he too, in a way, was an old king, the monarch of the Fraser empire. Whisper, whisper, breathed the wall at him.
He sat up and put on the light. With the light on, he felt better. He was sure, though, that he hadn’t left those car lights on. “Leave all the rest to me….” Why say that? Why not say what everyone said, “I’ll see to everything”? Macbeth and his wife had entertained the old king in their house and murdered him in his bed, although he had done them no harm, done nothing to them but be king. So it wasn’t a parallel, was it? For he, Duncan Fraser, had done something, something which might merit vengeance. He had sacked Hugo Crouch and taken away his livelihood. It wasn’t a parallel.
He turned off the light, sighed, and lay down again. They were still whispering. He heard the floor creak as one of them came out of the bedroom. It wasn’t a parallel—it was much more. Why hadn’t he seen that? Lady Macbeth and her husband had had no cause, no cause…. A sweat broke out on his face and he reached for the glass of water. But he didn’t drink. It was stupid not to but…. The morning would soon come. “O, never shall sun that morrow see!” Where did that come from? Need he ask?
Whoever it was in the bathroom had left it and gone back to the other one. But only for a moment. Again he heard the boards creak, again someone was moving about on that dark landing. Dark, yes, pitch dark, for they hadn’t switched the light on this time. And Duncan felt then the first thrill of real fear, which didn’t subside after the shiver had died but grew and gripped him in a terror the like of which he hadn’t known since he was a little boy and had been shut up in the nursery cupboard of his father’s manse. He mustn’t be afraid, he mustn’t. He must think of his heart. Why should they want vengeance? He’d explained. He’d told them the truth, taking the full burden of blame on himself.
The room was so dark that he didn’t see the door handle turn. He heard it. It creaked very softly. His heart began a slow, steady pounding and he contracted his body, forcing itback against the wall. Whoever it was had come into the room. He could see the shape of him—or her—as a denser blackness in the dark.
“What…? Who…?” he said, quavering, his throat dry.
The shape grew fluid, glided away, and the door closed softly. They wanted to see if he was asleep. They would kill him when he was asleep. He sat up, switched on the light, and put his face in his hands. “O, never shall sun that morrow see!” He’d put all that furniture against the door, that chest of drawers, his bed, the chair. His throat was parched now and he reached for the water, taking a long draught. It was icy cold.
They weren’t whispering any more. They were waiting in silence. He got up and put his coat round him. In the bitter cold he began lugging the furniture away from the walls, lifting the iron bedstead that felt so small and narrow when he was in it but was so hideously weighty.
Straightening up from his second attempt, he felt it, the pain in his chest and down his left arm. It came like a clamp, like a clamp being screwed and at the same time slowly heated red-hot. It took his body in hot iron fingers and squeezed his ribs. And sweat began to pour from him as if the temperature in the room had suddenly risen tremendously. Oh, God, Oh, God, the water in the glass… ! They would have to get him a doctor, they would have to, they couldn’t be so pitiless. He was old and tired and his heart was bad.
He pulled the coat round the pain and staggered out into the black passage. Their door—where was their door? He found it by fumbling at the walls, scrabbling like an imprisoned animal, and when he found it he kicked it open and swayed on the threshold, holding the pain in both his hands.
They were sitting on their bed with their backs to him, not in bed but sitting there, the shapes of them silhouetted against the light of
He sat up and put on the light. With the light on, he felt better. He was sure, though, that he hadn’t left those car lights on. “Leave all the rest to me….” Why say that? Why not say what everyone said, “I’ll see to everything”? Macbeth and his wife had entertained the old king in their house and murdered him in his bed, although he had done them no harm, done nothing to them but be king. So it wasn’t a parallel, was it? For he, Duncan Fraser, had done something, something which might merit vengeance. He had sacked Hugo Crouch and taken away his livelihood. It wasn’t a parallel.
He turned off the light, sighed, and lay down again. They were still whispering. He heard the floor creak as one of them came out of the bedroom. It wasn’t a parallel—it was much more. Why hadn’t he seen that? Lady Macbeth and her husband had had no cause, no cause…. A sweat broke out on his face and he reached for the glass of water. But he didn’t drink. It was stupid not to but…. The morning would soon come. “O, never shall sun that morrow see!” Where did that come from? Need he ask?
Whoever it was in the bathroom had left it and gone back to the other one. But only for a moment. Again he heard the boards creak, again someone was moving about on that dark landing. Dark, yes, pitch dark, for they hadn’t switched the light on this time. And Duncan felt then the first thrill of real fear, which didn’t subside after the shiver had died but grew and gripped him in a terror the like of which he hadn’t known since he was a little boy and had been shut up in the nursery cupboard of his father’s manse. He mustn’t be afraid, he mustn’t. He must think of his heart. Why should they want vengeance? He’d explained. He’d told them the truth, taking the full burden of blame on himself.
The room was so dark that he didn’t see the door handle turn. He heard it. It creaked very softly. His heart began a slow, steady pounding and he contracted his body, forcing itback against the wall. Whoever it was had come into the room. He could see the shape of him—or her—as a denser blackness in the dark.
“What…? Who…?” he said, quavering, his throat dry.
The shape grew fluid, glided away, and the door closed softly. They wanted to see if he was asleep. They would kill him when he was asleep. He sat up, switched on the light, and put his face in his hands. “O, never shall sun that morrow see!” He’d put all that furniture against the door, that chest of drawers, his bed, the chair. His throat was parched now and he reached for the water, taking a long draught. It was icy cold.
They weren’t whispering any more. They were waiting in silence. He got up and put his coat round him. In the bitter cold he began lugging the furniture away from the walls, lifting the iron bedstead that felt so small and narrow when he was in it but was so hideously weighty.
Straightening up from his second attempt, he felt it, the pain in his chest and down his left arm. It came like a clamp, like a clamp being screwed and at the same time slowly heated red-hot. It took his body in hot iron fingers and squeezed his ribs. And sweat began to pour from him as if the temperature in the room had suddenly risen tremendously. Oh, God, Oh, God, the water in the glass… ! They would have to get him a doctor, they would have to, they couldn’t be so pitiless. He was old and tired and his heart was bad.
He pulled the coat round the pain and staggered out into the black passage. Their door—where was their door? He found it by fumbling at the walls, scrabbling like an imprisoned animal, and when he found it he kicked it open and swayed on the threshold, holding the pain in both his hands.
They were sitting on their bed with their backs to him, not in bed but sitting there, the shapes of them silhouetted against the light of
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