Christopher Evans - Omega

“It came out of Soho,” he said.

“Derelict ground, fortunately.”

“What was it?”

His uncle shrugged. “The CIF unit that went in reckon it was a big incendiary, nineteen-seventies vintage. Been lying there for donkey’s years. Could have gone off at any time.”

The CIF were the Counter Insurgency Forces, always sent in if sabotage was suspected. Owain remained puzzled. “I didn’t hear any explosion. Just a rising whine, almost like a jet engine. And a big flash of light.”

Sir Gruffydd didn’t look surprised. “You never hear the one that has your name on it. You were fortunate it didn’t kill you.”

There was something in his uncle’s tone that made Owain wonder if he was withholding harsh facts. Or perhaps it was sheer relief.

“Were there any casualties?”

“Indian chap. Street frontage above the old station collapsed on him. Apparently the epicentre was right behind it.”

Owain couldn’t work it out. “That would have been north of me. It felt like the flash came from due east.”

The field marshal looked unconvinced. “I got the report this morning. Very thorough in these matters, Legister’s legionnaires.”

He was referring to Carl Legister, the Secretary of State for Inland Security. Legister was responsible for anti-terrorism and civilian order on the home front, in charge of both the Security Police and their quasi-military offshoot.

“I don’t understand,” Owain persisted. “It was so bright. One big flash.”

“Maybe it had a magnesium fuse,” his uncle said with the merest hint of impatience. “Maybe it was a white phosphorus charge.”

The mention of phosphorus instinctively made Owain think of his pockmarked face. There was also another more powerful memory that he immediately quashed. It was something to do with his service on the eastern front. He had ended up being invalided home the previous spring.

His continued scepticism must have shown because his uncle said, “It’s dead ground, Owain. Who would want to target it with a missile? We’ve not had a strike on London in over a decade. Count your blessings. You were fortunate it wasn’t anything nuclear or biological. They’ve given you a clean bill of health on that score. Nothing nasty lurking in the system. Physically speaking.”

The last two words were significant. Owain knew his uncle was still concerned he might be suffering after-effects from his combat experience.

“Don’t let it gnaw at you,” the old man admonished. “Trauma makes it easy to misremember the details. You’re still recuperating, and at least you’ve got youth on your side. Wait until you’re my age. Without my valet I’d have a job finding my shoes in the morning.”

His uncle plainly wanted to get off the subject. Perhaps it was what he’d been told: just an old bomb. Owain made himself smile.

“What happened to my report?” he asked.

“Your briefcase was recovered undamaged. I read it over a mug of cocoa last night. You did a thorough job.”

The generals had sent him to neutral Brazil, where he’d met Alliance agents and liaised with various representatives of the US armed forces. His instructions had been to glean more information about American intentions in the central Asian and Pacific theatres. But an air of guarded reticence had dominated all his meetings with his opposite numbers in the US armed forces: nothing was being volunteered. While there was no suggestion that the Americans were preparing renewed offensives on the Northern Indian or Chinese fronts, Owain felt a distinct chill in the diplomatic air. In his report he’d concluded that the laissez-faire approach that had served both sides so well for half a century was now being strained by the overlap of respective spheres of influence.

The strange thing was that the tour already felt remote, like something he’d done years ago. His uncle’s almost offhand reaction to his report made him wonder how much importance he actually attached to it.

“Was the driver on your staff?” Owain asked.

His uncle nodded. “One of our regulars. Very reliable. They discharged him after a couple of days. In time to cut the turkey. I had one sent him specially.”

“Christmas is over?” Owain said. “How long have I been here?”

“Only a few days. We had you in the Berlin Memorial to begin with.”

It was the main military hospital in the capital. Owain’s shock mirrored my own. I wondered if he could sense my presence. He gave no sign of it.

“In hospital?” he said.

“They didn’t tell you? You were in a coma for the first forty-eight hours. Then you woke up raving until they tranquillised you. You were out of it for ten days. We had you transferred here when the crisis passed.”

He was in the surface apartments of the War Office. No wonder the old man was concerned that he might have been hallucinating. “I don’t remember any of that.”

“We had to be sure you hadn’t picked up something, but there were no indications. Just a nasty knock to the head.”

The time between the explosion and the final waking was a complete blank. I knew that a similar period must have passed in my own world.

“Tyler’s a good man,” his uncle said. “He thinks you’re over the worst.”

“I’m fine,” Owain assured him. “A little weak at the knees, that’s all.”

“That’s only to be expected. You don’t look too bad for a mongrel.”

The usual actionate tease about his mother, who had been English. He had only the fondest memories of her, but had been devoted to his father, who’d died in Palestine when Owain was sixteen. Not that he’d seen much of him during those years: his father had served overseas even before he was born and was rarely home on leave. Owain and his brother had been raised on his uncle’s estates in mid-Wales, learning Welsh during the vogue for encouraging regional cultural identity. They had even de-anglicised their names. It proved just a fad, but the language was useful for conducting private conversations since few other people spoke it.

“I’d like to return to my duties as soon as possible,” he announced.

The field marshal looked stern. “I’m sure you would.”

“Sir, I’m fine.”

“Of course you are. But you’re going to wait until the plasters come off.”

Owain didn’t demur; he felt weaker than he had actually admitted.

“Well, my boy,” Sir Gruffydd said, rising, “can’t sit here chatting all day. You know the drill.”

“I appreciate you coming, sir.”

His uncle squeezed his shoulder affectionately. “You’ve had another narrow escape, Owain. Third time might not be so lucky. Go easy on yourself. That’s an order!”

A muddled memory of my own life:

I was sitting in a small viewing theatre, watching a preview of the first episode of Battlegrounds. We’d made eight programmes in all, the aim being to recreate the soldiers’ experience of the major land campaigns in Europe and North Africa. For over a year I’d travelled widely, ranging from Norway to Normandy, Libya to Latvia and beyond. The split screen showed me in a T-shirt and jeans, walking a tranquil stretch of desert, backdropped by a computer simulation of German infantry men in a sandy dug-out, under bombardment from the barrage that had opened the final battle of El Alamein.

Lyneth and both the girls were with me. Sara sat cross-legged, watching with wide-eyed seriousness her father up there on the screen. It was the first time any of them had seen the programmes, and I remember feeling peevish towards Lyneth, who spent the entire hour with Bethany huddled on her lap while she flipped through picture books to keep her occupied. Ever the practical one, she’d even brought a small pencil torch for the purpose. I had hoped that at last she would show some interest in my work and acknowledge my achievements. This was, after all, my finest hour. But she kept her head down as she read the books to Bethany in a secretive whisper.