TouchStone for ever (The Story of Us Trilogy)

by Sydney Jamesson

Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep.

  To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub,

  For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

  When we have shuffled off this mortal coil

  Must give us pause.”

  He can’t be serious …

  “You’re forcing me to relive some of the saddest moments of my life, quoting Hamlet’s soliloquy and you expect me to be quiet. What’s going on Ayden? You review my life as if it’s some kind of soap opera.”

  He looks down dejectedly. “If only it was that simple.”

  “Simple! Let me simplify it for you. The truth is I’ve had two stalkers; one’s dead and then there’s you. Why now? After everything we’ve been through. Tell me … why now?”

  “You need to listen, Frances. What I’m going to say will be hard to grasp, initially.” He takes my right hand between his and rests it on the cushion between us. “Our fourth meeting was by far the most traumatic for you. Taking the life of another human being is never easy, even in self–defence.” He pats my hand softly. “Mr. Rizler left without fanfare or a farewell. His dark and deadly soul left this earth in a rush with no one to mourn his passing. But I suspect you knew that.”

  With his free hand he tips up my chin. “Listen closely with an open heart and mind. Our two destinies have been interwoven for decades, and the window I’ve had into your world has allowed me to see your vulnerability but, more importantly, the strength of character you have to see this through.”

  I’m bewildered. “To see what through …”

  “When I came across your husband, he was close to death …”

  I lose control of my jaw and my mouth opens and stays that way.

  “I prepared to take him, but did not. I was arrested by his frantic determination to hold on. You see, I recognised him from your battle three days earlier. To my surprise, he did not ask to be saved; he addressed his God and asked him to watch over you. Such a selfless act, I thought.”

  As if telling a story to an attentive child, he settles into the back of the sofa and continues in a steady, no-nonsense tone.

  I’m dumbstruck.

  “You see, most people fear me; they hate the thought of meeting me because they know the life they have taken for granted is about to end. Your husband was different in that respect. His thoughts were not of himself, but of you. So earnest was he in his plea, I sought you out, recalled your past. I knew you as sweet Frances, so the name Beth meant little to me until then.”

  Unable to contain my agony for a second longer, I begin to sob and try to contain the sounds of my sorrow in my hands. I can hold back the noise of a breaking heart, but not the tide of bubbling tears trickling down my cheeks, coming to rest on my lap like two unsightly ink stains.

  “You’re lying. If this is one of your games, Ayden, you’ve gone too far; conjuring up this elaborate story to terrify me, to get me to imagine what my life would be like without you.“ I’m shaking my head. “You’re doing it to make me forget about the baby or the fact we may never make a child again.” I’m sitting upright, carelessly wiping away tears with heavy fingertips. “Just stop it! We should be grateful for having each other; I get that. No need to carry on with this charade.”

  I feel Ayden’s hand caressing my cheek, so I lean into it and close my eyes, allowing the heat from it to permeate my skin.

  “Frances, I have known you most of your life and I have no reason to lie. I have nothing but affection for you.”

  I open my eyes and shake free of him. “Ayden! It’s time to stop. You’re scaring me.” I edge over to him and take his face in my sweating palms. “Kiss me. Tell me you love me.” I rest my mouth on his. The plumpness of his lips feels unnatural but that’s to be expected; we haven’t kissed for four days and my lips are still tender. I close my eyes, anticipating a prize-winning kiss, good enough to curl the trickiest of toes, but in its place is a lack-lustre peck so unrecognisable it has me edging away backwards.

  “Who are you?”

  He smiles affectionately. “You know who I am.”

  I’m shaking my head left and right. “No! I don’t know you. I don’t want to know you.” I scuttle backwards, out of his reach.

  “Take a breath and let it out slowly …”

  “I don’t want to take a breath. I want my husband back. Who the fuck are you?” I cry. “And why have you stolen Ayden’s body?”

