Another Life (21 page)

I could say the same thing about you, Ianto thought as he set off to the basement to continue his own work.

NINETEEN

The sodium glare from the streetlights cast a jaundiced pall across the sodden T-junction. Owen sat listening to the howl of the wind and the battering percussion of rain above the Boxter, and wondering if the roof latch would hold. No wonder he’d got a deal on the car. Too good to be true at 18K, even with 40,000 miles and schlepping all the way out to Colchester for it. He should have bought the Honda S2000, like he’d first thought. But he’d gone for style and speed, so now he found that the windstop on this 1997 model Boxter didn’t hook properly and ended up rattling.

And windstop was what he needed right now. The storm outside buffeted the car, and rain lashed the windscreen until it was awash. Owen flicked on the wipers. They swiped the water aside so that he could peer through the glass at Megan’s place across the road. Her maisonette was the top floor, up an L-shaped flight of steps at the gable-end of the house. Two windows were visible. One was unlit, with opaque glass. The other was much wider, bold red curtains illuminated. He thought he saw a shadow at one point, but through the downpour it was hard to be sure. The window was partly obscured by a large plane tree, that must have been planted by a pessimistic urban planner who’d not expected the houses to still be there once the tree had reached its final size.

He’d sat here for ten minutes already, kidding himself that he was just waiting for the rainstorm to ease off, just rehearsing what he was going to say, devising the best and most logical explanation for Megan. In reality he felt like he was a student again, the first time he’d arranged to meet her. Then, he’d stood outside the Angus halls of residence, uncertain, nervous.

She’d made all the running in the refectory earlier that day, and he’d hardly believed his luck in persuading her to go out that evening. Actually, she’d persuaded him to persuade her, he’d work out afterwards. And thus, his fresher insecurities fuelled, he’d worried about everything from then on – was he wearing the right T-shirt, was he heading for the right room in the hall, would he pronounce her name right, should he rehearse his line or would that sound
too
rehearsed, had he chosen the right film, was she allergic to Chinese food…

Another wild gust rocked the Porsche. The sallow glow of the streetlight revealed where he’d been tapping his fingertips. He noticed with a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance that it looked like he’d been doodling in the dust on the dashboard. Did that shape look like a heart? Not what he’d intended, at any rate. And what would Megan think if he ended up giving her a lift somewhere later and she saw it? He scuffed over the doodle with his palm. The result was a great smeared patch in the dust that somehow made the dashboard look even grubbier. Owen tugged a cuff up over the heel of his hand, and swiped over it. That looked better, at least. But now he’d got a tidemark of greyish dust over his left sleeve.

He blew an exasperated sigh, leaned back against the head restraint, and looked around the rest of the Porsche. Under his coat, the passenger seat had three old crisp packets on it, one only half-finished. Beside them was a bent plastic teaspoon with an uneaten raspberry yoghurt that he’d grabbed off his desk at the Hub thinking he might finish it on the way out. He slipped off his seat belt to look in the footwell, where he found bits of gravel, three Post-it notes containing grid references, plus a couple of forgotten AA batteries. Probably dead, but he stuffed them in his jacket pocket just in case.

He was experimenting with doing the same with the crisp packets when he thought: that’s just stupid. He’s arranged to see her for the first time in over five years, and he’s bringing her a pocketful of empty crisp packets and a raspberry yoghurt. He should have stopped off to get her flowers. Roses, she liked roses, didn’t she? Or was that too cheesy? A bottle of wine, at least. But he’d never been very good on vintages, always went for the third least expensive bottle in Threshers. Megan used to tease him about it, because she’d been to a wine appreciation group at Uni and could tell her Merlot from her Camembert. He recalled little about it now, except stuff about macerating the must, and how cross Megan got when he joked about ‘length’.

Owen unlocked the glove compartment. The light flicked on, and he could see the dull sheen of the Bekaran tool. That was a better idea. Never mind the wine and roses. The alien device felt cool in his palm as he slipped it into his jacket pocket. He shoved the crisp packets and the plastic spoon into the compartment, and shut it.

