Ю Несбё - Macbeth

But soon Friday would dawn, a working day, and he would have to get out before the staff arrived, and outside the news-stands would be adorned with his face.

Duff put his hand into his jacket pocket. Felt the glossy paper under his fingers. Pulled out the package. Couldn’t stop himself, imagined Ewan’s face when he saw that he had been given what he asked for. Duff heard his own wild sobbing. Stop! He mustn’t! He had promised himself he wouldn’t think about them now. Grieving was a privilege he could grant himself later if he survived. He switched on the Volvo’s inside light, dried his tears, removed the wrapping paper, took out the false beard, opened the glue tube and squeezed out the shiny glue, which he spread over his chin, around his lips and inside the beard. Used the rear-view mirror to stick it on. Pulled the tight woollen hat over his forehead so that the upper part of his scar was hidden. Then he put on the glasses. The comically wide frames covered the scar on his cheek above the beard. In the mirror he saw he had glue on his cheek. Searched in vain through his pockets for something to wipe it off with, opened the glove compartment, found a notebook, took it out and was about to tear off the top page. Stopped. In the light he saw depressions in the paper. Someone had recently written in the notebook. So what? He tore off the sheet, wiped the glue from his cheek. Scrunched up the paper and put it in his jacket pocket. Put the notebook back in the glove compartment.

So.

Leaned back in the seat. Closed his eyes.

Five hours. Why had he put on the beard so early? It already itched. He started thinking again. Fought to keep his mind off Fife. He had to find himself a place to hide in town. All the roads out would be closed. Besides he didn’t have any bolt-holes outside town or in Fife, no hostels or hotels that wouldn’t be warned, no one out of town who would hide a wanted cop-killer. And then it struck him. He didn’t know anyone who would help him. Not here, not anywhere. He was the type of person people got on with; they didn’t necessarily actively dislike him. They just didn’t like him. And why would they? What had he ever done to help them that hadn’t also helped himself? He had alliances, not friends. And now, when Duff really needed help, a friend, a shoulder to cry on, Duff was a man with no creditworthiness, a lost cause. He examined his pathetic, stiff, hirsute reflection. The fox. The hunters were closing in on him, Macbeth’s new chief hound, Seyton, already barking at his heels. He had to get away. But where, where could the fox find a foxhole?

Five hours to daybreak. To Friday. To Ewan’s birth...

No! Don’t cry! Survive! A dead man can’t avenge anything.

He had to stay awake until it became light, then find himself somewhere else. One of the disused factories perhaps. No, he had already rejected that idea. Macbeth knew as well as he did where he would try to hide. Shit! Now he was going round in circles, crossing his own tracks, the way people did when they got lost.

He was so tired, but he had to stay awake until it was light. Ewan had never turned ten. Shit! He tried to find something to distract himself. He read all the gauges in front of him. Took the crumpled sheet from his jacket pocket, uncrumpled it and smoothed the page. Tried to read. Rummaged through the glove compartment until he found a pencil. Held it sideways over the paper and shaded over the depressions. What had been writen on the paper, on the sheet above, which had been taken, shone white against black: Dolphin. 66 Tannery St, District 6. Alfie. Safe haven.

An address. There was a Tannery Street in town, but no District 6. And there was only one other town that was divided into districts. Capitol. When could this note have been written? He had no idea how long it took for an impression made by a pencil to disappear. And what did it mean by Safe haven ?

Duff switched off the light and closed his eyes. A little nap maybe?

Capitol. Friday. He had seen this combination somewhere quite recently.

Duff was slipping into a dream with associations to the two words when he woke with a start.

He switched the light back on.

‘Meredith and I are getting married,’ Duff said. A sun seemed to be shining out of his eyes.

‘Really? That was... erm quick.’

‘Yes! Will you be my best man, Macbeth?’

‘Me?’

‘Of course. Who else?’

‘Erm. When...?’

‘Sixth of July. At Meredith’s parents’ summer place. Everything’s sorted. Invitations were sent out today.’

‘It’s kind of you to ask, Duff. I’ll give it some thought.’

‘Thought?’

‘I’ve... planned a longish trip in July. July’s difficult for me, Duff.’

‘Trip? You didn’t say anything about this to me.’

‘No, I might not have done.’

‘But then we haven’t spoken for a while. Where have you been? Meredith was asking after you.’

‘Was she? Oh, here and there. Been a bit busy.’

‘And where will this trip take you?’

‘To Capitol.’

‘Capitol?’

‘Yes, I’ve... erm never been there. Time to see our capital, isn’t it? It’s supposed to be so much nicer than here.’

‘Listen to me now, my dear Macbeth. I’ll pay for a return air ticket from Capitol. Can’t have my best pal not being there when I get married. It’ll be the party of the year! Imagine all Meredith’s single girlfriends...’

‘And from Capitol I’m going abroad. It’s a long trip, Duff. I’ll probably be away all July.’

‘But... Has this got anything to do with the little flirtation you and Meredith had once?’

‘So if we don’t see each other for a bit, all the best with the wedding and... well, everything.’

‘Macbeth!’

‘Thanks, Duff, but I won’t forget I owe you dragon blood. Say hello to Meredith and thank her for the little flirtation.’

‘Macbeth, sir!’

Macbeth opened his eyes. He was lying in bed. A dream. Nevertheless. Were those the words they had used then? Dragon blood . Lorreal. Had he really said that?

‘Macbeth!?’

The voice came from the other side of the bedroom door and now it was accompanied by frenetic banging. He looked at the clock on the bedside table. Three o’clock in the morning.

‘Sir, it’s Jack!’

Macbeth turned the other way. He was alone. Lady wasn’t there.

‘Sir, you have to—’

Macbeth tore open the door. ‘What’s up, Jack?’

‘She’s sleepwalking.’

‘So? Aren’t you keeping an eye on her?’

‘It’s different this time, sir. She... You’ve got to come.’

Macbeth yawned, switched on the light, donned a dressing gown and was about to leave the room when his gaze fell on the table under the mirror. The shoebox was gone.

‘Quick. Show me the way, Jack.’

They found her on the roof. Jack paused on the threshold of the open metal door. It had stopped raining, and all that could be heard was the wind and the regular rumble of the traffic that never slept. She was standing right on the edge, in the light of the Bacardi sign, with her back to them. A gust of wind caught her thin nightdress.

‘Lady!’ Macbeth said and was about to rush over to her, but Jack held him back. ‘The psychiatrist said she mustn’t be woken up when she’s sleepwalking, sir.’

‘But she could fall over the edge!’

‘She often comes up here and stands just there,’ Jack said. ‘She can see even if she’s asleep. The psychiatrist says sleepwalkers rarely come to harm, but if you wake them they can become disorientated and hurt themselves.’

‘Why has no one told me she comes up here? I’ve been given the impression she basically strolls up and down the corridor.’