Macbeth

  ‘She’s not only beautiful,’ Lady said. ‘I suppose, as a woman in the police, she must have sacrificed a lot to get where she is. Having a family, for example. I can see she’s sacrificed having a family. Can’t you too, Duff?’

  Grey eyes. They were grey, not blue.

  ‘All women who want to get on have to sacrifice something, I suppose,’ Duff said, lifting his wine glass and discovering it was empty again. ‘Family isn’t the be-all and end-all for everyone. Don’t you agree, ma’am?’

  Lady shrugged. ‘We humans are practical. If decisions we made once can’t be changed, we do our best to defend them so that our errors won’t haunt and torment us too much. I think that’s the recipe for a happy life.’

  ‘So you’re afraid you’d be haunted if you saw your decisions in a true light?’

  ‘If a woman is to get what she wants, she has to think and act like a man and not consider the family. Her own or others’.’

  Duff recoiled. He tried to catch her eye, but she had leaned forward to fill the glasses of the guests around her. And the next moment Duncan tapped his glass, stood up and coughed.

  Duff watched Macbeth during the inspired thank-you speech, which paid homage not only to the hostess’s dinner and the host’s promotion but to the mission they had all signed up to: to make the town a place where it was possible to live. And he rounded off by saying that after a long week they deserved the rest the merciful Lord had granted them and they would be wise to use it because there was a good chance the chief commissioner wasn’t going to be such a merciful god in the weeks to come.

  He wished them a good night, stifled a yawn and proposed a toast to their hosts. During the ensuing applause Duff glanced across at Macbeth, wondering if he would return the toast – after all Duncan was the chief commissioner. But Macbeth just sat there, pale-faced and as stiff as a board, apparently caught off guard by the new situation, his new status and the new demands that he would have to face.

  Duff pulled out Lady’s chair for her. ‘Thank you for everything this evening, ma’am.’

  ‘Likewise, Duff. Have you got the key for your room?’

  ‘Mm, I’ll be staying . . . elsewhere.’

  ‘Back home in Fife?’

  ‘No, with a cousin. But I’ll be here early tomorrow morning to pick up Duncan. We live in Fife, not far apart.’

  ‘Oh, what time?’

  ‘At seven. Duncan and I both have children and . . . Well, it’s the weekend. All go, you know how it is.’

  ‘Actually I don’t,’ Lady said with a smile. ‘Sleep well and my regards to your cousin, Duff.’

  One by one the guests left the bar and the gaming tables and went to their rooms or homes. Macbeth stood in reception shaking hands and mumbling hollow goodbyes, but at least there he didn’t have to make conversation with the stragglers in the bar.

  ‘You really don’t look well,’ Banquo said with a slight slur. He had just come out of the toilet and placed a heavy paw on Macbeth’s shoulder. ‘Get to bed now, so you don’t infect other folk.’

  ‘Thanks, Banquo. But Lady’s still in the bar entertaining.’

  ‘It’s almost an hour now since the chief went to bed, so you’re allowed to go too. I’ll just drink up in the bar, then Fleance and I will go too. And I don’t want to see you standing here like a doorman. OK?’

  ‘OK. Goodnight, Banquo.’

  Macbeth watched his friend walk somewhat unsteadily back to the bar. Looked at his watch. Seven minutes to midnight. It would happen in seven minutes. He waited for three. Then he straightened up, looked through the double doors to the bar, where Lady was standing and listening to Malcolm and Lennox. At that moment, as though she had felt his presence, she turned and their eyes met. She gave an imperceptible nod and he nodded back. Then she laughed at something Malcolm said, countering with something that made both of the men laugh. She was good.

  Macbeth went up the stairs, let himself into his and Lady’s suite. Put his ear to the door of the bodyguards’ room. The snoring from inside was even, safe. Almost artless. He sat on the bed. Ran his hand over the smooth bedcover. The silk whispered beneath his rough fingertips. Yes, she was good. Better than he would ever be. And perhaps they could pull this off – perhaps the two of them, Macbeth and Lady, could make a difference, shape the town in their image, carry on what Duncan had started and take it further than he would ever have managed. They had the will, they had the strength and they could win people over. Of the people. For the people. With the people.

