Macbeth

Seyton didn’t notice he had been hit. Not by a random raindrop, nor by the sergeant’s bullet. He stood there, legs planted wide, his hand raised, feeling only the vibrations through the lorry as the Gatling guns opened up, feeling them spread from the soles of his shoes up to his hips, feeling the sound pound evenly on his eardrums, a sound that rose from a chattering mumble to a roar and then to a concerted howl as the barrels spat out bullets faster and faster. And as time passed, as the club house in front of them was shot to pieces, he felt the heat from the two machines. Two machines from hell with one function, to swallow the metal they were fed and spit it out again like bulimic robots, but faster than anything else in the world. So far the machine-gunners hadn’t seen much damage, but gradually it became apparent as windows and doors fell off and parts of the walls simply dissolved. A woman appeared on the floor inside the door. Sections of her head were missing, while her body was shaking as if from electric shocks. Seyton sensed he had an erection. Must be the vibrations of the lorry.

One machine gun stopped firing.

Seyton turned to the gunner.

‘Anything wrong, Angus?’

‘The job’s done now,’ Angus shouted back, pulling his blond fringe to the side.

‘No one stops until I say so.’

‘But—’

‘Is that understood?’ Seyton yelled.

Angus swallowed. ‘For Banquo?’

‘That’s what I said! For Banquo! Now!’

Angus’s machine gun opened up again. But Seyton could see that Angus was right. The job was done. There wasn’t a square decimetre in front of them that wasn’t perforated. There was nothing that wasn’t destroyed. Nothing that wasn’t dead.

He still waited. Closed his eyes and just listened. But it was time to let the girls have a rest.

‘Stop!’ he shouted.

The machine guns fell silent.

A cloud of dust rose from the obliterated club house. Seyton closed his eyes again and breathed in the air. A cloud of souls.

‘What’s up?’ lisped Olafson from the end of the lorry.

‘We’re saving ammo,’ Seyton said. ‘We’ve got a job this afternoon.’

‘You’re bleeding, sir! Your arm.’

Seyton looked down at his jacket, which was stuck to his elbow where blood was pouring from a hole. He placed a hand on the wound. ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘Handguns at the ready, everyone. We’ll go in and do a body count. If you find Sweno, tell me.’

‘And if we find any survivors?’ Angus asked.

Someone laughed.

Seyton wiped a raindrop from his cheek. ‘I repeat. Macbeth’s order was that none of Banquo’s murderers should survive. Is that a good enough answer for you, Angus?’

21

Meredith was hanging sheets on the line over the veranda by the front door. She loved this house, the rural, unpretentious, traditional, sober but practical essence of it. When people heard that she and Duff lived on a farm in Fife they automatically assumed it was a luxurious estate and probably thought she was being coy when she described how simply they lived. What would a woman with her surname be doing on a disused smallholding, they must have thought.

She had washed all the bedlinen in the house so that Duff wouldn’t think she had only done the sheets of the marital bed. Where they would sleep tonight. Forget the bad stuff, repress what had been. Reawaken what they’d had. It had been dormant, that was all. She felt her stomach grow warm at the thought. The intimacy they had shared on the rock this morning had been so wonderful. As wonderful as in the first years. No, more wonderful. She hummed a tune she had heard on the radio — she didn’t know what it was — hung up the last sheet and ran her hand over the wet cotton, inhaled the fragrant perfume. The wind blew the sheet high in the air, and the sunshine swept over her face and dress. Warm, pleasant, bright. This is how life should be. Making love, working, living. This was what she had been brought up to do, this was still her credo.

She heard a seagull scream and shaded her eyes. What was it doing here, so far from the sea?

‘Mum!’

She had hung the washing over several lines, so she had to move between them, skip her way to the front door.

‘Yes, Ewan?’

Her son was sitting on a bench, his chin propped on one hand, looking into the distance. Squinting into the low afternoon sun. ‘Won’t Dad be here soon?’

‘Yes, he will. How’s the soup doing, Emily?’

‘It was ready aeons ago,’ the daughter said, dutifully stirring the big pot.

Broth. Simple, nutritious peasant food.

Ewan stuck out his lower lip. ‘He said he’d be here before the meal.’

‘You hang him up by his toes for breaking his promise,’ Meredith said, stroking his fringe.

‘Should people be hung for lying?’

‘Without exception.’ Meredith looked at her watch. There might be hold-ups in the rush-hour traffic, now that only the old bridge was open.

‘Who by?’ the boy asked.

‘What do you mean who by?’

‘Who should hang people who lie?’ Ewan’s eyes had a faraway look, as though he were talking to himself.

‘The honest joes of course.’