“Final call, Mrs. Stone,” shouts the stagehand, and I dutifully prepare to make my entrance recalling a line from As You Like It:
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players …
That’s me …
I climb between the sheets, willing myself to sleep but the ear-splitting silence is too much to bear. I toss and turn, feeling fragile and forsaken but refusing to cry. I have no residual tears; every teardrop has been shed or dried up throughout the day like morning dew. Maybe a glass of milk will help?
All the lights are off in the lounge and only a luminescent glow is coming from the lights along the cupboard bases. On opening the fridge door I’m blinded and, turning to pour out the milk, spot a pile of unopened mail.
Most of it is addressed to Ayden; the thought of him not being here to read it smarts like a hard slap, so I toss it aside and see what else there is to be sorted and thrown away. A heavy brown envelope, A4 size, holds my attention. It’s addressed to Mr. & Mrs. A. Stone. I can do no more than gaze at it, feeling utterly despondent when I see the postmark: Las Vegas.
I know what it is.
I pull back the tab and carefully tip out the leather-bound folder containing the DVD and a pen drive of our wedding. On the DVD is a photo of us. As I rotate it in my hand, round and round we go; a magical moment in time re-created and captured on brittle plastic.
With no desire to sleep, I head for the lift, quietly close the door and descend, coming to rest at the basement level.
Instantly the lights spark into life, showing me the way to the cinema room. Only when I flick on the lights am I reminded of just how plush it is; eight rows of Pullman chairs to choose from, each one a reminder that I must mourn alone. I whisper words I know no one will hear. “I miss you, Ayden.”
The instrument deck is simple enough to operate. Switch it on, slot the DVD in place and press insert. I hurry to the front row and take my seat, reminded of Ayden’s comments about discarded tissues and popcorn. Instantly my recollection fades when the enormous screen bursts into life.
Unbeknown to me Ayden’s arrival at the Wedding Chapel had been filmed. I’m smiling behind my hand at his eagerness to get inside; the bounce in his step and the way he is grinning into the camera like an excited school-boy. Fresh tears begin to blur my vision and so I blink them away not wanting to miss a single frame.
I come face to face with myself. I barely recognise the woman dressed in white, flanked by Charlie and Celine. She’s the princess I’d envisioned I would be someday, on her way to meet her Prince Charming at the altar. That day now seems like a half forgotten fairy-tale.
The service gets underway. I’m walking down the aisle on Patrick’s arm, faltering at the sight of billowing sheets and enormous wooden stepladders, handmade for the sole purpose of triggering a childhood memory we shared.
I hear the sincerity in our voices as we recite our vows; unified promises of devotion, love and protection; all that Ayden held sacred for over two decades being sanctified in front of God and the congregation.
“ … and I solemnly promise to cherish you and to keep you safe from harm; to love you from this moment on as I always have, for as long as we both shall live.”
And then … as the music fades, I close my eyes and he places a tattered pink ribbon in my hand.
“Wake up, baby,” he pleads.
And I do …
I remember that boy I ‘married’ 22 years ago beneath my father’s stepladders; the promise he made to always love me, to find me - and my innocent vow to wait for him.
We both kept our promises.
Thankfully, the emotional turmoil that followed was not recorded, but our stirring farewell was. My stampede through the paparazzi to reach him does not go unrecorded. Like a heat-seeking missile I launch myself at him, forging my way through an invisible force field only to be swept up in his arms and disarmed in the process.
The cameraman shifts position and zooms in to capture the overpowering magnetism between us. It may be invisible but it’s no less tangible; eyes locked, a timeless attachment, compelling in its intensity and broken only by his forced departure.
I whisper to no one, “Enjoying. Always enjoying, Mr. Stone,” knowing somewhere out there in the cosmos he’s merely sleeping, sitting out a cold spell.