  “Stolen? Hardly. Under the circumstances, I believe the word rescued to be more fitting.”

  “Rescued? From what?”

  “Why, from death, Frances.”

  Like a torn parachute, I fall down to earth, with any hope of happiness ripped from my heart. Here I sit in pieces, feeling more alone than I have ever felt before.

  From somewhere I find the strength to speak. “Why? Why did you rescue him?” I snarl, breath leaving my mouth in a feverish gust.

  He glances around the room. “Believe me Frances, I am beginning to ask myself the same question.” He manifests a serious stare. “Would you rather I had not?”

  Horrified by the thought, I shake my head.

  “Well then, we have reached an impasse.” He rubs his hands together. “I’m not in the habit of claiming bodies; souls yes, but not the physical, human aspect of being. The human body is much too fragile a form to occupy.”

  What the hell …

  “Yes it is,” I huff. “We feel everything and suffer as a result.” I’ll leave him to work that out for himself. “We take risks with life and with love …”

  “…I realise that.”

  With nothing to lose, I prepare to claim back what is mine. “But you stealing … rescuing Ayden’s body is too big a pain to endure, even for me.” I rise from the sofa and tiptoe slowly back to the guest bedroom, feeling the weight of grief bearing down upon me like a crucifix. “Goodnight.”

  ***

  In a side office away from the hustle and bustle of police life, Detective Inspector Bowker is flicking through the details of a fatal car crash on the A40 the previous evening. He should have finished his shift half an hour ago, but the name Stone has all kinds of bells ringing. He’s curious to see why someone like Ayden Stone would be driving like a lunatic on a busy highway on a Friday evening when his wife is still recovering in hospital.

  The more he reads the more curious he becomes, realising Mr. Stone was not alone in the vehicle. With only an ageing Golden Retriever to go home to, he removes his coat and sits down.

  On the pad he uses for personal notes and references, he jots down the name ‘Elise Richards,’ the co-passenger and the only fatality. He taps his pen against his bottom teeth and wracks his brain. "Richards … why does that name sound familiar?”

  He leans back in his chair, pushes his iPad aside and turns over pages in his notebook from previous days. Every page is full of notes relating to Dan Rizler, pieces of a puzzle that he had logged for another day, even though it was a cut and dried case of self-defence.

  Be that as it may, he likes to think he has a sixth sense, and that sixth sense is telling him there is more to this case than some crazy bastard breaking into a school and attempting to rape a school teacher. For now though … he has nothing but fragmented pieces of information to go on.

  He contacts the duty Sergeant to check a few things: times, details, and so forth - for no particular reason other than to satisfy his curiosity and his need to make sure everything is above-board.

  “Hi Rick, it’s Mack. I’m just casting an eye over last night’s log and notice there was a smash-up on the A40…”

  “Yeah, that was a nasty one. Some woman was thrown through the windscreen.”

  Mack taps his pen on the open pad. “Right. And what about the guy? He wasn’t seriously injured, right?”

  “They had to cut him out and airlift him to hospital. I haven’t heard any more.”

  “OK. I’ll see who did the clear up. I’ll be interested to see who the lady was,” Mack says, still intrigued. “I’ll
have a chat with a couple of CID mates and see what happened.”

  “Is there something dodgy going on?” Rick asks curiously.

  “Not that I know of. I gave evidence in the Rizler case – the assault at the school - and I’ve met this Stone guy a couple of times. Didn’t strike me as the type to go joyriding.”

  Rick laughs down the phone. “They never do until they’re caught.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right, shame about the passenger though.”

  “Right, but I heard she was the one who caused the crash.”

  Mack stops tapping his pen to listen. “What makes you say that?”

  “There was a knife on the floor by her seat; it looked like she was threatening him or something.”

  In big letters Mack writes knife under her seat. “That should take some explaining.”

  “Looks like your instincts were right, Mack,” Rick acknowledges with a chuckle.

