11:15 Oxford Road

Should I try’n throw it out of the window? No I think it’s too late for that. We must be nearin’ home soon, not much chance to do anything really. The train rattles on, louder. Through the windows the panorama of dark rock continues te speed past.

I’ll have te see what’s inside. God help us, but I gotta know what I’m dealin wiv here. I get hold of the external wrapping of the parcel, plastic and bubble wrap soaked in blood an pull through the sodden material. It flakes apart in me hand, the blood smearing all over me fingers. There’s a brown box inside. I lift the top.

In it is a rectangle, frameless mirror, a fuckin’ mirror. And no sign of the blood that coats thee outside.

What the fuck. Whats this, some sorta mind game? What are they playin’, what the fuck is happening?

The train moves ever faster now, more erratic. The sides of the carriage shake under the speed. I place the box back on the seat opposite and look at the red smeared all over me hands.

The rattlin’ of the train increases and the internal lights flicker, I stand up and ready meself to get off, clinging to the hand rail as the wheels screetch along beneath me. I look down the corridor of the train. All carriages are the same, all empty as far as the eye can see in both directions.

The juddering gets more violent, I grip the handrail harder till my palms start to sweat, then the train lurches to a fast grinding halt, swinging hard forwards then back again to stop. And then silence. Through the windows I can see nothing but darkness. The doors open, all of ‘em, with a faint hiss. There’s a bad smell in the air.

It seems as if me long-awaited judgement is finally come.

Kenn Taylor is a writer and journalist based in Liverpool. Controversially, he also likes Manchester as a city, although he draws the line when it comes to football.

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