For the Love of Luke Page 13

  At the taxi rank in South Lambeth Place, there was already a line of more than a dozen people waiting. They checked their mobile phones impatiently. Rupert joined the line and called Manwatch. He reached the inevitable voicemail and left a message.

  It was half past eight in the morning, the peak of London’s rush hour. The traffic noise around him was deafening. Added to that was the insistent thump of a pile driver. Work had begun on the foundations for yet another luxury apartment block. Even at this early hour, the air was warm and sultry. Above him, the sun shone from a cloudless sky. It was going to be another scorching-hot day. Rupert had never known a summer of heat as intense as this in Britain. London smelled like a continental city instead of its usual damp, musty staleness. People walked by wearing bizarre combinations of summer outfits. Rupert could never understand why so many British men wore long socks with open-toed sandals. In his opinion, it was tantamount to a crime.

  Luke’s concern for what he might find out about his past preyed on Rupert’s mind. What if the American had done something seriously bad? What if he was a criminal? The mind had clever ways of blocking out the memory of catastrophic experiences. It could shut them away in deep recesses of the brain. Perhaps Luke’s psychiatrist would unlock them. But what of the consequences for Luke if she revealed to him he had committed some heinous deed? Luke was already—well, not neurotic, but certainly excitable. And his strange reaction to video screens was something Rupert had never encountered in a person before. Such a revelation could tip Luke over the edge.

  At times like this, Rupert wished he still smoked. The whole process of lighting a cigarette, placing it in his mouth, and tasting and smelling that first, glorious puff was a distant happy memory. He had quit shortly after leaving university, shocked by the slow, painful death of his grandfather from lung cancer.

  A few people in the taxi line puffed on e-cigarettes. Rupert thought they looked comical. They sucked on their plastic tubes, then exhaled a swirl of white mist around them, resembling children, trying to appear grown up. But perhaps Rupert envied what he missed.

  A long conga line of black cabs finally turned the corner into South Lambeth Place, and the line of people waiting in front of Rupert rapidly diminished. Within five minutes, he was at the head of the line for the next taxi to arrive. He thought again about Luke’s fears for his past. Something else puzzled Rupert. How could an art student have over a quarter of a million pounds sitting in his bank account? Was it there legitimately? Perhaps Luke was the beneficiary of some major bank raid. Or maybe a drugs deal.

  At last, a taxi pulled up alongside Rupert. He opened the door, gave the driver the address for Manwatch, and climbed in. As he pulled the door shut behind him, the driver accelerated rapidly into the London traffic, and Rupert tumbled back into the seat. He picked up his rucksack from the floor where it had fallen and checked his wallet was still safe inside. Which was when he found the business card for Christian Mark Matthews. With a forty-minute journey ahead of him, now was the time to give the mystery man a call.

  “I DON’T think we’re goin’ anywhere, mate,” said the cab driver, staring at the line of stationary traffic ahead of him. “Do you want to ’op out ’ere? It’s about five minutes’ walk, I reckon.”

  Rupert glanced at the clock above the cab driver’s head. It was a quarter to ten. The journey across London had taken nearly an hour, despite the taxi driver seemingly trying every shortcut through London’s narrow backstreets he could find. They were currently opposite Angel Tube station at the start of Islington’s chic and fashionable Upper Street. Rupert looked out the window at the rows of cafés, street-food sellers, designer-clothing boutiques, and organic-food outlets. Strange to think it was known as “The Devil’s Mile” in Victorian times, on account of the high levels of crime and prostitution in the area. Rupert loved London’s quirky history, and he found it hard to think of living anywhere else.

  He paid the driver and headed off on foot for the offices of Manwatch. They were on the top two floors of a large Georgian building near the top end of Upper Street. Despite his regular gym regime, Rupert was panting by the time he reached the reception desk.

  “You all right?” asked the receptionist. He was a young man wearing a telephone headset and a figure-hugging T-shirt emblazoned with the single word Versatile in bright red letters.

