Doctor Who_ The Banquo Legacy - Andy Lane [2]
‘Is this’, he repeated, ‘a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my –’ He broke off again. He was sure it was the handle, but what was it ‘toward’? With theatrical disdain Dodds raised the cigar to his mouth. Banquo was a far better part, anyway. One that only a true genius (such as, for example, himself) could fully bring to life. A fitting memorial for his late, beloved aunt. His late, beloved, rich aunt.
Dodds looked around his bed chamber again, satisfying himself that the legacy was intact. Property – a sound investment. But already the house made strange noises. He could swear that earlier he had heard someone moving downstairs. But he knew the house to be empty.
Smiling at his own foolish fancies, Dodds placed the cigar precisely on his desk, between blotter and hourglass, and prepared (right hand over heart) to deliver his finale. Banquo Manor would once again re-echo to the words of Shakespeare, the words of his master creation: Banquo himself.
He cleared his throat into a silk-red handkerchief. Then, pushing the kerchief back into a pocket, he raised a hand and bellowed, ‘Hold, take my sword.’
A creak from the landing. The house seemed to appreciate the immaculate performance.
‘There’s husbandry in Heaven…’
The gas lamp looked on, with cold indifference as the candles on the bed sputtered nervously…
‘Their candles are all out.’
…and went out, as if caught in a draught.
‘Take thee that too.’ Dodds held out his imaginary dagger. He was defenceless now. ‘A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, and yet I would not sleep.’
The creaking seemed closer now – as if approaching down the ill-lit corridor outside. And from further away there was another creaking – a rhythmic, mechanical grating.
‘Merciful powers.’ His voice had gained all the frightened nuances of reality, as if the creaking of the floorboards was gesturing to him, hastening him to the end of his performance. He tried to regain a grip on his shaking emotions. ‘Restrain in me the cursed thoughts…’
Was that shadow in the doorway somehow deeper now than it had been?
‘…that nature gives way to in repose.’
No, surely it was his imagination. An unreal shadow, as in a bad dream. Yet still it seemed to be gaining form and substance.
‘Give me my sword.’ Dodds was sure now: there was someone outside in the corridor. His hand closed on nothing, and he realised at last that there was no sword. ‘Who’s there?’ he stammered.
‘A friend.’ The voice was light and honeyed, a young woman. It seemed to cloy.
Dodds felt suddenly sick. And the formless shadow in the doorway stepped forward into the light.
He had seen only her a few times, and then to ease his aunt’s – her grandmother’s – conscience rather than his own. But he recognised her at once. Instinctively.
At first he thought that she had fallen down in the grounds, that she was wet from the rain and mud. But as she stepped further into the diffuse light he realised his mistake, and backed away.
Her long hair was soaked, plastered to her head and then falling in thick bunches across her shoulders. Several stray strands had blown forward and down over the material that clung wetly to her bosom. Against the dirty white of the shift he could see that she was drenched red. Her bare feet were muddy, and about her ankles were splashes of dried blood. Some were from the cuts and scratches on her feet and legs from the long walk. But not all. The shift itself was still near white at the top, but lower down, while just as wet, clinging to her body as if she had bathed in it, the material became progressively darker.
His first thought was that she had met with an accident, but then he saw the red light in her eyes and the dried blood that caked her mouth and chin, which had dripped and streaked down her body. And he saw a dagger before him, its point towards his heart.
In the same moment he felt his back meet the wall and begin to prickle