Why, why, why, thought Peregrine, do I direct plays? Why do I put myself into this hell? Above all, why Macbeth? And then: It’s too soon to be feeling like this; six days too soon. Oh God, deliver us all.

He drove home to Emily.

‘Do you have to go out again tonight?’ Emily asked.

‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so.’

‘How about a bath and a zizz?’

‘I ought to be doing something. I can’t think.’

‘I’ll answer the telephone and if it’s important I swear I’ll wake you.’

‘Will you?’ he said helplessly.

‘Come on, silly. You haven’t slept for two nights.’

She went upstairs. He heard the bath running and smelt the stuff she used in it. If I sit down, he thought, I won’t get up.

He wandered to the window. There was the Dolphin across the river, shining in the late afternoon sun. Tomorrow they’ll put up the big poster. Macbeth. Opening April 23! I’ll see it from here.

Emily came down.

‘Come on,’ she said.

She helped him undress. The bath was heaven. Emily scrubbed his back. His head nodded and his mouth filled with foam.

‘Blow!’

He blew and the foam floated about, a mass of iridescent bubbles.

‘Stay awake for three minutes longer,’ said her voice. She had evidently pulled out the plug. ‘Come on. Out.’

He was dried. The sensation was laughable. He woke sufficiently to fumble himself into his pyjamas and then into bed.

‘“Sleep,”’ he said, ‘“that knits up the ravelled sleave of care.”’

‘That’s right,’ said Emily, a thousand miles away.

He slept.

IV

Across the river, not very far away as the crow flies, the theatre trembled with the rebirth of the play. The actors were gone but Winter Morris and his staff worked away in the front-of-house. Telephones rang. Bookings were made. Royalty were coming and someone from Buck House would soon appear to settle the arrangements. The police and Security people would make decisions. Chief Superintendent Alleyn was coming. The Security pundits thought it a good idea if he were to be put in the next box to Royalty. Chief Superintendent Alleyn received the order philosophically if not jubilantly and asked for a second seat later in the season when he could watch the play rather than the house.

‘Of course, of course, my dear chap,’ Winty gushed. ‘Any time. Anywhere. Management seat. Our pleasure.’

Flower shop. Cleaners. Press. Programmes. Biographical notes. Notes on the play. Nothing about superstitions.

Winter Morris read through the proofs and could find nothing to crack the eggshell sensitivity of any of the actors. Until he came to the piece on Banquo.

‘Mr Bruce Barrabell, too long an absentee from the West End.’ He won’t relish that, thought Winty, and changed it to ‘…makes a welcome return to…’