Chapter Text
First off, Alastair D’Argyll was not a violent man. Quite the opposite actually. For example, he had never gotten into a (physical) fight. And he didn’t kill anyone until he was thirty-five.
If he looked around his current professional environment, that seemed rather late, however, the week after his first, he did kill almost half a dozen.
Of course, that didn’t sound great, he knew that, but all that he did, he did with the best of intentions, a logical result of his commitment to becoming more mindful. To harmonize work and family life.
His first encounter with mindfulness was actually rather stressful. His soon-to-be ex-wife tried to force him to relax. To improve his unreliability and twisted values. And while their relationship had been doomed from the start, like one would expect after being informed that it had been born of necessity, rather than literally anything else, it wasn’t about the two of them.
Alastair marrying had always been about his adoptive father’s wish for the perfect image of an upper middleclass family. That wish was now five years old and because he would walk through hell and back for his daughter Isabeau, he let himself be convinced to give this “mindfulness” a go.
Back then, he had thought mindfulness was just another cup of the same esoteric tea, that was warmed over and repackaged under a new buzzword every decade or so. Meditation without sitting cross-legged, Yoga without contorting yourself, or, as the magazine his at-that-point-still-wife had placed provocatively on the breakfast table one morning put it: “Mindfulness means taking every moment with love and without judgement.”
A definition that made as much sense to Alastair, as those pebbles stacked on the beach by people so de-stressed, they became de-tached from reality.
Unfortunately, the problem at hand was, that as his life was going now, he was suffering from success. And his time with his daughter suffered with it. The argument with his wife, that had led to the final push for him to actually give in and try this “mindfulness”, had in fact been about him missing Isabeau’s 5th birthday, because he had been held up at work. Only one milestone in a long marathon of shortcomings of that sort.
The hard truth was, neither him, nor Katherine wanted to continue this, if they were honest about it. However, she would certainly not continue to take care of the little girl – Katherine had never been very maternal and was more displeased every day she couldn’t return to her own career - and Alastair wasn’t fit to do so alone, at least not now. Which would mean, she’d have to go to his father and that was a loss against the old man Alastair would rather die than accept.
So that was why one Thursday night in January, he had his first appointment with a mindfulness coach.
He was already twenty-five minutes late, when he rang the bell outside of the big wooden doors of this so called “mindfulness studio” to discuss, among other things, his time-management-issues.
This coach rented the ground floor of a lavishly renovated old building in the better part of London. Alastair figured that someone who charged a kidney, an arm and a leg to teach people to be more relaxed, should be able to meditate away a paying client’s lack of punctuality (he had been held up at work again). Or so he thought. When the bell rang, nothing happened.
So, he stood there and waited.
And waited.
Until this esoteric asshole had refused to open his bloody door, Alastair had actually been quite relaxed, because his delay head been entirely excusable. He was a lawyer – for criminal law – and had just gotten out of a remand hearing before. An employee of his main client, John Watts, had found himself in a rather unfortunate misunderstanding that afternoon, as he entered a jewellery store to pick out an engagement ring. Instead of money however, he only had a loaded pistol on him. And when he didn’t like the rings that were presented to him, he smacked the jeweller in the temple with his gun. Since said jeweller had already triggered the alarm by then, the police arrived to find the jeweller on the ground and the armed man offered no resistance when faced with the MET’s two sub-machine guns. After they took him to the police station, they had informed both the district judge and Alastair who wanted to bang his head not just into, but through his mahogany office table.
If he had kept the ideals, he had as a wide-eyed law student, he would have found it completely justified for such an utter lowlife to go straight to jail for a few years and if he was honest with himself, he still thought the idiot deserved it for being just that. A giant fucking idiot.
But with years of experience as a criminal defence lawyer who specialised in utter lowlifes working for very rich Lords, he had the idiot out in under two hours. Shame.
So technically he wasn’t late to his coaching appointment, he had been doing a victory lap. And if this relaxation flake didn’t waste the remainder of their time keeping Alastair waiting in front of this godforsaken door, he could tell him in as much detail as he was legally allowed to give why he had been so victorious.
The idiot with a penchant for shopping without money was just twenty-five and still lives with his parents. His criminal record was clean, safe for some drug related things. No violent offences. There was no danger of flight, repeating his offence or supressing evidence. Plus, Alastair had argued, that the young man obviously shared the common social values of marriage and family – after all, that’s why he had been in the jewellery shop, to pick out an engagement ring for his long-term British girlfriend. He was expressing his wish to form a strong marital bond. Something Alastair couldn’t relate to. If it hadn’t been for Isabeau, he’d have asked the young man – Seamus – if he wanted to take Katherine off his hands.
Well, for the jeweller in the hospital and the constables of the MET, it must have been quite difficult to understand why a violent offender was released to mock the authorities to his friends as soon as he stepped foot out of the courthouse, but when it came to things like this, even Alastair’s wife (or rather especially her) found his work rather questionable. But explaining the legal system to other people, who wouldn’t understand it anyways wasn’t his job. His job was to exploit that system using every trick in the book. He had made his money and career doing good things for bad people. Rich people, but nonetheless bad people.
That was it. And he had mastered it perfectly.
He was an excellent criminal defence lawyer, a young prodigy in his day, employed by the most prestigious corporate law firm in the country (unfortunately belonging to his father and two other old rich white men), ready and available around the clock.
It was stressful, of course it was and as he had proven time and time again not always compatible with his family responsibilities and that was why he found himself at the door of this mindfulness guy, who wouldn’t open his stupid door and let him in goddamn it – his neck stared to tense up as he glared the door down.
He got a lot in exchange for all that stress. A company car, expensive tailored suits, even more expensive watches. He hadn’t cared about status symbols before and in his time in university he almost imagined himself living a lot simpler and happier, but once one became a lawyer representing an English Lord who happens to also be the head of an organised crime ring, status symbols start to matter. If only because as a lawyer, you become a status symbol. Sometimes he felt more like a dog on a leash than anything else.
A dog with a large office, aforementioned mahogany designer desk and five figures a month, but a dog nonetheless. So, he never saw the home said five figures got his daughter and more-or-less-against-his-will-wife Katherine. With the latter he additionally only ever seemed to argue. Alastair, because he was irritated by his work, which he couldn’t tell her and didn’t want to, because she already hated it and complained about whenever she could; and Katherine because she took care of a little girl alone all day, a kid she never quite wanted in the first place. Katherine wasn’t a bad person, even though Alastair’s father had approved of her, but she must’ve imagined her marriage to go differently and lately she seemed to be missing her own job she had given up.
It wasn’t that Alastair had always wanted a child, or a marriage, but now that he had both more or less forced upon him, he had grown really fond of the little girl. Not only wasn’t it her fault she was here, she was really one of the last people who could be blamed for it, she was also incredibly honest, bright and good-hearted. She saw the world through a lens that Alastair almost envied her for. Being around his daughter was maybe the only part of his day he looked forward to.
