Elizabeth Bailey Bailey

CHAPTER ONE

The butchers were at it again. Slicing his life away, chopping his story into mincemeat and feeding it piecemeal into forever. When would it cease? He hovered in the shadows and listened to the rise and fall of voices on the stage. Over the years he had become accustomed to the nuance of the sounds, drawn back time after time by the call of his ancient name.

God’s bones, but he hated theatres! Had come to hate the irresistible hauntings in the timeless dank and dark. There would be lights enough when the people came, to gawp in horror at the vaunted villainy of days long past. Villainy? Aye, so it was, had there been truth in the tangled tale. Lies, blameful lies. And naught to be done to change it, his truth buried in the twisted wreck of all his words and deeds.

He had watched, in countless places, renditions of these same perverted words, these same distorted actions, garbed in different ways by different men of different times. Almost he knew the falsities of this fantastic tale as well as he knew the truth, to which he held hard for fear of losing his memories, pitiful remnant of all that had been torn away. Witless he knew himself, succumbing to the lure. Had he ways and means of avoidance, he would use them.

Or would he? Was there not falsehood in his thought? Aye, somewhat. For here there was balm. Too long had he roamed alone. Little though they shared his presence, he took a shade of comfort from the company of men.

When the place came alive with lights and folk to watch, he knew he’d have no power to drag his attention from the stage, any more than he could force himself away. But in this early time, while they conned the way to do what they would do, men dallied here and yon, and never noted when he sidled by. The closeness warmed a mite the empty echoes. It deepened the yearning too, but he could bear that. If he’d mastered one blamed thing through this endless end, it was the damping of unquenchable thirsts.

The voice from the stage ceased, catching his attention. The interruption had come from the woman. He shifted, tugged from his wandering thoughts by her meddlesome intrusion. He’d tried to shut her out, cursing her, along with the thatch of frizzled hair in which her fingers were apt to wrestle as she tugged at her brain for inspiration, other hand gesturing unheeded in the air, in tune with the rhythm of her words. He knew her brain, unwillingly but something well, though it pained him to idle where his mangled story roamed in every corner.

Yet despite his loathing for the task she’d set herself, mistress of the men upon the stage who danced to her calling, his mind turned traitor to him, feeding into hers in hunger. In her deeps he sensed a wild thing, little suited with the manner of her actions. Sadie Grey, they named her. And grey she was, on the outside. Within, the colours sang like a siren.

*

Sadie struggled for words to express the concept, so clear in her own mind. Curtis had not understood. It was a question whether her leading man had the faintest grasp of the role. Impatience flitted across the attractive face and he thrust back the swathe of blond hair that persisted in flopping onto his forehead. Sadie knew he hated to be stopped in mid-flow. But they were in a working rehearsal. What the hell did he expect? As if she didn’t know. Curtis wanted to walk it, just as he always did. It was Shakespeare, but he wanted it easy.

This was the penalty of taking on a job where the principal actors had already been cast. Sadie had guessed at the outset that her appointment as director had been heavily disputed from the top. By the time her champion had won the day, it was too late to do anything about Curtis Demaine. He was bums on seats. Too bad if the bums got up and walked out in protest at his appalling performance.

Only it was Sadie’s reputation on the line. She had to make it work. For the sake of Isla and the rest of the cast, if nothing else. Cursing her inability to operate in terms simple enough for a third-rate mind, Sadie tried again.

‘Look, what is Macbeth saying here? He’s saying he doesn’t know if he really wants to do it or not. Don’t give me regret. It’s not regret. The thane is a sane, sound man who knows his ethics, don’t you see? It’s the essence of the man—he knows it’s wrong.’

‘Yes, all right. So how do you want me to play it?’

