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
Chris 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
