If only...

If only I hadn’t taken that shortcut this morning because I was running late.

If only I hadn’t tripped over the broken manhole cover.

If only you hadn’t seen me, and rushed to my rescue. Or so I thought, at the time.

Ah, if only.

But here we are, sitting in your flat, drinking your tea, with internal dread draining the blood from my veins.

Because your eyes are watching me a little too closely, with an empty, reptilian stare. My good Samaritan has evaporated, leaving a savage, emotionless guard in her place.

Your lips are a little too thin to be kind, and ridiculously red, garish on one so old. The skin around your neck is scrawny with age and wear. If I had noticed you on the street, I might have felt vaguely sorry for you and the hardships some suffer in this life.

We both know I would never have noticed you, or anyone like you.

You’re tapping bitten nails on my briefcase, irritating my senses until every nerve is screaming a warning. It sounds like Morse code, and I wonder what horrid command you are conveying, and who might be waiting to obey your cruel instruction. I long to tap the right combination for S.O.S. Three long taps, three short and three long again. My mind drifts away, puzzling over how I can make my fingertips convey the different sound lengths.

You cough, a horribly guttural bark, and I recoil and refocus. You’re talking about money, and luck, and cash cows, and I’m horribly confused because cows are female, aren’t they? And I’m only a man, with scuffed knees, a banging headache, and what I’m afraid might be a broken nose from where I crash-landed on the pavement, ready to be victimised by a little old lady.

The tea is cold, with a greasy film on top. The milk was off, and I wonder if my death will come by food-poisoning or something more vicious. I shift in my chair and look down to see that my ankles have been tied to the chair legs by a stripy scarf. A laugh erupts from my throat at the ridiculous nature of the scene.

Your face widens into a gaping cavern, and I realise you are attempting a smile, one which reveals gaps in your teeth, and a tightening of sallow skin across bony cheeks. The mask-like features terrify me and I grip the seat, convinced the end is coming near.

I feel like a character in a very bad film. You know the sort; where an actor is killed off before he’s barely begun, and you criticise the lack of motive, the ridiculous nature of the plot. But you’re glued to the screen, you can’t pull your eyes from the scene, because the villain is so charismatic, utterly mesmerising in their cool villainy.

I watch you pad around the room, stealthy as a panther. There’s a skip in your step, although your ankles are stiff and swollen. Who knew the elderly could be so cunning?

I wonder how you managed it. Was it you that pushed that manhole cover to a jaunty angle? Or was it just serendipity? Had the council left it broken, careless despite so many complaints? Did you watch me hurtle along that alley, obviously late for work, briefcase swinging, forehead breaking into a sweat. Did you lick your lips, ready to pounce?

I wonder if I am your first victim. Or am I one in a long line? Where are your other victims now? What happened to them?

My eyes flick continuously to the locked door on my right.

Am I imagining the muffled noises in there?

Who have you got hidden in there?

Fellow villains or fellow victims?

My lips form a plea, but my throat dries as you pour me a fresh cup of tea.

“Are you alright, dear?” you ask. “I wonder if you should go to hospital, after all. You really don’t seem the full ticket to me.”

You’re taunting me! I gesture to the ties on my legs, showing you I know I can’t go anywhere. I stare in confusion. My stripy socks dance before my eyes. I push myself upright, grabbing my briefcase from you and gripping it tightly against my chest. Your face blurs as I collapse back into the chair, utterly exhausted.

“My head!” I groan.

You tap my arm in reproach, pulling the briefcase from my hands.

“What you need is a good rest,” you say, kindly, but firmly. “Come on, you can lie down in the spare bedroom for a while.”

I refocus on your face and realise that your tired eyes are generous, your lips, so red, are warm with generosity. My own face erupts with fiery shame as I contemplate the drama I have invented around a sweet, old lady like you.

“Thank you,” I murmur, allowing you to guide me to the room on the right. “You’re so kind.”

“Sleep well,” you urge.

I stumble into the dark room. The door closes behind me, and I hear the click of a key turning in the lock. I pound on the door but there is no response.

Murmurs swell around me. I spin round, peering into the gloomy dark, my head spinning. I can just make out the shadowy shapes in the room.

“She got you too?” one whispers.

I fall to my knees.

If only I hadn’t taken that shortcut this morning because I was running late.

If only.