He hadn’t changed before leaving the Hub, and was still in his Torchwood standard: black jacket, dark trousers and shirt. Probably ideal for getting knocked down in the dark by a careless driver racing through Whitchurch on his way home to Cyncoed. Owen hadn’t driven home for different clothes either, because that would have delayed him getting to Megan. So it seemed daft to sit here, just peering up at her room. He wasn’t that uncertain undergraduate now, no way. He certainly hadn’t been that awkward kid any more when he and Megan had split up. When he’d left her.

He struggled into his coat, determined not to get out of the car before putting it on because he knew he’d be drenched within seconds. The maisonette was thirty metres away. Owen popped the car door, levered himself out, double locked the Boxter with a flick of his wrist. The wind and rain formed an almost physical barrier as he ran for the cover of the tree. He huddled against the trunk, his feet straddling where the tree’s roots had cracked the pavement. Then he scurried over to the L-shaped steps.

The house end offered protection from the worst of the storm, and so despite the rain he took the steps slowly, one by one. At the top, he pressed the doorbell, a button indicated by a small backlit circle. There was a ‘ding’, and then a prolonged hum as the button refused to pop back out. Owen pressed it again, to no effect. He slapped at it with his palm. He was whacking it with the heel of his clenched fist when the door opened, light spilled out all around him, and Megan stood in the doorway studying him. Appraising him.

‘No dong,’ he said to her apologetically. He pointed to the doorbell, which was still buzzing furiously.

She broke into her familiar chuckle. ‘I hope you don’t say that to all the girls.’ She flicked at the doorbell with her fingernail, and the button popped back out again.

Owen looked at her for a few seconds that lasted forever. ‘Are you going to invite me in?’ he asked.

Megan stepped aside and held the door open. ‘What are you, some kind of vampire?’

‘Don’t even joke about it,’ said Owen as she beckoned him in. ‘I mean it.’

Megan told him to remove his wet shoes and, when she saw his socks, those too. She peeled off his sopping coat to drape on a wall-hanging peg, before making him stand barefoot on the cold linoleum while she went to fetch him something to dry his hair.

He watched her disappear through the nearest doorway, her thin cardigan flapping behind her. Megan was still as slim as he remembered, accentuated by her Wrangler jeans. He discovered the raspberry yoghurt in his jacket pocket, so he set it down beside a pile of junk mail on a small table by the door.

Megan’s voice echoed from the little bathroom, telling him how he would have to take her as he found her and that she’d barely had time to tidy up her paperwork, let alone run a Hoover around the place. Owen thought about how he’d been imagining her South Wales accent all the time they’d been talking in the
Second Reality
game, and now that he could hear it for real it was exactly as he remembered it. He closed his eyes, and imagined himself back in their Balham flat, calling from one side to the other as they caught up on the events of their day at the university.

When he opened them again, she was waggling a green crotchet-edged hand towel at him. ‘Cleanest one I’ve got, I’m afraid.’ She watched him towel his hair for a bit. ‘I’ll put the kettle on now you’re here. Go on through. Thank you for the yoghurt.’ She waved in the opposite direction as she disappeared into an unseen kitchen on the right.

Owen half-stepped into the bedroom. Big double bed with a pink paisley-patterned duvet, matching pillows. Picture of a piano in a sunlit room on the wall above. Piles of paperwork on one bedside table, just a simple lamp on another. A square wicker laundry basket stuffed so full that its hinged lid poked up.

He padded straight out again, barefoot, and into the room she’d meant. The lounge-diner was evidently the largest room in the maisonette, but felt cramped because of the amount of stuff crammed into it. He could smell the remains of a Chinese meal, not quite disguised by floral air freshener. A paper globe shade in the centre of the ceiling was unlit, but two art deco lamps on opposite walls cast a warm glow across the room

On the outer wall, pushed up near the window, a gate-leg dining table was unfolded and covered with a cream damask tablecloth. Four fabric-covered chairs, blue with no arms, were pressed up against three sides.

A small portable with a circular aerial sat in one corner. Owen noted that it made a little ‘crack’ noise that suggested the plastic case was cooling down because it had only just been switched off. The rest of the room was dominated by a battered leather sofa that dwarfed a tiny glass-topped wicker coffee table, and a crumpled green armchair so huge that he couldn’t work out how it could originally have been brought into the room. He saw his own reflection wrinkling its nose in an octagonal mirror above the sofa.

