The Lift

 

Simon lit a cigarette and watched the old tramp dodder his way towards the old block of flats that the council had issued a notice upon.   It had informed the current occupants that they would be re-housed, but must vacate within three months.  The old block was decrepit and condemned to be demolished to make way for a new retail park.  The majority of the tenants had already left for a new development on the other side of the river.  What remained were a few elderly people and squatters and tramps: the dregs of society.

The tramps inhabited the damp and derelict floors, usually the lower levels,  and the squatters crammed into wherever they wanted, making a rent-free home from sticks of cheap or discarded furniture found in builder’s skips or municipal rubbish piles or attic clearance shops.  The kitchens were makeshift affairs, using butane camping stoves instead of hobs.  And a collection of candles gave them light at night.  It wasn’t exactly the ideal place to live, but it was better than sleeping in shop doorways.

The tramps, however, weren’t all that fussed and usually lay huddled in a communal collective of discarded coats and cardboard boxes they had found. Any old place was good enough for them as long as they could shelter from the rain and the freezing cold nights. 

Simon smirked and slipped off the wall.  He followed the old man into the building, keeping to a safe and unobtrusive distance.  Although he had two convictions for mugging, Simon wasn’t going to rob the man.  What did a tramp have apart from a handful of change that he’d begged from the public?   If he had robbed the old man he estimated his take would amount to a pound if that, and also spent cigarette butts.  Not exactly worth the hassle from the police, really, but Simon had other interests concerning tramps. 

He loved to attack them.

He watched the old man walk into the flats.  The cracked glass door hung on a single, twisted hinge, giving access to a piss-stench hallway and stairway.  The smell was pungent, the product of people relieving their drunken Saturday night excesses.  Urine and B.O. mingled heavily as you entered.  Sometimes the smell was so bad that people had to hold their noses from wanting to heave.

Simon paused and leaned against the pillar, then flicked away the spent cigarette.  The butt hit the discoloured concrete pathway and sparked on impact.  He cracked his knuckles and ran his hand across his shaved head, contemplating his intended target.  He didn’t see any problem in dishing out some occasional violence to society’s down and outs.   Nobody cared if they got hurt, anyway.  To Simon, they were just sport: something to take his frustrations out on.  And he enjoyed doing it. 

He flipped up his hood and walked on; his head bent down so that only his nose and a narrow jawline were noticeable as opposed to his full face. 

As he’d expected, the hallway of the rundown apartment block stank.  It was foul, and it did nothing but sour his contempt even further. Old urine and a week’s accumulation of rubbish made a terrible smell.  The old tramp wasn’t about, but he heard the man’s laboured footsteps as he climbed the steps above him.  As Simon followed the scuffs and shuffling sounds, he could hear the man’s wheezy breath.   Simon smiled to himself.  Kicking this old fart in would be easy, a doddle.  Not much resistance with this one, he thought as he took two steps at a time.  Hardly any of them had any fight left in them.  They were far too diffident and broken as people to even put up the slightest of resistance.

He had reached the third level and noticed that the door had just closed.  The tramp had passed through so Simon, carefully and quietly, opened it gently to minimise the betrayal of his presence.  He peeped round the door, and saw the old man hunched.  His clothes were well past their usefulness and hung shabbily from his aged frame.  His pants were soiled and dusty and his ancient sheepskin coat had holes in it.  To the tramp, it was more than just a coat and would no doubt have been worn to sleep in like a short sleeping bag.  It got cold around these parts on a night, especially near the river.  The winds were cutting and cruel and living up on the higher floors of the flats often skirted the sub-zero temperatures around this time.  And for the tramps on the lower floors, they didn’t fare much better either.