  “Oh, we’ll have to see about that, but thanks, Rick.” He pauses, thinking through the information. “How’s the wife doing?”

  “You know what she’s like. Never sits still. It’s like living with a bloody ferret.”

  Mack laughs out loud. “You poor sod. No wonder you volunteer for overtime.”

  “Tell me about it. I’d move in here and set up a bivouac behind the counter if they’d let me.” He’s laughing out loud.

  “Ah, but you’d miss the home cooking.”

  “Maybe you’re right. I’ll try and stick it out for another couple of months.” He composes himself. “How’s your daughter doing?”

  “Not too bad. Kate’s away at University, studying law of all things. Think she would have seen enough from me to be put her off it for life, but no.” His eyes soften at the thought of her. “She takes after her mother, God rest her soul. She’s a do-gooder.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that, Mack. You should be proud.”

  He nods his head in response. “Yeah, I am.”

  “Catch you later. They just brought in a couple of comedians; looks like they’ve been drinking for England.”

  “Go to it. Thanks for the info, Rick.”

  “Anytime, Mack.”

  Mackenzie Bowker draws an enormous circle around two words: Elise Richards. “Now, let’s find out who you are Miss. Richards.”

  6

  My clothes lie in a heap on the bathroom floor. The fine silk straps of my pyjama top sit comfortably on my bare shoulders. The last time I dressed in white was my wedding day. Was it only a week ago that we were married in front of friends, family and God Almighty?

  Now look what we have become. My baggage has been the death of us; our relationship, our baby and now … I replay our conversation over and over but the fact remains. I’m here with a stranger. There’s a knock at the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Come out here. I want to speak with you,” he commands. I picture him folding his arms as Ayden would; standing tall, looking impatient.

  “I’m going to bed. It’s been a traumatic day, one way or another.”

  The knob turns and he steps into the doorway. “Yes, it has.” He passes me my bathrobe. “Put this on.”

  I slip it on and pull the belt tightly, wincing a little with the pressure on my stomach.

  “You’re in no condition to be up this late. You need to rest. Are you in any pain?”

  Wearily, I confront him. “No.”

  In a split second he’s positioned behind me. There we stand like a human landscape; white foam against an impregnable cliff of charcoal grey. Our eyes meet in the mirror.

  “Close your eyes.”

  Another command.

  I do, lowering my head, defeated.

  “Open them.”

  I do so with a gasp. Every mark, graze and bruise has vanished from my face. I am myself again. I hurriedly untie my bathrobe and lift up my top. Where there was a healing scar only minutes ago on my stomach, there’s a faint line of an inch or so. I can’t conceal my astonishment. I lean forward, tracing the clear skin beneath my left eye and drawing circles across my jaw with my fingertips.

  “Now do you believe me?” he asks, standing high and mighty behind me.

  “Yes,” I concede, fastening my bathrobe snugly around my body. “But I don’t understand. Even though you look like Ayden, you’re a stranger. I don’t know you.”

  “I can appreciate that, but in time …”

  “Time? What do you mean? You’re staying?” I can’t conceal my horror.

  He turns me around to face him, forcing me to lift my eyes to meet his. “I can leave anytime.”

  “And if you do, will I wake up next to a corpse? Is that the way this thing works?”

  “You think so little of me Frances. I would not do that. I have taken a great interest in your plight over the years and watched you grow…”

  “… Then that was you at the book launch, speaking through Alenka? Is that why you asked me earlier?”

  “Yes. It was the first time I had seen you so … resplendent.”

  “So that’s why you turned up, to see me in a fancy dress and heels?”

  He shakes his head, picking up on my irreverence. “No. Your involvement with your future husband was about to put you in danger. It was a warning.”

  “It worked. We broke up.”

  “I know that.”

  “But we got back together because we couldn’t bear to be apart. We’re soul mates, since we were children …”

  “…I felt it. The pull between you was irrefutable; another reason for my intervention.”

