Omega

Only Owain showed any stirrings of dissent. He had cast his mind far beyond the confines of the room, to distant places beyond the frontiers where others were worshipping: Confucians and Shintoists in far-eastern temples; the Orthodox congregations of the old Soviet sates and dissenting émigré Greeks; Jews in their Diaspora; Pagans and Animists in the nether regions of the world; Evangelicals, Mormons and the Christian fundamentalists of the American Bible Belt—all consumed with their own particular brand of righteousness, all possessed of their own spiritual certainties and the shining moral imperatives that flowed from them. Antagonistic to those who did not share their beliefs.

Owain knew that such thoughts were vaguely seditious—but only if he ever expressed them. Which he had no intention of doing. As the service ended he sprang up and opened the door, almost standing to attention as his uncle came out first, Giselle following.

“Don’t forget to collect the hymn books,” the field marshal said to him with a gruff laugh as he shuffled off down the corridor, tapping his stick almost jauntily as he went.

“He’s not going to need you this morning,” Giselle told him. “Probably not for the rest of the day.” She handed him a two-way radio. “I’ll contact you if you’re wanted.”

They were in a secluded mansion near Catterick with protected short-range communications. His uncle had a series of meetings with strategic planning groups, who had various war-game scenarios to present to him. They had flown in by Shrike early that morning from London.

Owain checked his watch. It was not yet eight o’clock.

“Anything you’d like me to do?” he asked.

Giselle shook her head. “Relax. Go and get some breakfast. There’s quite a good menu—by English standards.”

I tried to make him say something, but he was perfectly controlled, letting nothing untoward out. It was as if he rationalised my presence merely as an occasional tendency towards careless thoughts and actions, a slightly wayward aspect of his personality which he was determined to resist.

He followed the signs downstairs to the canteen. The smell of bacon greeted him, drenching his mouth. The chalked menu was also advertising fresh farm eggs, greenhouse tomatoes and Assam tea. I sensed him still holding himself under strict control; I could observe but not participate in any way.

He ordered a full English breakfast. The place was already crowded, mostly with naval staff. At a table in one corner sat a small group of raddled young women, migrants by the look of them, tarted up in fake leather, clinging skirts and dark stockings. Sipping drinks and smoking cigarettes, they jabbered at one another in heavily accented English. The youngest looked barely pubescent.

Owain carried his tray to the opposite side of the room, occupying a stool at a ledge near the serving counter. It faced a mirror, which began to ripple like water. He focused on his food: bacon, eggs and tomato with a thick triangle of fried bread. Three spoonfuls of sugar in his tea.

It was hot in the canteen, and the drone of conversation from the other tales was like a murmuring in his head. His stomach felt both hollow and bloated. He kept eating, forcing the food into his mouth, washing it down with the tea. There were other servicemen he’d recognised when he’d entered but he couldn’t contemplate the idea of small talk and brittle bonhomie.

His head was throbbing. He looked up, and I saw myself, my tongue poking out.

I squeezed my eyes shut, opened them again. My tongue was a healthy pink at its edges but yellowish-grey at its centre. A pale sea-blue room surrounded me. It stayed.

There was a toothbrush in my hand. I used it to scrub my tongue until I gagged.

A few deep breaths. Still here. I looked down at the blister pack of tablets on the window ledge above the sink. Small red ones, anticonvulsives, anti-psychotics, antidepressants—I couldn’t remember which. To be taken after meals, with water or a hot drink.

I pressed out two but dropped them down the toilet. There was a bottle containing white tablets. Again I removed a pair and consigned them to the same place. And flushed, watching the water swirl and foam with pine-scented cleanser, before putting the pack and bottle back in the overhead cupboard.

I’d been doing this for days, I remembered: morning and night.

Tanya’s bathroom, a bright clean space of gleaming chrome, white porcelain, aquamarine tiles. I was standing naked, just out of the shower, a navy towel at my feet. There was a disposable razor on the washbasin—one of Tanya’s. I’d been about to use it, despite the fact that my own electric razor sat in full view on the window sill. It was years since I’d last wet-shaved.