For the Love of Luke

by David C. Dawson

  THE HEAVYSET man walked briskly along the bank of the River Thames. His thick-soled Army boots crunched on the gravel footpath. It was after ten at night, and there was no one else around.

  He approached the side door of the university boathouse and set down the heavy canvas bag he had been carrying. From the pocket of his blue overalls, he pulled out a large metal ring of keys. He flicked them over in his hand, until he found the one he was looking for. The key slipped into the lock and turned easily. The man reached into the canvas bag at his feet and pulled out a pair of blue latex gloves.

  He put on the gloves, pushed the door open, and surveyed the scene in front of him. Sighing, he stepped inside and carefully closed and locked the door. He looked to his right, bent down, and retrieved the key the young suicide victim had laid there earlier. Putting the key in his pocket, he stood and strode across the floor of the boathouse to the corpse. He lifted one of the suspended figure’s arms and felt its pulse.

  After a little over a minute, he dropped the arm, reached into the pocket of his overalls, pulled out a mobile phone, and called a number. While he waited, he walked across to a small black plastic globe mounted on the wall and gently pulled it from its mounting. He walked back to his canvas bag and crouched down on his haunches. A voice spoke in the earpiece of the phone.

  “Yes, I’m at Chiswick now,” the man responded. “The boy used the boathouse just as we planned. I’ve retrieved the camera. Did you get everything?”

  The man shoved the black plastic globe into his canvas bag.

  “Yes, it’s complete,” said the voice on the other end. “We witnessed the event. It was exactly as scripted. No deviations. Please send my congratulations to the doctors. The procedure is flawless. It’s now time to apply it to a larger cast of characters.”

  The man pressed a button on the monitor in his hand. The screen revealed an image of the interior of the boathouse, showing the moment the young man had entered fifty minutes before.

  “Of course,” said the man. “That goes without saying. Pass my gratitude and condolences to Mr. and Mrs. Templeton. Their son proved himself a worthy sacrifice to the battle.”

  He turned and looked back at the boathouse.

  “I’ll clean house here. Then I’ll come back with the video of the event for the doctors to see. They’ll be very pleased with their work.”

  Chapter 3

  RUPERT FLEXED his aching limbs and yawned. The couch had given him an uncomfortable night’s sleep. But with the remains of the bedroom ceiling collapsed on his bed, he had little choice. He looked at his watch. It was 6:00 a.m. Rupert shoved back the covers and sat up. There was little point in lying in discomfort any longer. His neck was stiff, his back was stiff, and there was a bruise on his forehead where he had rolled off the couch onto the coffee table in the night.

  All because of that bloody Yank upstairs. All the same, he was worth a second look.

  Rupert stretched out his long legs and looked down at the bulge in his boxers. Early-morning wood, he wondered? Or stirrings brought on by memories of last night’s encounter? Absently, he scratched himself and planned out his day. He had to be at the editorial meeting at 9:00 a.m. It was in the heart of the BBC’s news operation at the top of Regent’s Street. Late morning, he would head down to Soho to record a commentary for his next documentary film. He decided he would walk to the sound studio, hang around after, and get a bite to eat in Balans restaurant. In the afternoon, he had a routine briefing at the Metropolitan Police headquarters in New Scotland Yard. It was on the edge of Vauxhall, so he would head straight home after and try to sort out the mess in his bedroom.

  He picked up his phone and checked the messages. There was just one, from an unknown number.

  Thanks for coming to my rescue. Sorry I fucked up your apartment. I’ll pay for the damage. Luke XOXO

  Last night, Rupert had written his number on a piece of paper and given it to the paramedics for Luke, as they carried him to the ambulance. At the thought of Luke, his crotch stirred again. He stood up and headed for the bathroom. Time for a shower. A cold one.

  “MORNIN’, SWEETHEART. You look like shit.”

  The woman’s voice had a strong East End accent. It cut through the early-morning quiet of the newsroom like the voice of a stallholder at Billingsgate fish market. Rupert strolled across the vast open floor of the BBC’s news operation toward a diminutive woman. She had long peroxide-blonde hair and held her arms outstretched to him.

  “Morning, Sandra darling,” said Rupert and embraced her. “Love you too, sweetie.”