The video comes to a silent finale, and so does my session of self-absorption. Strangely, I see things more clearly; I did contribute to his untimely departure. Elise may have turned the steering wheel, but it was my words that put him in the car. Of that I am guilty and no one can persuade me otherwise.
I slip the DVD back into its sleeve for safe-keeping, turn off the lights and head back to the lift, steadfast in my purpose. I will serve my sentence willingly; I will love and be loved without reservation, and damned be the unearthly being in my bed if he should deny me my soul mate at the end of my term.
Ayden Stone has been my saviour on two occasions. Now, the tables are about to be turned. I’ll rescue him right back and do whatever it takes to awaken him from his eternal rest or, God help me, I’ll die trying.
I’m tiptoeing, trying not to make a sound. The last thing I want to do is draw attention to myself. I’m on the first floor, being led to the master bedroom by my nose like a bloodhound following a scent.
The bedroom door is open but I can’t enter; I’m propelled backwards by the memory of our last night here in this very room. Moonlight sears through a gap in the curtains and settles on that chair, triggering a barrage of recollections that floor me, one sweet kiss at a time. I close my eyes and focus on steady breathing, listening to how air enters Ayden’s lungs in life affirming breaths and leaves them in a wheeze. My husband is sleeping peacefully, untroubled by talk of near death experiences and arrangements; knowing that makes me smile into the darkness.
“Ayden,” I whisper, nearing the bed. “Ayden?” There is no reply. I have him to myself, it seems.
Without a second thought I throw off my bathrobe and slip between the sheets, wearing only a flimsy set of pyjamas. On my side of the bed the sheets are crisp and cool against my bare arms but, as I edge closer to Ayden, I’m becoming aware of body heat and expensive cologne - a heady mixture for someone who has not been touched for five days.
I nestle into his back and slide my hand across his chest so I can open my palm and pull him into me; like that missing piece of sky in a jigsaw puzzle, we slot together perfectly.
Secretly, I’m praying the closeness of my body will rouse him from his sleep, but it’s a silent prayer that goes unanswered.
He may be breathing, but that’s an unconditioned reflex; even a new-born baby gasps for air. I nuzzle into his neck and whisper softly, “I know you’re only sleeping, but I’m here Ayden, I’m not going anywhere. Can you feel me holding you?” I screw up my eyes to stem the flood and pull him into me. “I’ll never let you go, Ayden.” I kiss his right shoulder. “Now you rest, baby. I’ve got this.”
Lulled by that thought, I doze off, comforted by the closeness and warmth of his body.
***
It’s 2 a.m. Mack is stepping out of bed and dragging his feet along a worn-out carpet in search of slippers. He’s been tossing and turning for the last hour, troubled by the three-ring circus into which Elise Richards has tumbled. From what he has seen and read it seems unlikely she would fall for Mr. Stone’s unquestionable charm or Mr. Rizler’s fiendish fascination. And yet, she appears to have come into contact with them both. Unable to even contemplate sleep, he sits on the edge of the bed, flicks on the lamp and begins to assemble theories until they are stacked as high as breakfast pancakes. Their inconclusive nature only troubles him more.
He snatches his paisley bathrobe and pulls the belt tightly around him, taking cautious steps across the landing and down the stairs. Hearing him descend, Judy is there to meet him at the bottom of the stairs, her tail wagging as a token gesture.
“Go back to bed, girl. There’s no reason why
we should both be wide awake.”
Seeming to understand every word, she returns to her basket in the kitchen and winds herself into a cosy capital C.
Before returning to the carnage, he switches on wall lights and reaches for the bottle of whiskey his daughter bought for him when she was last home. It’s a familiar nightcap, an old friend. Before his wife passed away he wouldn’t dare touch the amber nectar for fear of receiving a lecture on the dangers of becoming an alcoholic. Now, with no one to remind him of the errors of his ways, he is free to do as he pleases, although, he knows only too well that it’s no fun drinking alone. Even so, he pours a generous measure into a tumbler and holds it against his chest like a medallion, hoping it will bring him luck in his pursuit of the truth.
