Harry was looking around, trying to see where the young man had thrown the knife, when Doug spoke up.
‘Shall I call the police?’
Harry scowled. Where was the sodding knife?
‘Harry?’ Doug had his phone out.
Heart thudding, Harry made to pick up the young man’s wallet, wanting to see some identification, but his attacker was faster and ducked down and snatched it up. For a second, their eyes met. The man’s face was already swelling, blood pouring from his nose and down his chin. And then he spun on his heel and ran.
He was fast. Much faster than Harry. And he was young. Harry used to play rugby but too long ago for it to be any use today. He didn’t stop though. Anger spurred him on. He charged along Rivers Street, following knife-man as he swung right, heading into town, pounding down the hill past the Queensberry Hotel. He nearly lost him on the next crossroads but a woman’s yelp directed him down the cut-through past the Assembly Rooms where, in the distance, knife-man was pelting hell for leather.
Harry kept running until he lost sight of his quarry at the bottom of Bartlett Street. Heart pounding, breath hot in his throat, he paused, scanning the handfuls of tourists, the street filled with rush hour traffic, searching for any movement that seemed out of place.
‘Harry,’ a man gasped behind him.
Harry spun round to see Doug bent double, panting, his face puce. ‘You lost him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bugger,’ Doug wheezed. ‘God, I really must do more exercise. I’m so bloody unfit, I can’t tell you.’
‘Thanks for helping out.’ Then Harry frowned. ‘I thought you were in Zurich this week.’
‘Symposium was cancelled. I was taking Mum and Dad to Patrick’s for their wedding anniversary. You know, that restaurant–’
‘Yes, I know Patrick’s.’
Harry hadn’t dined there, and although Doug was a fellow psychologist Harry decided not to tell him that he only knew the place because he was giving their pastry chef some relationship therapy.
‘I parked up Lansdown,’ Doug continued, ‘and was walking down when I saw two men fighting. Didn’t realise it was you. I didn’t know you were quite so, er… physical.’ He gave Harry an appraising look.
‘The result of a misspent youth,’ Harry admitted. ‘I got into a bit of a rough gang who taught me a few tricks.’
Doug’s eyebrows rose. ‘Rather more than tricks from what I saw.’
Harry wasn’t going to go into that period of his life with Doug. He’d carried a huge burden of guilt for something that happened when he was a child, and had turned into an insufferable teenager, running wild with the wrong crowd and ignoring his long-suffering parents’ pleas. It was only thanks to one of their friends, a psychologist at the Royal United Hospital, that he was pulled back from the brink. Yet that became the bedrock for his future in psychotherapy, underpinned by a driving urge to atone by helping others.
Harry ran a hand over his head. His sweat was starting to cool, his pulse returning to normal. Doug, however, was still wheezing. Harry had to admit he was surprised at Doug’s intervention. He might be a big, gruff man but appearances were deceptive. Over the years Harry had come to see Doug as placid, a man of trust, but also a bit of a wimp, if he was being honest. Like Dave, Harry’s ex-best friend who, even though he was a qualified judo instructor, still hid upstairs whenever Harry appeared. Not that he made a habit of going to his ex-wife’s home, but occasionally he had to go there to pick up the kids.
‘Did he really attack you?’ Doug was frowning. ‘I have to admit that it looked as though…’ He trailed off, hesitating.
‘As though what?’ Harry hadn’t expected the words to come out quite so aggressively but he wasn’t surprised, considering what he’d just gone through.
‘Well, you were punching him, weren’t you?’
‘Yes. Because he attacked me.’
Doug flicked his eyes up and down Harry’s burly frame. Harry got the message. The young man might have been tall but he hadn’t had Harry’s muscular bulk. He’d been like a greyhound to Harry’s bull mastiff.
‘Are you going to report it?’ Doug asked anxiously. ‘Because if you are, I’m not sure what I should say… I mean, I didn’t see a knife. I just saw you on the ground, hitting him.’
Great. Knowing Doug, who was a stickler for protocol, he’d probably have him done for assault.
‘No, I won’t report it,’ Harry said wearily, but back at home – after searching Gloucester Street for the knife to no avail – he changed his mind.