30 Days in June
Page 24
Placing the flat of my hands down on the table, away from the knife, I lean forward, close enough so he'll be able to feel the spittle spray from my mouth. "Just kill me then! End this miserable life of mine!"
Spartacus wags his middle finger. "Why on earth would I do that? Were you not paying attention in class?"
We look at each other from across the table, two rams preparing to clash heads. Tugging down the collar of his shirt and releasing a yawn, Spartacus glances at his wrist watch. "23:20. Doesn't time fly when you're having fun? Just eight minutes until we hit Bridgend..."
"Yes, but eight minutes until what exactly?"
"Until you make your choice."
"I've already made my choice. I'm going to finish off what I should have done thirty years ago. I'm going to kill you, you sick, twisted bastard. I'm walking off this train with a merry skip in my step, and you're leaving it in a body bag..."
Spartacus pulls back his head now so I can see the sharpness of his incisors. His laugh is the roar of success. "You really think, after all I've just said, that I value my own life? My life is just as futile as yours. I'm not the Messiah, like you suggested. I'm no different from anybody else, not really. I'm finished with this world, Jeffrey. This is my curtain call. My last inglorious performance. I have no intention of leaving this train alive, so you can calm your frightful bravado..."
I cock my head, making sure I look nonplussed. "You want me alive? And we both fucking want you dead. So, what's the dilemma?"
Our heads nearly touch. "The first dilemma, Jeffrey," he whispers, "is this. Have I convinced you to join me? Has my little experiment convinced me of your worthlessness as much as it has me? Have you finally come to your senses and realised your life just isn't worth living? Basically, my old friend, after everything I've put you through, are you going to choose to stay alive? Or are you going to prove to me you have an ounce of courage, and take your own life?"
"I have nothing to prove to you..."
"What about the consequences of you being dead? After all, there is a chance it could bring you closer to your mother, and not forgetting your dear brother, Luke..."
I say nothing. Don't move away. Just shake my head.
"I thought not. You don't care about them. You only care about yourself. As I thought; you failed the first test. Then, as time is certainly of the essence, we can move swiftly into the second dilemma. You may enjoy this one. Are you going to leave me to cut my own throat, or are you going to cut it for me?"
Spartacus moves back in his seat, folds his arms across his chest.
"Be my guest," I say, forcing a smile. "I'll just watch. Be a dirty voyeur. Nothing would give me more pleasure than sitting back and seeing you bleed to death..."
Spartacus glances at his watch. "Sixty seconds now. The train is literally coming into the station. Time is running out. You sure you don't want to do one honourable thing in your life, Jeffrey?"
He stretches out his arm, runs his fingers along the contours of the knife. "Don't you want to kill the man who murdered your first love, pushed your mother over the edge, took your wife and separated you from your beautiful little girl? Don't you have enough spine, enough backbone, to take revenge? It will be our perverted little secret, Jeffrey. Just one more. They'll never even know you were here..."
I take hold of the knife. It rattles against the table.
"Forty-five seconds. Forty-four..."
"I'm going to enjoy killing you," I say.
"Forty seconds. Thirty-nine..."
My reflection stares back at me from his misty, grey eyes. I watch myself raise the knife, high above my head, moving in slow motion. It feels like another being. Only, it is not; it is me. Spartacus releases a deep, relieved sigh. Curls his lips at the edges. Closes his eyes. Waits.
"Do it," he says.
I can no longer see my reflection.
His eyes blink open. His face jerks from side to side. The grey of his eyes disappears, replaced by brilliant, horrific white. His perfect, sculptured jaw is tarnished by saliva, trickling down his chin.
"What is happening?" he asks.
I was wrong. He does not know everything.
"Twenty seconds," I say, leaning so close my hot breath makes him wince. "Tick-tock. Tick-tock, Spartacus."
The fishing wire wrapped around his neck tenses and tightens. Cuts into the blue veins. The bulging eyes look ready to pop. They glance down at the knife. At the cut-throat razor. I swipe them away, to my side of the table. Just as before, they almost topple over the edge. Almost. His strong, sinewy body deflates. He manages to slam his limp fist down against the table.
"You might think we're the same, but we're not," I whisper. "Your life really is meaningless and worthless. The best place for you is to be dead. So I'm not going to let that happen, because that's what you want. Sure, you're smarter than me. But unlike you, I'm not alone. You're not smarter than all of us together, Spartacus..."
The train slows. Ready to stop. Is coming into Bridgend. Spartacus' final destination thirty years ago. Our final destination now. Spartacus sits motionless, his body rigid, his wide, unblinking eyes remain fixed on me. I'm certain I notice a smile from one corner of his mouth, just like I'm certain I did in that club all those years ago. This time, though, he does not taunt me; he does not pity me.
Simon's stringy hair covers his eyes. His oily skin glistens. He only joined our carriage at Cardiff. A quick text was all it took. Simon bided his time, allowed events to unfold, just as we predicted they would. Said there was no way he was going to make his move until we reached Bridgend, that he was going to savour every second, play the game right to the end. Simon reiterated what he said when we first met, in his den. If Spartacus wanted to kill me, then he would have done it already.
So we bided our time. Simon chose the moment to silently strike, just as he did with his father's killer, at the fishing pond. He loosens the grip of the wire, the hold on the neck. He has already killed once before. One more time and he will officially be a serial killer.
"Five, four, three, two..."
Right on cue, a figure casts a shadow over the table. Looking up, I catch his bloodshot, watery eyes. An old friend, or possibly foe, from way back. He didn't have far to travel to Cardiff Central. His face is grizzled, his body is weathered and worn, but his mind is as sharp as it was back in the interview room. Handcuffs click around Spartacus' wrists.
"One."
DCI Baldwin wipes his lip with his sleeve. "You did say I'd finally get my man, Marcus," he says.
We stand in an orderly line to leave the train. The four of us. Spartacus is cushioned between DCI Baldwin and myself. He follows like a sheep. Exactly like the rest of society that he so despises. The doors open and we step off the train, minding the gap, onto platform 1 at Bridgend Station. The stifling heat, that has been with us since that very first day of June, is suddenly replaced by a cool, refreshing and welcome breeze.
Looking around, hardly anybody has disembarked the train. They all offloaded at Cardiff, didn't they, the cosmopolitan capital city. Bridgend has felt like yet another forgotten town for far too long.
We're not alone, though. Far from it. The platform is packed, much busier even than Cardiff Central. We're surrounded by armed officers in blue: ready, waiting and poised.
Spartacus remains silent. Bows his head. Knows it is all over. But it isn't, is it? He wanted it to be over. Tonight. 30th June, 2018. But really, it is only just beginning. I look over at DCI Baldwin. Nod my head.
DCI Baldwin blows from his mouth. Turns to the officers.
"Can you please arrest this man?" he says. "And whatever you do, do not, for a single second, let him out of your sight. Keep him alive. We need him locked up for a long, long time. Thirty years ought to do it..."
*****
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About the Author
Ch
ris Westlake was born in Cardiff and brought up in Wick, a coastal village seven miles from Bridgend. He now resides in Birmingham with his wife, Elizabeth, and two young children, AJ and Chloe. Irritatingly, he is often told by local residents that he no longer has a Welsh accent.
He has written two previous novels, Just a Bit of Banter, Like, and At Least the Pink Elephants are Laughing at Us. This is his first crime thriller.
Chris blames the delay between novels solely on the arrival of his two children, and he takes no personal responsibility for this whatsoever. He promises, however, that his next novel, a psychological crime thriller, will definitely - absolutely - be finished in 2020.
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You can find out more about Chris at his website, chriswestlakeauthor.co.uk