  His fingers stroked the two daggers he had laid out on the bed. But for the fact that power corrupts and poisons, they wouldn’t have needed to do this. If Duncan’s heart had been pure and idealistic they could have discussed it, and Duncan would have seen that Macbeth was the best man to realise his dream of leading the town out of the darkness. For whatever dreams Duncan had, the common people of the town wouldn’t follow an upper-class stranger from Capitol, would they? No, they needed one of their own. Duncan could have been the navigator, but Macbeth would have to be the captain – as long as he could get the crew to obey, to guide the boat to where they both wanted, into a safe harbour. But even if he accepted that a transfer of power was in the best interests of the town, Duncan would never surrender his post to Macbeth. Duncan, for all his virtue, was no better than any other person in power: he put his personal ambitions above everything else. See how he killed those who could damage his reputation or threaten his authority. Cawdor’s body had still been warm when they got there.

  Wasn’t that so? Yes, it was. It was, it was.

  Twelve o’clock.

  Macbeth closed his eyes. He had to get into the zone. He counted down from ten. Opened his eyes. Swore, closed them again and counted down from ten again. Looked at his watch. Grabbed the daggers, stuffed them in the especially made shoulder holster with sheaths for two knives, one on each side. Then he went into the corridor. Passed the bodyguards’ door and stopped outside Duncan’s. Listened. Nothing. He drew a deep breath. Evaluations of a variety of scenarios had been done beforehand; the only thing left was the act itself. He inserted the master key into the lock, saw his reflection in the shiny door knob of polished brass, then gripped it and turned. Observed what he could in the corridor light, then he was inside and had closed the door behind him.

  He held his breath in the darkness and listened to Duncan’s breathing.

  Calm, even.

  Like Lorreal’s. The director of the orphanage.

  No, don’t let that thought out now.

  Duncan’s breathing told him he was in bed and asleep. Macbeth went to the bathroom door, switched on the light inside and left the door slightly ajar. Enough light for what he was going to do.

  What he was going to do.

  He stood beside the bed and looked down at the unsuspecting sleeping man. Then he straightened up. What an irony. He raised a dagger. Killing a defenceless man – could anything be easier? The decision had been taken, now all he had to do was carry it out. And hadn’t he already killed his first defenceless victim on the road to Forres, wasn’t his virginity already gone, hadn’t he paid his debt to Duff there and then, paid him back in the same currency Duff had run it up: cold blood. Seen Lorreal’s hot blood streaming onto the white sheet, the blood that had looked black in the darkness. So what was stopping him now? How was this conspiracy different from when he and Duff had changed the crime scene so that all the evidence found in Forres would tally with the story they agreed they would tell? And the story at the orphanage they agreed they would tell. And sometimes cruelty is on the side of the good, Macbeth. He looked up from the blade glinting in the light from the bathroom.

  He lowered the dagger.

  He didn’t have it in him.

  But he had to do it. He had to. He had to have it in him. But what could he do if he wasn’t up to it even in the zone?

  He had
to become the other Macbeth, the one he had buried so deep, the crazy flesh-eating corpse he had sworn he would never be again.

  Banquo stared at the big, lifeless locomotive as he unbuttoned his flies. He swayed in the wind. He was a bit drunk, he knew that.

  ‘Come on, Dad,’ came Fleance’s voice from behind him.

  ‘What’s the time, son?’

  ‘I don’t know, but the moon’s up.’

  ‘Then it’s past twelve. There’s a storm forecast tonight.’ The gun holster hanging between the first and second loops on his belt was in his way. He unhooked it and passed it to Fleance.

  His son took it with a resigned groan. ‘Dad, this is a public place. You can’t—’

  ‘It’s a public urinal, that’s what it is,’ Banquo slurred and at that moment registered a black-clad figure coming round the steam engine. ‘Give me the gun, Fleance!’

  The light fell on the man’s face.

  ‘Oh, it’s just you.’

  ‘Ah, it’s you, is it?’ Macbeth said. ‘I was out for some air.’

