Banquo of the final act

“What the hell is she wearing?” Paul thought to himself. For the past half hour, he had watched this woman only a few years older than him, walk barefoot up and down the stony beach. She wore a short sparkling dress along with a pair of matching high heeled shoes that dangled from her fingers by the straps.

“Bandit!” She shouted.

The outfit was not fit for this weather, being overcast and on the seashore. The wind threatened to knock her off balance and every step caused her to wince in pain. She stopped to wipe away some of the small stones stuck to the underside of her foot. She hadn’t noticed Paul, he was shielded from the wind watching her be blown this way and that. Sat in between a row of upturned fibreglass rowboats, that had simply been left to rot on the edge of this small beach. The same way he had.

His friends had all decided on a day out at the pier for chips, ice cream and arcade games. Something they had all thought was childish during high school, they now decided would be an ironic last hurrah before they all left for university. Most likely accompanied by a night of underage drinking. Paul wasn’t leaving for university; he wasn’t going anywhere. He especially was not going to listen to his friends talk about finally leaving their little coastal town whilst he was forced to stay.

“Bandit? Get over here you little shit!” The woman screamed, most of the volume being lost to the wind. Exasperated, she sat down on her backside letting out a small cry of pain before sobbing into her hands.

Bloody hell, am I like supposed to ask if she’s ok or something?

Paul couldn’t really deal with a distressed mental woman right now. All he had wanted to do was to brood alone, maybe scratch his name into one of the boats whilst his friends made some of their greatest memories. The woman looked up, as if he had been shouting his thoughts. Mascara streaked down her face, when she wiped it, her scarlet lipstick smudged covering her left cheek.

Hey! Hey you, boy!” She cried, waving her arms and struggling to her feet. Paul’s first thought was to take off running. She tiptoed toward him at a painful pace. As she got nearer Paul could see that despite the ruined makeup and the weird dress, she was very attractive.

Call me old Mr Chivalrous. He thought rolling his eyes.

“Have you seen a dog around here?” She asked him.

“No. Why are you dressed like that?” He replied.

She looked down at her costume, letting out a frustrated groan. Throwing her shoes against one of the rowboats she made to stomp off toward the promenade, before grimacing and treading lightly.

At the far end of the beach the pier’s heavily rusted legs looked as if they could collapse at any moment. Paul wished they would before he shook his head.

Why the hell do you think like that? It’s not their fault you didn’t apply.

He looked at his phone, no messages. They had agreed to meet at the pier for around 12:30pm. It was now 2, not one of them had even thought to message him.

That’s what you want, remember. You don’t want to hear any of their pitying suggestions about next year.

From the underside of the boat he was leaning against came a scratching sound. It was soft but to loud to be a scuttling crab. He jerked up and backed away as something inside tried to dig it’s way free. Paul readied his boot, waiting to stomp on it when he heard the thing make a small whine. Out poked the head of a beagle. When it looked up at Paul its eyes shone with excitement. Slipping back under the little dog began to dig until it was able to burrow out.

Paul scanned the promenade for the sparkly woman, but she was nowhere to be seen.

“Suppose you must be Bandit?” He said, “come here boy.”

Instead of walking to him the dog commando crawled. Paul thought his legs may be hurt, but then the Beagle looked around and sniffed the air. Deciding they were alone he bounded the rest of the way and jumped up, his little stubby legs barely reaching past Paul’s knee. Paul kneeled and stroked the excitable dog’s velvet ears, feeling for the name tag on his collar and realising he didn’t have one. Instead, there was a paper note wrapped tight and tied with string. Aiming the beagle’s licking mouth away from his face he carefully undone the knot and took the note. He spread it out against the side of the boat.

“You know you brought this on yourself. 10, 19, 86.”

Paul stared at the letter perplexed, the more he read it the less it made sense. The beagle howled stomping his front paws.

“Alright just let me think,” Paul told the dog. The strange threat couldn’t have been directed at him. Was the woman in the sparkling dress in some kind of trouble? She seemed distressed looking for the dog. Had he just stumbled on some bizarre blackmail scheme? Using an adorable beagle with floppy ears didn’t really scream of organised crime, maybe a prank? He was completely alone on the beach, nobody with a stupid broccoli haircut had shoved a camera in his face. The dog let out another yap that made him jump, almost tearing the letter. When Paul went to shoo him away, the dog bit the bottom of his jeans, jerking its head back.

