Macbeth

Macbeth went up the stairs, let himself into his and Lady’s suite. Put his ear to the door of the bodyguards’ room. The snoring from inside was even, safe. Almost artless. He sat on the bed. Ran his hand over the smooth bedcover. The silk whispered beneath his rough fingertips. Yes, she was good. Better than he would ever be. And perhaps they could pull this off — perhaps the two of them, Macbeth and Lady, could make a difference, shape the town in their image, carry on what Duncan had started and take it further than he would ever have managed. They had the will, they had the strength and they could win people over. Of the people. For the people. With the people.

His fingers stroked the two daggers he had laid out on the bed. But for the fact that power corrupts and poisons, they wouldn’t have needed to do this. If Duncan’s heart had been pure and idealistic they could have discussed it, and Duncan would have seen that Macbeth was the best man to realise his dream of leading the town out of the darkness. For whatever dreams Duncan had, the common people of the town wouldn’t follow an upper-class stranger from Capitol, would they? No, they needed one of their own. Duncan could have been the navigator, but Macbeth would have to be the captain — as long as he could get the crew to obey, to guide the boat to where they both wanted, into a safe harbour. But even if he accepted that a transfer of power was in the best interests of the town, Duncan would never surrender his post to Macbeth. Duncan, for all his virtue, was no better than any other person in power: he put his personal ambitions above everything else. See how he killed those who could damage his reputation or threaten his authority. Cawdor’s body had still been warm when they got there.

Wasn’t that so? Yes, it was. It was, it was.

Twelve o’clock.

Macbeth closed his eyes. He had to get into the zone. He counted down from ten. Opened his eyes. Swore, closed them again and counted down from ten again. Looked at his watch. Grabbed the daggers, stuffed them in the especially made shoulder holster with sheaths for two knives, one on each side. Then he went into the corridor. Passed the bodyguards’ door and stopped outside Duncan’s. Listened. Nothing. He drew a deep breath. Evaluations of a variety of scenarios had been done beforehand; the only thing left was the act itself. He inserted the master key into the lock, saw his reflection in the shiny door knob of polished brass, then gripped it and turned. Observed what he could in the corridor light, then he was inside and had closed the door behind him.

He held his breath in the darkness and listened to Duncan’s breathing.

Calm, even.

Like Lorreal’s. The director of the orphanage.

No, don’t let that thought out now.

Duncan’s breathing told him he was in bed and asleep. Macbeth went to the bathroom door, switched on the light inside and left the door slightly ajar. Enough light for what he was going to do.

What he was going to do.

He stood beside the bed and looked down at the unsuspecting sleeping man. Then he straightened up. What an irony. He raised a dagger. Killing a defenceless man — could anything be easier? The decision had been taken, now all he had to do was carry it out. And hadn’t he already killed his first defenceless victim on the road to Forres, wasn’t his virginity already gone, hadn’t he paid his debt to Duff there and then, paid him back in the same currency Duff had run it up: cold blood. Seen Lorreal’s hot blood streaming onto the white sheet, the blood that had looked black in the darkness. So what was stopping him now? How was this conspiracy different from when he and Duff had changed the crime scene so that all the evidence found in Forres would tally with the story they agreed they would tell? And the story at the orphanage they agreed they would tell. And sometimes cruelty is on the side of the good, Macbeth. He looked up from the blade glinting in the light from the bathroom.

He lowered the dagger.

He didn’t have it in him.

But he had to do it. He had to. He had to have it in him. But what could he do if he wasn’t up to it even in the zone?

He had to become the other Macbeth, the one he had buried so deep, the crazy flesh-eating corpse he had sworn he would never be again.

Banquo stared at the big, lifeless locomotive as he unbuttoned his flies. He swayed in the wind. He was a bit drunk, he knew that.

‘Come on, Dad,’ came Fleance’s voice from behind him.

‘What’s the time, son?’

‘I don’t know, but the moon’s up.’

‘Then it’s past twelve. There’s a storm forecast tonight.’ The gun holster hanging between the first and second loops on his belt was in his way. He unhooked it and passed it to Fleance.

His son took it with a resigned groan. ‘Dad, this is a public place. You can’t—’

‘It’s a public urinal, that’s what it is,’ Banquo slurred and at that moment registered a black-clad figure coming round the steam engine. ‘Give me the gun, Fleance!’