  ‘And I just had to air the old fella,’ Banquo slurred. ‘No, I wasn’t about to piss on Bertha. After all, that would be – now they’ve closed St Joseph’s Church – desecrating the last holy thing in this town.’

  ‘Yes, maybe.’

  ‘Is there anything up?’ Banquo said, trying to relax. He always found it difficult to get going with strangers nearby, but Macbeth and his son?

  ‘No,’ Macbeth said in a strangely neutral tone.

  ‘I dreamed about the three sisters last night,’ Banquo said. ‘We haven’t talked about it, but they got their prophecies spot on, didn’t they. Or what do you reckon?’

  ‘Oh, I’d forgotten them. Lets’s talk about it another time.’

  ‘Whenever,’ Banquo said, sensing the flow coming.

  ‘Well,’ Macbeth said. ‘Actually I was going to ask you – now you’re my deputy in Organised Crime – but suppose something like that did happen, just as the sisters said it would?’

  ‘Yes?’ Banquo groaned. He had lost patience, started forcing it, and with that the flow stopped.

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you joined me then too.’

  ‘Become your deputy CC? Ha ha, yes, pull the other one.’ Banquo suddenly realised that Macbeth wasn’t joking. ‘Of course, my boy, of course. You know I’m always willing to follow anyone who’ll fight the good fight.’

  They looked at each other. And then, as if a magic wand had been waved, it came. Banquo looked down, and there was a majestic golden jet splashing intrepidly over the locomotive’s large rear wheel and running down onto the rail beneath.

  ‘Goodnight, Banquo. Goodnight, Fleance.’

  ‘Goodnight, Macbeth,’ answered father and son in unison.

  ‘Was Uncle Mac drunk?’ Fleance asked when Macbeth had gone.

  ‘Drunk? You know he doesn’t drink.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but he was so strange.’

  ‘Strange?’ Banquo grinned grimly as he watched the continuous stream with satisfaction. ‘Believe me, that boy isn’t strange when he gets high.’

  ‘What is he then?’

  ‘He goes crazy.’

  The jet was suddenly swept to the side by a strong gust of wind.

  ‘The storm,’ Banquo said, buttoning up.

  Macbeth went for a walk around the central station. When he came back Banquo and Fleance had gone, and he went into the large waiting room.

  He scanned the room and instantly sorted the individuals there into the four relevant categories: those who sold, those who used, those who did both and those who needed somewhere to sleep, shelter from the rain and would soon be joining one of the first three. That was the path he himself had followed. From orphanage escapee receiving food and drink from officers of the Salvation Army to user who financed dope and food by selling.

  Macbeth went over to an older, plump man in a wheelchair.

  ‘A quarter of brew,’ he said, and just the sound of the words made something that had been hibernating in his body wake up.

  The man in the wheelchair looked up. ‘Macbeth,’ he said, spitting the name out in a shower of saliva. ‘I remember you and you remember me. You’re a policeman, and I don’t sell dope, OK? So get the hell away from me.’

  Macbeth walked on to the next dealer, a man in a checked shirt who was so hyped up he couldn’t stand still.

  ‘Do you think I’m an idiot?’ he shouted. ‘I am by the way. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, would I. But selling to a cop and ending up in clink for twenty-four hours when you know you can’t go four hours without a fix?’ He leaned back, and his laughter echoed beneath the ceiling. Macbeth went further in, along the corridor to the departures hall, and heard the dealer’s cry resound behind him: ‘Undercover cop coming, folks!’

  ‘Hi, Macbeth,’ came a thin, weak voice.

  Macbeth turned. It was the young boy with the eyepatch. Macbeth went over to him and crouched down by the wall. The black patch had ridden up, allowing Macbeth to see inside the cavity’s mysterious darkness.

  ‘I need a quarter of brew,’ Macbeth said. ‘Can you help me?’

  ‘No,’ said the boy. ‘I can’t help anyone. Can you help me?’

