Omega

The place was bitterly cold, the air stale; it hadn’t been occupied since Owain’s departure for Rio a month before. The lounge was sparsely furnished with an armchair, a sofa and a television that sat on an old-fashioned sideboard. Owain promptly pulled down the blackout blind over the frost-glazed window.

Again I tried to liberate myself by mentally swooning, hoping that I would literally pass out of his consciousness. It didn’t work. The only noticeable effect was that Owain gave the mildest of shudders and turned around to confirm that no one had crept behind him.

Did he sense me at last? No, there was nothing in his mind to suggest this. I had the impression that he was always to a degree on mental guard, ready to anticipate the unexpected. He’d been trained that way.

But though powerless, I was not entirely passive. I shared his sensory experiences and could access associated memories. Perhaps my urge to orientate myself and make sense of my situation meant that I was actively stimulating them.

Owain entered the kitchen and flicked a switch on the wall. After a moment I heard the laboured thrumming of the heating system. From a cupboard he produced a medicine box, extracting a bottle of surgical spirit and a wad of cotton wool. He swabbed his grazed knuckles, relishing the stinging as though only pain could take him beyond himself. Again I tried to black him out. He steadied himself, clenching his fists, digging his fingernails into his palms. His heart vaulted in his chest as the doorbell buzzed.

He moved cautiously up the corridor and peered through the spy hole. A young dark haired woman was standing there, her head poking out of the upturned collar of a voluminous black fur coat.

I recognised her immediately: she was the other woman from my dreams, the urchin beauty who had been standing by the wrought-iron bed. Owain swiftly opened the door.

She grinned at him. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold.

“Marisa,” he said, smiling.

Somewhat to his surprise, she flung her arms around him, pressing her cheek against his. She was of medium height and slimly built, the ridge of her shoulder blades prominent under his tentative fingertips. The familiar citrus-musk scent of Apropos filled his nostrils: he remembered the name because she had told him it was a Chanel perfume that had long ceased to be publicly available.

He pulled back. “Were you waiting for me?”

She nodded.

“How long?”

“One hour, maybe two. I sat in the car.”

“Alone?”

“Of course. Did you think I would ask Carl to drive me?”

Her husband, Carl Legister.

“That’s dangerous, Marisa. Especially after dark. Anyone could have come along.”

“I kept a pistol warm in the glove compartment.”

Was she teasing him? Her accented English always made it hard to judge.

He ushered her inside, locking the door behind them.

“I can only stay one hour,” she announced. “Two at most. I wanted to see how you were.”

“You came to my bedside.”

“In the middle of the night like a thief,” she said gleefully. “No one else saw me.” She made a funny face. “There was a fat woman fast asleep on a chair. Her mouth was open and she was snooring.”

“Snoring,” he corrected gently.

She was of exotic Austrian and Anglo-Lebanese ancestry, and had lived most of her life overseas, her father having been a much-travelled Alliance diplomat. Owain had met her at a reception six months before and the two of them, both feeling isolated among the throng of notables, had struck up a rapport that had grown more thrilling with each subsequent clandestine meeting.

“It was risky,” he remarked. “How on earth did you get in there?”

A conspiratorial grin. “Giselle.”

“You told her you wanted to see me?”

“I told her we were good friends. She understood and arranged everything so I could come at night when no one important wasaround. It was all very confidential.”

He wondered how anonymous such a visit could have been; but nothing could be done about it now.

“I missed you,” she said with emphasis, “and when I heard you had nearly been killed of course I had to see for myself.” She grinned again. “You looked very peaceful and handsome when you were asleep. Like Prince Charming.”

The flattery pleased him, though he didn’t show it. She had always been free in expressing her feelings.

“How did you find out?” he asked.

“I heard Carl speaking to your uncle on the telephone.”