  “I’ll be fine after a glass of water,” Rupert said. “I’ve come to see Jonathan Swain. And I’m horribly late.”

  “I think Jonny’s just gone into another meeting.” The receptionist peered at Rupert closely. “Oh, you’re the guy off Special Reports who reckons the Royal Family’s dead in the water. Bet they love you, mate.”

  Rupert said nothing, but he regarded the young man with the look he reserved for traffic wardens and tax inspectors.

  “I’ll see if he’s free,” said the receptionist hastily. “There’s a water cooler in the corner. Take a seat.”

  Rupert gulped down two plastic cups of water and sat on a shabby-chic leather sofa, in which most of the springs seemed to be broken. To pass the time, he picked up the glossy brochure for Manwatch and read its introduction page.

  Manwatch was founded in 2001 to tackle the twenty-first century’s crisis in masculinity. Our aim is to highlight and campaign for greater recognition of the problems men face: in the home, in the workplace, and in education. Through research, we demonstrate the crisis facing modern men in Britain, as masculinity is redefined, and man’s role in society is undermined through unemployment, questions of sexuality, and men’s traditional role in the home.

  “Rupert Pendley-Evans?”

  Jonathan Swain was a tall, gangling man in his early thirties. He wore a check shirt, brown corduroy trousers belted tightly at the waist, and tan loafers with no socks. His mop of brown hair was curly and unkempt, and his face wore an expression of intense concentration, made more severe by a pair of large gold-rimmed spectacles. Rupert stood and extended his hand in greeting.

  “That’s me,” he said. “Jonathan Swain? I’m so sorry for being late. The Victoria Line was suspended, and the traffic’s been awful—”

  Jonathan Swain dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand. “No matter, Mr. Pendley-Evans.” He grasped Rupert’s hand and shook it with exaggerated enthusiasm. “I’m at your disposal. We’re very excited to have the opportunity to tell this shocking story of male suicides to your television audience. How can I help?”

  “Well, there’ll be the practical issues to sort out,” said Rupert. “We want to film an interview with someone from Manwatch. And take some general shots around your offices. But the main thing we need is a couple of case studies. It’s the people’s stories that will communicate the impact of this to our viewers.”

  Jonathan Swain pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and peered at Rupert earnestly. “Yes, yes, I can see that. But it’s the figures you need to understand first. My job is to collate the data, and I can tell you, they’re shocking. A record number of young men are dying.” His eyes lit up with excitement as he reeled off a list of statistics. “Suicide is the number one killer of men aged 18–30 in Britain today. Not drugs, not car crashes. But suicide. The reasons are many. Firstly, advertising. It’s no longer women who are made to feel inadequate about their image. About their bodies. Advertisers now target young men. There’s been a rise of over 25 percent in beauty products aimed at men. Add to that the problems of growing unemployment in the adult male population. As high as 30 percent in some parts of the country—”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then there’s the changing definition of masculinity.” Jonathan Swain was in full flight. “Did you know that 44 percent of young LGBT people have considered suicide? Boys do worse than girls at school, leading to lower educational ability among men in adulthood. That leads to lower achievement in the workplace. And this government hasn’t got a clue. They’re even talking of reintroducing National Service.”

  “Sure, sure. I get that,” s
aid Rupert. He was rapidly cooling toward Jonathan Swain. The man was obsessed with data and statistics. Rupert needed human interest. If he returned to the newsroom without at least one juicy case study, Eileen Jones would make his life an even greater hell. “Can you help me with filming some stories to illustrate this? I need interviews with relatives or friends of suicide victims? That sort of thing.”

  “Yes, yes, all in good time,” said Jonathan. “Come down to my office. I’ve got our strategy presentation to show you. It’s very exciting.”

  Rupert’s heart sank. It was going to be a long day.

  THE TEXT message was brief and arrived thirty minutes into Rupert’s meeting with Jonathan Swain.

