Page 36 of The Lost Zone (Dark Water #3)

“It’s just too hard, Solange,” he whispered to the photo.

“You understand, don’t you?” He glanced at the picture of his father.

Noah had always insisted his son work his way up from the factory floor before he could sit in the design studio .

Alex hadn’t wanted to listen then, and he didn’t now.

Had he ever had to work hard at anything?

School and university had always come easy to him – even Neil had berated him for that.

He had watched the amount of effort his mother and Charles had put into training for the Olympic gold medal – why did he think he should be exempt from sustaining that degree of effort to achieve a goal?

Or maybe it was because his childhood had been swallowed up in that great endeavour that he resented any attempt by others to impose the same kind of order and discipline on him.

He sighed. He kept asking himself who he was.

Maybe it was time to ask himself who he wanted to be.

The following Sunday, he went to the gym when he knew Two would be performing his yoga practice. He sat and watched him silently until he finished, and then he approached him.

“Please, I know I screwed up, but I want to try again. I’ll work harder this time, I promise, and I’ll do everything you say.”

Two shook his head wearily. “No. Thank you, but no. I appreciate the apology, but this time, I think the effort must come from you.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“No, you’re here to hand your problem back to me.

Then you can rail against me when you’re tired, frustrated, or find it too difficult.

When you can’t find the right song to help you anchor, when you can’t find the discipline you need to concentrate on your breathing, and when you’d rather scream emotionally at everyone who’ll listen than empty your face and stay safe behind your mask.

I’m not your whipping boy, Alex. This is your task and yours alone.

I’ve given you all the tools you need – it’s up to you now. ”

He patted Alex gently on the arm and then left.

Alex stared after him glumly. Catching sight of himself in the mirrored gym wall, he took in the dejected set of his shoulders and the stubborn line of his lips.

His intelligent, quicksilver eyes always betrayed him, his expressive face showing every single emotion, especially if it was negative.

He’d never found an anchor song. Maybe that would help. He went to the music library and scrolled through it once more, but found that he’d listened to most of the songs already and none of them had worked.

Frustrated, he returned to the mat and decided to work in silence. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, facing the mirror, he went through his meditation, his breathing exercises, and then his yoga poses, trying to keep his mind clear, his face empty.

The window was ajar, and from the floor below, he could hear the sounds of the church service that Belvedere held every Sunday.

He’d rejected his father’s Floodite faith years ago, and Two had never shown any interest in attending the services, but Three was devout, and he and Four went every week.

Five sometimes accompanied them, although more for something to do, Alex suspected, than because he was a believer.

Some of the staff attended, too. It was a small affair, but they played taped music and said a few prayers.

Alex had never heard the service before, because he and Two had always played music during their Sunday-morning sessions.

Now, familiar melodies from his youth drifted gently through the window.

He hadn’t been a believer since he was eight years old, but his father had insisted on regular church attendance right up until his mother’s accident.

After that, it had become a battle neither of them cared to fight.

Moving fluidly through the poses, he gazed at himself intently as he worked.

If he messed up a pose, could he do so without reacting, without even a glimmer of a grimace?

He tried to do every move without showing a trace of emotion.

It took immense concentration, but the weeks of practice had helped him more than he thought.

He moved and held pose, moved and held… His body was supple and his breathing controlled, his face empty. He wasn’t here… he wasn’t Alex Lytton, he was a perfect servant, ready and willing to offer whatever his houder desired from him.

He came to with a start. What had just happened? One minute he’d been concentrating hard, and the next… Several minutes had passed, and he’d been in a state of such flow he’d barely noticed.

Somehow, it had all come together at the same time – the breathing, the movements, the impassive face… and it had felt effortless. Through the open window, he recognised the last few bars of St Francis’s prayer being sung by a female vocalist with a hauntingly beautiful voice.

Make me a channel of your peace,

Where there’s despair in life let me bring hope,

Where there is darkness only light,

And where there’s sadness ever joy.

He was familiar with the song from his youth but had never paid it much attention before.

There was something about the slow, simple intonation and the even tone of the rhythm – there were no great changes in melody, nothing dramatic, nothing to jolt him out of his headspace.

He asked the music system to find the song, then he closed the window and played it on constant repeat.

He listened carefully to the words, homing in on the meaning. One verse in particular resonated:

Oh, Master grant that I may never seek,

So much to be consoled as to console,

To be understood as to understand,

To be loved as to love with all my soul.

This, surely, was at the heart of his new persona as the perfect servant.

He must expect nothing for himself and learn to give his service freely to others.

It wasn’t enough to pretend; he must inhabit his servitude completely, so there were no gaps around the edges where Alex the servant ended and the real Alex began.

He must strive to please, to want to serve, to give himself up to this great task.

He must do all this not for himself but for Solange.

After an hour’s hard work, he stared at himself in the mirror, full of wonder.

He could do this. It wasn’t easy, but he could take confidence from the fact that it was possible.

And if he could manage it for an hour, then he could learn how to do it for every hour, every day.

He just had to practise until he became perfect.

He worked hard for the next couple of weeks. Two watched him curiously from afar but said nothing. Finally, when he thought he was ready, Alex approached him one Sunday morning.

“Would you please come to the gym with me? I have something to show you,” he requested politely. He held his breath, hoping that Two would at least agree to this, if nothing else. Two gazed at him searchingly for several seconds, and then, finally, he nodded.

They didn’t speak as they walked to the gym. Alex was trying desperately to remember his breathing and control the nerves in his belly. If he couldn’t do this in front of Two, then what chance was there of doing it for Tyler?

He selected his song, concentrated on his breathing, and gazed at himself in the mirror.

His face emptied, becoming blank, and then he began his yoga poses.

He went through them all twice, from beginning to end, not breaking his flow once, even when he heard something dropping outside with a loud crash.

Anchored by the music, he was nothing. Nobody.

Invisible. He had no wishes, no emotions. He existed only to serve.

Then it was over. He ended the music, turned to Two, and bowed his head to him.

“ Namaste ,” he said softly.

When he looked up, he saw that Two’s eyes were filled with tears.

“Thank you,” Two said softly. “That was perfect.”

Alex was delighted, but he didn’t let that show. “I am learning, but there are some aspects I still need to discuss with you. Will you help me?”

“After such a beautiful display, how could I refuse?” Two smiled and sat down, cross-legged, on the mat.

“I need to work out what to do if I witness someone being hurt,” Alex said. “I know you think I let you down by intervening when F went after D, and maybe I did, but however important my mission is, Solange wouldn’t ask me to put it above everything else – such as, for example, someone being hurt.”

“It’s a good point,” Two said with a sigh.

“Only you can decide your baselines, Alex, and you’re right to decide them in advance, because it’ll be much harder in the heat of the moment.

The minute you intervene, you show who you really are, and that you’ve been lying all along.

Can you live with someone being shouted at?

Hit? Hurt? Raped? Killed? What can you stand by and let happen, and what, in all conscience, requires your intervention? ”

“I think…” Alex considered it. “I think that I was wrong to protect D against F. He was shouting at her, but he’s never been violent towards her, and my mission is too important for me to react like that every time my houder gives an IS a hard time.”

“So, shouting, or more specifically, bullying – can you steel yourself not to intervene or react?” Two asked. “You’ll find it hard – you always do with bullying.”

“Yes, I know, but I think I must. Indies get shouted at and bullied all the time. I won’t last five minutes if I react every time.”

“Good. What else?” Two was watching him keenly.

“I can watch slaps, even a beating, as long as it’s not life-threatening,” Alex said slowly. “I cannot allow myself to intervene unless there is a threat to someone’s life.”