Macbeth

Macbeth and Banquo sat on the pavement with their backs against the high wall to the south of the house, beside the gates. Cawdor — like most of his neighbours — had cemented glass shards into the top of the wall, but SWAT had mats to overcome hindrances of that kind. The raid followed the usual procedure, the teams reporting via walkie-talkies when they were in their pre-arranged positions. Macbeth glanced across the street to where a boy of six or seven had been throwing a ball against a garage wall when they arrived. Now he stopped and stared at them with his mouth open. Macbeth put a finger to his lips, and the boy nodded back somnambulantly. The same expression as the white-clad young man kneeling on the tarmac the previous night, Macbeth reflected.

‘Wake up.’ It was Banquo whispering in his ear.

‘What?’

‘All the teams are in position.’

Macbeth breathed in and out a couple of times. Had to shut out other things from his mind now, had to get in the zone. He pressed the talk button: ‘Fifty seconds to going in. North? Over.’

Angus’s voice with that unctuous priest-like chanting tone: ‘All OK. Can’t see any movement inside. Over.’

‘West? Over.’

‘All OK.’ That was the replacement’s voice, Seyton. Monotone, calm. ‘Hang on, the sitting-room curtain twitched. Over.’

‘OK,’ Macbeth said. He didn’t even need to think; this was part of the what-if procedure they drilled day in, day out. ‘We may have been seen, folks. Let’s cut the countdown and go in. Three, two, one... go!’

And there it was, the zone. The zone was like a room where you closed the door behind you and nothing else but the mission, you and your men existed.

They got to their feet, and as Banquo threw the mat over the glass on the wall Macbeth noticed the boy with the ball wave slowly, robotically, with his free hand.

Within seconds they were over the wall and sprinting through the garden, and Macbeth had this feeling he could sense everything around him. He could hear a branch creak in the wind, could see a crow take off from the ridge of the neighbour’s roof, could smell a rotting apple in the grass. They ran up the steps, and Banquo used the butt of his gun to smash the window beside the front door, slipped his hand through and unlocked the door from the inside. As they entered they heard glass breaking elsewhere in the house. Eight against one. When Macbeth asked Duncan if there was any reason to think Cawdor would put up resistance Duncan had answered that wasn’t why he wanted a full-scale arrest.

‘It’s to send a signal, Macbeth. We don’t treat our own more leniently. Quite the contrary. Smash glass, kick in doors, make a lot of noise and lead Cawdor out in handcuffs through the front entrance so that everyone can see and tell others.’

Macbeth went in first. Pressing an assault rifle to his shoulder as his gaze swept the hall. Stood with his back to the wall beside the sitting-room door. His eyes gradually adapted to the darkness after the sharp sunlight outside. All the curtains in the house appeared to be drawn. Banquo came up to his side and carried on into the sitting room.

As Macbeth pushed off from the wall to follow him, it happened.

The attacker came swiftly and silently from the darkness shrouding one of the two staircases, hit Macbeth in the chest and sent him flying backwards.

Macbeth felt hot air on his throat, but managed to get his gun barrel between him and the dog and knock its snout to the side so that the big teeth sank into his shoulder instead. He screamed with pain as an immense snarling head tore at skin and flesh. Macbeth tried to hit out, but his free hand was caught in his rifle strap. ‘Banquo!’ Cawdor wasn’t supposed to have a dog. They always checked before operations of this kind. But this was definitely a dog, and it was strong. The dog shoved the gun barrel to the side. It was going for his throat. He would soon have his carotid artery severed.

‘Banq—’

The dog went stiff. Macbeth turned his head and stared into dulled canine eyes. Then its body went limp and slumped on top of him. Macbeth pushed it off and looked up.

Seyton was standing over him holding out a hand.

‘Thank you,’ Macbeth said, getting to his feet without help. ‘Where’s Banquo?’

‘He and Cawdor are inside,’ Seyton answered, motioning towards the sitting room.

Macbeth went to the sitting-room door. They had opened the curtains, and in the bright light from behind he saw only Banquo’s back as he stared up at the ceiling. Above him hovered an angel with a halo of sunshine and his head bowed as if in a plea for forgiveness.

It took an hour.

An hour from the moment Macbeth had said, ‘Go!’ until Duncan had gathered all the departmental and unit leaders together in the large conference room at HQ.