“Ok I’m coming, Jesus. You should be called bastard instead.”

Bandit scampered a few metres down the beach before looking back at him. Paul walked on, holding the letter up. He thought the sun might reveal some invisible ink, but it was too cloudy. Bandit led him across the beach stopping every so often to give him a yap. After about the fifth time Paul decided he wasn’t going to let a beagle rush him, so he simply strolled along, hands in his pockets hoping he wasn’t being led near the pier.

But of course, he was. Where else would it be in this forgotten seagull shit town? It was either here or one of the dozen charity shops that did little more than pass around each other’s crap. Drawing closer his heart started to race, if his friends looked over the railings now, they would see him moping around behind a dog. They’d probably think he was even more of a loser.

Thankfully the dog led him underneath the pier. He and his friends used to stand under it to smoke and drink every Friday night. The cold was usually biting, and the steel beams offered no shelter, still he had made some fond memories here. The dog stopped next to a large metal box and sat down, tail wagging.

“This it?” Paul said.

Bandit didn’t take his eyes off the box. When Paul made no move toward it, he threw back his head and howled. The box was half sunk in the damp sand, walking around the other side Paul realised it was a safe. It looked vintage but well maintained, with a dial and brass handle on the door. Bandit barked at it.

I can’t open that thing. He thought to himself, it looked like something Bugs Bunny would put his ear up to and crack open in those old cartoons. He’d never actually seen one in real life. He took another look at the message, and it clicked. After the rather ominous warning came a series of numbers 10, 19, 86.

Maybe worth a try.

He shushed the yapping dog and brushed sand from the dial. First, he spun it left, then back right to 19 and left again to 86. The handle wouldn’t budge. Feeling his interest build he gave it another go. More than thirty attempts later the handle finally gave. Figuring out the safe was the best he felt in ages, he was so happy he didn’t think to open it. Turns out he didn’t need to.

The door swung open by itself, a white gloved hand burst out from behind it and grabbed hold of his shirt. Paul screamed, digging his boots into the wet sand, trying to push away. He wrenched his shirt loose of the fingers and backed off. Paul didn’t know what he expected to find in the safe, best-case scenario probably diamonds. In this case it was a man, crammed inside like a sardine, his neck bent at a severe angle. He had on a squashed top hat.

“Well, at least you’re not her.” The man in the safe said. Paul was struggling to catch his breath, his body didn’t seem to realise he was not in danger, and his heart thundered on.

“That’s it lad deep breaths, oh Bandit! Good boy.” The little Beagle wandered over and the man stretched out his free hand to give him a stroke.

“What…the… hell are you doing inside there?” Paul said after his heart finally returned to a regular rhythm.

“See lad it’s all a bit hush, hush. But by God if I can’t resist a captive audience. Well, I suppose in this case I’m the captive audience… Well, I say case, I of course mean safe.”

“Who are you!?” Paul shouted at him.

“Ah yes, I am known across space and time as Banquo of the final act. Although the Final act is hotly debated, could you help hasten my release?”

It was clear this guy was nuts, aside from his crushed top hat he also had on a purple sparkling waistcoat. But he seemed to Paul more like a posh eccentric rather than a serial killer.

“Fine, give me your hand.”

Banquo of the final act held out his hand. Paul grabbed it an gave it a yank.

“Aaaahhhh!” Banquo screamed “Stop!”

“Are you stuck in there?” Paul asked him.

“No, maybe. It’s my leg. Cramp, I think. Give me one moment. I’m going to try and slither out like an otter.”

With great effort Banquo tucked his hand behind him and produced a small spherical object wrapped in brown paper. He clutched it to his chest.

“What’s that?” Paul asked.

Banquo stared down at the object in his hand, an abashed look on his face.

“That is more trouble than it’s worth. Let me assure you.” He tried to conceal it but groaned in pain.

“There’s a woman looking for that dog, dressed in a sparkling costume.” Paul said.

