Omega

“You’re all right?”

“Fine.” At least I’d had the sense to take her mobile.

“It’s been over an hour. I didn’t know where you were. I’ve been driving the streets, phoning everyone I could think of. Geoff’s on patrol even now. We were going to phone the police.”

“Ah. You didn’t notice your mobile was gone?”

“That’s the only reason we kept hanging on. There’s half a dozen messages on it. You didn’t have it switched on.”

Perhaps I’d activated it by accident. Or more likely unconscious design.

“Sorry. I was going to leave you a note. Your bedroom door was locked.”

She said nothing to this non sequitur.

“I thought you might need a little space,” I said.

“Not at the expense of total loss of peace of mind,” she told me with feeling. “It was really irresponsible of you.”

“I know.”

“You haven’t done anything, have you?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Accosted strangers. Run around naked singing the national anthem.”

“I’ve been walking. Keeping myself to myself. Shoes are a bit muddy.”

“I’m coming to get you.”

“OK.”

“Stay there.”

“Righty-ho.”

“Please. Don’t go anywhere.”

There was a quaver in her voice. Only now did it fully dawn on me how much I must have scared her. And what I’d been doing.

I’d gone looking for my house. Spent the best part of an hour traipsing the streets, trying to find it. But I couldn’t remember the address and didn’t have a clear idea of its specific location. I’d begun to panic, clinging on to my memory of the girls’ bedroom, with its amethyst walls and big heart-shaped mirror on the back of the door. I must have climbed the hill until I reached the top.

“Owen?”

“I’m still here.”

“I’m on my way. Don’t move.”

“If you can’t see me,” I told her with a levity I didn’t feel, “I’ll be in the pub.”

“No, you won’t,” she said firmly. “It’s only nine-thirty.”

Two young boys were standing under one of the bridge pontoons, trying to make a hole in the ice with a broken propeller blade. A crude fishing rod and a small canvas bag lay on the ice beside them. They were totally focused on the task, ignoring the steady trundle of military traffic overhead that was passing from south to north across the bridge towards Parliament Square.

Owain was mentally subdued. We sat in moist chilly air on a riverside boulder, the smell of exhaust fumes and vegetable broth in Owain’s nostrils. A paper bowl was cradled in one hand. The broth had come from a soup kitchen on the embankment above.

Military police were everywhere, redirecting what few civilian vehicles were braving the streets. There were new roadblocks and diversion signs, helicopters patrolling, sirens in the distance that doubtless signified traffic patrols swooping on vehicles or citizens who were in the wrong place.

Owain used a husk of bread to scoop the last of his broth from the bowl. He waited until the bread was saturated before swallowing it. The food sat like a warm dense mass in his stomach. He screwed up the bowl and tossed it aside.

The convoys mostly comprised trucks and ATVs, with the occasional ambulance and mobile missile platform. Nothing tracked or too heavily armoured: the bridge wouldn’t have held them. Supply columns, most likely, headed out of the city. Something was definitely afoot. Which was what had made him take pause, seek a little time alone. He had waited until Legister’s car had driven out of sight before heading down towards the relative tranquillity of the river margins. Close at hand a waste pipe was leaking steam into the air, its warmth having melted the snow round about and provided a micro-climate in which he’d been able to sit comfortably for—how long?

His thoughts were muted, with little volition. I willed him to look at his watch. It was not yet ten o’clock. He became aware that one of the boys was standing in front of him, was asking him if he could spare a little bread.

He’d eaten it all, but croutons lay scattered on the pebbles where he’d tossed them earlier. The boy was about eleven, his dark hair severely shorn around his ears. He was filthy but looked reasonably well fed. There was an enterprising air about him.

“Take those,” Owain said, pointing.

The boy gathered up the croutons, putting them into a little canvas bag. He scampered back across the ice to his friend, whereupon they proceeded to peer into the bag as if beholding treasure.

Bait. Bait for fish they were never going to catch, even if they succeeded in penetrating the ice.

An MP on the bridge had spotted the boys. He called another man over. There was a brief discussion before the second man went off.

The first man drew his pistol and began firing shots into the ice near the boys, making them leap and scurry for cover under the bridge.

“No! No!” Owain heard him yell. “Out! Out where I can see you!”

The boys emerged reluctantly. The MP flourished his weapon at them, indicating that they should move further back from the bridge. Warily they did so.

The second man reappeared, leaning over the parapet, the squat tube of a rocket launcher over his shoulder.

Without any warning, he fired.