  Macbeth recognised something in his expression. It was like looking into a mirror. What the hell was he actually doing? He had, with the help of good people, managed to get away, and now he was back to this? To perform an act of villainy even the most desperate drug addict would shy away from? He could still refuse. He could take this boy with him to the Inverness. Give him food, a shower and a bed. Tonight could be very different from the way he had planned it, there was still that possibility. The possibility of saving himself. The boy. Duncan. Lady.

  ‘Come on. Let’s—’ Macbeth started.

  ‘Macbeth.’ The voice coming from behind him rumbled like thunder through the corridor. ‘Your prayers have been heard. I have what you need.’

  Macbeth turned. Lifted his eyes higher. And higher. ‘How did you know I was here, Strega?’

  ‘We have our eyes and ears everywhere. Here you are, a present from Hecate.’

  Macbeth gazed down at the little bag that had dropped into his hand. ‘I want to pay. How much?’

  ‘Pay for a present? I think Hecate would take that as an insult. Have a good night.’ Strega turned and left.

  ‘Then I won’t take it,’ Macbeth called out and threw the bag after her, but she had already been swallowed up the darkness.

  ‘If you don’t . . .’ said the one-eyed reedy voice. ‘Is it OK if I . . . ?’

  ‘Stay where you are,’ Macbeth snarled without moving.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Want?’ Macbeth echoed. ‘It’s never what you want to do, but what you have to do.’

  He walked towards the bag and picked it up. Walked back. Passing the boy’s outstretched hand.

  ‘Hey, aren’t you going . . . ?’

  ‘Go to hell,’ Macbeth growled. ‘I’ll see you there.’

  Macbeth went down the stairs to the stinking toilet, chased out a woman sitting on the floor, tore open the bag, sprinkled the powder onto the sink below the mirrors, crushed the lumps with the blunt side of a dagger and used the blade to chop it up into finer particles. Then he rolled up a banknote and sniffed the yellowy-white powder first up one nostril, then the other. It took the chemicals a surprisingly short time to pass through the mucous membranes into his blood. And his last thought before the dope-infected blood entered his brain was that it was like renewing an acquaintance with a lover. A much too beautiful, much too dangerous lover who hadn’t aged a day in all these years.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Hecate banged his stick on the floor by the CCTV monitors.

  ‘You said there was nothing more predictable than a love-smitten junk
ie and moralist.’

  ‘Thank you, Strega.’

  Macbeth stopped at the top of the steps in front of the central station.

  Workers’ Square swayed like a sea ahead of him; the breakers crashed beneath the cobblestones, sounding like the chattering of teeth as they rose and fell. And down below the Inverness there was a paddle steamer filled with the noise of music and laughter, and the light made it sparkle in the water running from its slowly rotating, roaring wheel.

  Then he set off. Through the black night, back to the Inverness. He seemed to be gliding through the air, his feet off the ground. He floated through the door and into the reception area. The receptionist looked at him and gave him a friendly nod. Macbeth turned to the gaming room and saw that Lady, Malcolm and Duff were still talking in the bar. Then he went up the stairs as though he were flying, along the corridor until he stopped outside Duncan’s door.

  Macbeth inserted the master key in the lock, turned the knob and went in.

  He was back. Nothing had changed. The bathroom door was still ajar, and the light inside was on. He walked over to the bed. Looked down at the sleeping police officer, put his left hand inside his jacket and found the handle of the dagger.

  He raised his hand. It was so much easier now. Aimed for the heart. The way he had aimed at the heart carved into the oak tree. And the knife bored a hole between the names there. Meredith and Macbeth.

  ‘Sleep no more! Macbeth is murdering sleep.’

  Macbeth stiffened. Was it the chief commissioner, the dope or he himself who had spoken?

  He looked down at Duncan’s face. No, the eyes were still closed and his breathing calm and even. But as he watched, Duncan’s eyes opened. Looked at him quietly. ‘Macbeth?’ The chief commissioner’s eyes went to the dagger.

  ‘I thought I heard s-s-sounds coming from here,’ Macbeth said. ‘I’ll check.’

  ‘My bodyguards . . .’

  ‘I h-h-heard them snoring.’

  Duncan listened for a few moments. Then he yawned. ‘Good. Let them sleep. I’m safe here, I know. Thanks, Macbeth.’