Omega

I retreated as far as I could into the shadows, still wondering where Tanya was. There were few women in the place, but plenty of leather jackets, short haircuts and thick-soled boots. The two publicity girls who were serving at the bar stood out. Both were blonde, like perfect examples of young Aryan womanhood. Both thoroughly enjoying the attentions of those they were serving.

“So there you are,” said a voice. “I thought you’d gone AWOL.”

Adrian. He looked a little drunk.

“I’m in hiding,” I said. “Watching the detectives.”

“They’re so cute,” he countered. “Especially that pair.”

Inevitably he was indicating the two publicity girls.

“Not much competition,” I said. “How’s Rachel?”

“Sorry we ever started, if you want my opinion.”

“On the baby?”

“On everything. I couldn’t persuade her to come.”

“I’m not surprised. Hot and smoky.”

He wasn’t really listening, was peering through the crowd, looking for someone.

“Have you seen the book?” he asked.

“I’ve seen the poster.”

“I’s tat. Honestly, Owen. Like someone’s ransacked a private collection of photographs and stuck some text around them. I bet it’ll sell like hot cakes.”

It was Adrian’s theory that the renewed interest in the second world war arose from the collapse of ideologies in the modern world, the absence of the very polarities so manifest during Hitler’s time—left against right, democracy against totalitarianism, a clear sense that evil regimes had to be destroyed. I doubted it was that simple, given the fascination with some of the least savoury aspects of the war. There was something more ceremonial and expressive of darker yearnings about it.

Weariness was descending on me. How much had I drunk? I couldn’t remember. I wasn’t even sure exactly when I had re-emerged from my counterpart’s world; while the transitions to it were often abrupt, the return to my real life was sometimes more disjointed, a spluttering into full consciousness. Owain’s situation was becoming more intriguing, harder to resist. This time I hadn’t even tried to break free. Had his uncle been poisoned? Had Blaskowitz been murdered? What would Owain have made of this gathering of celebrants to a war that in his own world had never ended?

Adrian was now talking to a dark-haired woman who I knew was an editor from a publishing house; she also looked as if she was seeking sanctuary. I slunk away again, trying to remember how long I’d been here, how much longer I would need to stay.

A little cluster of people was standing around a man who was presumably the author. He wore jeans and a sports jacket, looked like an academic. I didn’t know him. Among the group was a silver-haired man who was possibly the only person in the room to have actually been alive when the war was taking place. What did this signify? Everything, or nothing at all?

“Gordon Bennett,” said an exasperated voice.

It was Tanya, emerging out of the morass.

“I’m not sure I’m cut out for this,” she said to me. “There’s this chap who wants to take me home and show me his collection of insignia.”

“You should be so lucky. Do you want to leave?”

She nodded eagerly, swallowing the last of her orange juice. “You need to say any goodbyes?”

Adrian was in huddled conversation with the editor. For Rachel’s sake, I hoped that they were discussing work rather than pleasure.

“Nope,” I said. “Swift tactical withdrawal.”

PART THREE LOOPING THE LOOP

TWENTY-SEVEN

An antique dresser stood underneath the window in the narrow room. The blackout blind was kept permanently pulled down so that no one could look in. Owain didn’t switch on the light but left the door open to the dusky illumination from the hallway.

The room was decorated in faded pink with a bells-and-ribbons motif under the picture rail. A young girl’s bedroom that he’d had neither the time nor inclination to redecorate since moving in.

He’d covered one wall of the room with press cuttings and album photographs of his father. Another held old regiment and rank badges that he’d collected as a child, while his father was still alive; the pips and crowns were arranged in order, showing his father’s steady progression up the military hierarchy. In the dresser drawers was some of the equipment he’d used: gloves, poncho, a hand gun, knife, even an early-issue NBC respirator that still gave off its stink of charcoal-impregnated rubber. Neatly folded in the bottom drawer was the temperate combat dress he’d actually worn before his transfer to the Middle East. Owain had tried it on. It fitted him perfectly, as did the old midnight-blue beret, redundant after the consolidation of the Alliance armed forces.

Finally, in the topmost drawer, were the most valuable memorabilia of all: his father’s letters, sent over the years from overseas postings. At least one a month for ten years until his father’s death, many of them still in their original envelopes bearing the exotic stamps his father had insisted were to be used rather than army franking.