The Tunnel
He stared for what felt like an age, but which was no more than a few seconds.
Then, he ran. Past the carriage, past the table with the mobile phone, past the empty chair where the lady had sat.
He stumbled back to his own carriage and collapsed into his chair. It didn’t make any sense, any of it, but yet he had a feeling that it was all too clear, there was an explanation if only he could lay his finger on it.
He thought back to the people who had put him up to this job.
It was the last job, he’d known it, planned it, they knew it too, indeed that’s why they chose him.
Slowly, he removed the plastic bag from his coat, and as he looked at the severed digit the true horror dawned on him.
What had led to him taking his own life.
Even now, he knew, they would be finding his body, discovering the finger, disposing of both before any authority happened upon his corpse. It gave him some, strange comfort.
He was the last one, you see. His own symbol, just beneath his left elbow.
It was done.
He went back now, knowing how he would do it, following a ritual he had planned so often but never followed through.
He looked round the door again, and he associated what he found with the actions he must have taken, in the moment of madness blotted out by his own death.
He looked at his own features, his shirt covered in blood, his jaw slack, his eyes empty..
And the train slowly drew to a stop.