Omega

The morning was bright, the sky filled with a seizure of magnesium light, as if someone had exploded an enormous flare. There were fewer civilians and more security police on the streets than usual. All the observation posts and gun emplacements they passed were fully manned.

The two CIF men in front had removed their helmets and replaced them with padded black forage caps. The younger man, who was driving, glanced into the back at one point. He was orange-haired, perhaps ten years younger than Owain, a sprinkling of acne blotching the florid skin of his face. Hazel eyes, whose irises appeared slightly inward-looking, giving the impression of perpetual intense yet mindless concentration.

The Bentley stopped outside a community medical centre, a green cross on a white disc painted above its entrance. The commander climbed a flight of steps into the building, walking past a straggly queue of civilians who were waiting to redeem their prescriptions. Though the main entrance was open, the shutters were still down on the dispensing hatches. Everyone was slouched patiently against a retaining wall, studiously not showing any lingering interest in the car.

Presently the commander came out, leading another man in a grubby white laboratory coat. He was Owain’s age, good-looking but with an apparent crook in his neck. Owain saw him shake his head when questioned. When he replied he squinted in the direction of the rooftops, as though anticipating sniper fire.

Owain became aware that Legister was looking at him.

“Dr Marcel Hanson?” Legister said, making it sound like a question.

Owain merely indicated his incomprehension.

“You’re not familiar with him?”

This time it was more of a statement than a query.

“Should I be?”

Legister buried the ring in his overcoat pocket. He waited until the commander came back down the steps. Owain saw the doctor edge back inside the building, reaching out to touch the doorjamb as he did so. He was blind.

Legister touched a button and the window glided down.

“No sign of her,” the commander told him. “He was here all night. All day yesterday. Other staff have verified. Dysentery outbreak at a school.”

Legister absorbed this and gave a single nod. The man climbed into the car. They drove on.

“Who is he?” Owain asked.

Legister removed a leather document holder from a pouch in front of him. Its clear plastic compartments held files on five or six men. Owain glimpsed a photograph of himself among them. Legister flipped to a picture of the doctor, an enlarged ID face-and-profiles stapled to a sheaf of multicoloured papers and stamped with the SP shield. Surveillance documents. Pastel greens, pinks and blues containing details of everything from personal characteristics to most recent movements.

“No one of any special account,” Legister told him. “A medical doctor of Anglo-Belgian ancestry. Three children in Community Centre care. A family man who has to accept that we cannot spare unattached medical personnel for parenting. He was blinded in the same explosion that killed his wife. A land mine. Apparently they were on a bus. A sightseeing trip.”

Was Legister amused by this? Perhaps not, though as always it was difficult to judge. The curve of his lips had a multitude of possible meanings, the least of them a smile.

“Marisa sometimes helped out at his surgery,” Legister went on. “They occasionally had lunch together. She liked to take him to places he wouldn’t be able to go on his own. While he ate she might read the newspaper or his mail to him. Keep him abreast of things.” Legister paused. “How very unnerving that I should already be speaking of her in the past tense.”

Owain swallowed. “She’s seeing him?”

Legister flipped to another compartment. This showed a swarthy young man of Marisa’s age.

“Naium Sadiku,” he said. “Turkish Cypriot. No family. He was invalided out of the navy after suffering second-degree burns following a magazine explosion. He’s scarred from his neck to his knees. Ruined.”

The ID photographs belied this, suggesting a vigorous young personality with sleek skin and eyes that held a hint of mischief.

“She helps him bathe and assists with his physiotherapy. They met at Dr Hanson’s surgery, though I don’t believe the good doctor knows that she still sees him.”

Another flip. “Malcolm Mosekari. A former premier’s son from one of the old colonies. I remember introducing them at a reception. Nineteen years old. A handsome man, wouldn’t you agree? He has a mental age of six. She takes him on excursions to urban farms. He has special fondness for piglets.”

Legister closed the folder. He hadn’t looked at Owain throughout his recital and only did so now.

“Of course you thought you were the only one.”

Somehow Owain knew it was all true, that it wasn’t a ploy.

“She always told me she was bored,” he said. “She claimed she was lonely, had too many hours to fill.”

“And so she does. Some of these are irregular acquaintances. I think you had even become her favourite. But you will note consistent themes.”