After Macbeth

Chapter 1 – Min

The triumvirate meets at last,

The owl, the stag, the hearth forecast,

Time for a gentle stroll, then a nightcap. Or four. Min was past caring about the number. Come on, wander up the road, legs will take you that far. Another “to do” ticked off. This recovery business was a full-time job. She stepped through the cottage door into the gloaming, across the yard and up the rutted track. A burn tinkled in the distance, an owl hooted, and shadows shifted in the copse across the field. Perhaps the one she’d seen before, haunting the forest with a vole between its talons.

She leaned against the dyke for a rest. A circle of rocks sprouted from the grass, smaller than the ancient ones further east in Angus, upright like vertical dashes in sheep dotted meadows. Some even had carvings. None here, only that strange slab in the centre. Left by Pictish tribes? Check it out and do a story, pretend she already was a travel journalist. Better start faking it before making it.

Beautiful, the sky darkening into a night of twinkling stars. And the light still glimmered around an object inside the circle. Something large, elongated, and white near the slab. A pretend druid snoozing, or a drunk catching his death in the dew? The tourist sites hinted the area was ‘liminal’, spirits were abroad. More of the alcoholic kind than the religious or paranormal, was her sarcastic thought. Chest wheezing, she heaved herself over the low dry-stone dyke and approached the man through the tangled grasses.

But was it a man? The white-robed figure stretched out in the fading light, strange symbols covering clothing and face. Shoulder length hair and naked, bony feet protruding from his robe, he lay in state like a Crusader Knight. Or his Lady—for two humps swelled like breasts at chest level. A dark stain marred the collar of the white gown, and a bloody gash smiled across the throat.

She froze as the memories revived. The djellaba-clothed decapitated figure, head kicked aside, blood spattering her shoe, military orders barked in her ear by an appalled Sandhurst product.

NO… thank the Lord for her reporter’s training. It kicked in: describe everything, question everything. With deep, even breaths, she guided herself back to the here and now, the body in front of her, still as stone in the evening quiet. The face was serene, no trace of violence. And she saw the gash wasn’t real, it was painted, the neck beneath it intact. Her fingers touched the wrist. No pulse.

Then a sound issued from a small, square rock nestled in the grass. “Murder”, resonated in her mind’s ear. She gathered it up and found it heavy, made of smooth stone with an indentation on one side. “Take me” it communicated, direct, powerful. Cramming it into her pocket, she staggered to the dyke, phone this in.

An efficient Perthshire voice answered.

“Police, please. There’s a body lying in the stone circle field in front of Cailleach Dhu Cottage on the Glenbarry Road… No, I’ve touched nothing… felt for the pulse of course ... yes… yes…I don’t want to stay here alone…please… I’ll be at the Cottage when you need me. My name is Min Wise.”

The castle lights twinkled in the distance as she stumbled into the cottage. Seated on the ancient, lumpy sofa in the parlour, the memories returned, image after image flooding her mind. Mangled bodies, blasted tanks beribboned with entrails, the heat, the stench, the horror. A million murders and no justice for them. What lay outside was mild in comparison – perhaps just a heart attack in fancy dress.

She inspected the stone. Now inert, carved from dark crystal, a solid cube. No words. Not the first time weird things had happened, of course. Still, she shouldn’t have removed it or lied to the police, what was she thinking for goodness sake. But the stone had spoken, and she’d not even started on the drink yet. Her eyes caught the bottle of 16-year-old Balvenie, peeking from a sloppy nest of yesterday’s Sunday newspapers. Only half a bottle since Saturday, not much at all. But no, not yet. Maybe time to put the stone back.

Too late, blue lights flashing through the window. She went to the porch and peered out. Police and an ambulance, four pairs of headlights parked level with the stone circle. Two uniforms were almost at her door, they introduced themselves as PC Angus Morrison and PC Jane Grant. She invited them in. The chubby-cheeked young man asked questions while the skinny woman scribbled notes.

“Is it a man or a woman, Officer? I couldn’t decide.”

“No sure mysel’,” said PC Morrison.

When they inquired, Min told them she’d just arrived in the neighbourhood. Their eyes hardened as they clocked her reluctance to elaborate. So sensing the surge of suspicion, she embarked on the story. She was a travel writer recovering from the Ebola virus, caught in Africa. The newspaper had airlifted her back to London and quarantine, everything fine now, peace to recuperate was what the doctor ordered.

The police officer’s phone pinged. He shifted his burly buttocks across the chair and said they should get back. Was she sure she was alright?

“Yes, clean bill of health. Must rest though, rented this place, the doctors advised no stress.”

PC Morrison said he’d meant her being alone. PC Grant looked sympathetic.

“I’m OK. Used to seeing dead bodies. I was a war correspondent.”

Just not used to seeing them on her own doorstep. Not daubed with ritual symbols of sacrifice. The officers were kind enough, said someone would contact her for a proper statement and departed. Duty of care ticked off, the DNA test would be tomorrow, she supposed.

