We turned on to another road. I glanced at Tanya, but she wasn’t looking my way. Had she deliberately driven down the street to see how I would react? There was no evidence that she had.
“Why he?”
“This alter-ego of yours,” Tanya remarked. “Do you think he’s real?”
Did I? On arrival she’d quizzed me remorselessly about Owain’s existence while swabbing mud from my shoes with a rag. She had taken it perfectly seriously, avoiding the obvious judgement that it was all a huge figment of my disturbed imagination. Which didn’t mean that she didn’t think it, merely that she wanted to be clear about its extent.
“He seems real enough,” I said. “With a life of his own. It doesn’t have anything to do with me, except for the fact that we’re counterparts, linked. Does that make sense?”
“And you think he’s cracking up, becoming homicidal?”
“It certainly feels like it. As if something’s awakened in him.”
She glanced at me. “Intriguing way of putting it.”
I saw what she was getting at. “The thing is, at first I just assumed that it was me who was inhabiting him. It didn’t occur to me that it might be the other way around as well.”
“You think he’s looking to set up permanent home here?”
I couldn’t believe she was discussing this madness so calmly. “If I was him, I would. Believe me, this is a much better place than where he lives.”
“But it has its attractions?” She was eyeing me. “You describe it with a certain sort of relish.”
I couldn’t deny it. “It’s alluring,” I admitted. “Exotic in a morbid sort of way. And the game’s not yet up.”
“No,” she said, with what I thought was a note of regret. “I can tell that it isn’t.”
“Are you going to say anything to Geoff?”
“About this?”
“About what happened last night?”
“You must be joking.”
We stopped at traffic lights. I recognised the Catford one-way system. Everything looked so blandly normal, people scurrying by with umbrellas and hunched shoulders.
Neither of us said anything further for the rest of the journey. It was a silence clamorous with unspoken thoughts.
Tanya’s house was in a quiet leafy street in Sydenham. She reversed the Yaris into the driveway.
“Well,” she said as though there had been no pause in our conversation, “the thing I want to know is what you’re doing to do about it.”
Assertive action. She was always one for sorting out problems by doing something rather than waiting for things to happen.
“It isn’t that easy,” I said, following her out, my legs feeling wobbly. “I keep coming and going.”
“You’re indulging yourself, Owen.”
This sounded harsh. Or was it? The truth was, a part of me enjoyed the escape. But not at the expense of ending up there permanently. That was the ultimate danger.
The first thing Tanya did when we were inside was to check the telephone messages. I watched her face shift from disinterested curiosity to vague puzzlement and finally to a weary exasperation.
She put the phone down and looked at me.
“What?” I said.
“It’s Rees.”
“Oh?”
“Calling from a mobile. I rang him earlier but no one was answering.”
“But he called you back?”
She shook her head. “He was obviously in transit. Now he’s in West Byfleet.”
The place was familiar but it took me a moment to recall its significance. My father was in a nursing home there.
“Did you arrange something with him, Owen?”
I shook my head.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“He thinks you did. He’s asking where we are. According to him, we’re supposed to be meeting up at the home.”
I remembered the conversation, but we’d made no firm plans. It was the last thing I wanted, or expected, to hear.
“He’s already there,” Tanya said.
PART FOUR
MANIFEST DESTIN
FORTY
Owain was finishing off a gristly sausage sandwich when Giselle entered the canteen. A leather-gloved warrant officer lingered in the doorway as she walked straight to the table, nothing in her face, and said, “It’s time.”
We took the lift up to street level, no one speaking. The warrant officer kept tugging at his gloves and scissoring his fingers for a snug fit. Stradling, a fellow-countryman, though from North Wales. Rhyl or thereabouts. A man renowned for his taciturnity and apparent lack of fellow feeling for any other human being. But efficient and an excellent driver. His uncle’s favourite chauffeur.
A trio of identical black Daimlers was waiting in the car park, their engines running. Land Rovers, APCs and triple-wheeled motorbikes flanked them. The air was heady with their exhausts.
Owain was directed to get into the driver’s seat next to Stradling. Giselle climbed in after him, leaving nothing in the way of elbowroom. The Daimlers were built to accommodate up to six people including the driver, but it was always a snug fit. A mirrored window with a sliding partition obscured the rear seats.
The heating was turned up full, the car practically tropical. We sat in silence for several minutes, Owain watching the rest of the vehicles manoeuvre into formation. The motorbikes were triple-wheeled Triumph Tridents, the rear men sitting back-to-back with the front rider on swivel pillions that gave them a traverse of over a hundred and eighty degrees for machine-gun fire and an elevation of close to ninety. Six surface-to-air missiles were mounted on their flanks. Despite their bulk, they were fast and manoeuvrable machines.
The rear doors of the car opened, and I felt the suspension react to the entry of one, two people. So, not quite a full house. Owain glanced at Giselle, but she was taking a mouthful of drink from a white plastic bottle. It smelt like lime juice. She didn’t look at him, gave every impression that she preferred to pretend he wasn’t there.
Some of the motorbike riders were forming up at the head of the exit ramp. The APCs and the other Daimlers began to tuck themselves in behind one another. Stradling moved off and they took their place in the column. The hatch behind Owain slid open.
“You been behaving yourself?”
It was his uncle, speaking in Welsh. He sounded curious rather than irate.
Owain twisted around. Sir Gruffydd was sitting in one corner, with Henry Knowlton next to him in a big black overcoat.
“The Secretary of State for Inland Security picked me up for questioning this morning,” Owain said.
“So I gather. And what did you tell him?”
His uncle looked quite hearty, showing no hint of his rect illness.
“Nothing,” Owain replied. “I was a bit worse for drink the night before. Couldn’t remember a thing.”
There was a silent instant before his uncle burst out with laughter, in which Knowlton loyally joined, despite the fact they were still speaking in Welsh.
“That’s the spirit,” his uncle said. “Kept the bugger guessing, did you?”
“He was very interested in Rhys.”
“That a fact? And how did you enlighten him?”
“I pleaded my usual ignorance. Told him I never discussed family matters with strangers.”
Owain was aware that this was something of a loose paraphrase of his actual conversation with Legister, but the essence was true. Sir Gruffydd nodded, eyeing him all the while.
“Where is Rhys?” Owain asked.