Dismayed by the latent hostility, Sadie swung her gaze away from centre stage where Curtis stood alone, to Isla, waiting for her entrance by the left wing. If it wasn’t for Isla, Sadie would have downed tools. Though it was Isla who had let her in for this, arguing into the night, no doubt, in bed. Marriage to one half of Temple and Stowe had given Isla Jarrett clout. She’d got her way, Sadie guessed, because Howard Temple was only doing the play for her benefit. A brief, encouraging smile urged Sadie to give it another shot. She looked for a vein of simplicity.

‘Urgency, let’s think with that. A growing urgency through the speech, Curtis. You’re trying to persuade yourself that you shouldn’t do it, but you want to do it. It’s going to give you the world.’

Protest jerked out of him. ‘The world over another man’s body?’

Sadie felt as if she was limping when she wanted to run. ‘It isn’t the twenty-first century, Curtis. Go back a thousand years. Killing is nothing to Macbeth. He’s a soldier, he lives with death every day.’

‘It’s murder. He calls it murder.’

‘Exactly. There’s the difference. He’s telling himself this killing isn’t like other killings. This is Duncan, his cousin, the king. Listen to his words: “…his virtues will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued against the deep damnation of his taking-off…” Don’t you see? He knows this killing isn’t acceptable, and he has only “vaulting ambition” as his spur. So where does that leave him?’

‘Well?’

Was there interest this time under the antagonism? Sadie thrust down the impulse to yell. ‘Utterly vulnerable to his wife’s arguments.’

She waited, but there was no light of understanding from the angry brown eyes. Defeated, Sadie sought for a means to articulate the obvious, and failed.

‘Look, let’s just run the speech again and keep in mind the idea that if you let yourself be persuaded by your own argument, you remain Thane of Cawdor. You’ll never be king.’

She knew it wasn’t going to fly. Perhaps she was riding him too hard. Curtis Demaine was not an instinctive actor. He badly needed help, but he resented each piece of direction she gave him. Sadie had tried giving him rein, but it didn’t work. Curtis went straight for the mundane every time. He looked like a god and he could act, yes, but not well. He had a richly resonant voice, perfect for Shakespeare’s rhythm, if only he could think with the text.

She let the speech run through, and called it a day. ‘Let’s leave it for now. We’re all tired.’

Relief flickered across Curtis’s strong-boned sculptured features, and a smile. Forced, Sadie decided. The other actors involved in the rehearsal were shifting, readying to go home. Curtis jumped nimbly off the stage and came down to her. Close to, his brown eyes appeared to plead sincerity.

‘It’ll be better tomorrow, Sadie, I promise. I’ll look at it tonight and think about what you’ve said.’

She eyed him, doubt plucking at the tug of belief. She opted for effort. ‘You see, it’s essential the thane goes into it with his eyes wide open. There’s never an instant where he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. That’s why there’s no regret. He chooses the path, and once he’s on it, there’s no turning back.’

Too late, she saw her error. Curtis didn’t want to hear it. He had come to her to make a spurious peace, not to be given more food for his ire. She backtracked hastily. ‘Sorry.’ She managed a brittle laugh. ‘Can’t stop, can I? See you tomorrow.’

She turned away before he could say any more. A mutter reached her, which might have been a word of farewell. Reaching for her bag, she began a pointless rummage with no other purpose than to keep her apparently occupied. Isla’s low voice behind her was a welcome relief.

‘Don’t look so worn, Sadie. It’ll be all right.’

‘On the night?’

The mellow laughter warmed her. A long black-clad arm snaked around her and she was drawn into the familiar perfume of Isla’s embrace.

‘You worry too much,’ Isla murmured. ‘And Curtis is a prima donna.’

Sadie drew free. ‘He must hate me.’

‘He’s more likely to hate himself. He knows you’re asking more than he knows how to do and it hurts his ego that he can’t do it at will, that’s all. Take no notice. Once it starts to gel, he’ll be fine.’

‘Will it start to gel?’

Isla closed a sleepy lid over one eye. ‘Sweetheart, if you’ve got a fault, it’s lack of faith in your actors.’

Sadie balked. ‘Not true. I have faith in you.’

‘Ah, but I’m different.’

