30 Days in June

by Chris Westlake

The doors slide open and the ticket inspector joins our carriage. He is tall, long-limbed, young and smart in his uniform.

  “All tickets from London Paddington,” he booms. “All tickets from London Paddington.”

  Somebody behind me mutters and swears. Glancing around, a figure retreats in the direction of the toilet. I wonder whether the inspector has the time or the inclination to wait for him to come out, or to make a mental note of his seat number and come back for him later. The inspector seems jovial and friendly enough. His smile is just a little too wide, his eyes are just a little too far apart. I hold my ticket out ready, keep glancing up as he edges closer to me.

  I make sure I smile as I hand him my ticket. He thanks me just a little too loudly. His fingers are long and slender and covered with fine, sparse hairs. Most significantly, though, they are shaking. He glances at the ticket, glances at me; nods his head.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I say, taking back the ticket. I hold his eye. The whites are disfigured with blots of red. I start counting. Reach number three.

  “You are invited to join the gentleman in carriage F, seat 43, at precisely 22:50.”

  He whispers the words, slowly and clearly. His instruction must have been to make sure there was no misunderstanding, ensure nobody else overheard.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  My smile is narrow and it is forced, but nevertheless, it is evident. The man nods and then straightens his back. I imagine a weight dropping from his shoulders with a heavy thud. I don’t want to keep him here any longer than he needs to be. I know that – whatever his involvement – it isn’t voluntary. I have a million and one questions. Who is this man sat in carriage F seat 43? What does he look like?

  “Just one thing,” I say.

  His body rotates slowly. Looks down at me. The cluster of horizontal lines on the sides of his eyes weren’t there a few moments ago.

  “Could you please tell me what stop that will be?”

  He is eager to tell me. He fires out the words. Relieved that I don't ask who the gentleman is, what threat he made. This is one question he can answer.

  “Certainly, sir,” he says. “We will have just left Newport.”

  At Newport, just a minute or so before 22:50, there is a scrum to get on the train.

  The travellers are loud and excitable. It isn’t difficult to ascertain that they’ve been out in the local pubs in Newport and are now heading to Cardiff – the main event of the evening - to finish the night on a high. A group of young lads fill the table close to me. One of them pulls a crate of Stella from a plastic bag and slams it down on the table. The cans disappear from the middle of the table. I catch an eye, get a thumbs up.

  I wait until the aisle has cleared and everybody is seated before I start counting to a hundred. I do so mechanically. I blow out air and then rise to my feet. The train moves fast and there are plenty of twists and turns, and so I grip the tops of the seats as I begin my descent down the carriage. The windows are pitch black and the carriages are illuminated with lights. I sense movement behind me.

  The young ticket inspector leans his long angular body back to let me pass. He stares at the floor, at the ceiling and then – just as I pass – he glances at me. The colour disappears from his cheeks. I nod. I intend it to be reassuring, tell him that I'll be okay. He believes none of it. He knows I'm in danger, knows that he has conspired to lock me in the lion's den. He manages to nod back.

  It becomes quieter with each passing carriage. I reach carriage F. I take a moment. Dip my hand in my pocket and pull out my wallet. I glance at the photograph of me with Luke, my older brother. Pumping out my chest, I stand tall and keep walking.

  I can only see the tops of a few sporadic heads. The clutter and noise of my carriage has been replaced by peace and calm. I count down the numbers. Try to work out the general vicinity of the seat. That is it. There. It is a table seat. There are no more heads. He has the table to himself.

  His face is engulfed in a newspaper. I know from the full hair, black like soot, that it is him. Spartacus. I hover over his chair, twisting and untwisting my hands. Wait. In silence. The newspaper unfolds. The clouds disappear and then his face is clearly visible to me for the first time in thirty years.

  “Jeffrey,” he says, looking up and smiling. “You decided to come. I am so pleased. Now, just where are my manners? Don’t just stand there, sir. Please, take a seat...”

  Taking the window seat directly opposite him, I note that my throat is possibly a foot or two from his open hands. I cannot help but scan his face, a Terminator looking for signs. He knows I'm doing this, of course, and he raises his eyebrows. He looks five years younger than me, possibly more. His cheekbones, though tightly stretched, remain feline and sharp, and his hair parts in an immaculate line down one side. The white shirt is crisp and the grey waistcoat clings to his narrow waist. He looks like an amiable accountant.

