‘Lennox?’ Jack said. ‘Are you serious?’
Hecate smacked his lips. ‘He’s the man who brought Macbeth down. The hero who sacrificed his mobility to save the town’s mayor. And no one knows that Lennox works for me.’
‘But Malcolm’s back. And everyone knows Lennox runs Macbeth’s errands.’
‘Lennox followed orders like a loyal policeman should. And Malcolms and Duffs can disappear again. Roosevelt won a world war from a wheelchair. Yes, I could get Lennox into the chief commissioner’s office. What do you reckon?’
Jack looked at Lennox. Without answering.
Hecate laughed and laid a big soft hand on Jack’s narrow shoulder. ‘I know what you’re thinking, flounder. What about you? Who will employ you if Macbeth has gone? So let’s hope Macbeth rides the storm, eh? Come on, let me show you out.’
Jack cast a final glance at Lennox, then he turned and walked back with Hecate to the toilet door and the station.
‘Wait,’ Lennox said as the sister placed the needle against his skin. He put his free right hand into the big side pocket of the wheelchair. Pulled the cord from the end of the handle.
‘Now,’ he said.
She pushed the needle in and pressed the plunger as he took his hand from the pocket, swung his arm low alongside the chair and let go. What Priscilla had brought from the office rumbled along the concrete floor and disappeared under the table bearing the flasks, tubes and pipes beside the tank.
‘Hey, what was that?’ Strega asked.
‘According to my grandfather, it was a grenade he had thrown at his head,’ Lennox said, feeling the high, which would never be like the first time but still made him shiver with pleasure. Which was, after all these years of searching, still the closest he had come to the meaning of life. Unless it was this. The full stop.
‘It might be a Model 24 Stielhandgranate. Or an ashtr—’
That was as far as he got.
Jack was halfway up the stairs when the explosion sent him flying. He picked himself up and turned back to the toilet. The door had been blown off and smoke was drifting out. He waited. When there were no more explosions he walked slowly down the stairs and into the toilet. The cubicle and door to the kitchen had gone. There was a fierce fire inside, and in the light of the flames he could see everything had been destroyed. The kitchen and those inside didn’t exist any more. And five seconds earlier he had been—
‘Bonus...’
The voice came from directly in front of him. And there, from under the steel door on the floor, it crawled out. A smashed cockroach in a white linen suit. The soft face was covered with shit and his eyes were black with shock.
‘Help me...’
Bonus grabbed hold of the old man’s hands and pulled him across the floor to the toilet door. There he turned Hecate onto his back. He was a wreck. His stomach was slashed open and blood was pouring out. The immortal Hecate. The Invisible Hand, he couldn’t have many minutes or seconds left to live. All the blood... Jack turned away.
‘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?’