Even though he had never thought himself capable, he loved her and he loved being a father to a little human, who loved him back so unconditionally it almost hurt.
Since Alastair was the one who was keen on having Isabeau around and he was the only one with a job to reconcile with his family life, Katherine had decided that he was the one who had to better himself. The fact that she was right with that was one he wouldn’t admit under torture.
She had sent him to this mindfulness coach, this disrespectful lunatic who wouldn’t open his godforsaken door. Alastair felt his entire body tensing up, grinding his teeth. He rang the doorbell a second time.
And finally, the door opened to reveal a man standing there as though he had been lurking this whole time, just waiting for the second ring. He was older than Alastair, looking to be in his late fifties.
“Our appointment was for eight o’clock.” He stated, then turned and walked down the hallway without another word. Alastair followed him into a minimalistic, naturally lit office.
The man looked well-groomed and put together in a casual way. Gray hair neatly pushed back, a full beard and sporting a moustache with a swing in it, that gave him an aura of “I’m better than you”. Or maybe it was the way he looked at Alastair. In his outfit, plain, beige jeans, a chunky wool cardigan over a neat plain shirt, complete with bare feet in bamboo sandals, no watch, no accessories, he provided a stark contrast to Alastair in his dark-blue fitted suit, white shirt with polished cufflinks, silvery-teal tie, diamond studded tie-pin, Breitling watch, wedding ring, black socks, Oxford shoes.
Shit, Alastair had probably more accessories on his person than that man had furniture in his office.
“Yes, my apologies. I got stuck in traffic.” After the man’s rude non-greeting, Alastair had more than half a mind to leave. At home he could listen to complaints about him being late for free. “I had a sudden hearing come up. Aggravated robbery, so I couldn’t just-“ Actually, why did he have to be the one talking? Shouldn’t he at least be offered a seat? Or do whatever it was coaches do? Talk?
But the older man was just looking at him, almost like Isabeau studying a beetle. Alastair hoped he wasn’t about to be stabbed with a stick too.
“Look,” Alastair looked down at his watch, if nothing else than to escape the staring contest with this strange man, “if we could speed this up, for the same fee of course-“ he got interrupted by the other man.
“A road doesn’t get shorter when you run.”
God the man’s voice was just as expected. From whatever magazine for wise old men, he had taken that one from, Alastair had read more meaningful sentences on the coffee mug of his secretary.
Alastair supressed a frown. “I still get there faster.”
That made the man chuckle. “Have a seat, won’t you? Can I offer you some tea?”
Finally. He sat down in one of the armchairs around a ridiculously low coffee table. It was however surprisingly comfortable. “Could I perhaps ask for an espresso instead?”
Ignoring his question completely, the coach already poured some into Alastair’s cup, while asking “Green tea alright?” as if he wasn’t already pouring it. He added “Room temperature.”
Alastair cleared his throat. “To be quite honest with you, I’m not sure if this is the right place for me.” He waited for the man to interrupt him, teacup in hand, but much to his dismay and discomfort, he didn’t.
After the two of them stared at each other for a time Alastair found to be distinctly too long, it apparently became clear to the coach too, that the younger man would not finish his sentence. So, he took a first sip of his tea. “I have only known you for thirty minutes, but I think you could learn a lot about yourself here.”
“It’s impossible for you to know me for thirty minutes.” Alastair remarked. “I have only been here for three.”
That seemed to annoy the other man, which Alastair took as a win. “You could have been here for thirty minutes. Obviously, you spent the first twenty-five or so minutes doing something completely different. Then you stood outside the door for three minutes wondering whether to ring the doorbell a second time. Correct?”
“I…”
“After you finally decided to ring again, the three minutes you’ve spent here so far have shown me that you do not consider the rare appointment focusing solely on you to be very important, that you exclusively let your priorities be set by external circumstances, that you think you have to justify yourself to a complete stranger, that you cannot intuitively grasp a situation that deviates from the usual and that you are completely trapped by your habits. How does that make you feel?”
Fuck, he was right.
Alastair gritted his teeth again. “If you’d do me the honour and stand behind me to breathe down my neck too, I’ll feel right at home. We’re not having sex either, so it’ll be just the same.”
The older man almost choked on his green tea and coughed a few times, then burst into laughter. Once he got himself under control again, he held out his hand. “Sebastien Mallory, nice to have you here.”
Alastair wasn’t sure what had been so funny, but he shook the hand regardless. “Alastair D’Argyll, good to meet you.” He wasn’t quite sure of that yet, but the ice was broken.
“So why are you here?” Mallory asked.
Alastair thought about it. He could think of a thousand reasons, or not a single one. And while he felt like he should display a certain openness with a mindfulness coach he was paying to help him, he was absolutely not ready to just display the intimate details of his personal life.
Mallory must’ve noticed his hesitation, because he raised his cup encouragingly. “Just tell me five things that are related to you being here.”
Alastair took a deep breath, then began. “Well, there aren’t enough hours in a day, I can’t relax, I’m stressed out, always tired, my wife annoys me, I never see my daughter, who I’m supposed to care for, and when I can spend time with her my mind is elsewhere. My wife doesn’t appreciate my job, my job doesn’t appreciate me-“
“You cannot count-“
“Beg pardon?”
“Nine of these five things are classic symptoms of work-related stress. A burnout if you will. As I said earlier, I think mindfulness techniques will prove rather helpful to you.”
“Wonderful, can we start?”
“Do you have any idea what mindfulness might mean?”
“I suppose I’m paying good money to find out the next few hours.”
Mallory smiled. “When you were standing outside that door, you experienced it for free.”
“I must’ve been too distracted to notice.”
“That is exactly the point. You stood outside the door for about three minutes, wondering over whether to ring again. For how many of those hundred and eighty seconds was your mind somewhere else?”
“To be honest, a hundred and twenty-six.”
“And where did your mind go?”
Alastair let out a long sigh, eyes wandering over the rim of his teacup to the windows. “A jewellery shop, a police station, my office, my clients, my daughter, to arguments with my wife…”
The older man hummed. “So in just three minutes your mind went to six different places, bringing up all the attendant emotions. As impressive as that is, did that help you at all?”
“No, I-“
“So why did you do it?” the only thing that distracted Alastair from being offended at being interrupted again was the real interest in the man’s voice.
“That is just how it went.”
If one of his clients had said something like that in court, he would’ve not only forbidden him from speaking another word, he would’ve glued his mouth shut to make sure.
“Mindfulness,” Mallory continued, “simply and plainly assures that this will not happen.”
“Aha. And can you explain how exactly?”
