to struggle, but his thrashing only served to enrage his captor. Red was in a dirty mood. The day, like most days this Indian summer, had been sticky and dull. Only the dog-end of a wasted season to endure; nothing to do, and no money to spend. Some entertainment had been called for, and it had fallen to Red as lion, and Pope as Christian, to supply it.
“You’ll get hurt if you struggle,” Red advised the man, “we only want to see what you’ve got in your pockets.”
“None of your business,” Pope retorted, and for a moment he spoke as a man who had once been used to being obeyed. The outburst made Karney turn from the gnats and gaze at Pope’s emaciated face. Nameless degeneracies had drained it of dignity or vigor, but something remained there, glimmering beneath the dirt. What had the man been, Karney wondered? A banker perhaps? A judge, now lost to the law forever?
Catso had now stepped into the fray to search Pope’s clothes, while Red held his prisoner against the tunnel wall by the throat. Pope fought off Catso’s unwelcome attentions as best he could, his arms flailing like windmills, his eyes getting progressively wilder. Don’t fight, Karney willed him, it’ll be worse for you if you do. But the old man seemed to be on the verge of panic. He was letting out small grunts of protest that were more animal than human.
“Somebody hold his arms,” Catso said, ducking beneath Pope’s attack. Brendan grabbed hold of Pope’s wrists and wrenched the man’s arms up above his head to facilitate an easier search. Even now, with any hope of release dashed, Pope continued to squirm. He managed to land a solid kick to Red’s left shin, for which he received a blow in return. Blood broke from his nose and ran down into his mouth. There was more color where that came from, Karney knew. He’d seen pictures aplenty of spilled people-bright, gleaming coils of guts; yellow fat and purple lungs-all that brilliance was locked up in the gray sack of Pope’s body. Why such a thought should occur to him Karney wasn’t certain. It distressed him, and he tried to turn his attention back to the gnats, but Pope demanded his attention, loosing a cry of anguish as Catso ripped open one of his several waistcoats to get to the lower layers.
“Bastards!” Pope screeched, not seeming to care that his insults would inevitably earn him further blows. “Take your shifting hands off me or I’ll have you dead. All of you I” Red’s fist brought an end to the threats, and blood came running after blood. Pope spat it back at his tormentor. “Don’t tempt me,”
Pope said, his voice dropping to a murmur. “I warn you…”
“You smell like a dead dog,” Brendan said. “Is that what you are: a dead dog?”
Pope didn’t grant him a reply. His eyes were on Catso, who was systematically emptying the coat and waistcoat pockets and tossing a pathetic collection of keepsakes into the dust on the tunnel floor.
“Karney,” Red snapped, “look through the stuff, will you? See if there’s anything worth having.”
Karney stared at the plastic trinkets and the soiled ribbons, at the tattered sheets of paper (was the man a poet?) and the wine-bottle corks. “It’s all trash,” he said.
“Look anyway,” Red instructed. “Could be money wrapped in that stuff.” Karney made no move to comply. “Look, damn you.
Reluctantly, Karney went down on his haunches and proceeded to sift through the mound of rubbish Catso was still depositing in the dirt. He could see at a glance that there was nothing of value there, though perhaps some of the items-the battered photographs, the all but indecipherable notes-might offer some clue to the man Pope had been before drink and incipient lunacy had driven the memories away. Curious as he was, Karney wished to respect Pope’s privacy. It was all the man had left.
“There’s nothing here,” he announced after a cursory examination. But Catso hadn’t finished his search. The deeper he dug the more layers of filthy clothing presented themselves to his eager hands. Pope had more pockets than a master magician.