He creates four untidy piles for his character study and lays them out on his lounge carpet like portfolios for an audition. The difference is that two of the leading players are dead, and the other two … just as silent and too well-connected to be dragged into the limelight.
Elise Richards’s driving licence holds his attention. There’s something about the way her eyes are staring straight ahead, piercing his soul; the way her lips are tightly shut as if she’s stifling a secret …
“Maybe if I listen carefully enough, you’ll tell me what I need to know to help you, Elise,” he says, licking the whiskey from his lips. “But for now, we both need to sleep. Tomorrow’s another day and we’ll see what clues you’ve left for me at your apartment.”
He returns the glass to the tray of spirits and turns off the lights. As he climbs the stairs he thinks he hears the sound of rustling papers coming from the lounge. He stops and tips his head to listen, but hears nothing more.
Anesthetised a little by the whiskey he crawls into bed and drifts off to sleep, still troubled by theories based on suppositions. He needs hard evidence of Stone’s complicity in the death of Elise Richards and he won’t rest until he has it.
9
I feel familiar fingers, a masculine palm and a thumb encasing my hand as it rests across Ayden’s chest. My first thought is to pull away. But I reconsider and relax my hand, allowing the stranger in my bed to caress it and savour the sensation of my body melded to his.
And so our adventure begins …
When I feel able to face the day, I open my eyes slowly, with some trepidation, unsure of what I’ll see. I retrieve my hand and roll onto my back, preparing to slither out of bed.
“Good morning, Beth.”
Hearing Ayden’s voice, causes me to flinch a little, knowing the words are not his own.
He rolls over and props his head on his right palm, looking every bit the man I adore; eyes alight with morning glory.
“Morning, Ayden. Did you sleep well?” I sense my cue and manufacture a smile.
“Yes, I did. You kept me warm.” He smiles cheekily and, unprepared for an early morning assault upon my senses, I reach out and cup his face in my right hand.
“You kept me warm too. We have a busy day ahead, so I’ll leave you to shower while I rustle up some breakfast.” I edge away to my right.
He takes my right hand and returns it to his face, closes his eyes and draws it across his mouth sensually. My heart is beginning to flutter. This is something Ayden would do …
When he opens his eyes, I see a familiar colour; deep, dark sapphire.
Oh shit!
“What do you have planned for us, darling?”
Darling? Ayden, doesn’t call me darling…
“Erm … I thought you should go and see your parents: Sylvia and Patrick. They’ll be worried about you.”
He raises an inquisitive brow. “Is that necessary?”
I nod. “Yes. They’re your family. You should reassure them you’re all right after your accident. Elise was killed, you know!”
He glares at me with wide eyes. “I am perfectly aware of that.”
“Then … you should know how worried they’ll be.”
“That really isn’t necessary. They were at the hospital when I … when your husband awoke. We exchanged embraces and I had Lester drive them back to Hove.”
“Oh! I didn’t know that.”
“And now you do.” He manufactures a ‘gotcha’ smile. “That being the case, I assume a family outing is unnecessary?”
I’m shaking my head. “You make it sound like a chore. If you want to ... fit in, you should try to be more human.”
He pushes an erect penis into my hip. “I am.”
I swallow deeply, unable to suppress the kind of visceral response that has me blushing. “Tell me. Do you know what it’s like to have a family and to be loved, unconditionally?”
He looks to the side to consider his answer; turns back and pins me to the pillow with an intense stare. “Not as such.”
“And yet you said you wanted to be loved … by me? Love takes many forms, you know, and physical love isn’t the be all and end all. For all your universal greatness, I would have thought you’d know that.”
His mouth twitches. “Who better than you to teach me?”
“Ask me about punctuation and poetry and I’m your girl. Ask me about love and I … I only know what Ayden has taught me. Consider the irony in that!”
