Macbeth

  Macbeth nodded. Seyton was like him, not a man with an eye for the bigger picture. Only she had that.

  Lady had locked herself in her room.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ Macbeth said.

  No answer.

  ‘Darling!’

  ‘It’s the child,’ Jack said.

  Macbeth turned to him.

  ‘I took it from her. It was beginning to smell, and I didn’t know what else to do. But she thinks you ordered me to take it.’

  ‘Good. Well done, Jack. It’s just that I needed her advice on a case and . . . Well . . .’

  ‘She can hardly give you the advice you need in the state she’s in right now, sir. May I ask – no. Sorry, I was forgetting myself. You aren’t Lady, sir.’

  ‘Did you think I was Lady?’

  ‘No, I just . . . Lady usually airs her thoughts with me and I help in any way I can. Not that I have much to offer, but sometimes hearing yourself say something to someone can clear your mind.’

  ‘Hm. Make us both a cup of coffee, Jack.’

  ‘At once, sir.’

  Macbeth went to the mezzanine. Looked down into the gaming room. It was a quiet evening. He saw none of the usual faces. Where were they?

  ‘At the Obelisk,’ Jack said, passing Macbeth a cup of steaming coffee.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Our regulars. They’re at the Obelisk. That was what you were wondering, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I was in the Obelisk yesterday and I counted five of them. And spoke to two of them. Turns out I’m not the only one spying. The Obelisk’s got its people here too. And they’ve seen who our regular customers are and have offered them better deals.’

  ‘Better deals?’

  ‘Credit.’

  ‘That’s illegal.’

  ‘Unofficially, of course. It won’t appear in any of the Obelisk’s ledgers and if they’re confronted they’ll swear blind they don’t give credit.’

  ‘Then we’d better offer the same.’

  ‘I think the problem runs deeper than that, sir. Can you see how few there are in the bar downstairs? In the Obelisk there are queues. Beer and cocktails cost thirty-per-cent less, and that not only increases the number of customers and the turnover in the bar, it makes people less guarded in the gaming rooms.’

  ‘Lady thinks we appeal to a different, more quality-conscious clientele.’

  ‘The people who go to casinos in this town can be divided broadly into three groups, sir. You have the out-and-out gamblers who don’t care about the quality of the carpets or expensive cognac; they want an efficient croupier, a poker table with visiting country cousins they can fleece and – if it’s possible – credit. The Obelisk has this group. And then you have the country folk I mentioned, who usually come here because we have the reputation of being the real casino. But now they’ve discovered they prefer the simple more fun-filled sinful atmosphere at the Obelisk. These are people who tend to go to bingo rather than the opera.’

  ‘And we’re the opera?’

  ‘They want cheap beer, cheap women. What’s the point of an outing into town otherwise?’

  ‘And the last group?’

  Jack pointed down to the room. ‘West Enders. The ones who don’t want to mingle with the dregs. Our last loyal customers. So far. The Obelisk plans to open a new gaming room next year with a dress code, higher minimum stakes and more expensive brands of cognac in the bar.’

  ‘Hm. And what do you suggest we do?’

  ‘Me?’ Jack laughed. ‘I’m just a receptionist, sir.’

  ‘And a croupier.’ Macbeth looked down at the blackjack table where he, Lady and Jack had first met. ‘Let me ask you for some advice, Jack.’

  ‘A croupier just watches people placing bets, sir. They never give advice.’

  ‘Fine, you’ll have to listen then. Tourtell came to tell me he didn’t want me to stand as mayor.’

  ‘Had you planned to do that, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve probably half-thought about doing it and half-rejected it and then half-thought about it again. Especially after Tourtell so patronisingly explained to me what politics was really about. What do you think?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you’d be a brilliant mayor, sir. Think of all the things you and Lady could do for the town!’

  Macbeth studied Jack’s beaming face – the undisguised happiness, the naive optimism. Like a reflection of the person he had once been. And a strange thought struck him: he wished he were Jack, the receptionist.