“It’s quite simple. When you’re waiting outside a door, you’re waiting outside a door. When you’re having an argument with your wife, you’re having an argument with your wife. If you prefer to use your time waiting outside my door to mentally argue with your wife, you’re not being mindful.”
Alastair nodded slowly, not yet convinced. “And how do I mindfully stand outside a door?”
“You just stand there and do nothing for three minutes. You note that you are standing there and that your world will not veer into chaos if you are just standing there, quite the opposite. If you never judge the moment, you also cannot experience it as negative in any way. You simply perceive the natural state of things. Your breathing, the smell of wood, the wind in your hair, you inhabiting your own body. And if you take yourself in with love, you will have rid yourself of all stress by the time three minutes are up.”
“So, I needn’t have rung the doorbell a second time?”
“You never needed to ring it at all. Standing outside the door without any intention quite suffices.”
The last sentence felt a bit too strange to Alastair’s ears but he felt like he could do something with the rest, or at least the basic principle. Funnily enough he also felt that the tension had left his body. It would however be several more weeks before without the older man knowing, although it was arguable if he would’ve really cared, his teaching would become the mantra for Alastair’s first murder.
Alastair sat patiently as Mallory refilled their teacups.
“Most of our stress is due to a completely distorted idea of what freedom is.”
“Aha.” Mentally Alastair was raising an eyebrow. Outwardly he appeared somewhat interested.
“It is a misconception that freedom means being able to do whatever you want.”
“What is so wrong with that?” It was an actually intriguing statement, because Alastair had been interpreting the meaning of freedom in a rather similar way, one that Mallory seemed to deem wrong.
“It is based on the assumption that we always have to be doing something. That is the main cause of the stress you are experiencing. You are standing outside that door and consider it to be completely normal to be running through all manner of things inside your mind. After all, “thoughts are free”! Yet the problem is exactly that: after those free thoughts gallop away from you it is very hard to corral them again. But you do not have to be thinking at all. Quite the opposite, you can just not think if you don’t want to. Only then are your thoughts truly free.”
“But I do not spend my days just thinking.” Alastair objected, raising his cup of tea to his lips. He took a sip after blowing some air on the lukewarm liquid – for no other reason than that it felt right to do so – and continued. “What bothers me most is what I do.”
“The same applies.” Mallory nodded. “Only once you internalise that you do not have to do what you do not want to do – only then you are truly free.”
He didn’t have to do what he didn’t want to do.
He was free.
Less than four months later, he would seize this freedom uncompromisingly. He would seize it to not do something he didn’t want to do. Unfortunately, this would mean infringing on someone else’s freedom (by taking their life). However, Alastair didn’t agree to take this mindfulness course to save the world, he did it to save himself. Mindfulness after all, didn’t call for him to live and let live, it called for him to live! That this imperative would impact the lives of other, less mindful people, he could actually give less than a damn about. To this day, what still filled him with joy about his first murder, was that he had been able to take them moment with love and without judgement. Exactly how Mallory had advised it that first session.
His first murder had been spontaneously born out of the moment. Out of what he had needed. From that perspective, it had been a very successful exercise in mindfulness.
For him, not for the other man.
But when he had been sitting in that armchair across from Mallory and sipping his third cup of tea, nobody had been dead yet. He was only there to get a better handle on his professional stress (and because his wife demanded it).
“Tell me about your work.” The older man said, leaning back in his chair. “You’re a lawyer.”
“Yes. Criminal law.”
“So, you make sure that every person in this country is ensured a fair trial, no matter what they are accused of? That must be very rewarding.”
“That is what I originally believed when I chose this. When I was in law school, during my apprenticeship, even in the beginning of my career. Unfortunately, I learned that the reality of a successful criminal defence lawyer is completely different.”
“How so?”
“I mainly make sure that assholes don’t get into legally appropriate amounts of trouble. It might not be as morally worthwhile, but it is actually extremely lucrative.”
He continued to tell Mallory about starting at his father’s law firm, how his old man partnered with two other equally old men, that were equally awful people, right after he was admitted to the bar. It was a medium-sized law firm focusing on businesses, including any criminal elements. A pack of suits who presented themselves as legitimate, yet did nothing all day but find new tax loopholes for filthy rich clients and handle the cases of people who, despite Alastair and the others’ best efforts, got stuck with criminal proceedings for tax evasion, white collar crimes, embezzlement or large-scale fraud. Any newcomer wanting to play in this league was expected to graduate with honours as well as complete several unpaid internships – all of which Alastair did, of course. And even of the applicants who met these requirements only one in ten was accepted. To get a job there immediately after the second state examination was considered hitting the jackpot in the job lottery. At the time he thought he had gotten lucky, or that his father might even acknowledge his potential.
“You no longer see it that way then?” Mallory asked.
Alastair was clutching his tea cup and hadn’t even noticed until now. He forced himself to relax his hands and take another sip. “Evidently. Over the years things have turned out a bit differently than I had expected when I was first hired.”
“That sounds like life.” The older man chuckled. “What happened?”
So, Alastair outlined his career in broad strokes. The shocking starting salary and the shocking working conditions. Six and a half days a week, fourteen hours a day. Surrounded by cold blooded donkeys, all chasing the same goal: make partner.
He had to know, he used to be one of them.
His first client was a guy who had never been represented by the firm before. The new client for the new guy. Probably a nicety of his father to really drive home that Alastair’s apparent family connection to a literal owner of this law firm meant less than nothing. The new client was John Watts, but he didn’t use his name. He obviously couldn’t. He just told Mallory that the client was “shady”. Though the word shady was rather an understatement, when it came to Watt’s line of business, but Alastair wouldn’t take the words into his mouth that would describe it more accurately.
The red-light district in which he operated, for one, was flashier than a radar trap catching someone doing 80 in a 50 zone. But Watts’ business was financially successful and he’d been vouched for by another Lord on their client list, who must’ve been more legitimate and more importantly must’ve owed Watts a favour.
At their first meeting Watts said his case was about tax evasion. That wasn’t a complete lie, but it also didn’t match the prosecutions accusations. He had clobbered the tax administrator responsible for his case into hospital after some follow up questions Watts considered too critical. After the administrator had recovered to the point where he could chew solid food and make an official statement, he oddly couldn’t remember any suspicion of tax evasion or Watts visiting his house. He claimed he had a bad fall.
In the years that followed, Watts’ fists, or rather the fists of the people who usually did the punching for him, unless it was a really important lesson, proved even more effective than Alastair’s two law degrees.
He was not only a direct descendant of one of those really old English families that still think aristocracy means something - actually his ancestor was one of the founders of the East India Trading Company - but unbeknownst to the public eye and most of law enforcement he was also a brutal pimp and a big drug and arms dealer. So he was really stepping into these footsteps of his ancestor with all his might.
