DUNCAN
Duncan slumps in his chair. ‘Stop acting like Lady Macbeth,’ he says. ‘And pass me a Scotch. And anyway I think this is a damned nice spot whatever you might think.’
‘It’s all a bloody tragedy,’ she whispers.
Then she wrings her hands together tight into each other and twists at her wedding ring. Her eczema worsens with all the stress and she scratches so hard that her fingers are drowning in blood. Duncan is irritated as he leans forward with heavy foetid breath, scarcely audible.
‘I have a plan,’ he says. ‘But you won’t like it.’