‘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.’
‘She told me in no uncertain terms that I was not to say what she does in her sleep, sir.’
‘And what does she do?’
‘Sometimes she strolls up and down the corridor as you say. Otherwise she goes into the washroom and uses the strong soap there. Scrubs her hands, occasionally until her skin goes red. Then she comes up on the roof.’
Macbeth looked at her. His beloved Lady. So exposed and vulnerable out in the wind-blown night. So alone in the darkness of her mind, the darkness she had told him about but where she couldn’t take him. There was nothing he could do. Just wait and hope she would choose to come back in from the night. So near and so out of reach.
‘What makes you think she might take her life tonight?’
Jack glanced at Macbeth in surprise. ‘I don’t think she will, sir.’
‘So what was it then, Jack?’
‘What was what, sir?’
‘What made you so worried that you called me?’
At that moment the moonlight broke through a gap in the cloud. And as if at an agreed signal Lady turned and walked towards them.
‘That, sir.’
‘God help us,’ Macbeth whispered and hurriedly took a step back.
She was holding a bundle in her arms. She had pulled her nightdress to expose one breast, which she held to the open end of the bundle. Macbeth saw the back of a baby’s head. He counted four black holes in it.
‘Is she asleep?’ Macbeth asked.
‘I think so,’ Jack whispered.
They had followed her closely off the roof, down the stairs and into the suite. Now they were standing by her bed, where she lay with the blanket pulled up over her and the child.
‘Shall we take it off her?’
‘Let her keep it,’ Macbeth said. ‘What harm can it do? But I want you to sit here and watch over her tonight. I have an important radio interview early tomorrow morning and have to sleep, so just give me a key for another room.’
‘Of course,’ Jack said. ‘I’ll ring for someone to take over at reception.’
While Jack was away Macbeth stroked the baby’s cheek. Cold, stiff, a destroyed baby. What Lady and he had been. But they had managed to repair themselves. No. Lady had managed to repair herself. Macbeth had had help. From Banquo. And before that, at the orphanage, from Duff. Had Duff not killed Lorreal, Macbeth would probably have committed suicide sooner or later. Even when he escaped from the home he still had four black holes in his heart. Four holes that had to be filled with something. Brew was the quickest and easiest available sealant. But at least he kept himself alive. Thanks to Duff, the bastard.
And then there was Lady of course. Who had shown him that hearts can be sealed with love, and pain can be eased with love-making. He stroked her cheek. Warm. Soft.
Were there ways back or had they forgotten to plan for a possible retreat? Had they planned only for victories? Yes, and they’d had victories. But what if the victory leaves a bitter taste, what if it comes at too great a cost and you would prefer a cheap defeat? What do you do then? Do you abdicate, renounce the royal trappings, ask humbly for forgiveness and return to your daily chores? When you step off the edge of the roof, and the cobbles of the red-light district rush towards you, do you ask gravity if you can retrace your ill-considered step? No. You take what’s coming. Make the best of it. Make sure you land on your feet and perhaps break a leg or two. But you survive. And you become a better person who has learned to tread more carefully the next time.
Jack came in. ‘I’ve found someone for reception,’ he said and handed Macbeth a key.
Macbeth looked at it. ‘Duncan’s room?’
Jack put a hand to his mouth in horror. ‘I thought it was the best room, but you might prefer...’
‘That’s fine, Jack. I’m close by in case there is anything. Besides I don’t believe in ghosts. And as everyone knows I have nothing to fear from Duncan’s ghost.’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Indeed, nothing at all. Goodnight.’
They came as soon as he closed his eyes.
Duncan and Malcolm. They were lying under the duvet either side of him.
‘There isn’t room for us all,’ Macbeth screamed and kicked them out onto the floor, where they hissed until rat tails rustled alongside the wall and they were gone.
But then the door opened, and in crept Banquo, Fleance and Duff, each with a dagger in hand, poised ready to strike.
‘What do you want?’
‘Justice and our sleep back.’