  “Did I have a choice?”

  “Oh, Jeffrey,” he says, his voice tainted with mock offence. “Haven’t I always given you choices? Let’s just say that, in my humble opinion, you've made the right choice this evening. After all, this is a little reunion amongst old friends, isn’t it? Oh, and by the way, how is the delightful Erica?”

  “I know you planted that book. And you know she's disappeared from my life...”

  “Oh, that was merely child's play. I just wanted to prove a point. Help you, if you like. It was petty of me, if truth be told. We both know she isn't the real love of your life now, don't we...?”

  “What would have happened if I hadn’t come?” I ask, deflecting the question.

  Spartacus' sharp teeth glisten with moisture. “Do you really want to go there so quickly, Jeffrey? We’ve barely exchanged pleasantries. I don’t really want to spell it out; where is the fun in that? Okay, let’s just say Bridgend was the final destination for both the tickets I bought. If you decided not to join me then I would have hopped off and paid your dear dad a visit. I do so adore him; don't you? There aren't many good, old-fashioned gentlemen left in this world. Been a few weeks since I last saw him. Isn't he keeping well? It would not have been a wasted trip; just a little unsatisfactory, I guess...”

  His grey eyes sparkle as he observes the whiteness of my hands, gripping the edge of the plastic table. I decide to go on the offensive, to challenge him. "You think you know everything, don't you...?"

  Spartacus digs a hand inside his pocket. I flinch. Push back against the padded seat. Spartacus' face breaks into a jovial smile.

  “You know me better than that, Jeffrey,” he says, sliding the knife into the middle of the table, a foot or so from my hand, a foot or so from his. “Like I said, this is a reunion. Thought I'd bring along another friend of ours. It's been thirty years to the day since you last saw this knife, hasn't it..?”

  I say nothing. My eyes widen as he digs his hand inside the other pocket. Watch as he carefully places another item down on the table. Another weapon. Another old friend. This one is a cut-throat razor. His eyes follow mine; he delights in my discomfort.

  “We’re all hypocrites and sinners, Jeffrey. Just look at you and all your dark secrets. At least I have the decency to be honest about my trivial inadequacies. Okay, so what do I know? Well, I know it was you who tried to kill me. You and your friend Baldwin decided to keep that one quiet, didn’t you? Of course, Baldwin knew I didn't cut you with my usual reliable razor. He knew the knife was yours. He played his part well, didn't he? Went through the motions of interrogating you, but he knew what you were hiding from the beginning. Decided it was best not to tell the gullible society – the poor sheep – that I was the real victim, didn't he?"

  I look away. He's right. But then, Spartacus killed Marie; he deserved to die. Is it a sin to kill a killer? Simon didn't think so. My only regret was that I failed to finish him off. I knew he killed Marie because I was in the club that night, hiding behind a glass of lager and a concrete pillar, as usual. I watched
and waited, bided my time until I'd pumped my body with enough alcohol to numb an elephant. I was terrified. Maybe what I felt between us on the dance floor was all in my imagination? What if she didn't even remember me? I had nothing to lose, though, did I? I just had to be brave and fight through the fear. Finally, after yet another jackass turned away from Marie and towards her friend, I took one final glance at the photograph in my wallet, thrust out my chest and headed towards her. Only, Marie stood up, didn't she? Then, with the briefest of waves to her friend, she headed to the door.

  Nothing was going to stop me then, though. I was on a mission. I followed her. Of course, something did stop me. He stopped me. Spartacus. I was too damn slow. By the time I reached the brightness of the hallway, he was already there. It was the first time I'd set eyes on him. Despite my twisted resentment, I was mesmerised. My feet sunk into the floor as Marie's eyes followed the movements of his mouth. He'd already cast a wicked, evil spell on her. How could I be so ridiculous to think a beautiful girl like Marie would even consider the likes of me – a fat, frumpy, awkward boy – when she could be with a man like this? Just as I turned to disappear into the safe, dark obscurity of the club, he looked up. Eyes fixed on me. And I'm sure he smiled from one corner of his mouth.

