Macbeth

When he fled his idea had been that it would be easier to drive to town and disappear in the crowds there than escape along a country road. He had abandoned his car in a street not far from the Obelisk and gone into the casino, which was the only place besides the Inverness he knew stayed open all night. He couldn’t rent a room of course; overnight accommodation would be the first place Macbeth would check. But he could sit among the great swathe of one-armed bandits, as lonely and undisturbed as the person on the nearest machine, feeding it with coins and slowly allowing himself to be robbed. And he had done that while thinking — trying to think — about how he could escape and staring at the images of the odds spinning round in the three small windows. A heart. A dagger. A crown. After a few hours he went to the bar for a beer to see if that could brighten his mood and saw on the muted TV above the barman the press conference at police HQ, and suddenly a familiar face appeared on the screen, with a white scar running diagonally across it like a traffic sign. A close-up of himself, with the word WANTED written over it. Duff made for the exit with his collar turned up and head bent. And the cold night air cleared his brain enough for him to remember their old love nest, the garage, which was his best overnight option.

But soon Friday would dawn, a working day, and he would have to get out before the staff arrived, and outside the news-stands would be adorned with his face.

Duff put his hand into his jacket pocket. Felt the glossy paper under his fingers. Pulled out the package. Couldn’t stop himself, imagined Ewan’s face when he saw that he had been given what he asked for. Duff heard his own wild sobbing. Stop! He mustn’t! He had promised himself he wouldn’t think about them now. Grieving was a privilege he could grant himself later if he survived. He switched on the Volvo’s inside light, dried his tears, removed the wrapping paper, took out the false beard, opened the glue tube and squeezed out the shiny glue, which he spread over his chin, around his lips and inside the beard. Used the rear-view mirror to stick it on. Pulled the tight woollen hat over his forehead so that the upper part of his scar was hidden. Then he put on the glasses. The comically wide frames covered the scar on his cheek above the beard. In the mirror he saw he had glue on his cheek. Searched in vain through his pockets for something to wipe it off with, opened the glove compartment, found a notebook, took it out and was about to tear off the top page. Stopped. In the light he saw depressions in the paper. Someone had recently written in the notebook. So what? He tore off the sheet, wiped the glue from his cheek. Scrunched up the paper and put it in his jacket pocket. Put the notebook back in the glove compartment.

So.

Leaned back in the seat. Closed his eyes.

Five hours. Why had he put on the beard so early? It already itched. He started thinking again. Fought to keep his mind off Fife. He had to find himself a place to hide in town. All the roads out would be closed. Besides he didn’t have any bolt-holes outside town or in Fife, no hostels or hotels that wouldn’t be warned, no one out of town who would hide a wanted cop-killer. And then it struck him. He didn’t know anyone who would help him. Not here, not anywhere. He was the type of person people got on with; they didn’t necessarily actively dislike him. They just didn’t like him. And why would they? What had he ever done to help them that hadn’t also helped himself? He had alliances, not friends. And now, when Duff really needed help, a friend, a shoulder to cry on, Duff was a man with no creditworthiness, a lost cause. He examined his pathetic, stiff, hirsute reflection. The fox. The hunters were closing in on him, Macbeth’s new chief hound, Seyton, already barking at his heels. He had to get away. But where, where could the fox find a foxhole?

Five hours to daybreak. To Friday. To Ewan’s birth...

No! Don’t cry! Survive! A dead man can’t avenge anything.

He had to stay awake until it became light, then find himself somewhere else. One of the disused factories perhaps. No, he had already rejected that idea. Macbeth knew as well as he did where he would try to hide. Shit! Now he was going round in circles, crossing his own tracks, the way people did when they got lost.

He was so tired, but he had to stay awake until it was light. Ewan had never turned ten. Shit! He tried to find something to distract himself. He read all the gauges in front of him. Took the crumpled sheet from his jacket pocket, uncrumpled it and smoothed the page. Tried to read. Rummaged through the glove compartment until he found a pencil. Held it sideways over the paper and shaded over the depressions. What had been writen on the paper, on the sheet above, which had been taken, shone white against black: Dolphin. 66 Tannery St, District 6. Alfie. Safe haven.