  Missing you. When are you back today? Going to Dr. Ballantyne this afternoon. I’ll fix supper tonight. XOXO

  The message prompted Rupert to take charge of the meeting. He pushed the Manwatch head of research to get to the point. Rupert was annoyed with himself for allowing Swain to sidestep his requests for specific details on stories he could film for the documentary. He must be getting soft all of a sudden, he thought to himself.

  “Jonathan,” he interrupted. “Your presentation is fascinating. But I can read all this myself. I don’t have time now. If you want the BBC to feature your research on Special Reports, the best thing you can do is come up with two case studies. We need to tell the stories of families of suicide victims, or ideally the story of someone who found themselves on the brink. If you can’t help me with that, I’m going to have to go to Samaritans instead. I know they’ve done similar research, and we’ve used them before.”

  Jonathan Swain was clearly stung. But the threat worked. Over the next hour, Rupert gathered together a list of contacts and recommendations from two of Jonathan’s colleagues. He sat with a Manwatch researcher as she telephoned two families and persuaded them to allow the BBC to film their story. Meanwhile, another researcher gave him the names of three men who had attempted suicide and said she was confident they would give him interviews.

  By the time he left the building at midday, Rupert was a lot happier about the shape his documentary was taking. But he needed to make up for lost time and set up the filming with the contacts before they changed their minds. He took out his phone and made a call to Christian Mark Matthews. He was going to have to postpone their meeting.

  “Hello, Rupert. Where are you? I’m here in the café in Little Portland Street.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. I’ve had a really difficult morning, and I’m running very late. Can we postpone until tomorrow? I’ve got a few things I need to sort out on this story.”

  There was silence at the other end of the phone. Rupert began to walk toward Angel Tube station.

  “I don’t think you understand the severity of the situation,” Christian said at last. “I need you to understand the danger Luke is in. You’re not taking this seriously.”

  Rupert stopped walking. “How can I take it seriously, when you’ve not told me anything so far? What danger is he in?”

  “I’m not going to tell you over the phone. It’s probably not safe. I need to see you in person.”

  “Look,” said Rupert with mounting exasperation. “You accost me in the street two days ago and warn me off seeing Luke. You tell me he’s in danger, but you won’t tell me why. Just who the hell are you?”

  After another long pause, Christian replied, “Mr. Pendley-Evans, Luke is my brother.”

  Chapter 18

  THE CAFÉ was crowded and noisy. Adie’s All Day Breakfast Bar was halfway down Little Portland Street, a narrow, sunless thoroughfare overshadowed by a clutter of midrise office buildings on either side. Even on this bright sunny day, very little light penetrated the windows of Adie’s. To add to the gloom, the café was poorly lit by four fluorescent strips suspended from the high ceiling.

  Adie’s meals were cheap, simple, and plentiful. Its owner, Adrian Such, was Australian. Loud, cheerful, and very tall, he shouted instructions over the heads of the café patrons to his long-suffering staff. Rupert loved the food, loved the prices, and loved the atmosphere Adrian created. It was a good venue for confidential discussions. A stone’s throw from the BBC’s news headquarters in Langham Place, the café was bustling and noisy. Rupert’s clandestine meetings were unlikely to be overheard.

  He stood in the doorway and scanned the occupants of the fifteen or so wooden tables crammed into the small space. Christian Mark Matthews sat on a barstool at the far end of a narrow counter set against the window. He cradled an empty coffee cup in his hands and stared into the street. Rupert walked over and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Hello again,” he said. “Can I get you another one of those?”

  Christian started and almost fell off his stool. He stood and turned to shake hands with Rupert in the narrow confines of the café. Close-up, Rupert thought Christian looked older than he remembered him in his brief encounters in the street. Heavy lines furrowed his forehead, and dark shadows underlined his eyes. As he extended his hand in greeting, Rupert noticed how his shoulders sagged. He was beginning to stoop like an old man.

  “Mr. Pendley-Evans. It’s great you came. I know you guys in television are real busy all the time.”

  Rupert was not an expert on American accents, but the man sounded like he came from a Southern state, maybe South Carolina or Georgia.

  Christian turned briefly to glance at his coffee cup. “I’ll skip another coffee. I’ve had three already. But can I go get you one?”

