Omega

The snow was inches deep. He made his way down the alley to the fire escape. With extreme deliberateness he mounted the stairs, gripping the handrail, setting his feet down firmly on each snow-coated step. He looked neither up nor down but straight ahead, concentrating utterly on not losing his footing.

The fire door was still open a crack. He stepped through, crossed to his brother’s door. Turned the handle with as much stealth as he could muster.

Rhys hadn’t returned. The room was exactly as he had left it hours ago.

There was no sign of any briefcase or documentation. He checked the bedside dresser: the drawers were empty. In the wardrobe hung shirts, jackets and trousers, all freshly pressed, three or so of each. Underwear and sweaters still inside his suitcase at the bottom of it. Enough clothes for a few days’ stay but no more. Nothing except for loose change in any of the pockets. No wallet or ID card. No evidence that he’d shared the suite with anyone else.

Owain briefly contemplated scribbling a message but rejected the idea. If Rhys had actually fled from him there was no point in giving hints of why he had come. Of course he could pretend that it had just been a social call. But would Rhys believe it? Unlikely. Better to leave him guessing.

He also considered and rejected the idea of leaving via the foyer, and perhaps giving a message to the old woman at the desk. A stupid idea. She would want to know what he had been doing in the interim. Possibly she had phoned up to let Rhys know he was coming, giving him time to flee. It was odd that no one had come upstairs to check what was going on. Maybe she was too arthritic for the climb. Perhaps there wasn’t anyone else to hand. More likely she knew better than to meddle in anything involving the military.

He exited again, going down the fire escape with even more caution than he had ascended. By the time he reached the bottom he needed to pee. The alleyway was deserted, the walls framing it blind brick. He relieved himself under the stairway.

The fog was thick. He had just finished when he glimpsed a movement in the square. A figure in a bulky coat, moving stealthily around.

Owain crept forward. The murky light spilling out from the pub showed the figure crouching, picking up something from the impacted snow, edging closer to the alleyway. Pausing and looking around, as though to check that no one was looking. Head swathed in a fur cap.

Owain waited until it turned its back on him. He raced out, clamping one hand across the face, the other grabbing an arm and twisting.

There was a brief struggle, buttons popping on the coat, a mound of flesh under his hand, the cap dislodged, dark hair spilling out. He saw the grimy face of a girl.

He pushed her into the alleyway and up against the wall. She was perhaps seventeen or eighteen. Owain had a sense of having known from the outset that it wasn’t Rhys but being compelled to take action in order to be certain. He was spoiling for a fight.

I willed him to restrain himself, and he did pause for a moment. The girl went motionless under his grip. Her hair was ragged-edged, her fur coat worn and fetid. Underneath it she wore layers of blouses and shirts, all of which had parted effortlessly under the thrust of his hands. No bra, her left breast squashed under his palm. He slid it up towards her shoulder. A pretty face. Lean-bodied but soft in all the right places.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded to know, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Her fearful eyes flickered. She held herself absolutely still except for the rise and fall of her chest.

“I come—” she began, and faltered. “There is food. I am come for gathering food.”

An eastern immigrant. The fanciful idea that she might be a gypsy took hold of him. In the snow he saw the grubby canvas bag she’d been carrying. From it had spilled scraps of cabbage leaf, cheese rinds, a trodden onion.

Owain’s exertions had set the blood sloshing in his head, and suddenly he felt as if he was going to lose his balance. He took his hand from the girl’s shoulder and flattened it against the wall to support himself. Almost instantly she slipped her free hand into the pocket of her coat and brought it swiftly out again.

A knife. He had been half-expecting something but was a fraction slow in reacting. She brought the blade straight out towards his midriff, but he managed to pivot so that it caught in the open flap of his jacket. He grabbed her wrist and twisted. She instantly ceased struggling again, the knife falling to the ground.

He saw that it was a short-bladed kitchen implement, sharened on both sides. Breathing heavily, he pressed his hands all around her to check that she was carrying no other weapons. He was thorough, unable to stop himself from relishing her fleshiness under his probing fingers. She stared over his shoulder, holding herself rigid. Mustering all my willpower I urged him to draw back.