Red stepped into the alley and attempted to drag the old man, by coat or hair or beard, whichever handhold presented itself, off his victim. It was easier said than done; the assault had all the fury of a fit. But Red’s superior strength won out. Spitting nonsense, Pope was pulled to his feet. Red held on to him as if he were a mad dog.
“Get up he told Karney, “get out of his reach.”
Karney staggered to his feet among the tinder of crates. In the scant seconds of his attack Pope had done considerable damage. Karney was bleeding in half a dozen places. His clothes had been savaged; his shirt ripped beyond repair. Tentatively, he put his hand to his raked face. The scratches were raised like ritual scars.
Red pushed Pope against the wall. The derelict was still apoplectic, eyes wild. A stream of invective-a jumble of English and gibberish-was flung in Red’s face. Without pausing in his tirade Pope made another attempt to attack Karney, but this time Red’s handhold prevented the claws from making contact. Red hauled Pope out of the alley and into the road.
“Your lip’s bleeding,” Anelisa said, looking at Karney with plain disgust. Karney could taste the blood, salty and hot. He put the back of his hand to his mouth. It came away scarlet.
“Good thing we came after you,” she said.
“Yeah,” he returned, not looking at the woman. He was ashamed of the showing he’d made in the face of the vagrant and knew she must be laughing at his inability to defend himself. Her family were villains to a man, her father a folk hero among thieves.
Red came back in from the street. Pope had gone.
“What was all that about?” he demanded to know, taking a comb from his jacket pocket and rearranging his hair.
“Nothing,” Karney replied.
“Don’t give me shit,” Red said. “He claims you stole something from him. Is that right?”
Karney glanced across at Anelisa. But for her presence he might have been willing to tell Red everything, there and then. She returned his glance and seemed to read his thoughts. Shrugging, she moved out of earshot, kicking through the demolished crates as she went.
“He’s got it in for us all, Red,” Karney said.
“What are you talking about?”
Karney looked down at his bloody hand. Even with Anelisa out of the way, the words to explain what he suspected were slow in coming.
“Catso he began.
“What about him?”
“He was running, Red.”
Behind him, Anelisa expelled an irritated sigh. This was taking longer than she had temper for.
“Red,” she said, “we’ll be late.”
“Wait a minute,” Red told her sharply and turned his attention back to Karney. “What do you mean: about Catso?”
“The old man’s not what he seems. He’s not a vagrant.”
“Oh? What is he?” A note of sarcasm had crept back into Red’s voice, for Anelisa’s benefit, no doubt. The girl had tired of discretion and had wandered back to join Red. “What is he, Karney?”
Karney shook his head. What was the use of trying to explain a part of what had happened? Either he attempted the entire story, or nothing at all. Silence was easier.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said flatly.
Red gave him a puzzled look, then, when there was no clarification forthcoming, said: “If you’ve got something to tell me about Catso, Karney, I’d like to hear it. You know where I live.”
“Sure,” said Karney.
“I mean it,” Red said, “about talking.”
“Thanks.”
“Catso was a good mate, you know? Bit of a piss-artist, but we’ve all had our moments, eh? He shouldn’t have died, Karney It was wrong.
“Red-”
“She’s calling you.” Anelisa had wandered out into the street.
“She’s always calling me. I’ll see you around, Karney.”
“Yeah.”
Red patted Karney’s stinging cheek and followed Anelisa out into the sun. Karney made no move to follow them. Pope’s assault had left him trembling. He intended to wait in the alleyway until he’d regained a gloss of composure, at least. Seeking reassurance of the knots he put his hand into his jacket pocket. It was empty. He checked his other pockets. They too were empty, and yet he was certain that the old man’s grasp had failed to get near the cord. Perhaps they had slipped out of hiding during the struggle. Karney began to scour the alley, and when the first search failed, followed with a second and a third. But by that time he knew the operation was lost. Pope had succeeded after all. By stealth or chance, he had regained the knots.