  “Mmm,” replied Sandra. “Love the smell of yer leather jacket first fing in the mornin’. Gets me all moist for the day.” She reached up and kissed him on both cheeks.

  Rupert laughed.

  “It’s good to be back in reality, after the last two days,” he said.

  “Oh yeah,” said Sandra, “’ow were Lord and Lady Pendley-Evans? You were up at the estate, weren’t yer? Your mum still shaggin’ that new gardener, is she?”

  Rupert set his crash helmet down on the desk next to Sandra’s and slipped the rucksack off his back. He raised a finger to his lips.

  “Shh, darling,” he said. “That’s a malicious, unfounded piece of gossip. Don’t go spreading it around in a newsroom.”

  He winked at Sandra.

  “Anyway,” he continued. “The jury’s out on Juan’s sexuality.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Sandra. She sat down at her desk and turned to her laptop. “Gonna ’ave a pop at ’im yerself are yer? You didn’t tell me he was Spanish. Fancy a bit of chorizo meself.”

  “He’s Argentinian.” Rupert unzipped his leather jacket, slipped it off his shoulders, and hung it on the back of his chair. “I’ll let you know if he swings your way rather than mine.”

  He sat on the BBC standard-issue swivel chair at his desk and groaned as he rubbed the back of his neck and twisted in the chair to try to get comfortable.

  Sandra turned to look at him.

  “What’s wrong wiv you? Been shaggin’ all night again, ’ave yer?”

  “I wish,” replied Rupert. He told her about his encounter with Luke and the events of the night before.

  “An’ you didn’t get to shag ’im? Is that why you’re so fuckin’ miserable?”

  Rupert sighed and switched on his computer. “It’s not always about sex, Sandra.” He turned and raised an eyebrow at her.

  “Rupert Pendley-Evans, you’re so full of shit this mornin’,” she said. “We’ve been workin’ together ’ow long? Two years? Every other mornin’, all I ever ’ear about is your latest conquest. You’ve had more men than I’ve even dated.”

  Sandra cupped her hands under her chin and rested her elbows on the desk. She tilted her head and fluttered her eyelashes.

  “But of course, and I quote the Daily Mail here,” Sandra continued, “the BBC’s latest onscreen reporter, The Hon. Rupert Pendley-Evans, is handsome in that quintessentially English aristocratic way. His tall, athletic build gives him a dominant presence. His wavy brown hair frames a strong, angular face. His piercing blue eyes—”

  She ducked as Rupert threw one of his leather motorbike gloves at her. She caught it and clutched it to her chest.

  “Oh, Rupert,” she teased. “A piece of your clothin’. If only it had been a pair of your boxers. I’d get a bleedin’ fortune for ’em on eBay.”

  “Enough,” said Rupert. “I can’t help it if the tabloids won’t take me seriously.”

  Sandra threw the glove back at him, and he stuffed it inside his crash helmet.

  “Are you comin’ to the briefin’ in ten minutes?” asked Sandra. She turned back to her laptop. “I reckon Eileen’s got ’er iron knickers on again today. She ’ad a real go at me when she came in this mornin’. Reckoned my edit of the refugee story was too rushed. She must be hormonal again.”

  Eileen Jones was the editor in chief of BBC News and Current Affairs, a formidable woman with a razor-sharp mind and a fiery
Welsh tongue.

  The screen on Rupert’s computer flashed into life, and he typed in his name and password.

  “Perhaps she’s just worried about the Parliamentary Select Committee she’s got to address this afternoon,” he said.

  Sandra stopped typing and swiveled her chair back to Rupert.

  “You stickin’ up for ’er now?” she asked. “After iron-knickers Eileen ripped your bollocks off in front of everyone last month over your Royal abdication cock-up?”

  Rupert shivered as he remembered the verbal dressing down Eileen Jones had meted out. In his documentary on the future of the Royal Family, he’d speculated on the threat to the House of Windsor from the present government. He suggested a president might take the place of the monarch, if the Palace did nothing and remained complacent.

  “I’ll be there,” he answered. “I just hope she’s forgiven me by now. I need to get back onto current affairs again. I’m getting bored on the news desk.”

  THE SMALL windowless conference room was packed with nearly thirty journalists, producers, and picture editors. At 9:00 a.m. sharp, Eileen Jones strode into the room.

