I got up and wandered over. He stood outside the front door, leaning on it. I could see the back of his head through the small window in the door. Just inside was a little bulletin board. A flyer advertising the pub’s quiz night was tacked to the board. I read it over while straining to hear Bathmore—every Sunday starting at eight PM, maximum team size six. Bathmore wasn’t speaking. He was standing with his head down, phone pressed to his ear, listening. In profile, he looked very young although I knew he had to be in his mid to late twenties. He raised his head finally and spoke. I strained to hear him over the traffic noise from the street and caught just a few words.
“…got any money…understand…yes, of course…”
I walked back to my spot at the bar, frustrated. Bathmore’s caller must have been one of his many creditors. Or was he arranging to sell the notes? I couldn’t tell. He came in a moment later and sat back down. Once again I waited, watching the rugby while Bathmore drank another beer. He had to be very drunk by this time unless his tolerance to alcohol was superhuman. He had consumed at least four pints in the space of an hour. Finally, he motioned for another beer and the bartender just shook his head.
“You’ve had enough, lad. Go eat something and sleep it off.”
Bathmore didn’t argue. He stood, steadying himself with a hand on his stool, then walked with as much dignity as he could muster. His face was puffy and white with a sheen of sweat. I waited thirty seconds then followed him out the door just in time to see him turn the corner at the end of the block. He was moving slowly and I caught up to him easily. We were two blocks from his building. I kept a distance, not worried about losing him. When I turned down the street he lived on he was half a block ahead of me. I slowed. I didn’t need to catch up. I only needed to see that he made it home. It would be another waiting game after that.
I watched him stumble, turning toward the walkway that led to the building entrance. Just then, the driver door of a van parked on the street swung open, slamming into Bathmore and knocking him down. He fell like a log, completely dazed. A man in a black bomber jacket jumped from the open side door of the van, rolled Bathmore over, and began tugging the backpack off his limp arms. I hesitated for a moment then ran toward the two struggling figures. Before I was halfway there, the man got the backpack away from Bathmore and began kicking him viciously. All I could think was that the notes were in the backpack, I couldn’t let the attacker get away with them. I kept running, accelerating until I was close enough to launch myself at him. We both went down on the sidewalk. The guy felt solid, like tackling a tree trunk. We were both up in an instant. He swung at me. I ducked and pushed the heel of my hand hard into his nose. He moved his head just enough to avoid the worst of the blow but it still made him stagger backward and I felt a sickening crunch of cartilage.
“Get in the fucking van!” I heard someone yell. The man jumped for the open door. I grabbed at a strap of the backpack but it slipped through my fingers as the driver stepped on the gas and the van peeled away. I fumbled my phone out of my pocket and snapped a photo just as they reached the end of the block. Hopefully the license plate would be readable. It was the second time in recent memory that I had watched a van race away from the scene of a crime. The first time, though, the crumpled figure at my feet had been driving the van. I heard Bathmore moan and crouched down.
“Nigel Bathmore,” I said. “My name is Justin Vincent. Sorry I didn’t get here sooner. They got your backpack. Were your keys in there?”
Bathmore shook his head, wincing, and sat up. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his keys. “Got ʼem here,” he mumbled.
“Good. Mind if I help you into your place? I’d like to have a talk.”
“Probably owe you that. Help me up.”
He leaned on my shoulder and we made it up to his apartment. The place had been ransacked. The guys in the van must have searched the apartment top to bottom before deciding to lurk on the street waiting for Bathmore to come home. In the kitchen, all the drawers were pulled out and dumped. Cushions were strewn around the living room. I got the couch put back together and lowered him onto it. He sat there, arms wrapped around his middle, while I switched on lights, replaced utensils