She was different. A cut above the rest. An actress of calibre, a dream to direct with an intuitive grasp of character, Isla Jarrett was perfect for the Lady. She even looked the part, with her lean, rangy figure and the black fringed hair hanging straight down to her shoulders. Dressed in black slacks and a long-sleeved fitted jumper for rehearsals, she resembled a sleek cat, almond eyes glimmering in a face of flawless symmetry.

Isla’s easy carriage had a sensuous grace that had landed her a good many chances at the femme fatale. It had also captured Howard Temple, at one time one of the country’s leading Shakespearean lights and a good many years older than his enchanting wife. As Sadie understood it, Howard’s desire to give Isla parts worthy of her talent had been the prime motivation for leasing the old Gaumont cinema and turning it back into a theatre. It was a gift to work in, because one could hold almost the entirety of rehearsals in the actual space—in this day and age, an unheard-of luxury.

The actors were leaving. As Isla pulled away, she was buttonholed by Blaise Whiteley, who was playing one of the production’s lesser male leads, Banquo. Sadie gave an inward sigh. No good to be expected from that quarter. Without effort, Blaise could undermine any little headway she’d made. Which was to say, none. He’d capitalise even on that.

‘Sadie?’

She turned to find Julian Redmond at her elbow, fingers ruffling at his short brown hair and making it stand up in spikes. Relief sucked at Sadie’s charged senses. Her Deputy Stage Manager was the one stable point in a seesaw raft. Wholly reliable, super-efficient—and a clear ally.

‘Doug will lock up when everyone’s out. Anything you need before I let the guys go?’

A tacit request for approval. It was the DSM’s job to make sure his team of assistants left the theatre cleaned up and tidy. Short and wiry, he operated always on a slight edge of nerves, which gave Sadie a focus of solidarity. She thanked him.

‘I’ll stay on a bit, Julian. I want to think in the space.’

In fact she wanted to cry in the space, but she knew she wouldn’t.

His sharp features turned anxious. ‘Don’t be too long, will you, Sadie, or you’ll freeze. The heating’s going off. It’s not much cop when it’s on, so it won’t last.’

She reassured him, grateful for the care that prompted the reminder. She watched Julian shrug into a thick parka, pick up his kit and take a moment with the two of his juniors on duty today. The three trailed out after the departing actors. Isla turned at the door and waved briefly, and then Sadie was alone.

*

The silence was numbing to him. He might loathe what they were doing to his life, but their voices and motion engaged his senses in a way he remembered, but could not recreate at will. The woman was still here, curse the wench! Any other might have been a boon. This creature, with a stomach prickled like the porcupine and a mind to outrace his own, spelled naught of comfort. Without wishing it, and drawn thence by a force of anguish that reached out into the void, he probed for reason and found none. Why this cut of despair? It was not her story they were mangling, although she seemed to wish to own it.

She was moving, mounting the steps. She turned and faced towards the place where he was, staring into his blackness. As if he must withstand the lure, he sought for items to disparage. And found them with ease. A lumpy specimen she was. Curves in all the right places, but untidily put together. Or the shapeless coverings she wore made her appear so. Dun and dull was her woven upper garment, worn over a pair of men’s braies as chosen by the women of these times. The whole look of her lifeless, if not for the eyes.

They were grey, like her name, Sadie Grey. But a grey piercing and keen. Even at this distance, in this shadow, he could see the light of them. Intelligent eyes, with a bitter edge.

They opened wider, and he saw shock entering in. It echoed in him as he recognised his nearness to the woman. He had moved without realising, occupying now the space where she had been, looking up at her, she looking down at him.

Looking down at him.

He reeled as the impact tore into him. Impossible that he could be visible, but he was. He felt it in her mind, encountered the trembling horror in the cavity of her chest.

She was going to escape, run from him. There was no thought now of preference. All his senses told him he must stop her, keep her. He knew not how, but choice he had none. The aeons of loneliness folded.

He reached out, spoke aloud, said her name.