“I am. It’s poetic in a paradoxical kind of way.”
“It’s crazy! In a fucked up kind of way.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “And that is precisely why you are perfect for the job. You recognise the significance of the moment but aren’t overwhelmed by it.”
“You think!” I guffaw. “You must have done this before? Taken a body and claimed it?”
He’s nodding.
“When was the last time?”
“Over 30 years ago.”
What!
“Thirty years ago! Bloody hell! No wonder you have a hard-on!”
He falls backwards onto the bed in a fit of laughter. I can’t help but laugh too.
I step from the bed. “This is too crazy to even contemplate. I’m going to make tea.”
“Beth!” he calls, making me turn to face him, his eyes still full of laughter. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For reassuring me I had not misjudged you.”
“You didn’t.” I leave the room, a little relieved but under no illusions; six months is going to be a long time.
By 11.30 a.m. we are stepping from the Rolls. Lester seems eager to speak to Ayden about something but he seems oblivious to the clues.
“I’ll leave you two to chat for a couple of minutes.”
Ayden gives me a strange look.
“Thank you, Mrs. Stone,” Lester replies, with a half-smile.
I turn to my right and walk a couple of feet away to check my phone for texts off Charlie. I read it and listen in, catching the occasional word.
“The Inspector … funeral … the press … Mr. Harrison …”
I read Charlie’s text:
I rang the hospital! They said Ayden had discharged you! Are you really OK? So he woke up? He’s a resilient bastard, I’ll give him that! As long as you’re OK & resting up. I’ll call round later and make a house call. Love ya. C x
I reply with a reassuring text, wondering what the hell she will make of my appearance minus scratches and bruises. I’ve never looked so good! I’ll put it down to modern medicine, knowing full well it won’t satisfy her curiosity.
Ayden returns to my side. “So what was all that about?”
“Apparently our D.I. Bowker has been sniffing around and has taken it upon himself to investigate my private life.”
“Is that bad?”
“Not necessarily, but he may unearth a few things that are better left unseen.”
I nod in agreement.” You mean about Bright Hill and the incident with Elise?”
“I believe so. But I won’t let it get out of hand.” He’s smiling and taking my arm. “Shall we?”
“What do you mean, ‘you won’t let it get out of hand,’ What can you do?”
<
br /> He shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. “Why anything, Beth.”
I stand perfectly still, unable to move. “What do you mean ‘anything’?”
He lifts my hand, kisses it and takes a step forward. “You’ll see.”
We’re standing on the north bank of The Thames, looking up at The Tower of London. The Tower is a complex of several buildings dating as far back as 1066, set within two concentric rings of defensive walls and a moat; once a palace, but better known as a prison with a dismal reputation.
The Beefeater clad in black and red begins our tour, using voice and gestures to recount the troubled history of the Tower. Every so often Ayden turns to me to offer a correction, which begins,
“That’s not how it happened. She did not resist or, in the case of Anne Boleyn, she was very beautiful.”
The Crown Jewels glisten in glass cases, every crown and sceptre a relic of past monarchies - most of who failed to keep their heads.
I’m not sure who is more entertaining, the tour guide or my escort who appears to have first-hand accounts of every historical event. I test his knowledge further. “So tell me about Elizabeth I. She was mentioned a lot.”
He shrugs his shoulders, the way someone does when faced with tedium. “What would you like to know?”
“What was she like?”
“The Virgin Queen was born 7th September 1533 and died 4th March 1603. She was the daughter of Henry VIII and the fifth and last monarch of the Tudor dynasty…”
“ ... I can Google that.” I’m folding my arms, looking impatient. “Tell me about the woman. Did you meet her? How did she die?”
“She had a melancholic disposition that resulted from being abused as a child ...”
I’m taken aback. “How do you know that?”
“Because I know everything,” he replies, assuredly.
“Do you know who abused her?”
“Of course.”
“Was he ever punished?” I enquire further.
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