When Alastair had met him, he didn’t quite do what Alastair would call a good job at hiding his less legal activities behind a number of semi-legal import-export companies. And even for his father’s very broad interpretation of legitimate business, Watts was an… interesting client – pouring a lot of money into his business, but not one you’d want to show off.
And after the partners had shown Alastair every single financial trick in the book, he could bill Watts for, the man became his first professional challenge. He put all his ambition into fixing his god-awful company portfolio and spent countless days and nights to get the entirety of Watts’ operations under the radar of the prosecution. Just like before, Watts’ income was still mainly supplied by drugs, arms and prostitutes, but from that point on Alastair channelled his money through forwarding companies, franchises or cash-based businesses in which he had acquired a stake for Watts.
There was more Alastair both learned and taught about fraud and drug-trafficking, and whatever he had to clean up and brush under the carpet of the courtroom for his client, than he ever had imagined or wanted it to be. Of course, none of his growing competence, or incredible diligence, or his numerous sacrifices were ever acknowledged. And yet, with his help, Watts turned from a Lord trying to save his outdated way of life with less than legal, truly disgusting, means, that was eyed by the prosecution service with suspicion, to a respectable businessman.
He had perfected all the skills he had never learned during his studies: How to “influence” a witness, “pacify” the prosecution, bring employees “in line”. In short, he became really good at convincing people.
“And you know why that is?” he asked Mallory, who was currently refilling his cup.
“Enlighten me.”
“At first, because it was in my employment contract. I honestly belief I am not a bad person. I’m actually rather boring, dutiful too – my sense of duty is perhaps my worst quality. And I am fully aware that this system I helped set up can definitely be judged as not good for some people and not good for me either. Any system supporting and rewarding violence, injustice and deceit can absolutely be found not good, possibly evil. However, it is a work of genius. It took me years and years to make it work and it is truly brilliant – not enough people appreciate that – but I fear I never noticed how it changed me from a nerdy honours’ student into the perfect lawyer for organised crime.”
At some point he had just enjoyed mastering the craft. But at heart nothing ever really changed. Despite the expensive suits, Watts wasn’t a legitimate businessman. He was and would remain a violent lunatic. And Alastair would probably always remain overworked and unhappily married.
As part of lawyer-client privilege, he had heard Watts sprout more insane atrocities than Alastair had known to exist and he had poured down legal bullshit all over his competitors and any possible witness to his crimes. Maybe it wasn’t as surprising that he started to reek too. What he never noticed himself, he had been told by his apparently odour-sensitive wife first. She was the one who had finally realised he couldn’t keep this up.
He told Mallory he was afraid of what seemed almost certain by now, namely that he would never make partner at his firm, precisely because of his success handling a client like Watts. He had become a scumbag lawyer, a successful scumbag lawyer, but scumbag lawyers didn’t make partner.
When he explained this to Mallory, Alastair could feel his neck tense up, his breathing grow more laboured and his stomach starting to hurt and twist. Oh, how he hated this idea, that his eternal mantra of “if you just work hard enough, your father has to change his mind about you eventually” was in fact wrong and naïve, and his father would forever keep him around as what was basically a Cinderella situation, but instead of a happy end, he’d get a burnout, a divorce and his daughter taken away.
Across from him, Mallory was nodding. “And why are you doing this to yourself? Is it the money?”
Alastair considered. It would be wrong to say money was the only part of his job that appealed to him. “I love what I do. I just hate the people I do it for.”
“When does this become apparent to you?”
“You mean what I love or hate?”
“Which is the reason why you’re here?”
“The latter.”
“So how does this affect you physically?”
“My neck hurts, my stomach hurts, I feel like I can’t breathe…”
“Then I would like to end today’s lesson with an exercise that should help you with your breathing.” Mallory put down his teacup and stood up in one fluid motion. Alastair followed, still looking sceptically. He didn’t see yet how he was supposed to breathe away a psychopathic felon and a wife that didn’t understand him.
“Please stand up straight. Back straightened, chest slightly forward, knees bent, legs shoulder wide.” The older man demonstrated, Alastair emulated.
Nothing happened.
“And now?”
“Are you breathing yet?”
“I have been for thirty-five years.”
“Now pay attention to only your breath.” Mallory instructed. “Where in your body do you feel it?”
“I feel it in- “
“That was a rhetorical question.” God’s if he didn’t stop interrupting Alastair, he would start breathing Mallory away. “The beauty of this exercise is, that it does not matter where you feel your breath. The important thing is that you feel it. So, you do not have to answer those questions about your breathing to me, but to yourself. The only thing that matters is that you become aware of the many enjoyable things happening in your body. Your breath is both the reason and the proof that you are alive. Which is a miracle – not for you specifically, but for all living beings. Our breath is what connects our body to our soul. So, where do you feel your breath when you inhale?”
Alastair didn’t say anything and just felt.
“And where do you feel your breath when you exhale?”
Again, he didn’t say anything.
“And now try to feel your body as a whole.”
Alastair went on breathing and feeling. Which was boring as fuck.
“So that’s mindfulness?” He asked, trying to wrap things up.
“Yes, if you’re minding your breath, you’re being mindful.”
“And that will somehow change the idiots around me?” Alastair raised an eyebrow.
“No, if breathing could do that, I wouldn’t be here, I would be breathing the world a better place. It will however change your reaction to those idiots.”
“So, the idiots will still be there?”
“Yes, but the influence on your well-being will not. So now, how are your rapid breathing, your neck tension and your stomach ache?”
Alastair tried to simply feel again. Everything was gone. Astounding.
“Gone.” He stated.
“So – the next time your wife annoys you or somebody in your office pisses you off, I’d like you to just go to the toilet to breathe.”
“The toilet?”
“You can also breathe through your mouth. Or somewhere else. In any case it will provide you with a protected space. For three breaths simply feel your body then you breathing will be regular again. After that you will feel better. And you will find it easier to tackle any problem. Enough for today?”
“Yes.” It was a lot to think about certainly. And even more to work on, if he really wanted to integrate all that into his day-to-day life.
“Well spend the next twelve weeks practicing this. Not only will you have drunk your weight in green tea, you’ll be more equipped to handle the stress from assholes at work. You’ll take control of your life, blocking out time just for Isabeau. No work thoughts, no cell phone, only you and your daughter.”
That sounded just as promising as it sounded hard to establish. “So… same time next week?”
“No. On time next week.” Alastair stared at Mallory for a few moments, before he shook the hand that was offered to him.
On his way home, Alastair contemplated this first session. None of what Mallory had told him seemed completely off the mark. And at least all the tension in his neck was gone. From then on, he met with Mallory ever Thursday around eight o’clock. Usually, a little later.
At first, it wasn’t easy to integrate mindfulness into his daily routine.