‘Sadie Grey.’

She uttered a low cry, a whimper of fright. Then a whisper reached him, terror within it.

‘Oh, dear Lord, it’s the thane himself!’

*

The familiar aura of ease crept over Isla as she crossed the threshold into the yawning hallway of her large Edwardian home. Warmth spilled from the domed lanterns set on either side, brightening the evening grey seeping from the stairwell skylight high above and throwing rainbow colour onto the framed posters of past Temple and Stowe productions gracing the walls.

Shrugging off her fake fur, she hung it on the old-fashioned coat stand and headed for the lounge. Dropping her script carelessly on the sofa, Isla crossed to the desk where Howard’s greying head had been bent over a stack of papers. He was looking at her now, the thick-rimmed spectacles pushed down his nose so he could peer over them.

‘I won’t ask how it went, your face says it all.’

Isla repressed a sigh and gave the smile he called cat-like. ‘Any food yet?’

Her husband rose from behind the desk and came to kiss her. ‘You’ll put on weight. Nobody likes a fat Lady Macbeth.’

She let this pass, allowing the familiar squeeze at her buttocks as his arms slid under the colourful gypsy cardigan concealing her slender frame. Reaching up, she took off his glasses and rubbed a finger under his eyes.

‘You look tired, darling. Are we going broke?’

‘I’m all right. What was it, Curtis again?’

Isla gently drew away, letting the spectacles fall to the desk. ‘Sadie has no idea how to manage him, I’m afraid.’

‘Or anyone else. The woman’s neurotic.’ He headed for the drinks cabinet. ‘I don’t know why—’

‘Darling, if you say once more that you don’t know why I persuaded you to hire her, I won’t be answerable for the consequences.’

Howard grunted, but he dropped it, which was all she wanted. It was one thing to have her own doubts, quite another to be forced to justify the choice. Why on earth should she have to justify the obvious? Sadie was a genius. Innovative, mind like a laser, homing in on truths the playwright probably didn’t understand. The difficulty was her genius came at a price. Isla hadn’t known it, or she might have thought twice. Sadie simply could not communicate at a level below her own.

It was a serious handicap, because most actors didn’t come near her mental acuity. Either they were awed, as Isla had been the first time she worked with Sadie. Or they were made to feel inadequate, like Curtis. The clashes were becoming more frequent. And Isla was beginning to doubt.

‘G and T.’

She accepted the glass Howard handed her, and sipped, the harsh cut of the alcohol grateful in her throat.

‘You’re a star, my love.’

Pushing off her fleece-lined boots, she sank into the welcoming softness of the deep red sofa cushions, curling up her legs and letting her head fall back.

‘I’ll go and see what Angela is up to in the kitchen,’ Howard said.

Isla watched him go, mesmerised as always by the sheer size of him. His was a figure made for Shakespearean kings, of which he had played many. Standing well over six feet in height, Howard had a breadth of shoulder to match and a head often quoted as “majestic”. His hair was still lush, though greying now, the craggy face beneath becoming more so by the year. He ought to be playing Macduff instead of the relatively minor role of Duncan. When Isla suggested it, Howard had balked.

‘I’m too old for Macduff. I refuse to be one of these desperate actors playing juves forever. Besides, I’ll be far too busy on the production side. It will suit me much better to be killed off in the first act.’

She knew Howard was only doing the play so that she had her chance at the Lady. She still thought he could have got away with Macduff, who could be thirty-five without stretching credibility. Howard was forty-seven, but he could play ten years either side and get away with it. Curtis was not yet thirty, and it made sense for Macduff to be of similar age. Isla had abandoned the argument, agreeing on Nick Pearcey for the role. A decision to regret?

Just as well the drink was warming, for a seeping chill crept through her at the thought. She would not be drawn on it, even to herself. Once let the hazy feeling in as concrete thought and she would be fighting off a string of ideas, each one more dangerous than the last. If she stayed mistress of her own sensations, they could not stray. Macduff he was, and she would think of him only as that. Just another actor, cast only because Howard did not want the part. It could have been anyone.

