You could learn a lot about a person by going through their pockets. Which wasn’t why Trevor did it, but he fancied himself a connoisseur of the human condition after over a decade in the mugging business. Amazing what you could piece together about the poor sap you just clobbered.

Start with the carrier of the pockets themselves - that is, the victim’s garments. In this case painfully nondescript. Baggy worn-thin supermarket t-shirt which might have once been grey, or blue. Perhaps it had even started out black or white and gone through an unfortunate wash accident. Regardless, a brisk pat-down showed it hid no goodies.

The raggedy cargo jeans, with fabric scraps tied over its worst holes in lieu of patching, was far more promising, pockets positively bulging. But with treasure, or dross?

This moment of anticipation, nerves still singing from the confrontation and the knowledge that he had to move fast before the fuzz were alerted, was always sweet. Heady. He drank it in as he started emptying the top pockets.

Wallet. Not only the first thing you should search, but also the most interesting set of clues about the person cooling into pallor mortis before you. What was their name? How had they presented for their ID photo? Did they drive? Have hobbies? Aspirations, such as a faded gym membership card which did not at all match their physique?

Disappointingly, the ratty faux-leather wallet turned out to have only a few rumpled notes. No cards at all.

“Tsk. You really were down on your luck, huh bud? Bad news for both of us.”

In a further disappointment the jangling from the fellow’s other top pocket turned out to be a paper bag of metal drink tops, of all things. A collector, eh? Beer caps, soda lids, all sorts. Colourful and shiny, and they’d sounded enough like loose change to draw Trevor’s attention, but he doubted they were worth anything.

Back to the first pocket, investigating what had been under the wallet… a fist-sized wad of fabric. Scraps and strips torn off clothes and knotted together. Probably spares for fixing up his trousers. Sensible. Thrifty, even, as you’d expect a veteran of the streets to be. Trevor nodded respect.

On to the side pockets. Left side held a coil of thick string. Clothesline? It had the kinks and worn spots and uneven staining of much hard use. No telling what it had been used FOR; you could do a hundred and one things with a good bit of string. No resale value, however.

“Aw, don’t tell me you got yourself killed for NOTHING? That’s a real sorry way to go.”

Just in case, Trevor felt inside the last, seemingly empty pocket. His fingertips encountered rustling. Paper. Not a bank note - those had a distinctive feel to them these days. But it could be a betting stub or lottery ticket. A common sign of beaten-down desperation, an animal gnawing its own limb trying to escape a trap beyond its ken. Spending pennies they didn’t have, or at least sorely needed to put elsewhere, on a few precious hours of hollow hope.

And the alley was silent, no witnesses expected at this hour, so he took the time to extract the neatly folded sheet and open it, turning so the distant street light illuminated the letters.

“B O O”

Written large, in thick lines. Easy to read even in this late-night city gloom.

Trevor’s brows wrinkled. What did THIS say about the fella? Why would anybody carry around a note like this? Even if the poor sod was mute, why would he need-

Air gently stirring against the back of his neck. That was all the warning Trevor got before a wan, impossibly strong icy hand clamped across his mouth and PULLED, twisting his neck around, around, too far, agony exploding down his spine and yet it kept going, he could FEEL things popping and snapping and the last thing he ever saw was the toothy grin of the monster he thought he’d victimised.

The ancient fluorescent light buzzing overhead barely illuminated the small, airless room. The only other sound was the tinny *Plink. Plink. Plink.* of drops collecting in the second bucket. The first bucket had already been sealed and set aside. Hopefully the fellow had a few pints left in him; rent just kept going up.

The ghoul’s long, pale fingers played through the contents of its victim’s emptied pockets.

Wallet first. That was usually the most interesting.

Inside the monographed leather was a wealth of titbits. The usual credit cards. One for a grocery chain. A ‘friend of the library’ card for the local library and a faded reading award, marked for the 12-14 bracket. A half-filled loyalty card for a coffee shop.

Receipts, which while disregarded by their owner held vital details of his habits.

An autographed photo of… someone. The scrawled name was rendered further illegible by age and smears. It had clearly been removed and stuffed back into place many times.

Oh, he’d been an organ donor! At least that dream had been realised. Sort of. None of his organs would go to waste, after all. The ghoul grinned and winked at the head limply gawping from its new clothesline home.

Hm. “Trevor Smith”, eh? The ghoul leant back and thoughtfully nibbled on a finger.

Not one of its own.

Yeah. “Trevor” was a fun new name. “Trev” sounded friendly. TRUSTABLE.

Its face warped and shifted under the flickering light to match its helpless model, whose expression of horror was entirely appropriate to the scene.

“I wonder how long it will take people to notice?”

Fingers, now almost human looking, wrapped around the battered phone.

Ah. Excellent. He’d had face unlock on. How considerate. Generous, even.

“I wonder if you had friends.”

A slightly-too-purple tongue rubbed across bloodless lips.

“I should finish studying up, first.”

After all, you could learn a LOT about someone from the contents of their pockets.