  “Right,” she said and dropped her laptop on the table. “I’ve got to warn you, I’m not in the best of moods this morning. I’ve got Herbert bloody Humble cross-questioning me on the Parliamentary Select Committee this afternoon.”

  Rupert looked across the table at Sandra and raised an eyebrow. She responded by crossing her eyes.

  “We’ll go through the news agenda in a minute,” continued Eileen. She put on a pair of reading glasses and looked down at her laptop. “But before we do, I’ve got a couple of staffing arrangements I want to announce.”

  The atmosphere in the room chilled immediately. Ever since the recent change of minister at the Department for Culture, talk about cuts to the BBC’s guaranteed, state-backed funding had been flying around in the press. Eileen Jones looked up and peered over her reading glasses at the pairs of anxious eyes staring at her.

  “That got your attention,” she said with a smile. “Don’t panic, ladies and gentlemen. You’ve still got jobs.” She looked around at the sea of faces. “For the moment,” she added and looked across at Rupert. “Mr. Pendley-Evans.”

  Twenty-nine pairs of eyes turned to stare at Rupert.

  “Despite last month’s fiasco, and the chairman having to grovel to the Palace, I want to put you back on current affairs.”

  Rupert clenched his fist under the conference room table in a small personal victory celebration.

  “Thank you, Eileen,” said Rupert. “Do you want me to carry on with the refugee story?”

  Eileen Jones shook her head. “No, I’ll leave Bob and Gemma on that.” She looked across at Sandra. “And try to do a better cut on the pictures next time, Sandra. It’s not a bloody wedding video you’re editing.”

  Eileen turned to Rupert again. Sandra pulled a face at the news editor and slumped back in her seat.

  “Rupert, I want you to work up a piece on these suicide statistics.” She held up a large spiral-bound document. “There’s a new report out from the charity Manwatch,” she continued. “It’s called ‘Desperate Britain.’ Seems like the suicide rate, particularly among young men, has risen steeply in the last four years.”

  Eileen Jones looked over her glasses at Rupert. “I think it could be right up your street.”

  Rupert wrinkled his nose as if someone had just farted. “What the hell’s Manwatch?” he asked. “It sounds a bit daytime to me. Can’t you give it to the kids on Hello Britain!?”

  Eileen took off her reading glasses and stared hard at him. “In my opinion,” she said coldly, “there’s a potentially very good political piece in this. Don’t forget. It’s four years since this heartless government came to power. The rise in suicides, and the government’s appalling record on social care, will not be unconnected.”

  She put her glasses back on and looked down at her laptop. “Mr. Pendley-Evans. You might be ‘the BBC’s roguish reporter’ in the eyes of the Daily Mail. But another cock-up like last month, and I’ll have you writing obituaries in the corner of the stationery cupboard.”

  Rupert looked across at Sandra, who crossed her eyes at him again.

  “Of course, Eileen,” he said. “When do you want it?”

  “When you’ve got a decent story, Mr. Pendley-Evans,” replied the news editor. “So don’t go shooting your bolt prematurely.”

  She looked up and surveyed the other faces around the table.

  “Now,” she continued, “the other staffing changes.”

  “GOING TO join me in a celebratory coffee?” asked Rupert as Sandra emerged from the airless conference room an hour later.

  “You’re a jammy bugger,” replied Sandra. They walked down the corridor together to the on-site coffee shop. “No one else could use their get-out-of-jail card that quick. Just because you’re well connected with royalty. Old iron knickers reckons she’s got to keep you sweet, otherwise you’ll be off to Sky Television.”

  “Fuck off, Sandra,” replied Rupert. “If you overlook last month’s little hiccup—”

  “Little?” squealed Sandra. “When the chairman has to go rimming the Royal household? It’s hardly little.”

  “If you overlook last month,” continued Rupert, ignoring her interruption. “I’ve had two major news stories this year that led to Parliamentary reviews. Then, of course, there’s my Royal Television Society award last year—”

  He stopped as his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled out the mobile and answered the call.

  “Hello? Yes, it is. Thank you.” He turned to Sandra and motioned her to move away. She leaned against the corridor wall and grinned broadly.