  ‘But I have a lot to lose as well,’ Macbeth said. ‘If I don’t stand now Tourtell will support me next time. And Tourtell’s right about the sitting mayor invariably being elected.’

  ‘Hm,’ Jack said, scratching his head. ‘Unless there’s a scandal just before the elections, that is. A scandal so damaging that the town can’t possibly let Tourtell continue.’

  ‘For example?’

  ‘Lady asked me to check out the young boy Tourtell brought to the dinner. My sources tell me Tourtell’s wife has moved to their summer cottage in Fife, while the boy has moved in. And he’s underage, sexually. What we need is concrete evidence of indecent behaviour. From employees in the mayor’s residence, for instance.’

  ‘But, Jack, this is fantastic!’ Excitement at the thought of skewering Tourtell warmed Macbeth’s cheeks. ‘We gather the evidence, and I get Kite to set up a live election debate, and then I can throw this unseemly relationship straight in Tourtell’s face. He won’t be prepared for that. How about that?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe? What do you mean?’

  ‘I was just thinking, sir, that you yourself moved into the house of a childless man when you were fifteen. The mayor would be able to come back with that.’

  Macbeth felt the blood rising in his face again. ‘What? Banquo and I . . . ?’

  ‘Tourtell won’t hesitate if you throw the first stone, sir. All’s fair in love and war. At the same time it would be unfortunate if it looked as if you’d used your position to spy on Tourtell’s private life.’

  ‘Hm, you’re right. So how would you do it?’

  ‘Let me mull it over.’ Jack took a sip of coffee. And another. Then he put his cup down on the table. ‘The information about the boy must be leaked via roundabout means. But if you’re standing against Tourtell you’ll still be suspected of being the source. So the leak should happen before you announce your candidature. In fact, to be sure you avoid suspicion you should perhaps announce you’re not standing, at least not for four years. You’ve got a job to do as chief commissioner first. Then, when the scandal disqualifies Tourtell, you’ll say rather reluctantly that as the town needs a leader at short notice you’ll put yourself at its disposal. You’ll refuse to comment on the Tourtell scandal when journalists ask, showing that you’re above that kind of behaviour, and only focus on how to get the town . . . er . . . You used such a good expression on the radio, sir, what was it again?’

  ‘Back on an even keel,’ Macbeth said. ‘Now I understand why Lady uses you as an adviser, Jack.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, but don’t exaggerate my significance.’

  ‘I’m not, but you have an unusually lucid eye for these matters.’

  ‘It may be easier to be a croupier and observer than a participant, with all the risk and strong emotions involved, sir.’

  ‘And I think you’re one hell of a croupier, Jack.’

  ‘And as a croupier I’d advise you to study your cards even more carefully to see if they can be employed better than this.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Tourtell promised you his support at the next election if you didn’t stand now, but that won’t be worth much if he’s outed as a paedophile, will it?’

  Macbeth stroked his beard. ‘True enough.’

 
‘So you should ask for something else now. Tell Tourtell you’re not even sure you’ll stand at the next election. And that you’d rather have something specific he can give you now.’

  ‘For example?’

  ‘What would you like, sir?’

  ‘What would I . . . ?’ Macbeth saw Jack motion towards the gaming room. ‘Erm, more customers?’

  ‘Yes. The Obelisk’s clientele. But as chief commissioner you don’t have the authority to close the Obelisk even if you had proof of illegal credit being given.’

  ‘Don’t I?’

  ‘As a croupier I happen to know that the police can charge individuals, but it’s only the Gambling and Casino Board that can close a whole casino, sir. And they’re subject to the jurisdiction of . . .’

  ‘The town hall. Tourtell.’

  Macbeth could see it clearly now. He didn’t need power; he should flush what he had down the toilet. A bell rang somewhere.

  ‘Sounds like we’ve got customers, sir.’ Jack got up.

  Macbeth grabbed his arm. ‘Just wait till Lady hears what we’ve cooked up. I’m sure it’ll make her feel better in a flash. How can we thank you, Jack?’

  ‘No need, sir.’ Jack smiled wryly. ‘It’s enough that you saved my life.’

