Short Story: The Lodger
Phil had a secret, one that festered behind the locked door of his tiny Newcastle flat. He was always watching, always waiting, and when the moment was right, he would bring them home.
The city was full of people no one would miss, and Phil was always hungry.
The Lodger
Phil lived in a bedsit that smelled of damp and despair, tucked away in a crumbling Victorian terrace on the edge of the city. The paint peeled from the walls in long, curling strips, and the ceiling bore a dark brown stain that seeped further each time it rained. The radiator clanked like old bones in the dead of night, and the bare, single bulb overhead cast a sickly yellow glow.
In modern Newcastle upon Tyne, the buzzing metropolis in the North East of England, no one paid Phil much attention. He was just another shadow in this forgotten corner of the city, where the desperate and the damned scraped by on stale pasties and supermarket vodka. While the others rifled through waste bins for scraps of food and for discarded alcohol in bottle dumpsters found in the dingy alleys at the backs of the pubs, Phil kept to himself, slipping in and out at odd hours, a carrier bag swinging at his side.
The landlady, Mrs Trimble, was the sort who didn’t ask questions. As long as the rent came on time, she didn’t care if her tenants were junkies, thieves, or worse. She never noticed the smell that clung to Phil’s clothes, a metallic tang beneath the cheap detergent.
Phil had a system. He never took anyone local. The city was full of lost souls—homeless, drifters, people no one would miss. He’d offer them a drink, maybe a warm place for the night. They always came willingly.
The last one, Danny, had been an easy target. A scrawny lad, barely out of his teens, with a face still clinging to the last traces of childhood. Phil had found him outside the train station, shivering in a threadbare hoodie, his trainers held together with duct tape. His fingers twitched from withdrawal, and his eyes had the dull glaze of someone too tired to keep fighting.
“You look knackered, mate,” Phil had said, offering him a cigarette. “Come back to mine, get warm. Got a bit of food if you’re hungry.”
Danny had hesitated, but the promise of warmth and a full belly was too much to resist.
Inside the bedsit, he’d eaten like a starved animal, shovelling down the cheap tinned spaghetti Phil had set in front of him, barely stopping to breathe. Phil had watched him, smiling faintly. It was always better when they had a last meal. It somehow made the end product better.
Danny had started to relax after the second can of lager. His head lolled, and his words slurred.
“D’you do this a lot?” Danny had mumbled, his eyelids drooping.
Phil had only smiled.
The sedative kicked in soon after. Phil preferred it this way—no screaming, no struggling. He waited until Danny’s breathing was deep and slow before dragging him into the bathroom. The clawfoot tub was old and stained, but it would do. He worked methodically, the way a butcher does when breaking down a carcass. It was a shame, really. Danny had reminded Phil of his younger brother, once upon a time. Danny sighed, “Oh, well, shit happens!”
By morning, most of Danny was neatly wrapped in bin bags. But Phil had kept the best parts. The liver was always his favourite—rich, tender, full of iron. He pan-fried it with onions and a splash of red wine, savouring the aroma as it filled the small space.
The trouble started when Mrs Trimble sent the plumber round to look at the drains. Phil had grown careless, lazy even. The man knocked on the door early one morning, interrupting Phil’s breakfast. A fresh plate of liver and onions sat steaming on the table.
Phil opened the door a crack, but the plumber pushed past him, muttering about a foul blockage somewhere in the drains or pipes. Phil’s stomach tightened. The last one, Danny, had been particularly gristly, and he hadn’t disposed of everything as neatly as he should have.
The plumber gagged as he reached the sink.
“What the hell is that smell?” he choked, stepping back. His boot crunched on something—a small, white sliver that had escaped Phil’s last clean-up. A knuckle bone.
Their eyes met. The plumber’s widened. Phil sighed and reached for the bread knife.
Mrs Trimble found the bedsit empty two days later. The rent was overdue, and Phil had vanished. The police combed through the place, retching at what they found in the freezer, the fridge, the stained chopping board.
But Phil was long gone. The city was big, after all. Plenty of lost souls still wandered the streets, and Phil was always hungry.
© Colin Lawson 2023
© Colin Lawson Books