Macbeth

‘I’m not crying because I can’t have all of you, Duff. I’m crying because of my own hard heart. While you, you’re a man with a real heart, darling. A man a child can trust. I can’t stop loving you. Forgive me. And if I can’t have everything, give me what you can of your pure heart.’

Duff didn’t answer, just held her. Kissed her neck and held her. Her hips began to move. He thought of the time. Of Banquo. Their meeting by the locomotive. But it was still a long time to midnight.

‘Inverness Casino, Jack speaking.’

‘Good evening, Jack. I’d like to talk to Macbeth.’

‘He’s at a dinner. Can I give him a—’

‘Get him, Jack. Come on.’

Pause.

The sergeant looked at the motorbikes gathered around the telephone box. Their shapes were distorted by the thick snakes of water coiling down the outside of the glass, but still the sight was the most beautiful he knew — engines on two wheels. And the brothers who rode them.

‘I can ask, sir. Who can I say is calling?’

‘Just say this is the call he was expecting.’

‘I see, sir.’

The sergeant waited. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Switching the blood-stained parcel from one arm to the other.

‘Macbeth.’

‘Good evening. I’m just calling to say the fish has been caught and gutted, but the fry swam away.’

‘Where?’

‘Now the chances of a single fry surviving are a thousand to one against, and I think in this case we can be satisfied that it’s dead and lying at the bottom of the sea.’

‘Right. So?’

‘The fish head’s on its way. And I’d say you’ve won my respect, Macbeth. There are few who have the palate or stomach for this kind of delicacy.’

Macbeth put down the phone and held on to the counter as he breathed quickly in and out.

‘Are you sure you’re well this evening, sir?’

‘Yes, thank you, Jack. Just a bit giddy.’

Macbeth repressed his thoughts and images one by one. Then he adjusted his jacket and tie and went back to the dining room.

The guests at the long table were talking and toasting, but there wasn’t a great atmosphere. Now perhaps these people didn’t celebrate as loudly and passionately as they did in SWAT, but he wondered whether the shadow of Duncan’s death didn’t lie more heavily over the casino than Lady would have admitted. The mayor had seen Macbeth and waved him over. He saw that someone was sitting on his chair and assumed it was Tourtell’s companion. But when Macbeth saw that he was wrong he came to a sudden halt. It felt as if his heart had stopped beating.

Banquo.

He was sitting there. Now.

‘What is it, my love?’ It was Lady. She had turned and was looking at him in surprise. ‘Sit down.’

‘My place is taken,’ he said.

Tourtell also turned. ‘Come on, Macbeth. Sit down.’

‘Where?’

‘On your chair,’ Lady said. ‘What’s the matter?’

Macbeth screamed as Banquo turned his head like an owl. Above his white collar ran a long, continuous wound that seemed to run completely around his neck. Blood ran from the wound, like from the rim of a full glass of wine someone was continuing to fill.

‘Who... who did this to you?’ Macbeth groaned and placed both hands around Banquo’s neck. Squeezed to stop the blood, but it was thin and trickled between his fingers like diluted wine.

‘What are you doing, my love?’ Lady laughed in a strained voice.

Banquo’s mouth opened. ‘It... was... you... my son.’ The words were delivered in a monotone, his face expressionless like a ventriloquist’s doll.

‘No!’

‘I... saw... you... master... I... am... waiting... for... you... master.’

‘Be quiet!’ Macbeth squeezed harder.

‘You... are... strangling... me... Murdererbeth.’

Macbeth, terrified, let go. He felt someone pull hard at his arm.

‘Come on.’ It was Lady. He was about to tear his arm away when she hissed into his ear, ‘Now! While you’re still chief commissioner.’

She put her hand under his arm, as though she was following him, and like this they sailed out of the dining hall as if blown by the expressions of their guests.

‘What’s the matter?’ she hissed when she had locked them in their suite.

‘Didn’t you see him? Banquo! He was sitting in my chair.’

‘My God, you’re high. You’re seeing things! Do you want the mayor to think he’s got a lunatic as his chief commissioner?’

‘His?’

‘Where’s your wretched brew? Where?’ She thrust her hand into his trouser pocket. ‘This is going out now!’

Macbeth grabbed her wrist. ‘His chief commissioner?’

‘Tourtell’s going to appoint you, Macbeth. I put you two together because I thought at least you wouldn’t destroy the impression that you were the right man for the job. Ow, let go!’

‘Let Mayor Tourtell do what he likes. I’ve got enough on him to lock him up tomorrow. And if I don’t, I can get it. I’m the chief commissioner, woman! Don’t you understand what that means? I’m in command of six thousand people, two thousand of them armed. An army, darling!’

Macbeth saw her eyes were softening.

‘All right, yes,’ she whispered. ‘Now you’re talking sense again, love.’

He was still gripping her fine, slender wrist, but her hand had started moving in his pocket.

‘Now I can feel you again,’ she said.

‘Come on, let’s—’