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 The clutter and noise of my carriage has been replaced by peace and calm.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,