He dropped into the green armchair. It faced the TV, and he wondered if it was Megan’s regular seat. So he got up again and walked over to the dining table. In front of one of the blue chairs were perched a dusty flat-screen monitor, wireless keyboard and mouse. The computer itself was tucked under the table. ‘This where you connect to the game?’ Owen called over his shoulder into the room, in the expectation Megan would hear him in the kitchen. He couldn’t make out her shouted reply. He flicked through a nearby magazine rack –
Radio Times
,
Guardian
, pages torn from the
BMJ
. ‘Can’t tell if you live here on your own or not,’ he added in his normal voice.

‘Mind your own bloody business,’ Megan retorted mildly.

While he’d been looking at the magazines, she had walked into the room behind him. She carried a circular tray that held an opened bottle and two large wine glasses. She’d removed her thin cardigan, and the ribbed cream top she wore accentuated her slender arms and the roundness of her breasts. He pretended to look at her hair instead. ‘You’ve cut it a lot shorter. Than I remember, I mean.’

‘Easier for A&E.’

‘And I like your necklace.’

‘Do sit down, Owen, I don’t charge people to use the furniture.’

He perched on the sofa. The leather cushion creaked. Megan set the tray down on the glass-topped table. She handed him a little white and yellow item that was also on the tray. ‘Look what I have in my kitchen,’ she said.

He examined the object. It was a fridge magnet in the shape of a fried egg, sunny side up. ‘Egg magnet,’ he grinned.

‘I thought you’d come to talk about the online game,’ Megan said. ‘But all this interest in my living arrangements… I’m starting to think you’re just after a shag for old times’ sake. Don’t get your hopes up, I changed my mind. About the tea. Thought you’d like a glass of wine, especially if you’ve had a hard day at the office. Assuming you’re at an office. Are you at an office? Oh… but you’re driving… I suppose one would be all right. I could pour you half a glass.’ She was leaning over the table in front of him, watching him smile in recognition. ‘I’m rambling on, aren’t I? Sorry.’

Just as in the game earlier, he recognised her stream of consciousness explain-while-I’m-thinking-aloud manner. ‘I haven’t come for a sympathy shag, no. You and I were over a long time ago.’

‘You count the days, I imagine.’

‘Don’t you?’ he joked, and was a little surprised when her neck flushed. He recognised that reaction, too. ‘I’ve had a very shitty day,’ he continued quickly, ‘and I’d love a glass of… whatever that is.’

She glugged out half a glass for him, more. ‘Château La Fleur Chambeau 2004.’

‘French.’

‘Well done, Clouseau. It’s a wine from Lussac Saint-Émilion. It’s very similar to what you’d get from the more illustrious Saint-Emilion and Pomerol appellations. But it’s cheaper, of course. Have you educated your palate since we…’ She paused awkwardly. Poured herself a glass, and then breathed in the aroma. ‘Are you more discriminating, or am I wasting this very fine bottle on you?’

Owen smiled. ‘I remember how you tried to convince me to become an… oenophile? Was that the word?’

She sat beside him on the sofa. ‘And I remember you thought that was a sexual practice.’

‘There were a lot of wankers in your wine club.’ He chinked his glass against hers.

‘Bloody cheek. And don’t just swig it down. Like this, remember?’ Megan swirled the wine around her glass and inhaled the aroma. ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you came empty-handed tonight.’ She narrowed her eyes, and studied him a bit more closely. ‘Are those biscuit crumbs on your jacket sleeve? Or bits of old crisps? In fact, have you made
any
kind of effort this evening to…’

Her voice trailed off as she saw something else.

‘Is that a gun in your pocket, Owen?’

Owen shifted awkwardly on the sofa, straightened his jacket and trousers. ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is.’

Megan looked like she couldn’t decide whether to get up or to remain seated. She fidgeted with her glass. She set it down on the glass table-top. Changed her mind and transferred it to the tray. Twisted her necklace between her long, pale fingers. ‘Oh,’ she said eventually. ‘Oh God, you’re a gangster. A gangster with a gun. In my living room.’ She offered him a sort of desperate half-smile that seemed to beg him to contradict her. To reassure her. To say she was overreacting.

Owen listened to the sound of the rain battering the window for a while, thinking how best to go on. He took a gulp at the Château La Fleur.