Stroke Rate

Excerpt From: Stroke Rate

The October sun had dipped below the horizon some time since, and the distinct nip of autumn pervaded the air. The river was a black silk ribbon twisting sinuously towards the distant lights of the town—not really that far away but it could have been another world. The silence of the riverbank was broken only by the whisper of long grass and the occasional splash of a coot diving for cover amid the reeds.

It was the commotion of a startled bird that broke the reverie of the young man standing in the darkness. He gently flipped the small, smooth pebble that he had been turning over and over in his hand into the water. The resulting ripples caught the light reflected from the window of the building behind him. A slight smile flickered across his soft lips as he mused on the consequences that one small action could invoke. He sighed and turned away from the water. It had been a while since anything—or anyone—had created ripples in the monotony of his life.

A few steps took him to a low door that was slightly ajar, with warm light spilling around the edges as if trying to illuminate the night. At six feet tall, he had to duck his head as he slipped inside and pulled the door closed behind him. The small door he had used was cut into a much larger set that took up the whole wall. He breathed in the familiar smell of the boathouse. The wooden Edwardian structure had a smell all its own—oils and varnish mixed with the more modern scents of neoprene and acrylic paint, overlaid by the light fragrance of cedar and oak.

Okeanos Rowing Club owned an impressive set of immaculate boats that were racked along the walls. One full side stored the 'sweep' boats, where each rower has one oar. There were three eight-seaters and a range of single, double and quad boats all cradled by sturdy metal frames that could be cranked up the walls to provide more storage capacity. On the other side were the 'sculling' boats, which were all single and double seat arrangements. At the far end of the shed there was a trailer, pre-loaded with racing kayaks. They always had to be transported to other venues, so they stayed on their trailer, ready to go. The general equipment store could be reached through another door, and there were also two changing rooms with basic shower facilities at the back of the building.

Benedict Astor contemplated the view. Everything was in place, as it should be. Of course it was—after all, he was the one who had heaved and had shoved every sodding boat into position, just as he had done virtually every night for the last six months. He rolled his shoulders and rubbed his aching arms before wandering over to the notice board to read the roughly scrawled note pinned there.

'Ben,

Extra jobs for tonight—clean the drain in the men’s locker room, sand the front step (it’s splintering again) and refill the water coolers.

S.'

"Just wonderful," Ben muttered quietly.

That was another hour’s work at least, and it was already late. Ben used his long, slim fingers to tease at the knots in his collar-length hair before kneading away the tension in his tight neck muscles. He had an idea why Sebastian Cooke, the rowing club’s president, had it in for him—but he wasn’t sure and it certainly wasn’t something he was prepared to discuss with the man. It was easier just to put up with the never-ending list of menial tasks and hard labour that Seb took great delight in sending his way.