  26

  DUFF SWALLOWED HIS VOMIT. IT was his fourth day on board, but there was no sign of improvement yet. One thing was the sea, quite another the stale smell in the galley. Inside, behind the swing door, it was a mixture of rancid fat and sour milk; on the other side, in the mess where the men sat eating, it was sweat and tobacco. The steward had left breakfast to Duff, saying he ought to be able to manage that on his own. Put out bread and assorted meats and cheese, boil eggs and make coffee, even a seasick first-timer could cope with that.

  Duff had been woken at six, and the first thing he did was to throw up in the bucket beside his bed. He still hadn’t had two nights in the same cabin as lack of berths meant he had had to borrow the beds of those who were on duty. Luckily he had only had lower bunks, so he didn’t have to actually sleep with the bucket. He had just got his sweater over his head when the next wave of nausea came. On his way down to the galley he’d had pit stops to vomit in the toilet beside the first mate’s cabin and in the sink before the last steep staircase.

  Breakfast had been served, and those of the crew who were on duty had finished, it seemed. Time to clear away before they started making lunch.

  Duff inhaled three stomachfuls of dubious air, got up and went out into the mess.

  Four people were sitting at the nearest table. The speaker was a loud, slightly overweight engineer with hairy forearms, an Esso T-shirt stained with oil and sweat rings under his arms and a striped Hull City Tigers cap on his head. When he spoke he sniffed before and afterwards, like a form of inverted commas. What came between them was always denigration of those lower on the ladder. ‘Hey, Sparks,’ the engineer shouted to be sure everyone realised he was referring to the young boy with glasses at the end of the table, ‘hadn’t you better ask the new galley boy if he can heat you up some fish pie so you can stuff your dick in and enjoy the closest you’ll ever get to cunt.’ He sniffed before starting to laugh. This raised no more than short-lived, forced laughter from the others. The young radio-telegrapher smiled fleetingly and ducked his head even lower into his plate. The engineer, whom Duff had heard the others call Hutch, sniffed. ‘But judging by today’s breakfast I doubt you know how to heat up a fish pie, do you, lad?’ Another sniff.

  Duff kept his head down, like the telegrapher. That was all he had to do until they reached the docks in Capitol. Keep a low profile, mouth shut, mask on.

  ‘Tell me, galley boy! Do you call this scrambled egg?’

  ‘Anything wrong?’ Duff said.

  ‘Wrong?’ The engineer rolled his eyes and turned to the others. ‘The greenhorn asks me if something’s wrong. Only that this scrambled egg looks and tastes like vomit. Your vomit. From your green, seasick gills.’

  Duff looked at the engineer. The guy was grinning, and there was an evil glint in his shiny eyes. Duff had seen it before. Lorreal, the director of the orphanage.

  ‘I’m sorry the scrambled egg didn’t live up to your expectations,’ Duff said.

  ‘Didn’t live up to your expectations,’ the engineer mimicked, and sniffed. ‘Think you’re at some posh fuckin’ restaurant, do you? At sea we want food, not muck. What do you reckon, guys?’

  The men around him chuckled their agreement, but Duff saw two of them keep their heads down in embarrassment. Presumably they played along so as not to become targets.

  ‘The steward’s on duty at lunch,’ Duff said, putting plates of food and milk cartons on a tray. ‘Let’s hope it’s better then.’

  ‘What isn’t any better,’ the engineer said ‘is the way you look. Have you got lice? Is that why you wear that hat? And what about those cunt pubes that pass for a beard? What happened, galley boy? Get your mother’s cunt where others got a face?’

  The engineer looked around expectantly, but this time all the others were studying the floor.

  ‘I’ve got a suggestion,’ Duff said. Knowing he shouldn’t speak. Knowing he had promised himself he wouldn’t. ‘Sparks can stuff his wanger under your arm. That way he can feel what a cunt’s like and you finally get some dick.’

  The table went so quiet all that could be heard was the noise of Duff putting the plates of cheese, sausage and cucumber onto the tray. No sniff this time.