  Of course, in the days and weeks that followed, Mum knew I was planning something. She saw me change overnight the week before, on the 24th day of the month, when the final victim died. The girl saw me hiding in the overgrowth on the other side of the river, and it was like my mother could smell the fear the next day on my unwashed body. Naturally, she was terrified that something might happen to me, but she understood why I had to take revenge. Mum knew better than anyone what it was like to love and to lose. She'd lost one of her two angels, through no fault of his, and through no fault of her own. She'd have killed with her bare hands to bring Luke back. She never told me not to do it. That was crucial. She never tried to stop me. Mum only asked me be careful. And I was careful. I was inferior, but I was careful.

  I wasn't drunk the night of Thursday 30th June 1988. This time, the alcohol I'd drunk couldn't numb a mouse, let alone an elephant. I was so good at being the drunk, however, that I was a natural at playing the drunk. My pint glass was primarily refilled with lemonade. Adrenaline killed off the rest of the alcohol. I trawled the usual hot spots until, finally, I hunted him down. Spartacus. Stood on his own, blending into the background like a book in the library. He couldn't ignore me for long. Spilling my drink every time I slammed down my pint, speaking loudly and randomly to nobody in particular, I was ideal fodder. An easy, defenceless target; a zebra enticing a tiger. Up to a point, it was the perfect plan.

  “After all this time, Jeffrey, you still don't realise I played along with your little game...?”

  My eyes widen, just like his smile.

  “Seriously?” he says. “Maybe I overestimated you. I saw you, remember? A puppy pining after that young girl. What was her name? Marie, that's it. Pleasant girl. Carried too much weight, of course, and she had absolutely no self-esteem, but then, none of us are perfect, are we, Jeffrey? If it is any consolation, at first I wasn't sure whether to kill her. She was just so easy and willing. Where was the challenge? She simply wasn't worth the effort. But then I looked up and there you were, all distraught and pathetic. There was the fun. You decided for me. She'd still be alive if it wasn't for you, Jeffrey. Does that make you feel important...?”

  My eyes fix on the knife, then on the razor.

  “Choices, choices, hey, Jeffrey. Not only can you not decide whether to kill me, but you cannot decide which weapon to use. I don't want to make things any more complicated than they need to be, Jeffrey, but does that gorgeous little girl of yours, Emma, really deserve for her daddy to spend the rest of his life in prison? What did she ever do to you? But there again, I guess you've already abandoned her, haven't you...?”

  “Whose fault was that...?”

  “Now that is more like it, Jeffrey. So you have been using your brain, after all. I applaud you...”

  I slam my fist down on the table. Spartacus' smile widens.

  “So tell me, why didn't you stay with Jenny?" I ask. "What was the point of your affair? Why did you abandon her?”

  “I never intended to keep her, Jeffrey,” Spartacus says, crinkling his nose with distaste. “She wasn't the lure. You were. Again, you were the reason I destroyed an innocent life. The challenge was merely to take her from you, to ruin that sickly, idyllic family life of yours. I'll be honest, I expected more resistance, at least a token struggle. I thought she'd have more depth, more commitment to her cause. Yet another disappointment. Yet another hypocrite. I barely had to say hello and she opened her legs, ready for me. Do you actually realise how easy it was to entice her from you?”

  I force myself to look out of the window, to not even contemplate the magnetic lure of the weapons.

  “Your poor mother was the same. Such a lovely lady. As her psychiatrist, I don't believe I can take full credit for your dear mummy taking her own life. She was already stood on the edge of the cliff, ready to jump, the first time she walked into my clinic. She opened up to me, saw me as a confidant, a kindred spirit, which was nice. Told me everything. Just what sort of a man are you, Jeffrey? Your dear mother had already lost one son. She warned you to be careful. But what did you do? You tried to kill me. She stayed at your hospital bedside for weeks, and how did you repay her? As soon as you recovered, you left her. Like I said, in my professional opinion, your mummy was ready to jump. You deserve more credit than I do that she took her own life. My words of encouragement merely gave her a gentle push, brought forward the inevitable...”

