Wednesday, 11 June 2014
11:32 A.M.
The tailored white shirt landed in a crumpled ball on the bathroom floor, the warm coffee seeping into the Egyptian cotton. Selecting a replacement from the master bedroom wardrobe, Lucas started to pull it on in front of the mirror.
He sighed at the sight of his paunchy body, an angry red mark across his chest from where the scalding drink had branded him. He did up the buttons as quickly as possible, tucking himself in as he rushed back down to the living room, where a rake-thin man in his mid-sixties was sat tapping away on his BlackBerry.
“I’m so sorry about that,” said Lucas, lifting his chair out of the wet patch on the floor and taking a seat. “I keep doing things like that at the moment.”
The man watched him carefully: “Is everything all right, Lucas?” he asked.
Although there in a professional context, the two men had known each other for years.
“Fine,” he replied unconvincingly.
“I just mean . . . that you seem a little out of sorts, if you don’t mind me saying. Nothing’s prompted our meeting today, has it?”
“Not at all,” Lucas assured him. “This is just something I’ve been putting off for a while. I feel I’ve been remiss in not taking care of it sooner, after . . . well, after . . . after . . .”
The older gentleman smiled kindly and nodded:
“Of course . . . So, this is all refreshingly simple. I’ll just run through the gist of it: ‘I revoke all former wills and testamentary dispositions made by me . . . I appoint Samuels-Wright and Sons, Solicitors, to act as the executors of this will . . . Subject to the payment of debts, funeral, and testamentary expenses, I leave my residuary estate in its entirety to the Great Ormond Street Hospital Charity.’ Blah. Blah. Blah. ‘Lucas Theodor Keaton.’ All sound about right?”
Lucas hesitated for a moment and then, failing to steady his shaking hand, removed a USB memory stick from his pocket. He held it out to his acquaintance:
“There’s also this.”
The solicitor took it from him and looked at it inquisitively.
“It’s just a message . . . to whom it may concern . . . should the time come,” Lucas explained self-consciously. “To explain why.”
Nodding, the solicitor placed the memory stick into a pocket of his briefcase:
“That’s a very thoughtful touch,” he told Lucas. “I have no doubt that they’d want to hear from the person who’s leaving them this . . . frankly staggering sum of money.” The man was about to get up, but then he paused. “You’re a good man, Lucas. Few who have reached your dizzying heights of wealth and influence remain impervious to all of the ego and bullshit . . . I just wanted to tell you that.”
When Lucas arrived for his appointment with Alexei Green, the psychiatrist was occupied with a stunningly attractive woman. Although engaging with her politely, he appeared utterly uninterested in the very clear signals that she was putting out:
“I mean it. Literally the day after I attended your lecture on everyday applications of behavioral neuroscience, I submitted a request to alter the focus of my thesis.”
“Ah, well, you’ve got behavioral neuroscience to thank for that . . . I couldn’t possibly take the credit,” Green joked.
“I know it’s cheeky to ask this, but even just an hour talking with you would be . . .” The woman made an excited squeal, placed a hand on his arm, and laughed.
From the doorway, Lucas watched in awe as she swooned over the psychiatrist, intoxicated by his charm.
“I’ll tell you what . . .” started Green.
The receptionist rolled her eyes.
“. . . why don’t you have a word with Cassie over there and she’ll find us a time to do lunch next week?”
“You’re serious?”
“You’re at that event in New York next week,” Cassie’s bored voice called from behind the desk.
“The week after, then,” Green promised, finally noticing his patient loitering in the doorway. “Lucas!” he called. He had to give the woman a gentle shove in the right direction to get her moving as he welcomed him into his office.
“You know, it’s OK to be angry with the person . . . with the people who did this to you and your family,” said Green delicately.
The sun disappeared behind a cloud, throwing the office into gloom. All of a sudden, the ornate lampshade, oversized chairs, and solid wood desk, which usually gave the room a homely ambience, appeared stale and dead, the psychiatrist, too, merely an ashen copy of himself.
“Oh, I am angry,” Lucas told him, gritting his teeth. “But not with them.”
“I don’t understand,” said Green, a little sharply. He quickly amended his tone: “Imagine that I was the man who had traveled into Central London that day carrying an explosive device with the sole aim of murdering as many people as possible. What would you want to say to me?”
Lucas stared into space while he considered Green’s question. He got up and started to pace the room. He could always think more clearly when he was moving:
“Nothing. There isn’t a single thing I’d want to say to him. There would be as little point in me taking my anger out on him as there would an inanimate object . . . a gun . . . a knife. These people are no more than tools, brainwashed and manipulated. They are but puppets for a cause far bigger than themselves.”
“Puppets?” asked Green, a mixture of interest and skepticism in his voice.
“They behave like wild animals when they’re set loose,” Lucas continued, “drawn towards the greatest concentration of their prey, and we . . . we cluster together in these enormous numbers, unconsciously baiting them, playing the odds that our luck will hold out, that it’ll be somebody else’s turn to die. And all the while, the people actually holding the strings, just like those responsible for our protection, play us all like chess pieces.”
The words looked to have struck a chord with Green, whose gaze was fixed firmly on the window across the room.
“Apologies for the monologue. It’s just that . . . I find it really helpful talking to you,” admitted Lucas.
“Sorry?” asked Green, a million miles away.
“I was saying, I was wondering whether we might be able to increase the frequency of our sessions, perhaps meet twice a week from now on?” Lucas asked, attempting to hide the desperation in his voice. “I appreciate that you’re away next week, though . . . New York, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. That’s right.” Green smiled, still mulling Lucas’s words over in his head.
“You go often?”
“Five, six times a year. Don’t worry—I won’t have to reschedule our appointments often,” Green assured him. “But yes, of course. If you are finding our sessions beneficial, we can certainly step them up. But as you’re making such impressive progress, I wonder whether I might try something a little bit different with you . . . a fresh approach, if you will. Do you think you might be ready for that, Lucas?”
“I do.”