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His accent was decidedly North Yorkshire, the vowels twisted and wrung out before finally being released from servitude in his mouth.
“Every crime is a narrative, a story told backward. We know the ending, and it is our job to discover the beginning and middle.”
She remembered being that age, thinking the grace and ease of youth would last forever—getting old was something that happened to other people.
Spitting on the Heart was considered both good luck and a sign of Scottish patriotism—though Lillian considered it merely an excuse for boys to spit in public.
Outside, the rain beat hard upon the roofs of saints and sinners alike, hammering a steady, insistent tattoo upon the city’s ancient dwellings.
“You’re English—from the West Country?” England’s west coast had a peculiar and unique accent, as rugged and twisty as the inlets staggered along its cliffs and beaches.
The barkeep was a muscular, bald fellow with a thick Glaswegian accent—which is to say, he was nearly unintelligible.
“I had occasion to test the law of gravity. I am happy to report it is intact.”
The mouse watched from its perch on the counter. “There are some scones in the bread box,” Ian said as he closed the door behind him. “Enjoy them, because tomorrow I’m getting a mousetrap.”
He pretended to protest, and she pretended to believe him.
“Ach, the English!” She spat the words out contemptuously. “They’re a pallid group o’weaklings. Can’t even manage to measure a proper mile.”
She shook her head. “You’re Emily’s boy, bless her soul. She was as stubborn a Scot as ever lived.” He turned to face her. “And you?” She raised an eyebrow and drew herself up in her chair. “I’m persistent. There’s a difference.”
He gazed out at the sleeping city, its inhabitants tucked safely into their beds. It was his job to protect them, to see no other family was savaged by tragedy as his had been. It was a quest worthy of Don Quixote, but it was reassuring to be at his post day after day.
Dawn slunk timidly through the streets of the city the next morning, as if afraid of what it might find.
That is powerful wordplay and incrdible imagry.
“Still, how convenient to have miscreants and murderers walking among us, so that the rest of us may lead virtuous lives. They’re like the pustules in an otherwise healthy body, siphoning off the toxins of society.”
“I’m suggesting the forces of light and dark exist in a relationship of delicate balance, and that murderers appease the bloodlust of humanity. They perform a double duty: first, by expressing mankind’s desire to kill, and second, as appropriate victims of slaughter when they are brought to justice.”
The Hand of God is dull, diffident—or worse, indifferent How can he demand from us what he refuses to provide mocking us with notions of love he continues to hide while we stew in shame like an unwilling bride
“My face had the discourtesy to interrupt the forward motion of a fist.”
“My face had a disagreement with a fist about occupying the same space. The fist had the upper hand.”