Banquo’s face went as white as his gloves, he shuffled and squirmed making no headway in getting out of the tight space. Paul was confused, he thought this man may be a stage magician and the woman his assistant. Isn’t she the one supposed to release him?

“Is she dangerous?” Paul asked.

“What Clara? Ha! No need to worry about her just yet.” Banquo gave him a bright smile, but his small nervous eyes betrayed him. Paul began to panic; he had no idea what the hell he had stumbled on or how he would explain it.

“Should I call the fire department? Maybe they can get you out?”

“No! Erm no thanks young man, I’ll be able to get myself out just as soon as some feeling comes back to my legs. No need to call anyone.”

“Just what the hell are you doing in there?” Paul demanded. The strange man’s illusiveness made him anxious which turned to anger.

“You caught me between acts so to speak but…Get off Bandit!” As Banquo spoke Bandit stuck his head into the safe, clamping his mouth round the brown paper bag. Banquo tried to wrench it away from him, but his arm stuck out at an awkward angle making it painful. Bandit won the tugging contest.

“Young man get that back to me immediately!” Banquo’s demand sounded more like a desperate plea. Bandit dropped the bag at Pauls feet his tail wagging. Paul picked it up. The bag’s contents was not completely spherical like he had thought, it had a flat bottom and a dome shaped top.

“Please, young man!” Banquo insisted whilst Bandit howled. Paul ignored them both, deciding if the magician wasn’t going to tell him anything, he would have to find out himself. He unwrapped the bag and took out the item. It was a snow globe, relief washed over him. How much harm could a cheap Knick knack do to warrant hiding in a safe?

He stared at the ceramic figure inside; it was of the pier he was standing under. At first the design seemed simple, the pier itself surrounded by blue waves, as he looked closer more details began to emerge. The arcades lights blinked and flashed, the benches outside the chip shop were shielded with red and white umbrellas. The intricate detail was so absorbing, just when one was his childhood memories resurfaced another one joined it. It was as if he could even see the weather damage in the pier’s wooden planks and the discarded chips seagulls fought over. At the centre between the arcade and the bar five people stood in a semi-circle. The detail wasn’t necessary, Paul knew it was him and his friends, caught mid laughter. He gave the globe a shake, unlike the usual snowy effect the water rose up and engulfed them. He shook again harder. The waves rose, crashed against the inside, and fell. His friends remained.

The next thing he remembered was a noise coming from the side of him, he couldn’t believe it. He was watching the snow globe, and somebody was trying to distract him. Didn’t they realise how important this was? Then a horrible thought entered his mind. What if they were trying to take it away?

Paul snapped his head to the side. Banquo had his arm out, pleading. His cries seemed off in the distance and trying to understand the words just made him upset. He could feel tears pushing themselves out the corners of his eyes. He’s trying to take it he knew, take his friends away from him.

The slam of the safe’s door set the seagulls to flight, escaping from under the blackness of the old pier. Paul shook the globe once more. Bandit ceased his howling as Paul twisted the handle, never taking his eyes off the globe. It was after dark when he finally came out from under the pier, his clothes were caked in wet sand, making the journey back all the harder. He wasn’t simply tired, he was drained, as if a hundred leeches had all latched themselves onto him, sapping his energy with every step. Not his joy though. That he clutched to his chest as he made his way back to the promenade.

From the window of the bar the young woman with the streaked makeup watched a boy trudge up the beach with a little dog at his heel. She drained the last of her drink, toasting the pair with her empty glass, laughing. When she had had entered in her soaked sparking dress hours ago the barman had assumed she had been in a fight. However, she seemed delighted, giddy even, chucking her high heels under a table and downing more than a few red wine and cokes. He had asked her three times if that’s really what she had wanted to drink and had visibly cringed when pouring it.

She leaned back, caught his eye and gave her glass a shake. Anyone else, he would’ve ignored but under the mascara and wine-stained lips, she was clearly a beauty. He mixed the drink, setting the glass down in front of her.

“Much obliged. Tell me–when’s the tide due?” She asked.

He had to think for a moment, despite his years working on the pier he had never paid the ebb and flow of the sea much attention.

“Err not till tomorrow I think.”

The woman giggled; he had no idea why but gave her a smile anyway.

“Perfect.” She said.