Down: Pinhole by Glenn Cooper Page B

didn’t appear to have a weapon. Up and down the road, shutters opened a crack. He stopped and turned to take a better look at his pursuer. He was no more than a skinny kid. John could deal with him without weapons. He could break him in two with his hands.
    The kid said, “That’s it, big fellow. No need to hoof it. I’m Dirk. ’Ad a good passage, then?”
    John didn’t answer.
    Dirk drew closer. He was barefoot, his ankles sinking into the slop. His shirt and trousers were filthy and ragged, his hair a tangled mess. When he was a yard away he began to sniff like a dog and suddenly his face turned from crafty to alarmed.
    “Bloody ’ell! Another one.”
    “Another what?” John demanded.
    In a flash, Dirk lost interest in him and ran back to the spot where John first appeared.
    “Duck! Duck! What’s ’appened to you?”
    John slowly walked toward him.
    “Did you see me brother?” Dirk said. “Taller than me, bit of a mackerel, but not as ’andsome.”
    “You’re the first person I’ve seen. Where are we?”
    Dirk backed away from the muddy spot as if John’s deep boot prints were radioactive.
    “I told Duck not to walk through there. I told ’im it weren’t safe. What ’appens once can ’appen again.”
    “What happened before? Was there a woman?”
    Dirk started to wail in despair. “I can’t go on without ’im. ’E’s all I ’ave, all I ever ’ad.”
    John wanted to grab him by the shirt and shake him but the cloth looked so ratty he thought it would come apart in his hands. Instead, he drew within inches, towering over the lad, and spoke with absolute menace.
    “I will hurt you if you don’t start answering my questions. You said I was another one. Another what?”
    Dirk wiped at his snotty nose with the back of his hand. “Another live ’un.”
    “And you’re not?” John asked sarcastically.
    Dirk snorted. “Me? You must be joking! I’ve been dead for over two hundred years.”
    John stared at him mutely.
     
    “Better come inside,” Dirk said. “If the sweepers come through they’ll lace you up and ’ave you in irons.”
    John cautiously followed him into his house.
    With the door closed the small room was dark save for the glow of a modest fire in the hearth. When his eyes adjusted John made out a primitive table with a couple of stools, two cot-like beds, and some cook pots by the fire. The gapped floorboards were caked with mud. It was a rough little place but at least it didn’t smell as bad indoors.
    John opened the rear shutter for a quick peek. There was a small plot of tilled land and beyond it a river about a half-mile away.
    “’Ungry?”
    John shook his head. He’d had breakfast earlier somewhere far away.
    Dirk ladled some greasy stew into a wooden bowl and had at it with a wooden spoon.
    “Sorry ’bout the dark. Got to keep the shutters closed or the sweepers’ll see in. Got a few candles but they’re dear. Beer?”
    “I could use a drink.”
    Dirk got up. There was a keg in a black corner.
    “You talk funny,” Dirk said. “Know that?”
    “I’m from America.”
    “’Eard of it.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Tobacco comes from there, I ’ear. Got any?”
    “Sorry. I quit.”
    “Why?”
    “It can kill you.”
    Dirk put two wooden mugs of beer down on the table.
    “Not one of me worries. Let’s get to the brass monkeys. Where’s Duck? Do you know where ’e is?”
    John tasted the beer, a tiny sip at first. It was sweet, like a barley wine, and strong.
    “Not bad,” he said.
    “Not bad? It’s the best around. Make it myself, I do.”
    John had some more. One of his teeth tingled and when he probed it with his tongue he noticed the filling was missing. He set his tongue roving and found more gaps but ignored the problem for now. “Answer my questions first. Then I’ll tell you what I know about your brother.”
    “Fair ’nough. Ask away.”
    “What is this place?”
    “You don’t know?”
    “Son, I have no idea.”
    Calling him son seemed