Meditating in your office, when there’s a secretary that is hellbent on making your day worse on purpose just outside your door, is harder than Alastair had initially thought it would be. Maximilian Geraint had been secretary in this law firm for longer than Alastair could remember and the older man had hated him since his first day. Alastair had never figured out why that was, but he had his suspicions.
Ignoring calls was also a taboo at his job. The first time he dared to not pick up a call from Watts, the man almost tore him a new one over the line.
But turning his phone off served to redirect Watts’ rage. Instead of yelling at Alastair, he cursed out service area dead zones. It allowed Alastair to carve out that quality time, sacred moments with Isabeau, free of any distraction, especially less than legal distractions by shady clients.
Mallory’s techniques even smoothed out the waves between him and Katherine. Upon his suggestion Alastair moved out of their house for a while so he could focus on, well, focusing. What he initially doubted turned out to work more than just well, because as it turned out Katherine was really into the new set-up. She was relieved to say goodbye to the man she was constantly arguing with and even more relieved that she was keeping the house.
And it was good for Alastair too, bringing his new-found mindfulness into the office. Fitting in small breaks to ease his tension let him roll a lot of the jealousy he felt off his back. When Geraint stopped him on his way to his office the other day, he would’ve been eaten up by jealousy before. The older man held up a ledger.
“You need to sign here.” When he saw Alastair hesitate, he glanced behind himself, where other people in suits were toasting with champagne glasses. Augustus D’Argyll, who was among them, didn’t even notice his son standing in the door. Or perhaps he did and just didn’t care.
“Oh…” Geraint put on a little frown. “You weren’t invited?”
When Alastair didn’t answer him, he followed his gaze to the younger man in a red suit who just toasted to Alastair’s father, who patted the man on the shoulder. “Look at that.” Geraint chuckled. “He made partner. Didn’t he join three years after you?”
Alastair inhaled.
Then he exhaled, turned around, poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot that accompanied the buffet for the celebration of the new partner and made his way to his office.
Setting the cup down, he moved the picture of Isabeu, Katherine and himself back into place. It was the last day before the weekend – which he had taken off - and he would get some work done so there was really no, absolutely no chance of something disturbing his weekend. He had plans with his daughter. An extra special time island for just the two of them. One of the benefits of being the best and only lawyer of a now filthy rich Lord who happened to be the boss of a mafia clan was, that said Lord owned a few estates that were not in use and literally just for having them in case he needed a fancy location for a shady party.
One of those estates was a beautiful old house bordering on a lake. The house itself had been built in Victorian times and had belonged to Watts’ family for generations. Technically Alastair saved it from being sold by fixing Watts’ finances and business model. With the funds for such an endeavour obtained through good management, the estate had been renovated, which had been long overdue. Once rid of asbestos and lead paint, the house and surrounding garden with access to the lake turned from a health hazard in more than one way to a prestigious party location for John Watts and his friends.
And it would serve as a luxurious get-away for Alastair and his daughter for the weekend. God, he couldn’t wait.
He took the book Mallory had given him out of his classy old leather briefcase. The title read “Slowing down in the fast lane – mindfulness for leadership personnel by Sebastien Mallory”, the latter had given it to him upon finishing their last appointment. “In case you need to read up on some details.” The older man had explained. “Let me know if you’ll try the advanced course.”
Alastair really hoped he would never need an advanced course. What he learned was working more than well so far.
It was working so well, that on the next day at 10am sharp, he was ringing the doorbell of his house, where he didn’t live anymore.
Katherine opened the door, looking surprised. “Hi.”
“Hey.” Alastair looked past her briefly for any sign of Isabeau.
Katherine raised an eyebrow. “Is something wrong?”
Now Alastair furrowed his brows, checking the watch on his wrist again. “Is my watch off? We said ten.”
“Yeah.” Katherine said. “And you’re here. At ten.”
Alastair gave her a sharp, joyless smile. “Evidently.”
Then he heard footsteps from inside and not a second later a little girl stormed past her mother. “Papa!” She rushed to hug Alastair, which greatly improved his mood. He picked the little ball of energy up. “Hey! How’s my girl?”
Katherine chuckled. “Are you exited?”
Isabeau nodded enthusiastically. “Yes!”
Alastair let her down again. “Get your jacket and grab your backpack.”
“Okay!” she grinned and raced inside again, before returning with both not a minute later, rushing past her parents and going straight for Alastair’s car.
Katherine handed Alastair a large bag. “Here are her supplies. One outfit per day, plus extras. She has three swimsuits, change them after every swim.” Upon Alastair’s raised eyebrow she added “To avoid infection.” All this already sounded extensive to Alastair and he started wondering how incompetent his at-this-point-still-wife actually thought he was, when she continued. “This here is her favourite cereal.” He knew that, he wasn’t that shitty of a father. “Not too much milk, or she’ll spill it and make a big mess.” One day he would figure out, what problem adults had with children being a little messy. In most circumstances, those messes could be cleaned. And that came from him, who hadn’t spilled a drop of coffee on his suit since he started owning them.
“Apply fresh sunscreen every four hours.” Katherine continued. “I checked the weather app. The UV index is extremely high this weekend. And stick to her bedtime, or you’ll throw off her schedule. And most importantly, make sure the mafia idiots stay away.”
“Mhm.” Alastair replied.
“Do you hear me, Alastair?” Katherine warned, looking stern.
“Yes, Katherine. I swear to you, if I get a hint of mafioso activities, I am calling off the trip. I’m not stupid.” Katherine looked like she wasn’t convinced, especially of the last part. “I’ll take her someplace else.” He smiled sickly sweet, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll make sure you get your big spa weekend.”
“It’s not about me, it’s about Isabeau.”
“Mhm.” Now it was Alastair’s turn to not be convinced. He raised a second eyebrow to really drive home that impression.
“She has been telling everyone that she’s going to the lake with her Papa on a time island. Alastair, this has to work.” She pointed her index finger at him and Alastair noticed that she had taken off her wedding ring. “You owe this to our daughter, do not mess this up. You’ve never gone on a trip with just you two.”
Alastair swatted her hand away. He was getting annoyed by her worrying, as if he was a child too. “Katherine, I guarantee you, this will all go fine. I promise there’ll be no surprises. It’s all good.”
He didn’t know that with those words he already dug his grave in the eyes of the universe. He should’ve known that saying those things was more than tempting fate, it was looking fate into the eye, flipping it off and yelling “Come at me!”. Which was a bad thing to say to a universal power like fate.
It would already go badly, but without his mindfulness training and his commitment to what he learned, it could have been a lot worse in the long run.
With Isabeau already yelling from the car “I wanna go swimming, Papa! Hurry up!” he was about to turn around, when Katherine stopped him for one last time.
