Macbeth

‘Pay for a present? I think Hecate would take that as an insult. Have a good night.’ Strega turned and left.

‘Then I won’t take it,’ Macbeth called out and threw the bag after her, but she had already been swallowed up the darkness.

‘If you don’t...’ said the one-eyed reedy voice. ‘Is it OK if I...?’

‘Stay where you are,’ Macbeth snarled without moving.

‘What do you want to do?’ the boy asked.

‘Want?’ Macbeth echoed. ‘It’s never what you want to do, but what you have to do.’

He walked towards the bag and picked it up. Walked back. Passing the boy’s outstretched hand.

‘Hey, aren’t you going...?’

‘Go to hell,’ Macbeth growled. ‘I’ll see you there.’

Macbeth went down the stairs to the stinking toilet, chased out a woman sitting on the floor, tore open the bag, sprinkled the powder onto the sink below the mirrors, crushed the lumps with the blunt side of a dagger and used the blade to chop it up into finer particles. Then he rolled up a banknote and sniffed the yellowy-white powder first up one nostril, then the other. It took the chemicals a surprisingly short time to pass through the mucous membranes into his blood. And his last thought before the dope-infected blood entered his brain was that it was like renewing an acquaintance with a lover. A much too beautiful, much too dangerous lover who hadn’t aged a day in all these years.

‘What did I tell you?’ Hecate banged his stick on the floor by the CCTV monitors.

‘You said there was nothing more predictable than a love-smitten junkie and moralist.’

‘Thank you, Strega.’

Macbeth stopped at the top of the steps in front of the central station.

Workers’ Square swayed like a sea ahead of him; the breakers crashed beneath the cobblestones, sounding like the chattering of teeth as they rose and fell. And down below the Inverness there was a paddle steamer filled with the noise of music and laughter, and the light made it sparkle in the water running from its slowly rotating, roaring wheel.

Then he set off. Through the black night, back to the Inverness. He seemed to be gliding through the air, his feet off the ground. He floated through the door and into the reception area. The receptionist looked at him and gave him a friendly nod. Macbeth turned to the gaming room and saw that Lady, Malcolm and Duff were still talking in the bar. Then he went up the stairs as though he were flying, along the corridor until he stopped outside Duncan’s door.

Macbeth inserted the master key in the lock, turned the knob and went in.

He was back. Nothing had changed. The bathroom door was still ajar, and the light inside was on. He walked over to the bed. Looked down at the sleeping police officer, put his left hand inside his jacket and found the handle of the dagger.

He raised his hand. It was so much easier now. Aimed for the heart. The way he had aimed at the heart carved into the oak tree. And the knife bored a hole between the names there. Meredith and Macbeth.

‘Sleep no more! Macbeth is murdering sleep.’

Macbeth stiffened. Was it the chief commissioner, the dope or he himself who had spoken?

He looked down at Duncan’s face. No, the eyes were still closed and his breathing calm and even. But as he watched, Duncan’s eyes opened. Looked at him quietly. ‘Macbeth?’ The chief commissioner’s eyes went to the dagger.

‘I thought I heard s-s-sounds coming from here,’ Macbeth said. ‘I’ll check.’

‘My bodyguards...’

‘I h-h-heard them snoring.’

Duncan listened for a few moments. Then he yawned. ‘Good. Let them sleep. I’m safe here, I know. Thanks, Macbeth.’

‘Not at all, sir.’

Macbeth walked towards the door. He wasn’t floating any longer. A sense of relief, happiness even, spread through his body. He was saved. The chief commissioner had liberated him. Lady could do and say what she liked, but this stopped here. Five paces. He grabbed the door knob with his free hand.

Then a movement in the reflection on the polished brass.

As if in a fairground mirror and in the light from the bathroom door he saw — like in some absurd, distorted film — the chief commissioner pull something from under his pillow and point it at his back. A gun. Five paces. Throwing distance. Macbeth reacted instinctively. Whirled round. He was off balance, and the dagger left his hand while he was still moving.

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