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
