Convoke

Chapter 7

"I heard that soul strippers were doomed to see the worst in humanity, or something," Scotty said, sipping his pint through a straw.

Tom looked at his wound dressing under his chin and on the side of his neck. He felt no remorse. Scotty was violent first, the demon had simply defended herself when she jammed the glass into his throat, yet Scotty was still enjoying life while the demon had her soul stripped. "Where'd you hear that?" he asked.

"Read it in a book," Scotty replied. Every now and then, conveniently whenever anyone new entered the pub, he would groan and tenderly touch his wounds. Then he would tell whoever was listening that he had been brutally attacked by a demon. Tom's patience had been rolled thinner with each retelling.

"You can read?" Finn asked with fake surprise. everyone around them laughed. "No but seriously, I heard the same thing about soul strippers. Demons get that role because of hideous crimes they've committed."

Tom shivered, especially when his dad nodded his head too, and said, "I heard the same. And I heard that they're soul strippers pretty much for the rest of their lives."

"Well, that's a pretty grim punishment," Tom mumbled.

"Maybe they committed pretty grim crimes."

That night, he went to bed thinking about Ezra, and had horrible dreams of demons invading the village. They burnt most of it down to the ground and were on their way to the pub to do the same before Tom woke in a cold sweat with a thumping heart. He sat up, looking around his dark room. He had forgotten to shut his curtains and dawn had almost bid the stars farewell. He got up for some water and was greeted by Gerry, who was leaning next to the sink with a coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. His orange tie was wonky, and the top button of his shirt was undone.

"You're up early for once," Gerry said, watching him fill a glass with water. "It'll do you some good. I get up at this time even on weekends. I get more done than most people because of it."

"I don't need to get up at this time," Tom mumbled.

"You should. It's good for you, and you'll get more done."

"No."

"Seriously, if you got up earlier, you'd have more time to get on with your life because you don't really do much other than stand behind that bar all day. It'll improve your mood and-"

"If it's so good for you, then why are you such a miserable twat every day?" Tom regretted it the moment he said it. There was no reason for him to attack him like that, but maybe it was Gerry's condescending tone, or his smug smirk, or the way he could tell that Gerry was leading up to a backhanded compliment.

Gerry folded his newspaper, shaking his head. "I'm just trying to help you, Tom. You have no goals, no ambitions. You'll get lazy."

"How about you focus on your own life . . . like maybe that new house you said you'd buy two years ago." Tom left, incredibly irritated. He changed into black adidas shorts, a black t-shirt, and a grey waterproof jacket with reflective stripes down the side. He wore white trainers, grabbed his phone and his headphones and checked his appearance in the mirror. His mousy brown hair was a mess but flattened under his headphones. His blue eyes were tired, but only from his blunt awakening. His pale skin was blotching red over his cheeks, but only from the anger from his conversation with Gerry.

He burnt his frustration out on an early morning run.

Hazy mornings were his favourite, especially when he was up early enough to see farmer Joel walking around the perimeter of his field. Tom waved and laughed when Joel stuck up his middle finger and turned away. He jogged down the country roads and through the village. Shops were shut, as were blinds and curtains. Not a soul disturbed him, so he continued through a wooden gate and up one of the trails that ventured over a small stream and up a hill. He stopped halfway, so out of breath that he regretted starting it. But once he was at the top, he looked around in awe.