Chapter 1

It was raining. His clothes were already saturated; the water must have been falling for some time. Only now did he notice. His work wasn’t finished. He paused, letting the drops beat the dust to the ground. Earlier, the clouds of dirt had worried him — not the noise, but the sight of it hanging in the air. The first blow had cracked the marble like a choc-ice shell. The second had loosened a slab. The third had raised a choking puff of grit. Nightfall had hidden it from view, but not from his lungs. He had worked on, adrenaline pushing him past the sting in his eyes and throat. That rush was gone now. That was why he felt the rain.

The drops drove the dust to the ground before it could rise into his mouth. That was when he felt the ache in his arms. The rain cooled his body, steam lifting from his head into the glow of the streetlamps.

His clothes were soaked through. It didn’t matter. They had already been drenched in sweat, and now the drizzle only changed the smell. Sweat and rainwater made a different scent.

Water ran down his face, gathered at his chin. He tested his grip on the hammer. It hadn’t slipped yet, but now it might. His fingers burned white and red as they clenched harder. The handle swelled with water. Still he did not wish the rain away. It masked the sound. It cloaked the city’s ears. Next time he would wait for rain. Next time he would wear gloves—the cheap ones, white cloth dipped in red paint. They would not be hard to find.

The rain felt like it was set to fall all night, but he was nearly finished. One more swing. One more blow. He raised the hammer, feet set, body twisting, arms extending. At the moment of impact, the brutality that left him was no longer his to control.

The hammer landed with a sound he found pleasing—quieter than he had feared, swallowed by the city’s endless drone. Dust rose as the brickwork gave way, collapsing to the floor. Disappointing. He had expected an explosion, not this meek surrender. The first blows had been more satisfying. This crumbling left him melancholy.

He thought of the men who had built the wall. Would they have mourned its destruction? He hoped not. Better that they had seen it as just another job, one wall among hundreds, a task without pride or love. Better that his work tonight did not desecrate theirs.

He stepped back and looked at his work. Enough. He was finished. Finished with the hammer. Finished with the nameless men who had built the wall. Finished with the rain.

The work was over. Now came the showing. Soon she would see what he had done.

Boy 1: “I’ve got primo seats, where are you?”

Boy 2: “You’re already there?”

Boy 1: “Course I’m already bloody here. You haven’t even left yet, have you?”

Boy 2: “Game doesn’t kick off for an hour.”

Boy 1: “At-mos-phere, mate. We’ve got to generate some.”

Boy 2: “What’s it like? Many people in there? Any Kiwis?”

Boy 1: “Half-full. Two, three tables free. Some Kiwis in the corner—probably your cousins. – Yeah, a Hoegaarden, thanks – No orcs yet, mate. Although there’s a bird in the corner, haven’t seen her face. She could be one. She’s certainly big enough. Oh, wait—she’s turning round... ahh, no, just a normal huge New Zealand female with a horrific face. Not an orc. Anyway, get down here.”

Boy 2: “Alright, I’ll leave now. Can’t find where Summer’s put my All Blacks shirt.”

Boy 1: “You won’t want to wear it when France humiliate you. Just put anything on. Don’t want your naked rippling torso out, but I don’t care what covers it.”

Boy 2: “Mate, the ladies love a bit of the show.”

Boy 1: “We’re here to watch rugby. Only girls in here are massive.”

Boy 2: “Even they deserve a treat every now and then.”

Boy 1: “If this lot get their hands on you, they’ll do more than treat themselves.”

Boy 2: “Ha, alright. I’ll find something black and get down there. About thirty minutes.”

Boy 1: “See you in forty-five.”

Boy 2: “OK, mate. See you in a bit.”