"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..."
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
