Macbeth

He walked into reception. The same members of staff were there, hovering over the counter as though nothing had happened, unaware of him. He went out into the rain. Looked up. Stood like that until his neck hurt. Then he started across the deserted square towards Seyton and the waiting car. What the hell had happened? Or rather, what hadn’t happened? Had the bomb got damp in the police HQ basement? Had someone managed to stop the countdown after he left the penthouse suite? Or had it detonated, but with much less power than SWAT’s bomb expert had given him to believe? And what now? He pulled up. What if Hecate or his people went to the suite and discovered he had left a bomb there? He had to go back and fetch the suitcase.

Macbeth turned. Took two paces. Saw his shadow outlined on the cobbles and heard a dull boom like thunder. For a moment he thought it was hail. White granules hit him on the face and hands, pitter-pattered on the cobbles around him and danced on the parked cars. A shower head smacked to the ground a few metres from him. He glanced upwards, then was sent flying as he heard something crash beside him. Macbeth raised his arms to protect himself, but the man who had tackled him had already got up, brushed down his grey coat and run off. Macbeth saw a smashed brown fridge where he had been standing a second ago.

He rested his head on the cool cobbles.

Flames rose from the top of the Obelisk, and black smoke billowed into the sky. Something bounced over the cobbles towards him and came to rest beside his head. He picked it up. It was still wrapped in its wire cage.

‘What the hell happened?’ Seyton said as Macbeth got in the car.

‘Tourtell,’ Macbeth said. ‘He warned Hecate. Drive.’

‘Tourtell?’ Seyton said, pulling away from the pavement as the wipers swept small fragments of white glass from the windscreen.

‘Tourtell’s the only person who knew about our plan, and he must have informed Hecate hoping that he would kill me instead.’

‘And Hecate didn’t try to kill you?’

‘No. Quite the contrary. He saved me.’

‘How come?’

‘He needs his puppets.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing, Seyton. Drive to the Inverness.’

Macbeth scanned the pavement, scanned the people gawping up. He searched for grey coats. How many were there? Did they all wear grey coats or only some of them? Were they always there? He closed his eyes. Immortal. As immortal as a wooden puppet. The pressure inside his head rose. And a strange thought whirled past. Hecate’s promise to make him invulnerable was not a blessing but a curse. He could feel the wire on his skin as he rolled the cork from the champagne bottle between his fingers and heard the first police siren.

Seyton had stopped in front of the Inverness and Macbeth was about to get out of the car when he heard Tourtell’s voice.

‘Turn up the radio,’ Macbeth said and got back in.

‘... and to counter the rumours and out of respect for you, my dear fellow citizens, and your right to know about your elected representatives, I have today decided to tell you that fifteen years ago I had a brief extramarital affair which led to the birth of a son. In agreement with the relevant parties — that is, my son’s mother and my wife — it was decided to keep this out of the public eye. I’ve always stayed in close contact with my son and his mother and maintained them using my my own means. Not going public at that time was a judgement, taking several parties into consideration. The town was not one of them as at that juncture I wasn’t in office and didn’t need to answer to anyone except those closest to me and to myself. Now, however, things are different, and now is the right time to disclose this information. My son’s mother is seriously ill, and with her consent two months ago he came to live with me. Since then I have taken Kasi with me to public events, where I have introduced him as my son, but paradoxically it seems my honesty has led to other rumours. The truth, as we know, is the last thing to be believed. I am not proud of being unfaithful fifteen years ago, but beyond having sought the forgiveness of those closest to me, there’s little I can do about it. Just as little as I can do about people judging my abilities as a leader on the basis of my private life. All I can do is ask you for your trust as indeed I trust you now by making public details which are extremely painful and precious to me. I may not have always acted in ways that make me feel proud; however, I am proud of my fifteen-year-old son, Kasi. Last night I had a long talk with him, and he told me to do what I’m doing now. To tell the whole of this town that I’m his father.’ Tourtell took a deep breath before concluding with a clear vibrato in his voice, ‘And that he’s my son.’ He coughed. ‘And to win the coming mayoral election.’

Pause. A woman’s voice, also clearly moved.