The doorbell jangled, startling in the silence of her shuttered thoughts. Isla uncoiled herself, pushing to her feet. A timely interruption. Setting down her half-finished drink, she padded barefoot through to the hall. A shadow thrown on the coloured stained glass tulips in the upper region of the front door revealed its identity even as the name formed in Isla’s mind. She pulled the door open.

‘Sadie.’ The glare from the hall fell on the woman’s wide-eyed look of shock. ‘What’s wrong, darling? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

Sadie uttered a wild croak of laughter. ‘I have. I’ve seen Macbeth.’

*

The blank stare mirrored Sadie’s own incomprehension. ‘Yes, I know. You think I’m mad, and I don’t blame you.’

Isla reached out and pulled her through the doorway, shutting out the dark. ‘Come in and have a drink or something. You’re overwrought, I expect.’

‘Over-something, yes.’

Sadie allowed herself to be shepherded into the large sitting room, which was open to the dining area, both rooms replete with decorative panelling and Art Deco mouldings. Isla’s house was comfortingly real, cluttered with theatrical debris, but homely with it.

‘Over-imaginative? But it looked so real.’

‘It what? This ghost you think you saw?’ She allowed Isla to thrust her into the big chair flanking the fireplace, and accepted the glass seized from the coffee table and shoved into her hands. ‘Have some of this. Your need is obviously greater than mine.’

Sadie sniffed it and pulled away. ‘Is it gin?’

‘And tonic. Drink it and be grateful.’

‘I don’t want it.’ But the shock was still in her and she reached out as Isla took the glass. ‘No, give it to me.’

Without thinking, Sadie put the glass to her lips and knocked back half the contents. Fire enveloped her throat and she coughed. ‘Christ, that’s strong.’ But the ball of heat was dropping into her chest, settling for an instant, and then shifting down. It left a spreading glow and Sadie felt the numbness begin to evaporate. She looked for Isla’s face, and found frowning concern. She nodded.

‘You think it’s getting to me, that I can’t cope. And this is some manifestation of rising incompetence.’

Isla gasped laughter. ‘You’re incredible. It’s exactly what I was thinking. Oh, not incompetence. You could never be incompetent, Sadie. But you’re not the world’s best people manager.’

Crestfallen, Sadie extended a hand, waving vague fingers. ‘I try. I do try so hard.’

Isla perched on the coffee table, grabbing the hand and holding it clasped between both her own. ‘You’ll be fine, darling. Don’t be upset. I was teasing, I promise.’

‘Teasing only works because it’s based on truth.’

‘Forget it. Tell me about this ghost.’

Puzzlement superseded the echoes of Sadie’s inner trembling. ‘It was him, Isla. I swear it was the thane. I was standing on the stage, and he appeared out of the darkness of the stalls. He was watching me.’ Isla grimaced and Sadie realised she was gripping hard. She let go, withdrawing her hand. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be, I don’t mind.’ Reassurance in Isla’s smile? ‘I don’t think you saw any ghost, Sadie.’

‘Please don’t tell me I imagined it.’

‘You might have done, but not necessarily. You could well have seen someone. It could have been anyone. The theatre isn’t locked. He must have got in when Doug wasn’t on the door. What did this man look like?’

The tremors had subsided. She must suppose Isla was right. It must have been a man—a real man. Only if so, he was oddly dressed for the twenty-first century.

‘He was in green tartans—not a kilt, but the long belted plaid they originally wore, with the ends caught at the shoulder and trailing.’

‘What, like the costume designs you’ve asked Sheryl to do?’

‘Exactly like that.’ Realisation struck her. ‘In fact, he looked exactly the way I imagine Macbeth to look. He was fair, but his hair was dull and straggly so it looked darker. But I remember when the light hit him, it was blond.’

Isla’s eyes widened. ‘Could it have been a model sent in by Sheryl? What did he say?’

