injured, I was certainly hurt, everything ached and stung and I didnât make the fluid movement I envisaged but a jerky noisy gesture that drew his eyes even more quickly to my hiding place.Our eyes met, mine covered in blood, his peering over the sunglasses he had lowered onto his nose, and I saw a man that terrified me, a man who did whatever he wanted. He said something low and terse to the other cops who looked in my direction and took several seconds to locate me under my layer of dust and branches then leaped towards me, lifting me to my feet by my shoulders and showing me exactly where every small hurt was in my tumbled body. I probably could have walked but I wasnât going to make it easy for them, I donât know why, I should have been cooperative with the police in the hopes of some sort of fair chance to explain myself, but I didnât like them, they were brutal and I had some strange angst against them that made me belligerent. One of them thumped me in the back of the leg with his knee urging me to move faster, and it really hurt, causing me to twist sideways and, without thinking, kick him in the leg with my other foot, a stupid thing only a person used to a law-bound police force would do. I instantly regretted it cos he dropped my shoulder and belted me across the top of my back with hisstick. The officer was watching. I could see him from under my arms which I wrapped around my head and I kicked out as much as I could, but two men were too much for me and soon I was huddled in a ball trying to keep the blows to my upper back, which were certainly meant to hurt, not kill. He finally said a few words and they stopped and hauled me back to my feet. I was badly winded and hacked and coughed for breath as quietly as my dignity allowed, though I was terrified and I knew I was so far away from everyone, and any sort of real law, that they could shoot me in the back of the head, or the front of the head for that matter, and leave me there until some archaeologist found me in a millennia and studied my demise like they study the Ice Man. There was still no sign of Adolf though I tried to search for him without showing them what I was doing, my hair hanging down and covering my bruised face and, of course, the tears I most certainly didnât want the policemen to see and which, despite my best efforts and every mental curse, were working their way through the sand and grease and down my cheeks.
The police captainâs English was so perfect and unaccented I had no idea where heâd learned it, not American or British, no trace of Spanish in it at all.
âYour friend is underneath the truck.â
I was so busy listening, the words took several seconds to register as information, and then I glanced groggily around until I saw Adolfâs feet sticking out from underneath the bent-up side of the truck and they were still and perfect, just like the Wicked Witch of the West except with his white sandshoes, those strange things that managed to stay clean in the brown desert, unlike the ruby slippers. I pulled myself from the grip of the policemen so suddenly that they just stood there while I fell to the ground and started to try and dig him out, sand slipping through my fingers and falling back around his legs as fast as I could pull it out. He was deep in the soft sand and I couldnât help hoping it had somehow cushioned his fall. I ran to the other side of the truck and there he was, face up and barely a scratch on his naked chest and face, looking so peaceful he may have been asleep, andI felt the deepest terror that if I touched him to check his pulse I would make him dead, my fear corrupting his immortality.
There was no such fear in the Mexicans, one of whom kicked Adolfâs chest with force. Adolf opened his eyes, blinked and tried to sit up, though the truck was over his waist and he immediately fell back. I started to push the truck, which moved not even a quarter of an inch
The police captainâs English was so perfect and unaccented I had no idea where heâd learned it, not American or British, no trace of Spanish in it at all.
âYour friend is underneath the truck.â
I was so busy listening, the words took several seconds to register as information, and then I glanced groggily around until I saw Adolfâs feet sticking out from underneath the bent-up side of the truck and they were still and perfect, just like the Wicked Witch of the West except with his white sandshoes, those strange things that managed to stay clean in the brown desert, unlike the ruby slippers. I pulled myself from the grip of the policemen so suddenly that they just stood there while I fell to the ground and started to try and dig him out, sand slipping through my fingers and falling back around his legs as fast as I could pull it out. He was deep in the soft sand and I couldnât help hoping it had somehow cushioned his fall. I ran to the other side of the truck and there he was, face up and barely a scratch on his naked chest and face, looking so peaceful he may have been asleep, andI felt the deepest terror that if I touched him to check his pulse I would make him dead, my fear corrupting his immortality.
There was no such fear in the Mexicans, one of whom kicked Adolfâs chest with force. Adolf opened his eyes, blinked and tried to sit up, though the truck was over his waist and he immediately fell back. I started to push the truck, which moved not even a quarter of an inch
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