Omega

“I’m fine,” Owain assured him. “A little weak at the knees, that’s all.”

“That’s only to be expected. You don’t look too bad for a mongrel.”

The usual actionate tease about his mother, who had been English. He had only the fondest memories of her, but had been devoted to his father, who’d died in Palestine when Owain was sixteen. Not that he’d seen much of him during those years: his father had served overseas even before he was born and was rarely home on leave. Owain and his brother had been raised on his uncle’s estates in mid-Wales, learning Welsh during the vogue for encouraging regional cultural identity. They had even de-anglicised their names. It proved just a fad, but the language was useful for conducting private conversations since few other people spoke it.

“I’d like to return to my duties as soon as possible,” he announced.

The field marshal looked stern. “I’m sure you would.”

“Sir, I’m fine.”

“Of course you are. But you’re going to wait until the plasters come off.”

Owain didn’t demur; he felt weaker than he had actually admitted.

“Well, my boy,” Sir Gruffydd said, rising, “can’t sit here chatting all day. You know the drill.”

“I appreciate you coming, sir.”

His uncle squeezed his shoulder affectionately. “You’ve had another narrow escape, Owain. Third time might not be so lucky. Go easy on yourself. That’s an order!”

FOUR

A muddled memory of my own life:

I was sitting in a small viewing theatre, watching a preview of the first episode of Battlegrounds. We’d made eight programmes in all, the aim being to recreate the soldiers’ experience of the major land campaigns in Europe and North Africa. For over a year I’d travelled widely, ranging from Norway to Normandy, Libya to Latvia and beyond. The split screen showed me in a T-shirt and jeans, walking a tranquil stretch of desert, backdropped by a computer simulation of German infantry men in a sandy dug-out, under bombardment from the barrage that had opened the final battle of El Alamein.

Lyneth and both the girls were with me. Sara sat cross-legged, watching with wide-eyed seriousness her father up there on the screen. It was the first time any of them had seen the programmes, and I remember feeling peevish towards Lyneth, who spent the entire hour with Bethany huddled on her lap while she flipped through picture books to keep her occupied. Ever the practical one, she’d even brought a small pencil torch for the purpose. I had hoped that at last she would show some interest in my work and acknowledge my achievements. This was, after all, my finest hour. But she kept her head down as she read the books to Bethany in a secretive whisper.

The faint glow of the torch highlighted her flawless complexion and the intense concentration she was putting into the task. She didn’t look up once to sh my small moment of glory. I felt a surge of irritation and affection in equal measure. I wanted to snatch the book from her hands and demand she pay me some attention. I wanted to turn the lights on so that everyone else could see what an excellent mother she was.

The dream was vivid, even though it was the merest snapshot, a true reflection of my ambivalent feelings. But a malignant fantasy intruded and my father was sitting there, the serious professional historian who was gazing at the screen with open contempt.

I surfaced in the wrought iron bed. Back in the body of my other self, Major Owain Maredudd, he of the ravaged face and guarded thoughts. He had lurched upright as though rising from a nightmare.

His body was filmed with sweat, the sheets tacky against him. A pale wintry light seeped through the open curtains. The room was filled with the emphatic ticking of a carriage clock. It had been placed on the dresser and showed two-fifteen.

Owain went into the bathroom. He took another cold shower, which again I endured with far less fortitude than he. After vigorously rubbing himself dry, he began to dress.

I tried to will myself back to my own world. This time I couldn’t sense the undercurrents of his thoughts and memories. He’d shut down, as though in reaction to whatever dream had disturbed him, and was narrowly focused on the here-and-now. I felt mentally press-ganged, hemmed in. But I couldn’t escape.

He stood before the mirror, buttoning his tunic to the neck, checking that he looked presentable. His eyes were shadowed and he hadn’t fully recovered his strength; but I could feel his determination to leave the room. He picked up a leather wallet and flipped it open, staring at his ID card as if he needed to verify his own existence.

He tucked the wallet away and retrieved his belt from the bedpost. It held a canvas-holstered hand pistol which he did not remove, though I gleaned that it was a 9mm Walther APS with a twenty-round magazine, standard Alliance Army issue.