Macbeth

Macbeth studied himself in the mirror above the sink. The bleeding had stopped, but he knew what it meant. That his mucous membranes couldn’t take any more brew, and he should give it up for a while. It was different when he was young: then his body could take any amount of punishment. But if he continued now his nose would ache and bleed and his brain would spin until his head unscrewed itself from his neck. What he needed was a break. So why, thinking this, did he roll up a banknote and place it at the right-hand end of the line of powder on the sink? Because this was the exception. This was the critical point when he needed it. The point when he had to tackle the fat perverted mayor on the one side and the Norse Rider brigand who it seemed hadn’t managed to keep to their agreement on the other. And Lady on the third. No, she wasn’t a problem, she was the alpha and the omega, his birth, life and death. His reason for being. But just as their love could give him a tremulous joy, he could also feel the pain when he thought of what might be taken from him — her power now consisted in not loving him as much as loving him. He inhaled, sucked the brew up into his brain, hard, until it hit the inside of his scalp, or so it felt. Again looked at himself in the mirror. His face contorted and changed. He had white hair. A woman’s red lips. A scar grew across his face. New chins extended under his chin. Tears filled his eyes and ran down his cheeks. He had to stop now. He had seen people who had sniffed so much they had ended up with prosthetic noses. Had to stop while there was still time, while there was something to save. He had to switch to a syringe.

The sergeant saw the rear lights of the Volvo gradually coming nearer. He opened the throttle knowing the others would find it difficult to keep up now even though his engine was only 450 cc. On wet oily tarmac experience and sensitivity were more important for road-holding than engine size. It was therefore with some surprise that he saw a bike approaching fast in his mirror. And with disbelief he recognised it. And the rider’s helmet. The red Indian Chief passed so close to the sergeant that the point of a horn almost brushed against him. His headlight was reflected in the sabre when the bike overtook him. Where had he come from? How did he know? How did he always know when they needed him? The sergeant slowed down. Let Sweno ride at the front and lead them.

Banquo drove the same way they had when they were following the Russian lorry, overtaking dangerously a couple of times and temporarily increasing their distance from the motorbikes. They would soon catch up again, but perhaps there was still time. There was a barrier in front of the tunnel and a sign to say the bridge was closed due to repairs. Splinters flew as the front of the Volvo smashed into the barrier and its headlights bored into the tunnel’s darkness. He drove with one hand on the wheel; the other lay in his lap like a corpse. They could already see the exit when they heard the angry yapping of the motorbike engines entering the tunnel behind them.

Banquo braked approaching the sharp bend onto the bridge and then speeded up again.

And soon they were out on it, to a sudden silence beneath a clear sky and in the moonlight, which made the river glitter like copper below, far beneath them. All that could be heard was the Volvo’s engine working as hard as it could. And then the whine of rubber on tarmac as Banquo braked suddenly in the middle of the bridge where the statue of Kenneth had once been and turned onto the shoulder where the breeze flapped the Highway Agency’s red cordon tape, marking the spot the ZIS-5 had plunged down with the railing. Surprised, Fleance turned to his father, who had put the car into neutral. Banquo leaned over his son with a pocket knife in his hand and cut his seat belt.

‘What...?’

‘We’ve got a leak, son. Soon we won’t have any petrol, so listen to me. I’ve never been much of a preacher, you know that, but I want to say this to you...’ Banquo leaned against the door on his side, lifted his knees and swung round in his seat as Fleance had done.

‘You can be whatever you want, Fleance. So don’t be what I was. Don’t be a lackey for lackeys.’

‘Dad...’

‘And land on your feet.’

He placed the soles of his shoes against his son’s hip and shoulder, saw Fleance try to grab on to something, then shoved him with all his might. The son screamed in protest, in fear as he had done when he was born, but then he was out, the last umbilical cord severed, alone in the big wide world, in free fall towards his fate.

Banquo groaned with pain as he swung himself back, put the car in gear and accelerated towards his own fate.