Macbeth

Macbeth breathed deeply and calmly. And what if death came now? It would of course be a meaningless end, but isn’t that the case with all ends? We’re interrupted in mid-sentence in the narrative about ourselves, and the end hangs in the air, with no meaning, no conclusion, no unravelling final act. A short echo of the last, semi-articulated word and you’re forgotten. Forgotten, forgotten, not even the biggest statue can change that. The person you were, the person you really were, disappears faster than concentric rings in water. And what was the point of this short, interrupted guest appearance? Of playing along as best you can, seizing the pleasures and happiness life has to offer while it lasts? Or leaving a mark, changing the direction of things, making the world a slightly better place before you yourself have to leave it? Or perhaps the point is to reproduce, to put more suitable small creatures on the earth in the hope that humans will at some point become the demi-gods they imagine they are? Or is there simply no meaning? Perhaps we’re just detached sentences in an eternal chaotic babble in which everyone talks and no one listens, and our worst premonition finally turns out to be correct: you are alone. All alone.

Seventeen minutes.

Alone. Then Banquo had come along and taken him to his heart, made him part of his family. And now he had got rid of him. Got rid of everyone. And was alone again. Him and Lady. But what did he want with all this? Did he want it? Or did he want to give it to someone? Was it for her, for Lady?

Fourteen minutes.

And did he really think it would last? Wasn’t it all as fragile as Lady’s mind, wasn’t it doomed to crash to the ground, this empire they were building, wasn’t it just a question of time? Perhaps, but what else do we have but time, a little time, the frustratingly temporary nature of impermanence?

Eleven minutes.

Where was Hecate? It was already too late to take the suitcase to the harbour and heave it into the sea. The alternative was to dump it under a manhole cover in the street, but it was bright daylight, and the chances of Macbeth being recognised were high after the recent news programmes and press exposure.

Seven minutes.

Macbeth made up his mind. If Hecate wasn’t here in two minutes he would go. Leave the suitcase. Hope Hecate arrived before the bomb went off.

Five minutes. Four minutes.

Macbeth got up and went to the door. Listened.

Nothing.

Time to withdraw.

He gripped the door handle. Pulled. Pulled harder. Locked. He was locked in.

‘Do you mean you were cheated, sir?’ Lady was standing by the roulette table. She had been called because a customer was beginning to cause trouble. The man wasn’t completely sober, nor was he drunk though. Creased tweed jacket. She didn’t have to guess even: ex-Obelisk customer from bumpkin land.

‘Of course I was,’ the man said as Lady surveyed the room. It was just as full this evening. She would have to take on more staff, they needed at least two more in the bar. ‘The ball lands on fourteen three times in a row. What are the chances of that, eh?’

‘Exactly the same as they are for three, twenty-four and then sixteen,’ Lady said. ‘One in fifty thousand. Exactly the same as for any combination of numbers.’

‘But—’

‘Sir.’ Lady smiled, lightly touching his arm. ‘Has anyone ever told you that during a bombing raid you should hide in a bomb crater because lightning never strikes twice in the same place? That was when you were cheated. But now you’re in Inverness Casino, sir.’ She passed him a ticket. ‘Have a drink at the bar at my expense. Please consider the logic of what I’ve just said and we can talk afterwards, OK?’

The man leaned back and scrutinised her. Took the ticket and was gone.

‘Lady.’

She turned. Above her towered a tall broad-shouldered woman. Or man.

‘Mr Hand would like to speak to you.’ The man-woman nodded towards an elderly man standing a few metres away. He wore a white suit, had dyed dark hair and was leaning on a gilded walking stick while examining the chandelier above him with interest.

‘If this could wait for a couple of minutes...’ Lady smiled.

‘He also has a nickname. Starting with H.’

Lady stopped.

‘He prefers Hand.’ The man-woman smiled.

Lady walked over to the old man.

‘Baccarat crystal or Bohemian?’ he asked without taking his eyes off the chandelier.

‘Bohemian,’ she said. ‘It is, as you can see, a slightly smaller copy of the chandelier in Dolmabahçe Palace in Istanbul.’