  “Sandra,” said Rupert with exasperation. “Will you go away? It’s—hello?” He turned as a voice sounded in the receiver.

  “Hi, Luke,” Rupert continued. “How are you doing?”

  Sandra threw back her head and laughed.

  “Maybe you can make your lovely Yank more than a one-night stand, darlin’,” she whispered loudly. “Unlike all the others.”

  Rupert turned and glowered at her. Sandra responded by folding her arms and shaking her head. Rupert turned away and cupped his hand around the phone to speak quietly.

  “Sure I can,” he said. “Did they say you can leave now? If you like, I can get a taxi for you.” He furrowed his brow as he listened for a few moments before speaking again. “Well, if you’re sure. I’ll drop in when I get home later. See if you need anything.”

  “I’d get some condoms if I was you” came Sandra’s voice from behind him. Rupert spun around and glowered at her. He raised a finger to his lips.

  “I meant, like food or something,” he continued into the phone. “A curry, or a Chinese. Or I can cook something if you want. I make a mean chili.”

  Sandra started making kissing noises. She hugged her arms around her waist and twisted her hips from side to side.

  “No, don’t worry about that,” said Rupert, turning away from his tormentor. “I just need to get the decorators in to sort it out.”

  He listened for a few moments.

  “No, honestly. It’ll just go through on insurance. Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. Okay. See you later. Cheers.”

  He ended the call, shoved the phone in the pocket of his jeans, and stood facing Sandra with his arms folded.

  “You little shit, Sandra Giles.”

  “Oh come off it, Rupert Pendley-Evans. You can’t wait to get ’is pants off. Mind you,” she continued, “it’s not goin’ to be a bundle of laughs when you’ve ’alf yer bleedin’ ceiling on the bed wiv yer.”

  Sandra cocked her head. “Not unless that’s your particular kink.”

  Rupert sighed. “I rang the cleaners first thing this morning. They can’t come round until Thursday. I’m going to have to shift the worst of it myself. Unless—” He took a step forward and placed his hands on Sandra’s shoulders. “Would you by any chance…?”

>   Sandra shook her head.

  “You must be bleedin’ jokin’, Rupert Pendley-Evans. What do you take me for? Some kinda skivvy?”

  “Oh come on, Sandra. I’ll cook you a meal.”

  Sandra laughed. “You’re already doin’ that for sex on a stick. ‘A mean chili’ is what I ’eard you offer ’im. You don’t want me there as well. I certainly don’t wanna be the fuckin’ gooseberry.”

  “Well, maybe not tonight,” agreed Rupert. “But tell you what. I know you’ve been angling to go to Blitz Club 2 for ages. If you help me out tonight, I’ll take us there on Friday.”

  “Bloody ’ell, Pendley-Evans, you’re pretty fuckin’ desperate, aren’t yer?” She raised a recently plucked eyebrow and looked at him quizzically. “You can’t seriously get us into Blitz Club 2, can yer?”

  Rupert held his hands palm up in front of him, like a magician who had pulled a rabbit from a hat. “Oh sure. I’m on the guest list anytime I want. Being a Daily Mail pinup offers certain advantages. Is it a deal?”

  Sandra shrugged. “Fuckin’ journalists. I can see ’ow you worm your way into places. Okay. As long as I get to meet the hunky Yank, and you don’t introduce me as yer bleedin’ cleanin’ lady, I’ll do it.”

  It was a constant source of amusement to Rupert how Sandra was desperate to get into any and all of the fashionable clubs in London. He never understood their attraction.

  “Anyway,” continued Sandra. “I’ve always thought your place needed a woman’s touch. I’ll be at yours for six thirty tonight. And you better ’ave some rubber gloves ready for me. These nails cost a bleedin’ fortune.”

  Chapter 4

  “FUCK ME, Rupert, you can’t sleep ’ere. Or do anything else ’ere for that matter.”

  Sandra looked around the devastation of Rupert’s flood-damaged bedroom. Most of the ceiling had collapsed, exposing wooden rafters and dangling electrical cables. The bed was covered with broken sections of plasterboard and puddles of dirty water. Jagged brown circles stained two elegant Chinese rugs on either side of the bed. A large chrome-framed mirror had fallen from the wall and smashed across the brass bedhead.