  ‘Let me repeat the bit that might interest you most,’ Duff said, putting down the tray. ‘You finally get some dick.’ He stressed the consonants so that no one would be in any doubt as to what he had said. Then Duff turned to the table. The engineer had risen to his feet and was coming towards him.

  ‘Take off your glasses,’ he said.

  ‘Can’t see fuck all without them,’ Duff said. ‘See a fuckwit with them.’

  The engineer wound back his arm, announcing where the blow would come from, and swung. Duff retreated a step, swayed and, when the engineer’s oil-black fist had passed, took two steps forward, grabbed the engineer, who was now off balance, by his other hand, forced it back against his wrist, grabbed the engineer’s elbow and let his momentum take him forward while Duff slipped behind. The engineer screamed, automatically bending forward to relieve the painful pressure on his wrist as Duff steered him into a wall head first. Duff pulled the engineer back. Rammed him forward again. Against the bulkhead. Duff pushed the helpless engineer’s arm higher, knowing that soon something would have to give, something would break. The engineer’s scream rose to a whine, and his fingers lunged desperately at Duff’s hat. Duff rammed his head against the wall for the third time. Was steadying himself for a fourth when he heard a voice.

  ‘That’s enough, Johnson!’

  It took Duff a second to remember that was the name he had given when he signed on. And to realise the voice was the captain’s. Duff looked up. The captain was standing right in front of them. Duff let go of the engineer, who fell to his knees with a sob.

  ‘What’s going on here?’

  Duff noticed only now that he was panting. The provocation. The anger. ‘Nothing, Captain.’

  ‘I know the difference between nothing and something, Johnson. So what is this? Hutchinson?’

  Duff wasn’t sure, but it sounded like the man on his knees was crying.

  Duff cleared his throat. ‘A friendly bet, Captain. I wanted to show that the Fife grip is more effective than a Hull haymaker. I might have got carried away.’ He patted the engineer’s shaking back. ‘Sorry, pal, but we agree that Fife beat Hull on this occasion, don’t we?’

  The engineer nodded, still sobbing.

  The captain took off his hat and studied Duff. ‘The Fife grip, you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ Duff answered.

  ‘Hutchinson, you’re needed in the engine roo
m. You others have got jobs to do, haven’t you?’

  The mess cleared quickly.

  ‘Pour me a cup of coffee and sit down,’ the captain said.

  Duff did as he said.

  The captain raised his cup to his mouth a couple of times. Looked down at the black liquid and mumbled something. Just as Duff was beginning to wonder whether the captain had forgotten he was there, he raised his head.

  ‘Generally I don’t consider it worth the effort to delve into individuals’ backgrounds, Johnson. Most of the crew are simple, with limited intellects; they have pasts best left unprobed and futures that won’t be on board MS Glamis. As they won’t be under my command or be my problem for long, I know it’s not worth getting too involved. All that concerns me is how they function as a group, as my crew.’

  The captain took another sip and grimaced. Duff had no idea if this was due to the coffee, pain or the conversation.

  ‘You seem like a man with education and ambition, Johnson, but I won’t ask how you ended up here. I doubt I would hear the truth anyway. But my guess is you’re someone who knows how groups function. You know that there’ll always be a pecking order, and everyone will have their role in that order, their place. The captain at the top, the rookie at the bottom. As long as everyone accepts their own and others’ positions in the order we have a working crew. Exactly as I want it. At the moment, however, we have some confusion at the lower end of the pecking order on MS Glamis. We have three potential chickens at the bottom. Sparks because he’s the youngest. You because it’s your first time. And Hutchinson because he’s the most stupid and very difficult to like.’

  Another sip.

  ‘Sparks will survive this trip as the bottom chicken. He’s young, intelligent enough and he’ll learn. And you, Johnson, have moved up the order, I’ve just seen, after what you did to Hutchinson. For all I know, it was a situation you initiated to achieve just this. But if I know Hutch, he started it. Like the stupid idiot he is, he set himself up for another fall. And that’s why he’s looking for someone to be under him. It’ll probably be some poor soul who signs on in Capitol, where we’re going to need a couple of new men as people sign off all the time. Do you understand?’