“When you get back, we need to talk about Isabeau’s preschool. We keep getting turned down.”
Alastair drew a deep breath. “Yes. Sure.” He exhaled, gave a curt smile and turned to leave.
And just like that they were off to their special weekend.
Within the first half an hour of their drive they had disobeyed one thing Katherine had asked for – no junk food. Sworn to secrecy, Isabeau was holding a box of chips with ketchup. She had already devoured her nuggets. Alastair didn’t feel particularly bad about it. Technically he hadn’t promised anything about the food, simply nodded along as Katherine had gone off about her wishes days before the trip.
The little girl was happily munching her chips in her pink booster seat, swinging her legs and humming happily when Alastair’s cell phone started ringing.
“Shit.” He let out. His little daughter frowned at him. “You’re not supposed to say shit.” She stated.
“Fuck.” Alastair stared at the caller ID.
“That’s better.” Isabeau continued to chew happily. She observed as her father grinded his jaw, looking between the road and the caller. “You shouldn’t answer.” She stated, looking at Alastair expectantly.
“Yes, but there could be an issue with the place we’re going.” He drew in a breath. For example, Watts could be throwing a party there with a bunch of cocaine and hookers.
The ringing continued for a few more seconds before Alastair decided to pick up. “Yes?”
“Where are you, lawyer?” Watts’ voice blared at him through the speaker of the car.
“Hello, John.” Alastair looked at the road pointedly. “Isabeau is with me, you’re on speaker. We’re driving-“ he couldn’t finish his sentence.
“Fuck Isabel. I need you here, now. We’re going out for ice cream.”
“Yay!” Isabeau chipped from the passenger seat. “I want some!”
Alastair felt a cold sweat form on his brows as he stopped the car and turned around. Isabeau continued to cheer. “Yay, ice cream! Ice cream! Ice cream!”
Except that Watts didn’t mean the kind of ice cream Isabeau had in mind. “Ice cream” was a code word. Watts only had used it once before, during a major crisis, which was the cause of Alastair’s distress right now. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, as well as Katherine’s unfortunately justified rage if she ever found out. “Ice cream” meant “Drop what you’re doing and get your ass here.” And it wouldn’t matter to Watts that Alastair had his daughter with him.
Isabeau looked at him with big eyes. “You okay, Papa?”
“Mhm, yeah.” Alastair gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Papa just has to run to his office. And as soon as I’m done, we’ll get ice cream.”
When they exited the elevator to the floor Alastair’s office was on, they were immediately stopped by Geraint. “I hope you don’t have any clients scheduled for today. Not in those clothes.” He snarled and gestured half-heartedly at Alastair’s teal Polo-Shirt and white linen pants.
“No, I do.” Alastair replied with a snarky smile. “So, I’d like to know if Mr. Lafayette might be able to watch my kid.”
“He is one of our trainees.” Geraint pointed out, folding his hands. “Not a babysitter. He assists the partners, not the grunt employees” and with a dirty side look at Isabeau he added: “and their children.”
Alastair breathed away the urge to introduce the man’s face to his fist, or his kneecaps to his shoe and simply stared him down. “Mr. Geraint, I am very sorry you spend your time getting paid mere peanuts compared to the lawyers you work for and that you’re here every weekend, because you don’t have a family and nothing better to do.” He ignored the shocked gasp from Geraint and the look of horror on his face and moved on. “But constantly wielding the mere modicum of authority you have been allotted won’t do anything to make you feel better about your life.” He gave Maximilian a look of fake pity, then turned around to his daughter.
“Come on hon, we’ll see for ourselves if Gilbert’s around.”
“Papa” Isabeau asked as they walked down the hallway. “Does the old man live here?”
“Yes, you could say that he does.” Alastair didn’t honour Geraint with another look as they walked. “Old Mr Geraint tends to everything here like it’s his own home.”
A minute later he knocked politely before opening the door to one of the numerous offices on the floor. “Hello Gilbert.”
The young Frenchman looked up from the lawbooks he was studying diligently. Streaks of his hair were hanging into his face, where he had messed up his neat gelled back look, by – no doubt – running his hands through it in desperation and stress. Oh, Alastair remembered when that had been him. Good times, simpler times. When he was still sure, all his efforts would amount to something someday. When he still had hopes and dreams. He took a deep breath and focused on the here and now again. “Could you share some of those nice neon markers with my daughter for half an hour?”
Another minute later, Alastair stepped back into the elevator.
The law firm’s ground floor had this ice cream shop, one of those places that was never open when you walk by. He had leased it through one of Watts’ subsidiaries. It was just another tax write-off.
You could only reach the shop’s personnel rooms by elevator, only two access keys had ever been printed. One for John Watts and one for Alastair. The latter one breathed deeply, before setting foot out of said elevator and into the dark basement ahead of him.
In the unused kitchen Watts was already waiting.
As Alastair stepped inside, the door was slowly but deliberately closed by someone. Someone was in this case Watts’ driver, a man named Grayson, that stood at an impressive half a head taller than Alastair, which was so impressive precisely because Alastair was already a tall man himself. Which usually had an imposing effect on witnesses that he wouldn’t deny he liked to take advantage of. The man in the dark blue sweater – Alastair believed he might be Welsh, although there was no actual evidence he had in mind for this, he thought he might’ve heard it somewhere at some point – stood like a wall between Alastair and the door and looked like he didn’t particularly want to be there.
In front of Alastair now stood John Watts, a short man with greying hair and arterial Hypertension whenever something slightly inconvenienced him. Needless to say, the man’s blood pressure was through the roof that day. “Finally!” his voice cut through the empty room. “What took you?”
“I was on my way to the lake with Isabeau.” Alastair leaned against the giant industrial fridge next to him.
“Who is Isabeau?”
“My daughter.”
“Oh yeah, right.” The Lord huffed. “I love children.” Alastair had his doubts about that.
He cleared his throat. “Great, what’s your problem?”
“I’m getting some heat.” Watts said and leaned on the big metal table in the middle of the room.
“How come?”
“Because some dumb drug mule got himself all banged up.”
Alastair had a bad feeling where this might be going. “What’s this got to do with you?”
“Because I’m the one who beat him.” That was of course not quite as common as Watts sending some brute to beat someone up, but not unheard of. Just there had never been any heat over a drug mule catching a beating here and there, at least not in the magnitude that would warrant the use of their code word. But Watts wasn’t done. “And that dickhead’s dead now.”
That was of course a little more difficult. “Repeat that?” Alastair had raised his eyebrows.
“He’s dead.”
“Okay…” Alastair cleared his throat. That could completely ruin his weekend, the trust he built with Katherine and anything else he had worked for, but he could potentially still work it out. “Okay uhm… what exactly happened?”
“Charlie said he heard, someone was slinging product on our turf for half our price.” Watts began.
