Ю Несбё - Macbeth

‘We never become what we aren’t already, Tourtell. You too, you’ll always be willing to sell your favours and soul to the highest bidder.’

‘Can’t you hear the thunder outside your house, Macbeth? How can you, in this situation, in this town, still believe there will be sunshine at daybreak?’

‘Because I’ve given orders that there will be. But if you’re not a believer, let the sunrise times in this year’s almanac be your guide. Until then...’

Macbeth rang off. Light played on the crystal above him. Which had to mean it was moving. Perhaps it was rising heat, perhaps it was the strange tremors in the ground or perhaps it was the light outside changing. But there was of course a fourth possibility. That it was he himself who was moving. Who saw things from a different angle. He took the silver dagger from inside his jacket. It was perhaps not the most effective weapon against tanks and thick skin, but Lady was right: silver worked against ghosts. He hadn’t seen Banquo, Meredith, Duncan or the young Norse Rider on his knees for a couple of days. He held the dagger up to the light.

‘Jack!’

No answer. Louder: ‘Jack!’

Still no answer.

‘Jack! Jack!’ He yelled in such a wild, uncontrolled way that he imagined he could feel the inside of his throat tearing.

A door opened at the end of the room. ‘You called, sir?’ Jack’s voice echoed.

‘Still no sign of life from Lady?’

‘No, sir. Perhaps you should wake her?’

Macbeth ran a finger across the tip of the dagger. How long had he been clean now? And how much had he longed for sleep, the deep, dark, dreamless kind? He could go up there, lie down beside her and say that now we’re going, you and I, we’re going to a place where this, the Inverness and the town, doesn’t exist, where nothing else but you and I exist. She wanted to, wanted to as much as he did. They had lost their way, but there had to be a way back, back to where they had come from. Yes, of course there was; he just couldn’t see it right now. He had to talk to her, get her to show him where it was, as she always did. So what was stopping him? What strange premonition was stopping him from going up there, holding him back, making him prefer to sit in this cold empty room rather than lie in the warm arms of his beloved?

He turned and looked at the boy. Seyton had chained Tourtell’s son to the shiny pole in the middle of the room, with a leg manacle around the boy’s long, slim neck. Like a dog. And like a dog he lay motionless on the floor looking at Macbeth with his imploring brown eyes. The way they had stared unflinchingly at him ever since they arrived.

Macbeth stirred from the chair with an exclamation of annoyance.

‘Let’s go and see her then,’ he said.

His own and Jack’s soundless footsteps on the thick carpets gave Macbeth the sense they were floating like ghosts up the stairs and along the corridor. It took Macbeth ages to find the right key on Jack’s ring. He examined every single one of them as though they held a code, the answer to a question he didn’t yet know.

Then he opened the door and went in. The lamp in the room was switched off, but moonlight shone through gaps in the curtains. He stood listening. The thunder had stopped. It was so still, as though everything was holding its breath.

Her skin was so pale, so bloodless. Her hair spread across the pillow like a red fan and her eyelids seemed to be transparent.

He went over to her and placed his hand on her brow. There was still some warmth in her. Next to her, on the quilt, lay a piece of paper. He picked it up. She had written only a few lines.

Tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow. The days crawl in the mud, and in the end all they have accomplished is to kill the sun again and bring all men closer to death.

Macbeth turned to Jack, who had remained in the doorway.

‘She’s gone.’

‘Wh...what, sir?’

Macbeth pulled a chair to the bed and sat down. Not to be close to her; she wasn’t there any more. He just wanted to sit.

He heard Jack’s cry of shock behind him and knew he had seen it, the syringe still hanging from her forearm.

‘Is she...?’

‘Yes, she’s d-d-dead.’

‘How long...?’

‘A l-l-long time.’

‘But I was talking to—’

‘She started d-d-dying the night she found the baby in the shoebox, Jack. She simulated life for a while, but it was only the convulsions of death. She saw her child, saw that she would have to travel into death to see her again. That was when we lost Lady, when she fell for that consoling notion that we meet our loved ones on the other side.’

Jack took a step closer. ‘But you don’t believe it?’

‘Not when the sun is shining from a clear sky. But we live in a town without sun, where we take all the consolation we can get. So, by and large, I believe.’

Macbeth examined himself, amazed that he felt neither sorrow nor despair. Perhaps because he had long known that this is how it would end. He had known it and closed his eyes. And all he felt was emptiness. He was sitting in a waiting room in the middle of the night, he was the only passenger, and his train had been announced but it hadn’t arrived. Announced but it hadn’t arrived. And what does the passenger do then? He waits. He doesn’t go anywhere, he reconciles himself to what is happening and waits for what is to come.

Macbeth picked up the piece of paper again.

The days crawl in the mud, and in the end all they have accomplished is to kill the sun again and bring all men closer to death.

The lift took Duff, Malcolm and the caretaker down to the basement at police HQ.

‘I know it’s a weekend, but are you sure there isn’t anyone else here?’ Duff said to the caretaker, whom Malcolm had spoken to at length on the phone from Tourtell’s house.

‘On the contrary,’ the caretaker answered. ‘They’re waiting for you.’

Duff was unable to react before the lift arrived and the doors opened in front of him. Three people were there, all armed and dressed in the black SWAT uniform. Duff held his breath.

‘Thank you,’ Malcolm said. ‘For coming at such short notice.’

‘For the town,’ said one of them.

‘For Angus,’ said the second.

‘For the chief commissioner,’ said the third, an erect, dark-skinned man. ‘In our book his name is now Malcolm.’

‘Thank you, Ricardo,’ Malcolm said, exiting the lift.

The stiff-backed officer led the way. ‘Have you spoken to anyone else, sir?’

‘I’ve been on the phone all evening. It shouldn’t be easy to persuade people to risk their lives and jobs to fight against a conspiracy they only have my word for. Especially when I add that we cannot expect any immediate help from Capitol. However, I have around thirty officers from the police, ten to fifteen from Civil Defence and maybe ten from the Fire Service.’

‘The case may not sound very convincing, but you are, Malcolm.’

‘Thank you, Ricardo, but I think Macbeth’s actions speak for themselves.’

‘I wasn’t thinking about your words, sir. Your courage speaks louder.’

‘I had everything taken from me and didn’t have much to lose, Ricardo. Nevertheless I had to come back and fetch my daughter, who has been taken to safety now. It’s you who show courage. You’re not controlled by a father’s heart, you’re acting freely, governed by your own sense of justice. Which proves that in this town there are people who want what is good.’

They passed the dragon flag.

‘And where’s the mayor?’ Ricardo asked.

‘He’s got other things on his mind at the moment.’

Ricardo stopped in front of a massive iron door, like the entrance to an air-raid shelter. It was open. ‘Here.’