Macbeth

The light fell on the man’s face.

‘Oh, it’s just you.’

‘Ah, it’s you, is it?’ Macbeth said. ‘I was out for some air.’

‘And I just had to air the old fella,’ Banquo slurred. ‘No, I wasn’t about to piss on Bertha. After all, that would be — now they’ve closed St Joseph’s Church — desecrating the last holy thing in this town.’

‘Yes, maybe.’

‘Is there anything up?’ Banquo said, trying to relax. He always found it difficult to get going with strangers nearby, but Macbeth and his son?

‘No,’ Macbeth said in a strangely neutral tone.

‘I dreamed about the three sisters last night,’ Banquo said. ‘We haven’t talked about it, but they got their prophecies spot on, didn’t they. Or what do you reckon?’

‘Oh, I’d forgotten them. Lets’s talk about it another time.’

‘Whenever,’ Banquo said, sensing the flow coming.

‘Well,’ Macbeth said. ‘Actually I was going to ask you — now you’re my deputy in Organised Crime — but suppose something like that did happen, just as the sisters said it would?’

‘Yes?’ Banquo groaned. He had lost patience, started forcing it, and with that the flow stopped.

‘I’d appreciate it if you joined me then too.’

‘Become your deputy CC? Ha ha, yes, pull the other one.’ Banquo suddenly realised that Macbeth wasn’t joking. ‘Of course, my boy, of course. You know I’m always willing to follow anyone who’ll fight the good fight.’

They looked at each other. And then, as if a magic wand had been waved, it came. Banquo looked down, and there was a majestic golden jet splashing intrepidly over the locomotive’s large rear wheel and running down onto the rail beneath.

‘Goodnight, Banquo. Goodnight, Fleance.’

‘Goodnight, Macbeth,’ answered father and son in unison.

‘Was Uncle Mac drunk?’ Fleance asked when Macbeth had gone.

‘Drunk? You know he doesn’t drink.’

‘Yes, I know, but he was so strange.’

‘Strange?’ Banquo grinned grimly as he watched the continuous stream with satisfaction. ‘Believe me, that boy isn’t strange when he gets high.’

‘What is he then?’

‘He goes crazy.’

The jet was suddenly swept to the side by a strong gust of wind.

‘The storm,’ Banquo said, buttoning up.

Macbeth went for a walk around the central station. When he came back Banquo and Fleance had gone, and he went into the large waiting room.

He scanned the room and instantly sorted the individuals there into the four relevant categories: those who sold, those who used, those who did both and those who needed somewhere to sleep, shelter from the rain and would soon be joining one of the first three. That was the path he himself had followed. From orphanage escapee receiving food and drink from officers of the Salvation Army to user who financed dope and food by selling.

Macbeth went over to an older, plump man in a wheelchair.

‘A quarter of brew,’ he said, and just the sound of the words made something that had been hibernating in his body wake up.

The man in the wheelchair looked up. ‘Macbeth,’ he said, spitting the name out in a shower of saliva. ‘I remember you and you remember me. You’re a policeman, and I don’t sell dope, OK? So get the hell away from me.’

Macbeth walked on to the next dealer, a man in a checked shirt who was so hyped up he couldn’t stand still.

‘Do you think I’m an idiot?’ he shouted. ‘I am by the way. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, would I. But selling to a cop and ending up in clink for twenty-four hours when you know you can’t go four hours without a fix?’ He leaned back, and his laughter echoed beneath the ceiling. Macbeth went further in, along the corridor to the departures hall, and heard the dealer’s cry resound behind him: ‘Undercover cop coming, folks!’

‘Hi, Macbeth,’ came a thin, weak voice.

Macbeth turned. It was the young boy with the eyepatch. Macbeth went over to him and crouched down by the wall. The black patch had ridden up, allowing Macbeth to see inside the cavity’s mysterious darkness.

‘I need a quarter of brew,’ Macbeth said. ‘Can you help me?’

‘No,’ said the boy. ‘I can’t help anyone. Can you help me?’

Macbeth recognised something in his expression. It was like looking into a mirror. What the hell was he actually doing? He had, with the help of good people, managed to get away, and now he was back to this? To perform an act of villainy even the most desperate drug addict would shy away from? He could still refuse. He could take this boy with him to the Inverness. Give him food, a shower and a bed. Tonight could be very different from the way he had planned it, there was still that possibility. The possibility of saving himself. The boy. Duncan. Lady.

‘Come on. Let’s—’ Macbeth started.

‘Macbeth.’ The voice coming from behind him rumbled like thunder through the corridor. ‘Your prayers have been heard. I have what you need.’

Macbeth turned. Lifted his eyes higher. And higher. ‘How did you know I was here, Strega?’

‘We have our eyes and ears everywhere. Here you are, a present from Hecate.’

Macbeth gazed down at the little bag that had dropped into his hand. ‘I want to pay. How much?’