Alone in the sitting room she shivered, but not from cold. Keep calm, deep breaths, mindfulness, PTSD and Ebola a double whammy, no joke. Recovery was taking so long, damn it, but slumping and dorking out was lovely, not having to be so goddamn competent and proactive all the time. Wandering through the countryside, silly computer games and roaming WordPress for loony blogs - people were fascinating. Perhaps the body was like that trans person she’d been reading about, there’s a thought.

This had to be time for a nightcap, and she made for the whisky bottle. Uncorked it with a soft plop. One swig and then her phone rang. Hester, the nosey woman from the teashop place in the village.

“There were POLICE cars tearing through the village. Going your way!”

“Yes.”

“Whit in the world’s happening? Were they away tae the Laird’s?”

“No. They’re here. There’s been a death.”

“What…!”

“Oh Hester, I found a body. In the stone circle. The police are there now.”

“I’ll be right over, ye can’t be alone.”

Min said no need, but Hester plunged on.

“No, dinnae be daft! You’ll have had a tremendous shock! What if it’s murder, and the murderer’s still at large?”

“I’m f…”

“Hang on, there’s only the one nun in the Sister House! The Irish one. Sister Bridget. You’ll have seen her in the teashop, last Thursday. The rest are away tae Rome.”

“The police don’t know if it’s mur…”

“I’ll nip down in the car and collect the both of you. You’ll come and stay with me, and I’ll tell Angus Morrison. Be there in 20 minutes. Bye now.”

A receiver click cut off protest. The woman was an avalanche, though it was nice someone cared. A night alone with the whisky bottle wouldn’t be wise. And the one thing she did not want to brood on now, was war and death. With Jones a good second. Ban him from her mind.

She stuffed her toothbrush and nightwear into the old tartan shopper in the porch. Through the bedroom window she observed more figures arriving, mega-watt lamps illuminating the area. Clad in white hazmat suits, they were erecting a white tent over the stone circle slab. Well, it’s a crime scene now she thought, although the two police officers hadn’t said it was. She thought of the black cube and her lie by omission and why on earth had she lied about being a travel writer when she wasn’t yet. Well, she soon would be — anything to earn a crust, no more wars.

The cube had communicated with her, as objects sometimes did. Words issuing from inanimate things, always relevant. She’d never told anyone, far too woo-woo. Although not quite true, she’d told Jones. He’d looked enigmatic, the bastard, his default expression. Weird how a man could infect your mind like that, however often she kicked him from her thoughts, however often she told him to f… off. Despite the amazing sex.

Downstairs, she pulled the cube from under the cushion, and again she heard words: “Murder, murder most foul.” Why on earth was she channelling Shakespeare? Maybe association, this was Macbeth country after all. She traced the indentation gouged deep into one side with her finger and a faint image crossed her mind, a dark image of a Yoruba river goddess. The one she had seen in the sacred grove of Osun-Osogbo, in Nigeria, before the virus hit.

Exhausted, she lay on the sofa and chewed at the raised scar on her upper lip with her lower teeth. Loud rapping roused her and, shoving the black stone in her pocket, she opened the front door. To Hester’s friendly brown eyes in her wrinkled brown face.

“Jump in the back, the front seat’s soaking! One of thae wee plastic cartons of cream spilled over it out of my shopper. It’s no smelly yet.”

Inside the battered Honda Civic sat a skinny nun, sharp eyes and crucifix shining in the dim light. Min climbed in as Hester unwound her floaty skirt from the brake pedal. The nun introduced herself as they bumped down the track.

“Sister Bridget Hunter. Isn’t this a terrible thing! And weren’t you the one finding her?”

“Yes, I’m Min Wise. It’s a ‘her’ then?”

“No,” said Hester, “That’s just it! I asked Angus Morrison when I was passing, I said you were staying with me. Awfy nice laddie - from a lovely family so he is,- but he couldnae tell me. He said he was under strict orders to say nothing, the pathologist was coming. But Dr Black got out his car and said: ‘Right, where’s the woman?’ Angus was so embarrassed. I had to promise not to tell anybody.”

The Sister reproved her: “You’ve told us!”

“Och, so I have. But we’ll know soon enough, cannae keep anything quiet in this place.”

“Why should I keep quiet? I found him. Or her. Knobbly feet in a long white dress, more a robe. Painted with symbols.”

“A white robe?” Hester almost careered off the track while glancing at Min. “That’s got to be a pretend druid. This place is on an old pilgrimage route.”

“He was lying on his back, big bumps at breast height.”

Hester turned right at the end of the track and roared down the road. Past a figure on the verge, a sack over his shoulder and holding a shotgun.

“Och there’s Willy, the Laird’s Factor. Aye chasing poachers. Cannae stand the man, that’s a sack full of dead rooks, he traps them.”

At the gateless entrance to the Castle, the car screeched to a halt, missing a stag in the road by a whisper. It turned its majestic head to stare at them, then moved to the crumbling glory of the gate pillars with hauteur. Beyond them the driveway stretched, a long arch of darkness under trees hunching towards each other in arboreal conspiracy. The stag disappeared into the gloom.

“Nothing wrong with your brakes, Hester!” said Min, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice. “Looks like it’s going somewhere.”

“They usually stay on the hills, so they do.”