  “Then if you know that, why are you doing this?”

  “Because I can.”

  Fearing I might actually reach out for him, I stuff my hands into my pockets and confront him. “You know what you are, don’t you?”

  “Enlighten me …” He folds his arms and tips his head in a very Stone-like way.

  “You’re a universal stalker. You’ve watched me suffering from afar all these years and now you’re intensifying my suffering by doing this.”

  As Ayden would, he licks his lips before speaking, forcing me to look away. “If that were the case, sweet Frances, I wouldn’t be here and neither would your husband. We would not be having this conversation, and you would be alone.”

  What a stark statement of the truth that is.

  I lean back, against the counter top, letting the room fill with silence. He turns to leave.

  I stop him in his tracks with two words. “Thank you.”

  He answers my words with a smile that has been so long in coming it touches my heart like a ray of sunshine; the light from it brings much needed warmth to my bones. I offer a weak smile in return.

  “You have seen and survived many things, Frances. You have an inner strength that few possess.”

  I tip my head to one side, disbelieving his admission. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

  “I do. It comes as no surprise to me that your husband’s last thought was of you and your safekeeping. I have often had similar thoughts.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, with a frown.

  “The light coming on in the alley, the movable furniture, the close proximity of the knife … need I go on?”

  I shake my head and lower my eyes to the floor. “You’re an Angel?”

  “Of sorts …”

  “Without wings.”

  “Wings are so last century, Frances,” he says with a wry smile.

  “So is Frances. I haven’t been her for over seven years.”

  “Ah yes, but you were her for over twenty.”

  “I was. But I left her behind and I don’t want to go back there. Can’t you call me, Beth?”

  He’s shaking his head. “I prefer Elizabeth.”

  I sneer at the associations with that name. “But I’ll feel more comfortable around you if you call me Beth.”

  “Very well … Beth. Come and sit with me and tell me what we’re going to do tomorrow.” He heads off in the directio
n of the lounge, assuming I’ll follow.

  I glance one last time in the mirror at my rejuvenated image and across at the bath behind me, smiling with the memory of bath time and Ayden’s words …

  Come back to me, baby …

  I switch off the light and claim those words as my own, whispering into the darkness, “Come back to me, baby.”

  The door clicks shut and I lock that memory away for safe keeping; it will be mine to cling onto as I walk into this living nightmare, one step at a time.

  ***

  Mackenzie Bowker is not one to be put off by the prospect of hard work, or by what appears to be unrelated incidents. It didn’t take him long to discover the identity of the deceased passenger. Once he found out where Miss. Richards worked and where she lived, the rest was easy.

  She arranged the rental of apartment 53c at Elm Garden for Mr. Rizler, and her number was on his phone. Knowing that satisfies his curiosity about where he had heard her name before. What it doesn’t explain is what she was doing in that car with Mr. Stone - with a knife under her seat.

  He’s returned home to the comfort of his three bedroom, semi-detached house in Bromley. What remaining light there is from the watery sun is leaking through the enormous bay window, making it unnecessary to turn on a lamp.

  Mack has digested a man-sized helping of lasagne; he is now sitting back with a large glass of good quality Claret and a fine cigar. Laid out on the sofa is a copy of the report on the car crash. He’s called in half a dozen favours to get this report completed by the boys in forensics and he intends to give it his full attention. It makes for interesting reading, not because of the seriousness of the accident, but because of the involvement of Mr. Stone; a pillar in the community and a self-made man; a man with everything to lose from something which could potentially damage his reputation.

  As it stands, the accident has been dealt with and remained under the radar. Mr. Stone’s media contacts have gone to great lengths to suppress it and the reporting of the accident has been relegated to page three in national newspapers. Being one to defend the under-dog, Mack wonders who will fight for Miss. Richards in her absence. Doesn’t she deserve more than having her tragic death swept under the carpet?