Rupert shook his head. He looked away and stared out the window. A road sweeper negotiating his way up the narrow street caught his attention for a moment. The man guided his machine past pedestrians jostling for their own little parcel of personal space.
“You’re telling me nothing,” said Rupert finally. “If you care about him so much, why are you avoiding him? And why does Luke react so violently to video screens? That scared the hell out of me the first time it happened.”
“I’m part of the reason for his present condition,” said Christian. “Me and the rest of his family. Did he find the photograph?”
Rupert stared back at Christian. “So it was you who put that photo in his portfolio case? Why?”
“I’ve offered photographs of his former life to his therapist. I hoped they might trigger memories for him. Memories of happier times. But she refused to show them to him. She said it would be too risky. She was worried that, if he reacted badly, she’d lose his trust. So I thought it might help if he simply discovered one. Did he say anything about it?”
“Not much,” replied Rupert. “He just said he’d found it in his case. So, that’s Luke with his family? You. His parents. And do you have two sisters?”
Christian nodded. “That was taken fifteen years ago. Before it all started.”
“Before what started?”
Christian sighed and stood up. “I can’t. I don’t know you well enough to trust you. Maybe in time—”
“How much time?” Rupert stood as well, his face a few inches from Christian’s. Now he could see the family resemblance. Before him stood a vague imitation of Luke. An older, sadder version of Luke.
“If he’s in danger,” Rupert continued, “aren’t I entitled to know more? What if something happened to him? And you could have helped save him by telling me more? Now? How would that prey on your conscience?”
Christian hesitated. Rupert thought his words, and maybe the passion in his voice, had caused Luke’s brother to rethink. But Christian simply said, “You have my number. And I have yours. Let’s stay in touch.”
RUPERT LEANED back in his seat, stretched out his legs, and rested them on his desk. It had been an exhausting and sometimes frustrating afternoon. But his documentary was, at last, taking shape. He had spent over four hours on the phone and persuaded several potential interviewees to take part in the filming. The stories he had listened to were harrowing. The young men he had spoken to told tales of rejection, dejection, and desperation.
One of the stories had stuck in Rupert’s mind. It was told to him by a thirty-two-year-old man from a small town in the north of England. He was gay. This was presumably the reason why his story had resonated so much with Rupert. The man had been brought up in a family who went to a Pentecostal church. The man loved going to the church because it was warm, welcoming, and because he liked the music. It was also an escape from his father. Until he was thirteen years old, his father had beaten him regularly. His mother deferred to her husband and told her son to “be a man.” The beatings stopped when he was thirteen because he had grown big enough and strong enough to fight back. His father no longer hit him but continued to belittle him, to call him useless and deny him any love.
The man sought solace in the church and confided in one of the elders that he was gay. That was when he was forced to make a choice. The elder told him he would have to leave the church if he continued to say he was gay. The man chose the church because it was familiar, and because he craved its support and acceptance. He continued to deny who he was for five years, until his internal struggle became too much to bear.
It was one of the church elders who found him. On the steps of the church. An empty bottle of his mother’s antidepressants still in his hand. During his recovery in hospital, he confided his conflict to a male nurse. The nurse recommended an LGBT counseling service in the nearby city of Leeds. It was the start of a five-year journey of personal understanding and acceptance.
Rupert was close to tears by the end of the telephone conversation. At least the story had a happy ending. The man had moved to London, far away from his family and far away from the church. Through his love of music, he had joined the London Gay Men’s Chorus.
“You know,” the man said. “When I first arrived there and felt the love and acceptance that the chorus gave me, that’s when I discovered what real love means. I could just be me, without being judged. That’s the love my family and the elders of the church should have shown me.”
Rupert thought about the conversation. It would make a strong, emotional case study in his documentary. He compared the man’s family experience to his own. Rupert’s father had never beaten him. His parents had been difficult when he came out, but they dealt with it by not talking about it. A very British approach. Rupert resented the unspoken rejection but had come to terms with it. He daydreamed about the time when he might take Luke to meet Mother and Father. He had never introduced any of his boyfriends to his parents before. Maybe this time.
Rupert picked up his phone and called Luke. There was no answer. He let it continue to ring, but the voicemail failed to cut in. He redialed, and once more it rang without an answer. Rupert looked at the time. It was nearly 6:30 p.m. Luke said he was cooking supper that evening. It was time for Rupert to get back and see what was happening in the kitchen.
“HI, HONEY, I’m home,” called Rupert in what he thought was his best imitation of an American accent. He slammed the door shut behind him and strode down the hallway to the kitchen. A pan of water was simmering on the stove, and there were sliced onions, garlic, and peppers on a chopping board next to it. But no sign of Luke.
He went into the living room, where the electric fan moved the warm late-afternoon air around in an illusion of cooling.
“Luke?”
