Omega

The observation tower was tall enough so that he could see over the tops of buildings out to the west until the winter haze blurred everything. The gentle curve of Regent Street was visible, while in front of it was nothing but a flat barren expanse of snow-dusted ground.

There was no activity in the area as far as could be seen—no earth-movers or busy teams of men, no mounds of churned earth and mangled metal. Everything had been cleared, levelled. As if nothing had ever gone on there.

But he could see dark smears marking the roads in the vicinity: evidence of recent muddy traffic, the trucks and lorries that had carted everything away. What did it mean? He had no answer yet at the same time felt that he should know. Or that someone who did should tell him.

The scene lunged at him as if on fast-forward, and recoiled. A surge of dark nausea overtook him.

I held him fast, letting the gut-wrenching sensation pass, willing him not to fall. It was similar to what he had experienced on his mission in the east, a sense that the world itself had buckled momentarily like a punctured bladder.

For an instant I was back in hospital, staring at a gardening programme, sipping tepid milky tea.

“Sir? Is everything all right?”

Owain’s hands were trembling. The expected view was restored. He held the binoculars out to the corporal.

He began descending as quickly as he had climbed. Halfway down he almost lost a foothold but managed to cling on. Again I had to brace him. His heart was racing in his chest. He breathed steadily until all his panic had subsided, until he had convinced himself that he had exerienced nothing more than a particularly violent spasm of vertigo.

The sound of another hymn was carrying from the cathedral: “Nearer My God to Thee”.

Giselle Vigoroux was standing beside his uncle’s Daimler, her overcoat collar turned up. She gave him a curious smile and said, “Taking the air, major?”

Owain managed a nod, continuing to walk towards the cathedral steps. “Needed to stretch my legs.”

She didn’t say anything in reply, though he wondered what she was thinking. Nothing had been said about his late delivery of the Land Rover or the dent in its side following his flight from the bombsite; to the contrary, the vehicle had been assigned to him for his personal use. Nor had anyone raised any fuss about his unannounced decision to resume the occupancy of his apartment. Perhaps they were simply giving him a little leeway, keeping the pressure off. Technically he was still convalescing, so that would make sense. But he needed to be more careful and considered in his actions. He didn’t want to be thought of as a security risk.

He slipped back inside the cathedral. The memorial service was reaching its climax, piped organ music swelling stridently. The coffins draped in Union and Alliance flags were slowly rising on an automated dais. Forty-two gold stars made up the circle on the Alliance flag, each one representing a recognised constituent state within its borders at the height of its dominion. The number hadn’t changed throughout Owain’s lifetime, despite the fact that at least a dozen of the countries had either ceased to exist or now lay beyond its territorial control.

The transition from the outside chill to the crowded heat of the cathedral interior disorientated him. He was still wearing his jacket and sweat was springing out all over him. The hymn had transmogrified into some sort of Hallelujah chorus with an angelic counterpoint. Everyone was rapt and respectful—everyone except Owain, who felt himself drowning in its otherworldly crescendo.

SIXTEEN

There was a movement at the foot of the bed. I saw the silhouette of a hunched figure in the half-light.

A shuffle around the room, picking up my chart, inspecting the Get Well cards on the bedside table, slurping water from my plastic tumbler.

Brighter light flooded the room as the door was opened. The ginger-haired ward sister.

“How did you get in here?” she demanded to know.

The figure straightened, his features now clear.

“He’s sleeping.”

“How did you get in here?”

Silence. Finally: “I’m his brother.”

She stood half in and half out of the room, holding the door open.

“It’s late. You can’t just walk in here.”

“I came to see how he was.”

A glance in my direction. “At eleven-thirty in the night?”

“Is it?”

“Visiting hours are over.”

“One of the nurses said it was all right.”

“Did she indeed?”

“It was a he.”

A brief silence. “I’m afraid you shouldn’t be here.”

“I wasn’t going to wake him.”

“Better let him sleep, in that case. You can always come again another time.”

“Come again?” Rees echoed in a hard-of-hearing cartoon voice.

He looked his usual dishevelled self, hair tousled, a grubby windcheater hanging from his slouched shoulders.

“What did you say your name was?” the sister asked carefully.

“Rank Hovis McDougall,” Rees replied and gave a broken laugh.

This was an old joke he’d derived from the initials of his full name—Rees Hywel Meredith.