“Okay…” Alastair nodded along, “but I still don’t see why Charlie involved you, since, as your drug capo, this is his wheelhouse.”
“I know, but he told me Hastings was behind it.”
That was, of course, a completely different thing.
But Watts continued. “We learned that the mule had a meet with Hastings’ man Geoffrey in a parking lot not far from here. Geoffrey was going to move in on our turf! We happened to be in the area…”
Alastair took another deep breath. “That felt like a good reason to go and murder the mule?”
“No, you idiot!” Watts fist hit the metal table and Alastair flinched from the sudden noise. Watts had always been short tempered and violent, but seldom had his aggression been directed at him so directly. “I didn’t murder the mule, I beat Geoffrey to death! Geoffrey works for Hastings!”
Alastair ran his hands through his hair. “John, you’re aware that when one cartel boss goes and kills the right-hand man of another cartel boss, that’s the sort of thing that ends badly?” at this point he had kissed his weekend goodbye. And he was starting to kiss his life goodbye too. Because at this point, Katherine would kill him if she found out.
“Yes, I’m aware of that!” Watts was completely unaware of Alastair’s fear regarding his wife and even if he was, he wouldn’t care. Watts was currently concerned with making Alastair save his ass. Legally and also from Hastings’ wrath.
Henry Hastings was Watts’ arch enemy and economic rival. They had started their career together as partners, until they got into an argument that drove them apart forever. And cost a few lives of course. All before Alastair’s time and if you had asked the lawyer, he could very well live his life without ever meeting Hastings personally.
Watts in the meantime was continuing his explanation. “But Grayson and I wanted to show him where our turf ends and begins, then things got out of control.”
Somewhere behind Alastair the tall man had lit a cigarette with a vintage metal lighter, the kind that still uses a string and petrol. He extended his hand with the lit cigarette past Alastair and towards Watts, who swatted him away. “Not yet!”
With how things were going Alastair would certainly appreciate a cigarette, even though he had quit smoking after his graduation. “Okay… were you spotted?” There was still the off-chance that they could deal with this under the radar of the authorities…maybe.
Watts just looked at him, lips pressed into a thin line. Deep down Alastair wanted to scream. “That’s a yes then.”
“Yes. This goddamn tour bus drove into the parking lot.”
“Full of old tourists that are short-sighted?”
“No! Full of damn 12-year-olds on a field trip or something!”
Forget screaming, forget crying, Alastair wanted to kill Watts with his own two hands. “How many of them saw the fight?”
“I don’t know.” He turned to Grayson. “How many can fit in a fucking bus? 50, who knows?” Grayson just shrugged at that.
“And how many had their cell phone up to film you?” maybe if he got a good swing at Watts, he would count as enough of a threat, that Grayson would just shoot him from behind and he would be free from all of this. No, he couldn’t do that to Isabeau. She was the reason he needed to find a solution for this.
“I don’t know, the whole class! Kids get those damn phones way too young, right?” To that Grayson nodded along and Watts seemed pleased for a second.
“So, we’re talking about up to 50 videos that show you killing someone in front of school children, am I getting this correctly?” Alastair was not breathing; he was hyperventilating at this point.
Why, God why, did he have to work - out of all the shithead criminals there are – for the one that cannot for the life of him, have his impulses under control. Why had John Watts this deep urge to fuck around and find out, exactly then when it was the least convenient and in a manner that made Alastair wish for nothing more, than that he had studied anything else than criminal law, just so he would never have met the man.
“Yes.”
If Alastair wanted to get into heaven and God said, John Watts is on the other side, he would piss on Gods feet for the sole purpose of getting sent back down.
“Are the videos up online?” he took a deep breath. Panicking, or regretting his life choices wasn’t going to get him out of this.
“Yes.” Watts shrugged as if that was obvious. “But they’re shaky. We can say they were doctored, show him Grayson.”
Grayson stepped next to Alastair and held his phone under the lawyer’s nose, on it a video on YouTube. A video that couldn’t have been less shaken, except maybe if the 12-year-old filming had a professional movie camera.
Alastair watched on the small screen of Grayson’s old iPhone how a man – on fire – stumbled out of a white van, shouting and screaming in agony. The children in the background were also screaming, but in fear. Then a man – very clearly Watts – jumped out after the burning man and started beating him with a big metal pipe. When the burning man went to the ground, Watts continued to beat down onto him with the pipe, even after his screams stopped.
Alastair exhaled deeply, fighting the horror in his own veins at just watching a man get brutally pipe murdered and shut the recording off. “So that was Geoffrey?”
Watts pointed at the man on fire. “That was Geoffrey.” Then he pointed at himself. “That’s me.”
“Yes…” he resisted the urge to roll his eyes, mainly to keep his job and his head. “Why did you burn him?”
“We had to light a fire under the guy’s ass. Like I said, it got a bit out of control.” Watts didn’t seem to see anything wrong with this. At all.
Alastair decided to try and ignore anything that was vile, disgusting and wrong about the situation and focus on trying to find a solution for this mess. “What about the drug seller?” Maybe they could somehow turn this-
“Get this. He didn’t have any drugs. He was selling Geoffrey a crate of hand grenades. I found out after we killed Geoffrey.” The more Watts added to this situation, the more Alastair stared to envy kids in those child labour mines, because at least they didn’t have the misfortune to know this man.
“Have you considered,” he had to bite his tongue to keep the profanities out of his speech, “the chance that whoever gave you this tip about the drug hand-off was pulling a fast one, and now we’re in deep shit, all because of sketchy intel?”
Watts hit the metal table again and Alastair jumped at the sudden noise. “How could I have known a fucking school bus would show up?!” he yelled. “With kids inside! The real villain is the driver, he took kids to a place, where we had business to do! Who the hell does that, I’d never do that!” he took a deep breath and straightened his suit. “I love children.”
“Okay.” Alastair supressed a shudder running over his back. Even after all the years of working for the man, he still hated his violent outbursts. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be at the end of one. “Okay…” he turned the recording back on.
Watts in the video now turned to the bus and started running at it with the pipe in hand. The driver seemingly tried to stop him, but Watts raised the pipe at him and he backed off. The kids screamed even louder as Watts ran into the bus and shook the pipe into the faces - and cameras – of the children. Said cameras now showing his face perfectly and in high resolution. “Keep your mouths shut, or I’ll kill you all!” Watts yelled at the children, raising the pipe again, the children screaming. Then the video ended and for a second Alastair saw his own face in the dark reflection of the phone, before Grayson took it back. Alastair had completely forgotten that the man was there, right beside him. He stared into nothing for a few seconds.
“Why did you call me?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” Watts scoffed. “Because you’re my lawyer.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Alastair looked up and grit his teeth. “I’m a lawyer, not a magician! This is way above my paygrade; I do have limits!”
