Macbeth

‘Good, good. I’m glad we saved you from the assassination attempt. I suspect Hecate was behind it. Sorry your driver had to pay for it with his life. And that Lennox has lost his senses from the injury he brought on himself.’

Tourtell gave a dry laugh. ‘You’re finished, Macbeth. Do you realise?’

‘These are indeed wild times, don’t you think, Tourtell? Explosions on rooftops, shooting in the streets, assassination attempts on the chief commissioner and mayor. I rang because I think you should declare a state of emergency at once.’

‘That won’t happen, Macbeth. What will happen is that a federal arrest warrant is being issued in your name.’

‘You’ve called in the cavalry from Capitol? I thought you would. But the warrant won’t be issued before I have control of this town, and then it’s too late. I will have immunity. Chief Commissioner Kenneth had more foresight than many give him credit for.’

‘You’re going to rule the town like the dictators before you?’

‘In this storm it’s probably best to have a stronger hand on the till than yours, Tourtell.’

‘You’re mad, Macbeth. Why on earth would I declare a state of emergency and hand power to you?’

‘Because I have your illegitimate son and will cut his head off if you don’t do what I say.’

Macbeth heard a sharp intake of breath.

‘So don’t go to sleep, Tourtell. I’ll give you a few hours to write and sign the declaration of a state of emergency. And it will come into effect before the sun rises tomorrow. If I haven’t heard it broadcast on radio before the first ray of sun hits my eyes, Kasi will die.’

Pause. Macbeth had a feeling Tourtell wasn’t alone. According to Seyton, Duff, Malcolm and Caithness were three of the four who had prevented them from completing the job at St Jordi’s Hospital.

‘And how do you think you will get away with killing my son, Macbeth?’

The tone was tough but couldn’t quite conceal his helplessness. And Macbeth noticed he hadn’t been prepared for such utter despair. But he shook it off. The mayor’s shaking voice confirmed what he had hoped for: Tourtell was willing to do anything at all for the boy.

‘Immunity. State of emergency. That’ll do the trick, Mayor.’

‘I don’t mean escaping a court of law. I was thinking of your conscience. You’ve become a monster, Macbeth.’

‘We never become what we aren’t already, Tourtell. You too, you’ll always be willing to sell your favours and soul to the highest bidder.’

‘Can’t you hear the thunder outside your house, Macbeth? How can you, in this situation, in this town, still believe there will be sunshine at daybreak?’

‘Because I’ve given orders that there will be. But if you’re not a believer, let the sunrise times in this year’s almanac be your guide. Until then...’

Macbeth rang off. Light played on the crystal above him. Which had to mean it was moving. Perhaps it was rising heat, perhaps it was the strange tremors in the ground or perhaps it was the light outside changing. But there was of course a fourth possibility. That it was he himself who was moving. Who saw things from a different angle. He took the silver dagger from inside his jacket. It was perhaps not the most effective weapon against tanks and thick skin, but Lady was right: silver worked against ghosts. He hadn’t seen Banquo, Meredith, Duncan or the young Norse Rider on his knees for a couple of days. He held the dagger up to the light.

‘Jack!’

No answer. Louder: ‘Jack!’

Still no answer.

‘Jack! Jack!’ He yelled in such a wild, uncontrolled way that he imagined he could feel the inside of his throat tearing.

A door opened at the end of the room. ‘You called, sir?’ Jack’s voice echoed.

‘Still no sign of life from Lady?’

‘No, sir. Perhaps you should wake her?’

Macbeth ran a finger across the tip of the dagger. How long had he been clean now? And how much had he longed for sleep, the deep, dark, dreamless kind? He could go up there, lie down beside her and say that now we’re going, you and I, we’re going to a place where this, the Inverness and the town, doesn’t exist, where nothing else but you and I exist. She wanted to, wanted to as much as he did. They had lost their way, but there had to be a way back, back to where they had come from. Yes, of course there was; he just couldn’t see it right now. He had to talk to her, get her to show him where it was, as she always did. So what was stopping him? What strange premonition was stopping him from going up there, holding him back, making him prefer to sit in this cold empty room rather than lie in the warm arms of his beloved?

He turned and looked at the boy. Seyton had chained Tourtell’s son to the shiny pole in the middle of the room, with a leg manacle around the boy’s long, slim neck. Like a dog. And like a dog he lay motionless on the floor looking at Macbeth with his imploring brown eyes. The way they had stared unflinchingly at him ever since they arrived.

Macbeth stirred from the chair with an exclamation of annoyance.

‘Let’s go and see her then,’ he said.