Omega

I looked in the mirror. Owain was gazing over the shoulder of his own reflection. One of the young women was close by. Eighteen or nineteen, with peroxide hair, dark eye make-up, lipstick like a silvery bruise. She was clad in a tight black skirt and a khaki combat jacket. Slavic, by the look of her, probably with a limited grasp of English, a stock vocabulary of come-hither phrases.

Owain looked past her to the others at the table. They were laughing, appeared to be enjoying one another’s company. The Soft Division, soldiers called them; the Pink Brigades. They could absorb any thrust, frontal assaults or rearguard actions. They were experts at close-quarter engagements.

The blonde woman’s face was ash-pale with lack of sleep. Doubtless she had a quota to fulfil. There would be rooms set aside for them, perhaps even an anonymous customer log. Payment according to results.

Owain stumbled off his stool and went in search of the nearest men’s room. They unnerved him, these whores, even though he knew they were powerless. He’d served with men on the front who’d ruined such creatures in a single brutal encounter; men who would only take women in the teeth of their opposition; men who liked an audience, who preferred minors or mutilation. Under circumstances where there was no prospect of sanction, any appetite could be satisfied.

He’d had his own opportunities, of course. Once, while doing a routine sweep of houses in a Polish village near the NGZ, he and his men had come upon a young woman who’d tried to attack them with a knife. A real vixen whom he’d only managed to subdue by pinning her down on a bed. When he looked around his men were withdrawing, laughing, saying that they’d give him ten minutes.

The woman lay beneath him, her handsome face still full of a defiance that suggested she was determined to survive anything he could do to her. This aroused him, as did her continued angry silence as he tore open her clothes. She would submit to him, her expression said, but he would never conquer her. Terms that he considered more than acceptable.

But when it came to it, he couldn’t perform. It wasn’t long after Caroline had left, and something had shut down. Physically nothing would stir, despite his ardour, despite all his frantic strivings. Eventually she began to laugh at him—a scornful, heartless laugh, devoid of redemption for either of them. He put his pistol to the side of her head, his other hand around her throat. Almost fired. But she’d gone silent and was looking at him with terrified eyes. Eventually she started to make gagging noises. He tore his hand away, fired a single shot into the wall just above her head and stormed out, flooded with rage and shame.

Ever since he’d avoided the danger, embracing chastity as a form of purification. He had even, despite all his usual instincts, confessed to Marisa soon after they met that he was incapable of physical arousal. The admission was a form of intimacy that liberated both of them not so much from temptation itself as from its necessary consequences. He was free to enjoy her company without the risk of compromising himself.

I could sense Owain writhing at these thoughts, wanting to banish them to the deepest recesses of his mind. They were a fact of his life that he preferred to remain implicit and guarded from the attentions of others. It was another reason why he was drawn to Marisa: she had accepted his condition from the outset, seeing it as noble. But he was also shamed and angered by it.

In the men’s room an NCO in shirtsleeves was washing his hands at the sink. He looked vaguely familiar, greeted Owain cheerfully. Owain fled into one of the cubicles, locking the door behind him.

His nausea had subsided and yet he still felt sick. He closed his eyes, willing himself to be calm.

For a while there was only the sound of his breathing. I became aware of a knocking, a steady tapping on the door.

“Are you all right in there?”

More knocking. I unlocked the door and opened it.

“Aren’t you ready yet?” Tanya said in a tone of faint exasperation.

I was still naked, the towel clutched at my midriff.

“Ready for what?”

“We’re going out. Did you forget?”

Completely, though I wasn’t about to admit it. “I was thinking about trying a wet shave.”

The white plastic razor was in my hand.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” she said, gently lifting it from my fingers. “I use it for my legs. And my bikini line.”

TWENTY-SIX

We ascended from the shooting gallery, Owain flexing his fingers to restore circulation. He’d spent most of the morning inside its subterranean halls, with their ersatz landscapes and every kind of weapon from the latest pistols to hand-held rocket launchers. He’d flamed tanks, brought down helicopters, planted a missile straight through the slit eye of an enemy bunker and watched it erupt in freeze-motion like an unfurling blossom. Hidden from the light, the artifice of the machines worked perfectly. The surrogate action had done much to restore his spirits.