The Last Step

He wakes before dawn now. Not because he wants to, but because his body insists. Pain has its own alarm clock. The flat is cold. The kettle takes too long to boil. The newsfeed murmurs election analysis he doesn’t want to hear. He leaves it on anyway. Noise is easier than silence.

The coalition has been announced. The new government stands on the steps of Downing Street, smiling in the thin winter light. Cameras flash. A man with a grin too wide for his face stands just behind the Prime Minister — not the leader, but the hinge on which the whole thing turns. The one whose price for support was a list of policies that now scroll across the bottom of the screen like a slow motion disaster.

Enough. He switches the TV off.

The hospital letter lies on the table. He doesn’t open it. He already knows what it says.

⁂

He walks more slowly these days. The city feels sharper, as if the pavements have whetted their edges. Posters from the election still cling to lampposts, peeling at the corners. People hurry past him; collars up, eyes down. Everyone seems to be bracing for something.

At the pharmacy, the queue is longer than usual. A woman in front of him mutters about new charges, new forms, new rules. He doesn’t join in. He saves his breath.

When it’s his turn, the pharmacist looks at the screen too long before speaking.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Your prescription hasn’t been approved.”

He nods. He doesn’t ask why. He already knows.

Outside, the wind cuts through his coat. He stands still for a moment, letting the cold eat into him like a secondary cancer.

⁂

Nights are the worst. Pain makes the walls pulse. He lies awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant rattle of a helicopter. His thoughts circle the same point, again and again, like a moth around a dying bulb.

He tells himself he’s only imagining things. That he’s not serious. That he’s just angry, just scared, just tired.

But the thought keeps returning, sharper each time.

Not a plan. Not even an intention. Just a gravitational pull toward a single figure whose face appears on every screen, every headline, every conversation in the pub. The man who holds the balance of power. The man who demanded the reforms that cut him loose. The man who smiles as if nothing can touch him.

He tries to push the thought away. It always returns.

⁂

He travels to the coast on a grey Thursday. The train is half empty. The sea appears suddenly; a flat sheet of pewter under a low sky. The town looks tired, as if it has been waiting too long for something that never arrived.

He walks along the promenade, past shuttered arcades and a fish’n’chip shop with a flickering sign. His breath comes in short bursts. He rests often.

He tells himself he’s here for the air. For the sea. For a change of scene.

He doesn’t believe it.

The pub is warmer than he expected. Carpet worn thin. Brass fittings polished by decades of hands. A fruit machine blinking in the corner. A smell of beer and old wood.

He orders a half pint he can barely stomach and definitely won’t finish. The bartender doesn’t look up.

He sits in a booth near the back, watching the door without meaning to. His hands tremble. He hides them under the table.

Time moves strangely. Slow, then fast, then slow again.

⁂

He stands to go to the toilet, more out of restlessness than need.

The mirror above the sink is cracked. Fluorescent light buzzes overhead. The air smells of bleach and something metallic.

He grips the edge of the sink until the room steadies.

The door opens. He hears footsteps. A cough. A familiar voice humming something tuneless.

He doesn’t turn immediately. He knows the voice. Every fucker knows the voice.

When he does compose himself to turn, the man is standing there, alone, drying his hands on a paper towel. No entourage. No cameras. Just a man in a suit that doesn’t quite fit, humming to himself in a seaside pub toilet.

Their eyes meet. A flicker of something is exchanged. Recognition? Curiosity? Maybe nothing at all.

His heart pounds so hard he feels it in the fillings of his teeth.

The man stops humming and says, “You alright, mate?”

He opens his mouth. No words come.

The man takes a step closer; not threatening, just puzzled. “You look a bit... unwell. You look like you need a sit down.”

He swallows. His throat burns. His vision blurs at the edges.

This is the moment. Or it isn’t. Or it never was.

He is unable to move. Somewhere outside, a gull screams. A fruit machine plays a cheerful jingle. A door slams. The world continues.

He feels his legs weaken and begin to tremble. He grips the sink again, literally for dear life.

The man says, “Do you want me to get someone?”

He shakes his head. Or maybe he nods. He can’t tell.

The man hesitates, then steps past him, pushing the door open with his shoulder.

“Take care of yourself,” he says, almost kindly.

The door swings shut.

He is alone again, the buzzing light flickering above him, the cracked mirror reflecting a face he barely recognises. He stays there a long time, breathing slowly, waiting for something —strength, clarity, resolve— that doesn’t come.

⁂

When he finally leaves the pub, the sky has darkened. The sea is a smear of black. The wind tastes of salt and rust.

He walks along the promenade, each step heavier than the last. Until it is the last.