  Rupert shook his head. “Let’s just get straight to it.” He pulled out a second stool from under the countertop and sat. “Why didn’t you say you were Luke’s brother in the first place?”

  Christian fumbled with his own barstool and climbed back on it clumsily. “There’s much I can’t tell you, Mr. Pendley-Evans—”

  “Call me Rupert. Please.”

  “Sure. Rupert. And none of this must get back to Luke. He doesn’t know I’m here in London.”

  “Why not?” asked Rupert. “If you’re here to protect him, as you say you are, surely he needs to know he can call on you?”

  Christian sighed. He looked at Rupert and said nothing. Rupert held his gaze steadily. As a TV reporter and interviewer, he knew the importance of silence. It encouraged interviewees to open up and reveal more than perhaps they had intended. Neither man spoke for what seemed like nearly a minute. It was Christian who broke the silence first.

  “Luke has had a very severe mental trauma,” he began. “I brought him to London to receive the best psychiatric care I could find. And also to remove him from his….” Christian paused as if searching for the right words. “To remove him from his environment.”

  “What happened to him?” asked Rupert. “And what was his ‘environment’ as you call it?”

  Christian shook his head. “I can’t tell you, I’m afraid. The less you know about his previous life, the better. That’s if you insist on continuing to see him.”

  “Of course I do. He’s a very special person. I’ve only known him for a few days, but I can honestly say I’ve never met anyone quite like him.”

  “You are….” Again, Christian paused to find the right words. “You are attracted to him, are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Physically?”

  Rupert frowned. “Is that a problem for you?”

  Christian coughed. He fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out a packet of throat lozenges, then unwrapped one and popped it in his mouth. “Even in the height of an English summer, I get a cold. Look, Mr. Pendley-Evans—”

  “Rupert.”

  “I’m sorry.” Christian coughed again and corrected himself. “Rupert. I’m not sure Luke is quite ready for anything like that right now. You see—”

  “I don’t agree,” Rupert interrupted. “What he needs is love. I think I can give him that.” Rupert was surprised at how easily the words tumbled from his mouth. “What he needs is to know more about his past. And you’ve told me almost nothing. So,
Mr. Matthews, will you answer my questions? Or should I go back home right now and tell Luke I’m being warned off him by his brother?”

  Christian looked panicked and laid a hand on Rupert’s arm. “Don’t do that. It could kill him. I mean it.”

  Rupert looked down at his arm. He glared back at Christian, who hastily removed his hand and rubbed his face nervously.

  “Okay, Rupert,” he said. “The truth is, back home Luke was in danger. Real danger. It’s what caused his mental breakdown. I brought him here. Set him up in the apartment. With the shrink in Harley Street. But even this far away, there’s still a risk they’ll come after him.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “The people who want him dead.”

  Rupert was taken aback by the words. He felt a cold sensation run down his back, and his mouth went dry. He had not expected to hear this. If indeed it was true.

  “You have to tell me more, Christian,” he said. “Who exactly are they? And why do they want him dead?”

  One of the waiters tried to push past them, carrying a tray piled with plates of food. When he saw Rupert, his eyes lit up and he stopped.

  “Hey, Rupert,” he said. “How’s it going? Still pursuing the Royals, are you?”

  Rupert attempted a smile in response to the young man’s untimely interruption. “Hey, Michael. Good to see you. Oh, you know. Bigger fish to fry now.” He tipped his head toward the tray of food. “Don’t let me hold you up.”

  Michael grinned and continued on past. Rupert turned to Christian, raised an eyebrow, and waited for a reply to his questions.

  “I’ve been advised by his psychiatric team,” said Christian, “that Luke is best helped if he rediscovers his own memories, with only gentle prompts. If too much is revealed too quickly, it could bring about a major breakdown. If I tell you about his previous life, there’s a chance you’ll tell Luke.” Christian stared at Rupert. His eyes looked sad, without hope. “He’s my brother. I let him down once. I can’t risk doing it again.”