  I dig my nails into the skin of my hand.

  “Of course, your mother helped me understand what went on inside that warped head of yours. I owe her considerable gratitude. But my real masterstroke, the one I'm proudest of, was placing Richard as your counsellor. You were his special project. What a wonderful subject for a developing counsellor! I made him believe that if we changed your thoughts and behaviours then we could make a real difference. And what a success, Jeffrey! Together, we completely ruined what little life you had. Lost your wife, lost your daughter, lost your job, lost your home. But despite all of this losing, and because of the thoughts we planted into that tiny brain of yours, you still failed to see yourself as a loser! I'm sure you can laugh at the irony now. Still, you genuinely believed you now had a better life, that you had somehow seen the light. But all you saw, Jeffrey, was what I had created..."

  I stare down at the table, at a blank patch of hard plastic. It feels like something inside me is pushing against my chest, desperate to get out. All I can hear is my own breathing, loud and gasping, like a ball of cloth has been lodged in my mouth.

  “Ah,” Spartacus says, rubbing his hands together and breaking the silence. “We're coming into Cardiff - the capital city of Wales. Where it all began. We're on schedule. Now the fun really begins...”

  *****

  Glancing out of the window, trying to avoid the glare and the reflection, a fair number of people disembark at Cardiff. The group of lads from my previous carriage start chanting and clapping, like birds let out of the cage, opening up their wings. The few faceless heads from our carriage leave the train; I only notice one person joining us. Merely a shape, he sinks into the first row of seats of the carriage, to the rear of Spartacus.

  "You'll know this all too well, Jeffrey, as you've secretly made this journey numerous times, haven't you? We have twenty-two minutes until we reach Bridgend. Twenty-one. Tick-tock. Tick-tock, Jeffrey. So I'm curious: what exactly do you think the game is here?"

  I hold his glare; don't dare to blink. "You've set up a duel. To the death. Only one of us gets off at Bridgend Station alive."

  Spartacus raises his eyebrows. "Of course you'd think that. It is a natural human instinct. As a species, we fight for our own survival. Rather selfish. Let me ask you something, though: do you think I strive to be like the rest of
the human race...?"

  "Most humans aren't deprived, sadistic killers, so no, I guess you don't strive to be like the rest of the human race..."

  "Don't put them on a pedestal. Most humans are scared, Jeffrey. Do you think people are model citizens because they genuinely care about other people? Or is this pretence of care merely a means to an end? People crave to be liked. Very needy. And then there is the fear. On a primitive level, humans generally don't rape or kill because they fear being locked up in a cell, not because their conscience tells them it is morally wrong..."

  He slides the knife across the surface. It stops right on the edge of the table, just short of toppling over. I'm reminded of Simon and the laptop. Simon, the killer. The sharp metal edges of the knife caress my fingertips, seducing me, the Serpent luring Adam. I glance down. The razor lies in the middle of the table. Spartacus couldn't reach it in time. I could end this right now.

  Holding my eye, Spartacus drags the razor to his side of the table. Leaves it there. Rests his chin in his hands.

  "You've got this all wrong, Jeffrey," he says, shaking his head. "Did I ever say I wanted you dead? Is that all you think of me? I realised thirty years ago how simple it was to take a life. So simple it was utterly futile. They were just numbers, nothing more. Just no satisfaction. Why do you think I didn't kill you the first time...?"

  "Believe me, I've asked myself that every day of my life for the last thirty years..."

  "Initially I used and abused you for my own excitement, Jeffrey. Something to turn me on. You were a hobby, really, that I dipped into for my own enjoyment from time to time. Over time, and the more I dabbled, the more I created, and then I had the urge to prove a point. You could say that it was a calling-"

  "You think you're a Messiah?"

  "Don't flatter me. I was more of a scientist, dabbling with an experiment in his laboratory. If anything, I am Frankenstein and you are my monster. Using you as an example, Jeffrey, I was driven to prove - to myself more than anybody else - that life is so pointless and meaningless it really isn't worth living. I wanted to satisfy myself that, rather than being the lucky survivor who got away, you were the unlucky one I kept alive..."