Watts now rounded the table to raise his finger at Alastair. “Don’t whine and fucking do your job, D’Argyll! Or I’ll burn your ass up too!” The older man repeatedly slammed his finger into Alastair’ sternum, which would’ve done a nice job at distracting him from his ever-rising panic attack, if it wasn’t inducing another one.
Alastair turned away, closed his eyes and stared to breathe the nausea away that was building in his stomach. Deep breaths, he needed to clear his head, because he couldn’t think like this. John Watts killed a man. In front of children. Children with phones. Children with phones who had recorded everything and posted it to the internet immediately. And he had to get the old man out of this. Somehow. Or Watts would – literally or metaphorically, Alastair wasn’t sure which one yet – burn him and all that he had built for himself. And if that happened, he could kiss his daughter, his wife, his house, his job, everything he worked so hard for, goodbye. Then all he had sacrificed, countless hours of work and all the work he had done on himself too, would amount to absolutely nothing. He’d either get fired, possibly because he’d be serving a prison sentence, or Watts would just have him killed. Probably not in a fast and easy way either. Especially if Charlie would be the one to do it.
Breathe, he needed to breathe. Not hyperventilate.
He took a deep breath. Then another one.
And another one. And another one.
His head slowly started to clear, maybe he-
“Hello?” Watts clapped his hands. “Stop stalling!”
“Okay. Turn yourself in.” Alastair threw up his hands. “Just a thought. I wouldn’t be able to get you off though. Not with that evidence.”
Watts gasped. “Have you gone insane?!”
“Okay, option two.” Alastair had started pacing a little. “Forget option one. Hm, but then you won’t be safe inside a jail, protected from Hastings.”
Watts grabbed his shoulder, stopping him from his pacing. Alastair stared at Watts hand on his shoulder, where his old fingers dug into the polo shirt. He didn’t like it when people touched him. “We have our roles in this world, boy. Or have you forgotten? I make messes, you clean up.” He pointed his other index finger at himself and then Alastair, before releasing his shoulder with a push. “Go on. Clean! Fix it!”
Alastair looked from his shoulder to Watts after stumbling back a step. “Go into hiding then. Put your head down for a while. For 30… 40 years.”
Watts nodded. “That could work.”
“It’s a joke.”
“How so?”
“You wouldn’t even be able to leave the building; the block is full of undercover cops!” Alastair practically threw his hand towards the door and the tiny windows just below the ceiling (that were thankfully closed), almost hitting Grayson in the face, who still hovered around like a ghost. A very large, muscular ghost. Alastair was desperate for Watts to finally grasp that he had manoeuvred himself into such a corner, that the corner practically had four walls and wasn’t a corner, it was a prison cell. And the more detail Watts had added and the more of the video Alastair had seen, the more that prison cell had lost company, light and the option to ever get out of it again. In Alastair’s head, his client was looking at one of those medieval holes in the ground, those that they just threw people in to never be seen again.
Honestly the man deserved it!
He had not only brutally bludgeoned a man to death with a metal pipe AND set him on fire- no, he had also threatened 12-year-old kids with a metal pipe! For all Alastair cared, Watts could rot in the deepest, darkest cell the Tower of London had to offer and be – like he had seen in a documentary about England in 1886 a few years back – waterboarded everyday until his eventual death.
Then again, he wasn’t really a supporter of the death penalty, or crimes against humanity.
He really was not a violent man.
Watts… personality just did that to him sometimes.
“We could take your car.” As if to support Alastair’s mental claim, the man presented his next, cockeyed, featherheaded, imbecilic idea of the day. “I’ll get in the trunk and you could drive me out.”
“No, John, please.” Alastair shook his head. “I’ve got my kid. We can’t drive across Europe for you.”
Watts waved his hand dismissively. “What, who said Europe? Just out of this town!” He walked up to Alastair, patting his shoulder. “Your kid will be a great cover. Isobel.”
“Isabeau.” Alastair gritted his teeth; his index finger jammed into Watts’ chest before he could think better of it. “The kid whose weekend you’ve ruined and who’s life you’re risking has a name and it’s Isabeau.”
Watts grabbed Alastair’s hand so hard, the lawyer feared for broken bones, wincing and shrinking in on himself from the pain. “Fuck that snot rag!” the older man sneered. “What about my life?!”
He pushed Alastair back, who stumbled and hit his back against the metal table, supressing a pained noise as the edge dug right between two vertebrae. Watts meanwhile walked towards the door, fixing the sleeves of his dress shirt. “I’m going to go down to the garage.” He looked back at Alastair. “You will go get your kid and then you will drive me to the damn lake house. With your Isabel.”
Alastair had just managed to catch his breath, his knuckles turning white at his hands gripping the edge of the table, fingernails scrapping against the metal. Aforementioned side, brought out by John Watts, was having a last-straw-moment. “Her name is Isabeau, you fucker!” he snapped, much louder than anticipated.
His words rang back at him from the empty room and metal surfaces and for a second there was silence. This side of him was unhealthily quick with its words.
With two large steps Watts was around the table again, grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head down on the metal table so hard his ears rung and his eyes stared to water, vision going out for a good few seconds, returning only in spots as his world was spinning. Long before he knew where up and down was again, he could hear Watt’s voice through the horrible noise in his head, even if he couldn’t see him just now, vertigo filling his senses. “Nobody calls me fucker.” The voice was dangerously close to his good ear. “You should thank God, I need you to drive me, I’d crush your skull right here. And then your daughter's. Do you understand me?”
“Yes…” Alastair wheezed out. “I do.”
“Good.” Watts let go of his hair and stepped away. Alastair didn’t move until the man was long gone and Grayson with him. He thought he heard Grayson linger in the doorway a few seconds after Watts was gone, but he didn’t pay much attention to it. He was waiting for the world to end, as well as his senses to return to him and for his head to stop spinning.
When he knew again what up and down was, he slowly stood upright and – just like Mallory taught him – took a deep breath.
And then, something shifted.
A sense of absolute calm, total peace, settled deep inside his soul. Struck with a ray of wisdom. Just stay in the moment. That’s it. Embrace the mindfulness techniques he had learned.
When he’s driving a getaway car, he’s driving a getaway car. And when he’s at the lake, he’s at the lake. It was that simple. What good would it do to try and think beyond the present moment? He couldn’t predict the future, so he wouldn’t stress about it.
He wasn’t delusional. He knew full well, he was breaking every promise he’d made to Katherine about this weekend. Instead of driving to the vacation home with relaxation in mind, he’d be driving there with a world-class psychopath in the trunk. And his kid in the backseat. But this was all for her. If he wanted to save Isabeau’s life, to save his own life, he had to do this. He had to do what John Watts wanted.
Even if his life would be in danger forever.