Omega

Geoff mustered a smile of his own, though it wasn’t particularly convincing.

“I’m finding it hard to retain anything,” I said, giving him what he wanted. “Though I know you’ve just been for a pee.”

He looked at me carefully, trying to figure out whether I was still joking or not. Very straightforward, Geoff: no side to the man whatsoever. I’d always imagined it would be a disadvantage in his profession, but evidently not. Unless he was a Supreme Master of subterfuge.

“Believe me,” I insisted, “it’s a major achievement.”

Slow, repeated nods, his gaze on me all the while, inviting some further comment. I started thinking about Owain and the sudden rage that had enveloped him over the helmet. He’d seen it as a form of sacrilege, a filthy grasping civilian in unlawful possession of precious military equipment. But there was even more to it than this.

“Any difficulties sleeping?” Geoff prompted.

I made a noise like a laugh. “Staying awake’s the big problem.”

“But no headaches?”

“Not as such.”

He waited. I felt obliged to give him more.

“Just a vague buzzing sometimes. Especially when people are talking to me. It gs into a kind of auditory blur. I lose track.”

He didn’t pick up on this. “Any giddiness or nausea?”

“No. Nothing like that.” Which wasn’t totally true. “I just don’t feel with it.”

This was putting it mildly, but I certainly had no intention of telling him about where I really went when I wasn’t “with it”. He’d have me pegged as psychotic or brain-damaged in no time at all. Which I supposed was a distinct possibility. Except that it didn’t feel like that. It didn’t feel like that at all. It felt real.

“Well,” Geoff said again, “there was no indication of any organic damage. But, as you know, Tanya feels you’re still not quite yourself.”

I didn’t know, but it was scarcely surprising.

“We could send you back for more tests. Just to be sure there’s nothing we’ve missed.”

“Ah.” I wasn’t keen. “You think the old neural spark plugs may be misfiring.”

His laugh was far too hearty. “I don’t think it’s very likely. My own suspicion is that you’re still in the recuperative phase. But sometimes there can be hidden trauma.”

Of course there was trauma, I thought. Aside from my lurches into Owain’s existence I still didn’t know where my family was, or why they’d left. I had a sudden image of a terraced Victorian house with a burgundy door and a white-painted wooden fence. I knew at once it was where Lyneth and I had lived. A compact two-bedroom place with a long narrow garden, the girls in bunk beds in the rear bedroom. Down the hill from Blackheath not far from Lewisham station. I’d put up a pair of swings at the bottom of the garden one summer. We’d been trying to decide whether to have a loft conversion or simply move out. Lyneth favoured going back to Wales, whereas I was keen to stay in London because my career was flourishing. But we hadn’t fallen out over that.

Somewhere in the house another door opened and I heard a burst of music—a swirling, soulful tune, with a lyric like a holiday commercial.

Geoff was waiting for me to say something. He gave every appearance of being relaxed and patient, but he’d crossed his legs and was wiggling his right foot.

Good old Geoff: never a brusque word to say to anyone. His three years in California had left no mark on him: he was still the perfect English gentleman.

He was talking to me again, but I let the words roll past.

By the time he and Tanya had returned to London they were already a couple. I knew this from the postcards Tanya sent every few months—pictures of quirky Americana following visits to Las Vegas, Yosemite, Beverl Hills, Salt Lake City. They always carried brief messages detailing humorous incidents but few personal details.

As promised, the postcards always came in brown envelopes, my name and address written in anonymous neat capitals. My father diligently observed my instructions to keep them safe until I visited rather than post them on to me in Brockley, where Lyneth and I had bought a flat. She was doing teacher training while I had been taken on by a small independent production company that made educational videos for schools and colleges—twenty-five-minute pieces on British history and the geography of the islands. I began as a researcher but soon progressed to organising location shoots, staging re-enactments, writing scripts and doing voice-overs.

I’d imagined that Lyneth wouldn’t thrive in London, but she met another woman from south Wales at the local library who ran coffee mornings and a nursery group. Lyneth swiftly became involved, being especially invaluable for babysitting duties since she was the only one of the group with no children of her own.

This was a looming issue, along with familial pressure to get married. Our sex life was regular enough if unspectacular. For two years we jollied along amicably, though occasionally I’d find myself looking at her and wondering what she saw in me, and what I was doing with her.