“What’s the Castle like?”

“About to fall into ruin if nobody does anything. Old but no ancient. Loads o’ wee turrets. The Laird’s skint, there’s gossip about him selling off land, or developing it. Some people are no very happy about that.”

The nun said nothing, her shoulders rigid with tension. She stared after the stag, down the long dark tunnel of trees. Hester got the car going again and drove past the dilapidated stone walls enclosing the castle grounds. They had crumbled in some places with brambles conquering the gaps. Min swayed as the car took corners on the wrong side of the road at high speed. The scary prerogative of local drivers, she supposed.

The Honda slowed when entering the village street, towards the café. Parking on arrival, Hester shot out, despite her girth, and raised a garage door. She asked Min to close it after the car had manoevered through a space jam-packed with boxes. Lowering the rusty corrugated tin, Min fumbled her way amid the clatter and thump of tumbling objects. She hoped the muttered cursing wasn’t the nun. The darkness was profound and the stink of petrol immensely worrying. Hester opened a side door, warm light spilling into the dark and revealing red-carpeted stairs.

They climbed to a large, messy yet welcoming living room. Tubular bells tinkled and rich, ethnic fabrics covered comfortable sofas and cushions. As well as a faint patchouli and sandalwood perfume, there were crystals in every hue imaginable, and pictures of dolphins and dragons adorned each wall. Draped over a corner table was a set of bagpipes in a lurid tartan, drones akimbo. Min did her best to make complimentary remarks, while Sister Bridget’s lip curled in a sneer. She looked quite apoplectic, poor woman, with that port wine birthmark spread over one side of her face.

“Sit ye doon, we’ll have a nice cup of valerian tea and then we’ll sort out beds.”

“This is so kind of you, Hester, what a great place.”

“It’s two houses knocked into one. Mum and Dad moved in next door to my granddad. They were missionaries in India, only their health gave out and they came home with me in tow. I was found wandering in the road, could toddle but no speak. So they adopted me. The country was still at sixes and sevens after Partition. They didnae know if I was a Hindu or a Muslim, so they made me a Presbyterian. I’m not one now though.”

Suppressing a giggle at Bridget’s disdainful sniff, Min confided,

“I’m adopted too. Into a nice Home Counties family.”

“Mercy! And your birth parents?”

“My mother died, they cut me out of her. My father was a Greek student, quarrelled with his family. He left my mother when he knew I was immanent. So I went straight to foster parents.”

Why did I tell them that, thought Min, way too much information. Bridget’s expression segued from the supercilious to the incredulous,

“Well, isn’t that a marvellous coincidence! So am I. Three of us in the same room? That’s amazing, sure you couldn’t make it up.”

“Oh my, we’ll need to get the whisky to toast that, dearies. I’ll put it in the tea. They call it Gaelic tea around here - keeps Gran warm on a chilly night, and ye cannae smell it.” Hester’s comfortable form limped off.

Relaxed in a cosy chair after the whisky, Min was conscious of weird and unfamiliar sensations—of trust and companionship and familiarity. She felt the stone shift in her pocket and took it out. Then she told them she feared the death was murder.

Chapter Two - Bridget

Are they a trinity, working as one?

The wise crone believes, and so does the nun

Bridget awoke, a little queasy if not seasick. She’d been slipping and sliding, tossing and turning, no purchase upon this mattress for a nightie-clad rump. It was already light, faint twitter of birds in the distance and a car door slamming, where in the name of all the blessed saints was she?

Memories crept back, of being abducted from the religious house last night. Because of some rampaging murderer. Taken to a weird, over-stuffed house with that skinny journalist woman. Size 12 clothes on a size 10 body and skin the same yellowy white as her hair. Looked ill. Nosy attitude too. The faint scar on her moustache area would be a harelip reconstruction.

Above her, Bridget saw strings stretched between hooks on the walls, floaty clothing dangling on hangers over the bed. Like a Brazilian washing day, and almost brushing her face – disgusting. Why couldn’t the woman put her clothes in a wardrobe like any normal person! And the stink! Elf and fairy costumes reeking of patchouli. At size 18, a pretty fat fairy, the woman was a parody of herself. As for sleeping on this atrocious waterbed, what eejit had thought to invent such a thing?

She contemplated pricking a hole in the thick plastic beneath her. Sure her ‘Lourdes 1992’ badge would be just the job. A flood of Noah-esque proportions thundering down the stairs like in a Tom and Jerry cartoon, how much stick at the Confessional would she get for that? Maybe not, because she’d have to pay for the repair. And Hester was kind and hospitable, even if fierce irritating. Maybe the Evil Thought alone would get her Hail Marys from Father Damien. She was so glad and grateful to be a Catholic, your sins shriven in one fell swoop and free to start collecting them all over again.

Oh, she was so looking forward to seeing him in the Confessional, when he was back from the fishing. Maybe he’d say it was a sin of contemplated omission. So far, all she had was ‘Feeling Glad She Had the Place to Herself’ noted down, peace and quiet now the other five were off to Rome was a wonderful thing. Nuns were supposed to keep their gobs shut, although nobody had told that to Sister Mary Benedicta.