AS HABS CLIMBED the stairs to the cockloft, the crowd had begun to slow-handclap and shout abuse. Habs pushed open the doors and elbowed his way through. Shouts of protest were silenced as they saw their Romeo return.
‘He’s back! Here he is! Bravo!’
Backstage, his reappearance triggered a convulsion of relief, then, when his fellow players saw the blood, cries of alarm. Habs ignored them all; he knew he didn’t have long. He caught sight of King Dick approaching, Tommy jumping to his feet and then Joe running; he ignored them, too. Pushing past Sam and the pastor, he walked straight out into the middle of the stage.
The crowd applauded wildly, many assuming the blood was part of the show. Romeo had returned from exile – why wouldn’t he have been fighting? Captain Shortland and Elizabeth Shortland clapped, too, then Elizabeth, leaning forward, stopped abruptly.
She could see something was different. Something was wrong.
The entire cast had gathered in the wings, Joe frantically calling him back in, his voice lost among the crowd’s noise.
Habs began his speech but, instead of beginning where he should, he skipped two whole scenes. His mind was clear. In fact, he realized with grim certainty, it had never been clearer.
‘Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.’
He was supposed to be talking to Juliet.
Joe walked out on stage, visibly uncertain as to what to do next. The crowd began to sense that all was not well.
‘Ain’t Juliet asleep?’
Joe made a tentative step towards Habs, his horrified face trying to comprehend the mess Habs was in. ‘What happened?’ he mouthed, even now unwilling to interrupt Romeo’s big speech. He edged closer, and Habs grabbed his hand, pulling him to his side. Shoulder to shoulder, Joe smelled blood and sweat, but the true horror was the sulphur. When you have fired cannon, you never forget the assault it makes on your senses. And there was no doubt that Habs smelled of burnt gunpowder. Joe looked again at his jacket and shirt and choked. He had missed it at first, distracted by the blood, but now he saw it clearly – Habs’s shirt and jacket were burnt, the black-and-brown discharge spread across his stomach.
‘I will stay with thee, and never from this palace of dim night depart again.’
Habs could see Joe piecing everything together and squeezed his hand. He knew he had just a few seconds left. The pain in his shoulder was gone. His head was clear. He saw everyone with stunning clarity. He reached for the bottle in his pocket.
‘Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and lips! O you, the doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss, a dateless bargain to engrossing death.’
Habs took the strychnine in one hand and Joe in the other. Face to face now, Habs could see Joe’s pale blue eyes illuminated with fear. He kissed him. He pressed his lips against Joe’s and held him fast. The roaring he heard could have been his shell-shocked ears, the outraged audience, or a force nine out of Nantucket. He didn’t care. This was their kiss, the one they should have tried in Act One, and if it was to be his last, he wanted it to count. If it was the end of the play, then so be it.
Joe pulled away. Breathless, stunned, afraid. Now Habs heard the crowd. The howls of outrage crashed on to the stage like a tidal wave. Fists were shaking, bottles thrown. Captain Shortland was on his feet. Behind him, Lieutenant Aveline had drawn a pistol. Even Dr Magrath was pushing his way to the stage, red-faced and shouting.
But Habs was unstoppable. Romeo had four final lines and a drink to wash them down. He uncorked the bottle, his eyes swimming with tears.
‘A dateless bargain to engrossing death!’ Habs’s voice was losing strength.
‘Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide!’
Magrath, clearly distraught, was shouting at the King but his words were lost in the noise. Somewhere, a bell started ringing.
‘Thou desperate pilot …’ Habs was faltering.
Magrath was pointing now, stabbing his arm at Habs and shouting one word over and over. Now Joe had seen him and he leaned to catch it. From the whirlpool of slurred profanity and outrage, he finally caught it.
Poison. The word was ‘poison’. And he wasn’t pointing at Habs, he was pointing at the bottle he held. The bell kept ringing.
Habs held the bottle high, his arm shaking, his grip uncertain. ‘Here’s to my love!’ he cried, and tipped the clear liquid into his mouth.