Ю Несбё - Macbeth

‘Hurry, Jack. Find something you can—’

‘I have to get a doctor,’ Jack said.

‘No! Find something to close the wound with before I run out of blood.’

‘You need medical help. I’ll hurry.’

‘Don’t leave me, Jack! Don’t...’ The body in front of Jack arced and let out a howl.

‘What?’

‘Stomach acid! Something’s leaking. Christ, I’m burning up. Help, Jack! Hel—’ The shout morphed into another hoarse howl. Jack watched him, unable to move. He did look like a cockroach lying on its back, its arms and legs thrashing helplessly.

‘I’ll be back soon,’ Jack said.

‘No, no!’ Hecate screamed and made a grab for his legs.

But Jack stepped away, turned and left.

At the top of the stairs he stopped, looked left, west towards the Inverness. Towards Macbeth. Towards St Jordi’s. There was a phone box in the waiting area that way. He turned to the east. To the mountain. To the other side. To new waters. Dangerous, open waters. But these were decisions a man — and a suckerfish — had to make sometimes to survive.

Jack breathed in. Not because he was hesitant, but because he needed air.

Then he headed east.

The crystal murmured and sang above Macbeth’s head. He looked up. The chandelier swung back and forth, tugging at the ropes from which it hung.

‘What was that?’ yelled Seyton from the mezzanine, from the Gatling gun in the south-eastern corner of the Inverness.

‘The end of the world,’ Macbeth said. And added, in a low voice and to himself, ‘I hope.’

‘It came from the station,’ Olafson shouted from the machine gun in the south-west corner. ‘Was that an explosion?’

‘Yessir!’ Seyton sang. ‘They’re bringing up the artillery.’

‘Are they?’ Olafson said, shocked.

Seyton’s laughter echoed between the walls. When they had discussed how the Inverness should be defended it had been easy to conclude that any attack would have to come from Workers’ Square, as the bricked-up, windowless side facing Thrift Street was nothing less than a fortress wall.

‘I can smell your fear from over here, Olafson. Can you smell it down there, boss?’

Macbeth yawned. ‘I can barely remember the smell of fear, Seyton.’ He rubbed his face hard. He had dropped off and dreamed he was lying on the bed next to Lady when the door to the suite slid silently open. The figure in the doorway was wearing a cloak, with a hat pulled so low that it was only when the figure stepped in and the light fell on him that he could see it was Banquo. One eye was gone and white; worms were wriggling out of his cheek and forehead. Macbeth had reached inside his jacket, drawn a dagger from his double shoulder holster and thrown. It bored into Banquo’s brow with a soft thud as if the bone behind had already been eaten up. But it didn’t stop the ghost advancing towards the bed. Macbeth screamed and shook Lady.

‘She’s dead,’ the ghost said. ‘And you have to throw a silver dagger, not steel.’ It wasn’t Banquo’s voice. It was...

Banquo’s head toppled from under the hat, fell on the floor and rolled under the bed, and from the hat Seyton’s face laughed at him.

‘What do you want?’ Macbeth whispered.

‘What you want, sir. To give you both a child. Look, she’s waiting for me.’

‘You’re crazy.’

‘Trust me. I don’t want much in return.’

‘She’s dead. Go away.’

‘We’re all dead. Do it now, sow your seeds. If you don’t I’ll sow mine.’

‘Get away!’

‘Move over, Macbeth. I’ll take her like Duff took Meredi—’

The second dagger hit Seyton in his open mouth. He clenched his teeth, grasped the handle, broke it off and passed it back to Macbeth. Showed him his bloody, sliced tongue and laughed.

‘Anything on the radio?’

Macbeth gave a start. It was Seyton, shouting.

‘Nothing,’ Macbeth said, rubbing his face hard and turning up the volume on the radio. ‘Still twenty minutes to sun-up.’ He looked at the white line of finely chopped powder on the mirror he had placed on the felt in front of him. Saw his face reflected. The line of power ran like a scar across the shiny surface.

‘And then will we really kill the boy?’ Olafson shouted.

‘Yes, Olafson!’ Seyton shouted back. ‘We’re men, not cissies!’

‘But... what then? We’ll have nothing to negotiate with.’

‘Does that sound familiar, Olafson?’ More laughter from the south-east.

‘We have nothing to fear,’ Macbeth said.

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘No man born can harm me. Hecate promised me I’ll be chief commissioner until Bertha comes to get me. You can say a lot about Hecate, but he keeps his word. Relax. Tourtell will give in.’ Macbeth looked at Kasi, who sat quietly with his back to the pole, staring into the distance. ‘What can you see, Seyton?’

‘People have gathered up by Bertha. They look like police officers and civilians. A few automatic weapons, some rifles and handguns. Shouldn’t be much of a problem if they attack with those.’

‘Can you see any grey coats?’

‘Grey coats? No.’

‘And your sector, Olafson?’

‘None here either, sir.’

But Macbeth knew that they were there. Watching over him.

‘Have you heard of Tithonos, Seyton?’

‘Nope. Who’s he?’

‘A Greek. Lady told me about him. I looked him up. Eos was this goddess of the dawn and she stole a young lover, a pretty ordinary guy called Tithonos. Made sure the boss himself, Zeus, gave the guy eternal life, like her. The guy didn’t ask for it, he just had it forced on him. But the goddess had forgotten to ask for eternal youth for the guy. Do you understand?’

‘Maybe, but I don’t understand where you’re going with this, sir.’

‘Everything disappears, everyone else dies, but there’s Tithonos rotting away in his old age and loneliness. He hasn’t been given anything, the opposite in fact — he’s in prison, his eternal life is a bloody curse.’

Macbeth got up so quickly he felt giddy. This was just gloom and a hangover from the dope talking. He had a town lying at his feet, and soon it would be irrevocably his, only his, and he could have his every slightest wish fulfilled. Then all he would need to think about were desires and pleasures. Desires and pleasures.

Duff ran a finger over the crack in the base in front of Bertha’s nose. Heard Malcolm’s voice: ‘Sorry, let me through!’

He looked up and saw Malcolm forcing his way through the crowd up to the top of the steps.

‘Did you hear that too?’ he asked, out of breath.

‘Yes,’ Caithness said. ‘I thought the roof was going to come down. Felt like an underground test explosion.’

‘Or an earthquake,’ Duff said, pointing to the crack.

‘Looks like a bigger turnout than I’d planned,’ Malcolm said, scanning the people who had gathered at the foot of the steps behind the barricade of police cars and a big red fire engine. ‘Are all these people firemen and police officers?’

‘No,’ said a man coming up the steps. Malcolm examined his black uniform.

‘Naval captain?’

‘Pilot,’ said the little man. ‘Fred Ziegler.’

‘What’s a pilot doing here?’

‘I heard Kite on the radio last night, rang around and heard rumours about what was going to happen here. Tell me what I can do.’

‘Have you got a weapon?’

‘No.’

‘Can you shoot?’

‘I was in the marines for ten years.’

‘Good. Go to the man in the police uniform down there and he’ll give you a rifle.’

‘Thank you.’ The pilot put three fingers to his white cap and left.

‘What does Tourtell say?’ Duff asked.

‘Capitol has been informed about the hostage,’ Malcolm said. ‘But they can’t help us until an arrest warrant has been issued this afternoon.’