Rupert walked back down the hallway to Luke’s bedroom. He passed the open bathroom door on his way. He glanced into the spare room opposite, before entering Luke’s bedroom. The room was empty, but the loft hatch was open and the slim metal ladder pulled down. Rupert walked over to the ladder and rapidly climbed the steps to the studio. He stood on the top rung and looked around the brightly lit space. There was no sign of Luke. Still perched on the top of the ladder, Rupert took out his mobile and called Luke’s number. Once more, the phone rang without being answered. No voicemail cut in.
Luke had disappeared.
Chapter 19
RUPERT’S HEART was pounding. He sat at the top of the ladder and took deep breaths. All he could think about was the sentence Christian had spoken that afternoon in the café: “The people who want him dead.”
Had those people finally caught up with Luke?
Of course, there were plenty of plausible explanations for Luke leaving a pan of water boiling on the stove, and they did not involve villains seeking his demise. Luke could have gone to the shop on the corner to get some vital ingredient for the supper he was cooking. He might have gone for a walk and forgotten to turn the heat off under the pan before leaving.
Or he could have been abducted.
Rupert had not seen any sign of a struggle in the apartment. Nothing was smashed. Everything seemed to be in its place. But “they,” whoever they were, could easily have grabbed Luke as soon as he opened the front door. They would have no need to enter the apartment. Rupert decided he had to assume the worst. If Luke’s brother was not being melodramatic, and Rupert had no reason to believe he was, then he needed to act quickly. Before anything happened to Luke. Rupert called Christian and listened with frustration as the phone rang without answer. After six rings, the voicemail cut in. Rupert hung up and tried again. Again it switched to voicemail. He left a message and ended the call.
For several minutes he stared at the phone. The depth of his anguish surprised him. He had only known Luke for, how long was it? Five days. And yet. The excitement he had felt at the prospect of seeing Luke this evening when he entered the apartment. The sense of contentment he had felt first thing this morning
with Luke lying in his arms. The panic and feeling of loss he felt now. He knew what it all added up to, and it terrified him. Until he met Luke, Rupert had had other ambitions for his life, and they had not included falling in love.
Still at the top of the ladder, he decided on his plan of action. He would go out and look for Luke. He would start with the corner shop. It was only five minutes away. After that, he would come back here and somehow track down Luke’s brother. But why was Luke not answering his phone? He must have it with him, or Rupert would have heard it ring in the apartment. Unless it was switched to silent. Perhaps it was broken, or the battery had died. There were plenty of innocent explanations. But right now, Rupert could only fear the worst.
He turned around on the top step of the ladder and carefully climbed back down to the bedroom. He was uncertain how he would find Christian, but he was confident he would succeed. He might have to put himself into greater debt with police officer Will Sutherland. Before then, he would simply keep trying to call Luke’s brother. Rupert went back into the kitchen to turn off the heat under the saucepan of water. He was about to head for the front door, when his phone rang.
“’Ello, sweetheart. You all right?”
Rupert leaned back against the worktop and sighed. “Hello, Sandra. Yes, I’m fine. What can I do for you?”
“Well, it’s more a case of what I can do for you,” Sandra replied. “You won’t ’ave seen this yet, ’cause it’s come through one of the BBC local radio stations. There’s been another one of them killin’s.”
Rupert’s shoulders sagged. His heart began to pound once more, and he took a deep breath before he asked his next question.
“Where?”
“Out in Kent,” Sandra replied. “Down in Chatham, on the Thames estuary. A bloke found ’angin’ again. Like the one in Chiswick.”
Rupert’s heart rate quickened further. “Do they know who he is?”
“They ain’t officially identified ’im yet. But the reporter says ’e worked at the radio station. ’Elpin’ out and stuff. It’s a bit of a gruesome scoop for ’em. ’E was really young. Only twenty.”
Rupert let out an audible sigh of relief and opened his eyes. He felt sad for the young man, but at least it could not be Luke.
“That’s great, Sandra,” he said. He straightened up and headed for the front door of the apartment. “Thanks for the advance warning. I’ll talk to my contact at the National Crime Agency. Then I’ll talk to Eileen. She’s surely got to see this is a much bigger story than the Manwatch report. That makes five deaths now.”
He reached the front door, opened it, and stepped out onto the landing. He checked his pocket for his keys before he slammed the door behind him and strode down the stairs two at a time to the hallway. Luke might be missing, but at least he was not another reported victim. Not yet.
“By the way,” added Sandra, “I was talkin’ to Betty in the Washington bureau just now. She told me to say she’s sorry she ain’t got back to you about that photograph. There’s been another resignation at the White House, and they’re all goin’ apeshit in the bureau at the moment. But she says she knows where the picture was taken.”
Rupert paused on the front step of the house, poised to close the door behind him.
“Where was it taken?”
“It’s some university down in Virginia. They were only filming there the other week, so she remembers it distinctly. It’s called Liberated University. She says that picture must ’ave been taken a few years ago, ’cause they’ve built a new bit on the side since then. But she’s definite that’s where it is.”
Rupert slammed the door shut behind him and began to jog down the street in pursuit of Luke. Liberated, VA had been stamped on the crucifix Rosalind Goodman found on the body of the student who hanged himself in Chiswick. Somehow, Luke was connected with that same university. Rupert’s hunt for the missing American had just gained a fresh urgency.
