Omega

It was always a surprise to hear his name. I had never called him anything but “Father”, the very word often capitalised in my head. Alwyn—an Anglo-Saxon name, he liked to point out—was reserved for my father’s contemporaries, a form of familiarity I could never countenance. To hear Tanya saying it now was a measure of her autonomy. She must have met him before, though I couldn’t think when.

“How old are they now? Shouldn’t they be at school?”

My eyes filled up and I couldn’t speak. I hadn’t told him that Lyneth and the girls had gone to Australia. Even if Rees had mentioned it earlier, he was unlikely to have retained it. Blissful ignorance. There was something to be said for it on occasions.

“Is it Christmas?” he said abruptly. ÜIt looks cold out there.”

“It’s been and gone,” I told him.

“I could do with some new socks. Thermals. And a decent pair of slippers. Can’t ever get my feet warm here. Where’s Mrs Bayliss?”

“You’re not in Oxford, dad.”

He puzzled at this, squinting around him suspiciously. The room was mostly empty, a squat woman in a housecoat dozing in one corner, the television showing an afternoon soap to another woman who sat so still and upright it was as if the glow from the screen had turned her to stone. A male nurse sat in one corner, texting on his mobile.

“Who did you say you were again?” my father asked.

I wasn’t convinced that these little seesaws of memory were the real thing as opposed to a deliberately alienating device, designed to keep me at bay and retain a semblance of control. There were times when I’d catch a look in his eyes like that of a cornered animal, conscious of his plight, both fearful and angry at his dependency. He’d never really needed anyone until now,

“So how are the children?” he said to Tanya.

“They’re fine,” she told him. “They send their love.”

Did he know? Was he being deliberately cruel? I wanted to shake him, to tell him to stop. To hug him until I squeezed the madness out.

“We thought we’d take you out for a walk,” Tanya said.

He looked insulted at the notion. “Can’t go walking in slippers.”

“We’ll take your chair,” I said.

“What about an overcoat?”

“It’s in your room, dad.”

He squinted out the window as though inspecting the weather. The sun had come out, oblique shadows lying stark across the lawns and flowerbeds.

“Dr Pearce said you could do with the fresh air,” I remarked.

My father glared at me. “Who the devil’s he when he’s at home?”

FORTY-THREE

The cabin door was unlocked, and Sir Gruffydd and Giselle came in.

They took seats opposite, the field marshal asking Owain if he was comfortable. His uncle was carrying his walking stick. He was also in fulservice dress, even down to his red-banded hat.

“Can’t stay long,” he informed Owain, “but I thought I’d better come and fill you in. I take it you know why we’re here?”

What was he supposed to say to this? He had been told nothing. “Are the Americans going to attack?”

Sir Gruffydd gave an affirmative grunt. “We’re anticipating a strike on our command centres using DPMs.”

Deep Penetration Munitions. The field marshal squinted quizzically at him. Owain nodded to signal he understood.

“With the reduction of AEGIS and our remote-sensing systems we’re not in a position to have adequate warning of an attack. Just one of those little darlings could make a hole big enough to drop Wembley Stadium into.”

With a perverse distraction, Owain tried to remember when he had last watched a football match. Games were now played between May and September, when the pitches were fit. Competition for places was fierce since it meant extended leave-of-absence from military duties. Crowds were bigger than ever.

“So you’re taking evasive action,” he said.

His uncle opened his mouth and closed it again. He looked restless, eager to be getting on.

“Show him the task force,” he said to Giselle.

She pointed a control panel at the screen. Face like a sphinx.

The picture quality was grainy, but the skies were a little lighter than those outside the aircraft. Ships were ploughing through a swelling sea: cruisers, destroyers and the unmistakable outline of a big aircraft carrier.

The picture kept shifting, giving different perspectives, including one from altitude that gave a suggestion of their numbers—scores of them. The footage was being relayed from drones, he guessed, some flying low over the ocean, others higher up. Helicopters and interceptors from the carrier were buzzing them—veteran Arapahos and F-7 Firestorms, by the look of them, firing off Cloudburst missiles and dandelion puffs of chaff to incapacitate those they could. A mini aerial battle with no human casualties, conveyed without sound so that it had the air of a simulation. Like the Alliance, the Americans had been forced to restore to active service craft that were not dependent on sophisticated satellite navigation and computer control. But the fleet looked formidable.