‘Nothing. At least, he said my name, that was all.’ She recalled Isla’s other question. ‘Why would Sheryl do that? It wasn’t a model. It couldn’t have been.’ She saw his face again, and knew why. ‘He looked as shocked as I felt. He hadn’t expected to see me any more than I was expecting to see him.’ She drew a shuddering breath and looked up into Isla’s eyes. ‘And then he vanished.’

‘I think you’d better have another drink,’ said Isla. ‘Me too.’

*

Sadie was almost back to normal as she let herself into the flat. The bus had lulled her, and she had drifted, thinking about today’s rehearsal. In her mind, as she ran the scene over again, she heard the speech as it ought to be said, albeit in Curtis’s voice. As if he had understood her at last, was able to feed the rhythm of the words with the feeling she wanted him to emphasise.

She headed straight for the den to dump her stuff as she always did, leaving on the swivel chair the heavy flight case she used for the necessary paperwork, and setting her bag against the wall behind the chair. Unwinding the woollen scarf and shrugging off her coat, she hung them on the peg as she went back through the hall, heading for the kitchen.

She flipped the switch at the door, flooding the small space with light, and crossed the few paces to the worktop. Seizing the handle of the kettle, she lifted the lid and turned to jam the opening under the cold tap, swivelling to turn it on. Then the echo in the periphery of her vision came to the fore. The kettle fell from her fingers, crashing into the sink.

Macbeth was standing by the back door.

This time she could not keep from crying out.

The apparition started and uttered a shout as loud as her scream.

For an aeon there was nothing but the sound of running water, the pitter-pat of her beating heart and the harsh reality of his being. Then he spoke, his liquid voice a crystal edge jagged with fear.

‘Will you no’ do that? You made me jump half out of ma skin.’

Sadie said the first thing that came into her head. ‘You don’t have a skin.’

His expression changed. He looked down at himself, back at her, and gave a half-song of laughter. ‘I’d nae thought I had skin. Seems I had it wrong.’

The gentle highland lilt struck at Sadie’s ears, jerking her out of stupor. Riding on instinct, she turned her eyes away, trying to ignore the thumping in her chest. With deliberation, she lifted the kettle from the sink, dried it and checked it for dents. She filled it, turned off the tap, set the kettle down on its electric pad and flicked the switch to “on”. The red light was reassuring. But the urge proved too strong. When she looked, Macbeth was still there, watching her actions with a growth of interest in his face.

‘It’s strange to see it like this.’

Her faculties betrayed her, pump of blood alive and kicking in her veins, but she did not ask what he meant. Urgent need demanded a thrashing-out of matters more germane.

‘What are you doing here?’

His eyes took hers, as a silent hook might flick out and catch, holding her captive. ‘You’ll no’ ask who I am?’

She could hear her own breath slipping between her lips. ‘I know who you are. What are you doing in my home?’

He released her gaze, shifted away from the door. ‘You saw me. I’ve no’ been seen so clear before.’

‘You followed me here?’

He looked at her again and Sadie was struck by the curious lightness of his eyes.

‘Followed does nae say it. It’s more a penetration.’

Sadie’s breath sharpened, a creeping frost entering her spine. ‘You read my mind?’

‘It’s no’ that.’ The tone hit a growl. ‘Or it mebbe is, if you’re like to anger for it. I’ll no’ blame you.’

Her throat was hoarse. ‘But I’ll blame you.’

A quicksilver change threw brightness into the eyes. And mischief? Sadie’s hackles sank a fraction.

‘Aye, you would. I’d ha’ better chance with a porcupine.’

A stray giggle filtered through her fear. It was answered with a gleam that slid warmth along the quills and settled them. Protest warred with fascination.

‘You can’t do that. It’s my mind, private. It’s not fair, not possible. How can you do that?’

Could a phantom shrug?

‘To tell true, I’ve nae a notion how it works, only that it works. This time. I found where you live. I’ve been waiting for you.’