Chapter 20
THE TAPE measure snapped shut. The young man pulled the pencil from behind his ear and noted the measurement on his clipboard. He climbed down the small set of metal steps he had brought with him, moved them a few feet to the left, and climbed back up again. He reached up to the ceiling and took another set of measurements.
The man was in his midtwenties. His pale blue overall had the words Helping Hands embroidered on the back in large white letters. On the front, in smaller letters, was his name, Horacio Serrano. The overall fit snuggly. It pulled tight against his crotch as he stretched up to hold the tape measure against the broken ceiling of the bedroom. Each time he extended his arms above his head, the overall’s zip unfastened a little bit more, revealing that Horacio wore no T-shirt underneath. Luke watched, fascinated, as the curly black hair on Horacio’s chest poked through the ever-widening opening of his overall as the zip crept down toward his crotch.
“Hola?” queried Horacio’s voice from above him. “You see something you like?”
Luke glanced up to see Horacio smiling at him, his deep brown eyes crinkling at the corners. He tipped his head. To add emphasis to his point, Horacio reached down with one hand and briefly cupped it around his cock. He grinned and, with the same hand, pulled on the zip of his overall to close the front and hide from Luke the temptation of his chest. Luke glanced away in embarrassment, but he was unable to resist taking one last, furtive glance at the Spaniard’s crotch.
Horacio jumped down from the small set of metal steps. He stood directly in front of Luke and took a note of the latest set of measurements. He looked up and winked. “It’s a big hole to fill, señor,” he said, “but you can be sure it will be a good job. I can start for you right away if you want.” His perfect teeth flashed white in another broad grin, and he pulled down on the zip of his overall to reveal a hint of chest hair.
“No, no,” replied Luke, and he stepped back toward the open door of Rupert’s bedroom. “My friend’s gotta get three estimates for the insurance company. Just email him your price, and he’ll pass it on.”
Horacio stepped forward and again stood directly in front of Luke.
“And you don’t want me to start right now?” he asked, his smile lighting up his face. “I work very fast. Or we can wait until your friend, he get back. Then we can—”
“No, no,” said Luke, and he stepped to the side of the doorway. He did not know why, but Horacio’s obvious advances had unnerved rather than flattered him. “I’ve got to get back upstairs. I just remembered. I left something boiling on the stove.”
Luke showed Horacio to the front door. He made sure the young Spaniard had Rupert’s email address. Once more he resisted the man’s enthusiasm to stay and closed the door on him. He hurried back up the stairs to his apartment and went inside. In the kitchen, he was relieved to find the pan of water he had set boiling to blanch the spinach had not boiled dry. But he was surprised to discover he had turned off the heat before he left the apartment. He was certain it was on when he left to show the builder into Rupert’s apartment.
He looked at the wall clock. It was half past seven. He had expected Rupert to be back by now. Luke would have called Rupert if his mobile phone had been working. But dropping it into the sink while he was washing the vegetables was possibly the dumbest thing he had done that day. The phone was now on the sill of the living room window, hopefully drying in the dying rays of the afternoon sun. To accelerate the drying process, Luke had also turned the electric fan on and aimed the stream of air at the phone. Tomorrow, he might find out if it still functioned. He had dunked his phone in water once before, but that time he had rescued it before any real damage had been done.
Luke went into the living room to check on the phone. Superficially it looked fine, but he decided not to risk turning it on again until tomorrow. He crossed to the CD player and put on a recording of Ella Fitzgerald. The sound of “My Funny Valentine” filled the room. He sat on the couch, stretched out his legs, and put his hands behind his head as he allowed the golden voice to enve
lop him in its warmth. Luke closed his eyes tight shut and imagined Rupert’s arms wrapped around his body, the tip of his tongue nuzzling the nape of Luke’s neck. The past five days had been both ecstasy and agony for Luke.
Since February, he had just about held it together. Many times he had awoken in the middle of the night, alone and terrified of the aching loneliness inside him. He had made a few friends in the last months. But none of them were close friends, people he could confide in. If he still had close friends, the memory of them was gone. The only person who knew his deepest fears was Jemima, his psychiatrist. He had spent hours describing to her the nightmares he experienced. The terrifying daydreams that exploded in his head whenever he caught sight of a video screen. She listened carefully, politely, almost reverently. She gave him coping strategies. Small routines to help him deal with his demons.
That all changed when he met Rupert.
Rupert filled his heart. That was the only way he could describe it. Even now, as Luke lay stretched out on the couch, he physically ached for Rupert to return. Despite his amnesia, Luke could not believe there was a former time in his life when he had felt so completely contented. A time when he had been so rich in emotion, with no other desire than to live in the immediate present. With Rupert as a part of his life, he was confident he could finally confront his fears. Together, they could resolve the mystery of Luke’s forgotten life. In his mind’s eye, Luke pictured a time when he and Rupert would board a plane together, return to America, and he would be reunited with the life behind the heavy curtain of his shrouded memory.
For the Love of Luke Page 14
