But the Hammer is tired. The coin slips through her green fingers like water, clattering on the floor.

The Hammer hangs her head and moans. The man can make the coins sing. He should be here! The one called Harm with soft voice and softer bones should be here too. They claim to be her friends but they have left her here, alone.

An indignant bleat makes her look up.

The Hammer is not alone. The goat remains, watching her with dark eyes, uncharacte‌ristically kind.

‘Goat,’ says the Hammer.

The goat trots forward, allowing the Hammer to stroke her flank. The two share a little food and some water, provisions left by the two men. Are they truly friends, she wonders, then shakes her head. They will not come back.

The room she sits in is sparsely furnished, with a dusty, curving window, a puffy plasglass blister on the side of the ageing tower. There are many rooms identical in size and shape to hers, the people that lived here evicted by oversized rats and tainted spiders, skin-hungry.

Aside from provisions and the smell of the Hammer’s blood, the room has few possessions. The Hammer’s armour is stacked in a corner. It needs cleaning and reworking, and a new way to hold to her body. A scowl develops on the Hammer’s face, an indicator of thought. Plans to manipulate the shape of the plates form in her brain while her hands make fists, clenching around the handles of tools she does not have.

Unimpressed with this display, the goat walks to the door.

‘Goat.’

The goat turns her head to look round.

‘No.’

The goat bleats.

‘Goat, no.’

The goat snorts and trots out of the room.

‘Goat, no!’ she says again.

But the goat is gone.

The Hammer sits back, suddenly too tired to argue, too tired to fight. Eyes close and though she does not sleep, the image of the Usurper’s face is waiting for her, as always, with knife-edged memories, keen to cut.

She is a child again, hiding in the basement. It is not like before. Normally there are only a few of them, given work when it suits the owners.

The owners do not like her. They call her names, saying she is stubborn and stupid. Then they beat her. But the child knows she is not stupid. In fact, it is her intelligence they try to smother with their threats. They have a role prepared for her that demands she not think too much.

She is stubborn however, undeniably stubborn.

So when the other children, the ones with the colourful clothes come to join them, she says, ‘Why?’

And when the owners shush her and tell her to keep quiet, she asks, ‘Why?’

And when they slap her face: ‘Why?’

Even when they give up, worried looks going to the ceiling, she asks them.

No answers are given, most of the owners vanishing into the world where two suns light the sky, the red and gold far more preferable to the dusty lamp and its weak yellow pallor.

She watches the adults go, leaving the two groups of children behind, and considers their flight a victory.

Time passes, the new arrivals bringing a sense of novelty as they cluster together, the older ones hugging the younger.

She folds her arms, making it clear that she does not need any hugs. She is four years old for suns’ sake. Pride tilts her chin, taking her gaze above the ones huddling, rabbit-like, to the older children. They are of far more interest than the little ones. Soon, she thinks, they will see her bravery and come and talk to her.

The pose is held for a while, the desire to not be lonely outweighing the need to sit down.

Nobody comes but being ignored has its advantages. The older children talk of things above, interesting things. Many of the words are unknown to her but she savours the sound of them nonetheless: ‘Breach … Enlisting … Contact … Catastrophic … Annihilation … Mutation …’

The next part she understands too well.

‘What are you staring at?’

The question comes from a boy with wide-set eyes and a nose like a blob of glue. He is large: she thinks he must have reached nine years at least, possibly even twenty-seven. Never one for messing around, she answers truthfully. ‘You.’

‘Well stop it, alright? I got enough to worry about without a stupid kid like you getting in my face.’

‘No.’

‘No?’ He pushes her backwards, making arms fly out to either side, an impotent flap that does nothing to stop bottom hitting floor, hard.

Her face creases, not in tears, she has not shed any of those since she was three, but in anger. She gets up to find the boy has already turned his back to her, saying something to another boy about a fire.

‘No,’ she says, pushing him. He does not go far but the one step bumps two heads together, making both boys call out in pain.

The child shakes her head at him as he whirls round.

‘Right,’ he says, rubbing at an already swelling lip. ‘That’s it!’

She is pushed over a second time, then kicked. The boy seems keen to do more but the second boy intervenes. ‘Don’t mark her, dad’ll be angry if you mark her.’

‘Who’s going to notice one girl with what’s going on?’

The second boy grabs the first, looking very serious. ‘My dad.’

‘Fine,’ mutters the first, spitting at her instead of kicking, before allowing himself to be led away.

She waits on the ground a while this time, hugging the hurt in her belly until the raging fades to a dull ache. A few tears are blinked away and the child is happy none spill on

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