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The Lion

Bill pulls the itchy brown blanket up to his chin. He really should put the fire on – his hands are tinged blue – but he really can’t afford to. The fridge is almost empty again and his big toe is numb where it’s poking out the hole in his sock. His pension doesn’t stretch far at all.

The TV glows and flickers in the corner and he aims the remote with a hand that trembles, and scans the channels. Television - such a wonder when he was a boy, now there are a hundred choices of nothing. Girls and boys locked in a house, on a beach, in a jungle. He sighs and wonders what happened to proper documentaries. Bill has never forgotten the first time he sat cross-legged in front of a grainy black and white set and watched a lion stalk his prey. It was beautiful and as the big cat sank his teeth into the zebra’s rump Bill felt the lion’s power flow through his veins. He settles on the news – all doom and gloom his Mum used to say - but he turns the volume up all the same. They must be having another party in the flat next door and the thump-thump-thump of the bass seeps through the walls, causing his collection of cat ornaments to shimmer and shake on the shelf. Perhaps this one won’t go on too late. Bill’s eyes are gritty with tiredness but he daren’t complain. People can be so aggressive nowadays.

Bill’s stomach growls, loud and fierce, and he places a hand over it as if to reassure it food will come. There’s some liver in the fridge he could fry with an onion. That might get rid of the stench in the flat. The lift was out of order again last week and he couldn’t take his rubbish down into the communal area. ‘The Courtyard’ they call it, but it’s always littered with needles and condoms and chills creep up Bill’s spine whenever he has to go there. Thankfully he doesn’t generate much rubbish. He was a war baby – waste not, want not. Each tea bag is meticulously squeezed, dried and used again, and he always cleans his plate.

Bill hoists himself out of his armchair and scoops the trash spewing from the overflowing pedal bin into a plastic bag, but his arthritic fingers can’t tie a knot, and as the bag slumps onto its side a cracked egg-shell tumbles out. It would be nice if that pretty social worker would call again this week. It’s been a long time since he’s seen her. He can’t remember her name and he screws his face as he tries. He’s getting more and more forgetful. There are half-started lists everywhere but the words, written in spidery handwriting he barely recognises, don’t mean anything to him when he reads them back.

There’s a shrieking outside the window and Bill shuffles across the room. His bony fingers are like hooks and he scoops back the curtain and peers down into the inky blackness. There’s a girl, a slip of a thing, glossy blonde hair shimmering under the streetlight. Her beauty almost makes him weep. If he and Margaret had been blessed with a daughter this is what he thinks she’d have looked like, but Margaret succumbed to cancer too early leaving him with an aching heart and an empty bed.

The girl shouts into one of those mobile thingys all the youngsters seem to be glued to, and waves her hand around as if making a point. Bill feels a stirring; a longing he hasn’t felt for years. The girl stops talking and slumps on the bench at the bus stop. Her breath billows out in icy clouds and she jabs at her phone, frowning at the screen. There isn’t a bus due for 45 minutes and Bill worries she’ll get cold. She looks like an angel in her silver sparkly dress but she should have worn a coat. Some tights at least. As he watches her, a need gapes open inside him, and he shakes his head, tells himself he is too old, but the hunger spreads and despite everything he’s glad he can still feel. Still want.

He has time, if she waits for the bus. He could go down if he wanted to. He can’t remember the last time he spoke, not to an actual living person anyway. It’s an effort to wrench himself away from the window but he must hurry if he wants to catch her, and he does. He moves as fast as can towards the bedroom but his slipper catches on the faded Chinese rug and he almost falls. He freezes for a moment. He can’t imagine what would happen if he broke something. Who would find him? He shuffles forward, carefully this time, splaying out his fingers for balance.

The doors to the mahogany wardrobe creak open and a fusty smell hits his nostrils. He pulls out his black suit, he hasn’t worn it since his cousin’s funeral five years before and he hopes it still fits. He sniffs it. There’s a foul smell but he thinks that’s probably him. It always seems so pointless showering everyday when he rarely goes out. He hesitates. A quick rinse? But he doesn’t have time and he struggles out of his pyjamas and into his shirt. The buttons are tricky and by the time he’s finished sweat beads on his top lip. His black dress shoes are packed in tissue in their original box, but Bill blanches as he pulls them out. There’s mud on the right heel. He didn’t notice when he put them away but then he was emotional, having buried the last member of his family. It’s tempting to put the shoes on as they are but he knows he can’t. What would his Dad think if he could see him? ‘The shoes maketh the man’ he used to say.

In the kitchen, Bill’s knees creak as he kneels before the sink. He thrusts his hand into the cleaning cupboard and fumbles around until he clasps the cool metal tin. One brush to put the polish one, one to rub it in and he shines the shoes with a piece of old vest until he can see his reflection in the toes. Lacing them is tricky, he grits his teeth as he tries again and again to make a loop but at last he is nearly ready. The kitchen clock shows eight o’ clock. He only has ten minutes and cold panic bolts through him as he thinks he may not make it.

The bag he wants is at the back of the hall cupboard. He pulls it out and blows on it. Dust motes dance under the electric light. He clips the bag around his waist. It’s looser than it used to be and Bill tugs the straps to tighten them. He drops his door key inside and his heart pills, you can’t be too careful. The drawer of the dresser is stiff – it has been closed for years – and Bill yanks the handles as hard as he can. He pulls out a roll of gaffer tape, checks it’s still sticky and pops it into his bag. His hunting knife is next. He holds it to the light and his heart quickens as he studies the serrated blade, shiny and sharp. Oh, how he’s missed it. He zips up his bag and snaps on leather gloves. It’s time.

He hopes the young girl is still there. He’ll tell her he needs to get to his daughter’s house on Green Street but he’s feeling wobbly. She’ll help him, he’s sure of it. She looks kind. They’ll cut down the alley off Gilmore Way. It will be quiet and if he surprises her she shouldn’t struggle too much.

Bill smiles. He hasn’t looked forward to anything so much for ages.

The lift judders towards the ground floor. Bill closes his eyes. He can almost hear the knife slicing through the air. Feel the resistance as it strains against flesh before popping open the skin. Can almost taste the blood. He is the lion.

The doors ping open and as he steps out into the cool night air he wonders if she’ll scream. He does hope so.