Omega

Again it was a statement couched as a question, though when he said nothing, Legister provided his own elaboration: “All personable men in their different ways. All somewhat, shall we say, compromised in terms of what might be expected of them. As fully functioning representatives of masculinity.”

He was waiting for Owain to say something.

“Did you assault her, major?”

“No! It was—she gave me every reason to believe that it was what she wanted.”

“Indeed? That would represent quite an unexpected volte-face.”

“What do you mean?”

Legister looked as if it would be too distasteful for him to discuss it. Then he changed his mind. “Has she ever discussed with you what her existence was like before she was delivered to me in Alexandria?”

“She said she’d been in hiding. On the run.”

“And that was all?”

He didn’t know what to say.

“She was a captive, major. Held for the pleasure of her captors. For three months. They used her in any way they saw fit, though they were careful to preserve exterior appearances. When she was delivered to me her belly was bursting with them. Am I being sufficiently graphic?”

Owain found it hard to imagine, though all too conceivable.

“The foetus was already dead. She had to deliver it stillborn. Fifteen hours of labour, with few resources for medical intervention. Can you imagine it? Of course you can’t. After all, we are men.”

Owain looked away.

“You can understand then, why my wife might be averse to full-blooded intimacy. Can you not?”

Despite his distancing manner of expressing it, Legister nevertheless conveyed a sense of real if cold-blooded anger.

“Yes.”

“She is a young woman with youthful appetites, and I allowed her a certain latitude. But she did not return last night. She always comes home before dawn. We have a satisfactory account of the movements and whereabouts of all her other acquaintances. You were the last person to see her. Where is she?”

The car was moving slowly down a side street, going nowhere in particular, its journey merely an exercise in keeping him contained. Owain, still finding nothing to fill the void in his memory, wrestled with what to say next.

“I don’t understand why you’re asking me this,” he said. “If you’ve been monitoring her movements, you must know.”

Legister shook his head impatiently. “There’s not the personnel for blanket surveillance. We’re not the many-headed Hydra of popular legend. There are always more urgent priorities.”

Owain salvaged a scrap of scepticism: “I find it hard to believe that you wouldn’t make special arrangements for your own wife.”

He thought he saw a fresh flash of anger in Legister’s face. “It wasn’t considered necessary for established acquaintances whom we had no reason to suspect might harm her. Have I misjudged you, major?”

Owain took a gamble: “I think you’re the one who’s lying to me.”

Legister sighed, nothing changing in his face. “She was followed to your home. The men in question withdrew. They were summoned to an emergency briefing that I myself was conducting.”

“Really?” said Owain, growing bolder. “What emergency?”

Legister looked contemptuous. “The likelihood that war is about to break out. What could be more pressing?”

Owain decided that Legister was probably telling the truth about Marisa not being under twenty-four-hour surveillance. If she was reporting back to him, such security wasn’t necessary. So what had happened to her? Why couldn’t he remember? He’d poisoned his brain with drink, surrendered to his urges. But how far had he gone?

“I don’t know anything about that,” he said.

“My dear major, are you really intent on testing my patience to destruction? You expect me to believe that the field marshal has said nothing to you? You, his nephew, not party to his confidences?” Legister paused. “Unless, of course, your amnesia is a more pervasive affliction than I imagined. In which case I would consider myself culpably negligent in leaving Marisa unsupervised with you.”

Owain had full mobility back, but he still didn’t feel himself. The whine was beginning to insinuate itself into his head again. The car was airless. Trapped within its armour-plated confines, he was already in prison. Were they taking him to CIF headquarters? Was he to be incarcerated in some subterranean cell?

“I’m inclined to think that it’s a more selective affliction,” Legister persisted. “Rooted in a sense of self-preservation.”

“Sir Gruffydd’s been sick,” Owain managed to say. “He’s still convalescing.”

“Really? He was remarkably himself at our morning meeting yesterday.”

Owain’s hands, clamped on the curve of the leather upholstery at his thighs, felt tacky. He was sweating, certain that Legister could smell it.

“Well, no matter,” Legister said. “You’ve had the consolation of a recent reunion with your brother, I gather. Dinner, wasn’t it?”

He had no reason to deny it. “Is that illegal?”

“I’d gained the impression from your uncle that the two of you weren’t particularly close.”

“He was in town. He looked me up.”

“He had important things to discuss?”