Macbeth

‘The rogue,’ Lennox said, and saw the driver, who must have been keeping his eye on them, get out of the car to open the rear door. ‘Is it bulletproof?’

‘I’m the mayor, not the president. Why are you doing this if you’re the rogue?’

‘Because someone has to save this town from Macbeth. I can’t, so you’ll have to, Tourtell.’

‘What the fuck’s Lennox up to?’ Seyton said, snatching the binoculars from his eyes to check that what he had seen through them tallied with the reality down in the car park. ‘Is he intentionally standing in front of Tourtell?’

‘Don’t know, boss, but this is becoming critical. They’ll soon be by the car.’

‘Your bullets, would they go through Lennox?’

‘Boss?’

‘Will they go through Lennox and kill Tourtell?’

‘I use FMJ bullets, boss.’

‘Yes or no?’

‘Yes!’

‘Then shoot the traitor.’

‘But—’

‘Shh,’ Seyton whispered.

‘What?’ Sweat had broken out on the young officer’s brow.

‘Don’t talk and don’t think, Olafson. What you just heard was an order.’

The driver had walked around the car and smiled as he opened the rear door. A smile which disappeared when he saw Tourtell’s expression. The boy walked to the rear door on the left-hand side.

‘Get in and duck,’ Lennox hissed. ‘Driver, get out of here. Now!’

‘Sir, what—’

‘Do as he says,’ Tourtell said. ‘It—’

Lennox felt the shot to his back before he heard the thwack. His legs withered beneath him, he collapsed and automatically put his arms around Tourtell, who was dragged down as he fell.

Lennox registered the tarmac coming up to meet them. He didn’t feel it as it hit them, but he smelled it all: dust, petrol, rubber, urine. He couldn’t move and couldn’t produce a sound, but he could hear. Hear the panting of Tourtell from underneath him on the tarmac. The driver’s shocked ‘Sir, sir?’

And Tourtell’s ‘Run, Kasi, run!’

They had almost made it. One more metre and they would have been covered by the car. Lennox tried to say something, the name of an animal, but still nothing came from his mouth. He tried in vain to move his hand. He was dead. Soon he would be floating up and looking down on his own body. One metre. He registered the sound of running feet quickly distancing themselves and the driver bending over them and trying to drag him off Tourtell. ‘I’ll get you in the car, sir!’ Another thwack and Lennox was blinded by something wet in his eyes. He blinked, so at least his eyelids could move. The driver lay beside them staring vacantly into the air. His forehead was gone.

‘Turtle,’ Lennox whispered.

‘What?’ Tourtell gasped from underneath him.

‘Crawl. I’m your shell.’

‘That’s got the driver,’ Olafson said, pushing another cartridge into the chamber.

‘Hurry. Tourtell’s crawling behind the car,’ Seyton said. ‘And the boy’s run off.’

Olafson loaded. He rested the butt against his shoulder and shut one eye.

‘I’ve got the boy in my sights.’

‘I don’t give a fuck about the boy!’ Seyton snarled. ‘Shoot Tourtell!’

Seyton watched Olafson’s rifle barrel swing back and forth, saw him blink a bead of sweat from his eyelashes.

‘I can’t see him, boss.’

‘Too late!’ Seyton slapped his hand against the parapet. ‘They’re behind the car. We’ll have to go down and finish the job.’

Lennox heard Tourtell groan as he extricated himself. Lennox rolled onto the wet tarmac. He was lying on his stomach, helpless, his legs sticking out past the rear of the car. Until Tourtell grabbed his arms and pulled him to safety.

Rubber screamed on tarmac. A car was heading for them. Lennox looked under the car, but all he saw was the body of the driver on the other side. Tourtell had sat down with his back to the side of the car. Lennox tried to open his mouth to tell Tourtell to get in the car and escape, to save himself, but it was no use. It was the same old story, as though his whole life could be summed up in one sentence: he was unable to do what his brain and heart wanted.

A car stopped and doors opened.

Footsteps on the tarmac.

Lennox tried to move his head but couldn’t. From the corner of his eye he saw the barrel of a gun parallel with a pair of trouser legs.

They were goners. In some strange way it felt like a relief.

The trouser legs came a step closer. A hand gripped his neck. He was going to be killed silently, strangulation. Lennox held his gaze on the shoes. They went out of fashion a while ago. Winkle-pickers.

‘This one’s dead,’ said a familiar voice from the other side of the car.

‘Tourtell’s unhurt,’ said the man holding him in a stranglehold. ‘Lennox isn’t moving, but he’s got a pulse. Where did they shoot from?’

‘The top of the multi-storey,’ Tourtell sobbed. ‘Lennox saved my life.’

Saved?

‘Get over to this side, Malcolm!’

The hand removed itself, and a face came into Lennox’s field of vision.

Duff stared him in the eye.

‘Is he conscious?’ asked a woman behind him. Caithness.

‘Paralysed or in shock,’ Duff said. ‘His eyes are moving, but he can’t move or talk. We need to get him into the hospital.’

‘Car,’ a voice said. A young boy. ‘Coming out of the multi-storey car park.’