Phoenix and the Bag Man

Chapter 10: Bullimore

It was killing me. We were sat in the window of a cafe towards the end of the High Street. We reckoned the Bag Man had to pass us by on the way to the newsagent. I had my hood up with my back to the glass. Katyia sat opposite, her eyes glued to street behind me. It was agony trying not to turn round and look, too.

Finally I said it. "Katyia, I'm, um, sorry." She knew exactly what I was talking about. Her eyes did not shift from the street. It was disconcerting, her staring just past me the whole time. But it did give me the opportunity to study her eyes, and her face, without any communication getting in the way.

"Just don't drink, yeah? I prefer you sober. I don't want to know you that way," her eyes flicked briefly across mine. "And your beautiful blue eyes are ruined. They're all bloodshot." There was a hint of a smile. My mind sort of stumbled. What did that mean, 'that way'?

"Gotta go," she said and she was up and out the door in a couple of strides.

Momentarily I was at a loss. What had I done now? I looked round and out the window.

"Oh, shit," I said out loud and scrambled to get free of the table and out. I could see Katyia crossing the road, and beyond the bobbing head of the Bag Man making his way through the shoppers.

The entire population of the town seemed to be out walking in the opposite direction. I felt like a fish fighting a torrent. Eventually the crowds thinned as we neared the turn-off the High Street and I fell back. All the while I remember the words "I don't want to know you that way" were running through my head and I saw in my mind the little smile that went with them. Was she mocking me?

The plan went like clockwork and, as predicted, the Bag Man picked up his paper and two minutes later we watched him disappear down the basement steps of one half of a semi. I joined Katyia on a corner nearby, where we could duck out of sight if need be. I wanted to ask her as we stood waiting on the corner for something to happen, how I don't know, about what she'd said. But I couldn't. What if she really did not see me as anything other than as a slightly embarrassing younger friend?

"I want to get a closer look, round the back, maybe," I found myself saying in a bid to, to do what? Show off, impress? "You better stay here to make sure he doesn't come out again," I said. Katyia argued that we had his address now, all that we needed to do was tell the police. "I just want to make sure it's his place, it might be a friend's or something, then we'd look stupid," I said.

"What happened to sticking together," said Katyia.

I am not brave, but despite her telling me not to be so daft I found myself creeping down a path at the back of the houses and slipping into the tiny back garden of the house Bullimore was in. The basement window peered up over steps leading down to a back door. I couldn't see any movement inside so I risked that Bullimore wasn't looking and crept up to peer in.

Later Katyia told me she'd hung around for twenty minutes or so and was about to come and find me when she saw me propelled out the front door by Bullimore. She'd started walking away from us up the street so as not to look suspicious. She'd stopped by a small crowd waiting outside a mini bus as an excuse to turn round and watch.

What had happened was this: I was crouched down under the sill of the window. I slowly raised my head just enough to peer over the window frame and into the room. It was the kitchen and over the back of a chair next to a little dining table was the Bag Man's old coat, soot-smeared cuffs and all. On the table were some bags of shopping. It was just occurring to me that he hadn't been carrying any bags at all as we followed him when I knew, just knew someone was standing behind me. I was hoping it was Katyia. I looked over my shoulder. It wasn't Katyia, it was the Bag Man, smiling broadly. First he put a finger to his lips. Be quiet. Next he gestured with both hands, palms upwards. Stand-up. Then he waved me towards the kitchen door. In there. He reached past me to open the door, his other hand on the small of my back.