TouchStone for ever (The Story of Us Trilogy)

by Sydney Jamesson

  “4c The Oaks, Hatch End,” Mack says not needing to consult his notes.

  “Ah yes. Miss. Richards has two accounts with us: a current account for her everyday banking, and a savings account.”

  “Can you let me see last month’s transactions, please?”

  Mr. Taylor turns the screen around and Mack scrolls through. The only figure of any significance is a monthly payment made by her employer Taylor and Maine. She has a balance of £2,144; nothing out of the ordinary there. He turns the screen around. “And what about the savings account?”

  “Ah …”

  “What’s the ‘ah’ for?” Mack enquires. “Has she got herself a nice little nest egg?”

  The Manager nods. “You could say that. She has £50,000.”

  “Nice.”

  “Indeed. It’s primarily due to the fact that she has been receiving a payment of £5,000 on the first of each month, going back for … the past ten months.”

  With his interest piqued, Mack leans forward to rest his forearms on the desk; his sixth sense stimulated and prickling at the prospect of having stumbled across another part of the puzzle. “I’ll need a print out of this, going back 12 months.” He takes out his notepad, licks his right thumb and flicks over his notes until he comes to a clean page. “Okay, so tell me where the five grand is coming from each month.”

  Mr. Taylor, pauses, bites his lip and says nothing.

  Mack takes it a bad sign. “Whenever you’re ready…”

  He prepares to break the bad news. “It would appear your Miss. Richards has a benefactor.”

  Mack’s eyes widen. “A what!”

  “A benefactor, an anonymous sponsor.”

  He’s shaking his head. “That’s a bit antiquated, isn’t it? Who has a benefactor these days?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Mr. Taylor points out. “Some young people have wealthy parents who deposit a set amount into their account each month …”

  “Yeah, but Miss. Richards wasn’t a kid and she didn’t have parents who were rolling in it. He prepares to jot down notes like a bobby on the beat. “You’d better give me the name of this benefactor so I can go and have a chat with them. See what kind of relationship they have with the deceased.” He waits, pen poised. Forced to question Mr. Taylor’s hesitance, he asks, “I assume you can tell me their name. I don’t want to have to come back here again with more legal paraphernalia.”

  “I’d be quite happy to tell you, Sir, but it’s a sealed account. All I can tell you is that it is from a Swiss bank.” He meets Mack’s disbelieving stare with indifference.

  “You can’t tell me who’s sending her the money? She could have been involved in some kind of money laundering scam for all you know.”

  Mr. Taylor rocks back in his chair; his nonchalance reminds Mack of a certain Mr. Stone.

  “I can assure you there is nothing untoward going on here. The money has not been removed from the account in the ten months since the first payment went in. If large sums had been deducted, we would have investigated the account and Miss. Richards. It would appear she has a kindly sponsor.” He reconsiders his observation and speculates further. “Either that or …”

  In no mood for his speculation, Mack asks. “Or what?”

  “…Or she had a business venture of some sort that guaranteed her an income each month. There will be a straight forward explanation; nothing requiring you to apply your detective skills, I’m sure.” He laughs smugly.

  Smart arse …

  “I think I’ve been doing this job long enough to know when something doesn’t feel right, Mr. Taylor,” Mack says, asserting his authority for the first time today. “I’ll have the boys handling financial forensics to take a look. Maybe they will be able to do some digging.”

  Realising he may have overstepped the mark, Mr. Taylor steps down. “Of course. I’ll have Miss. Richards’s account details printed out for you.”

  “Right. Is that it then? There’s nothing else?”

  “I don’t think so … “ He stops mid-sentence.

  Mack waits to hear more.

  “It would appear we are holding certain documents for Miss. Richards here at the bank.”

  Mack feels that prickling sensation again. “What kind of documents?”

  “Deeds to her apartment in Hatch End, valuations for a collection of expensive jewellery, a Life Insurance Policy, and … her Will.”

  Mack slumps back into the chair. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” He scratches at overnight stubble with his forefinger and thumb. “So, ballpark, what are we talking here?”

  “Her assets are in the region of £476,500,” Mr. Taylor declares, somewhat bewildered by the discovery.

  The numbers appear on Mack’s notepad like code. “That’s one hell of a nest egg for someone working nine ‘till five for an estate agent, don’t you think?”

  “I do indeed.”

  Mack exhales loudly, creating a tangible gust that hits the man across the table from him like a blast of bad news. “When can I take a look at the document?” he asks, preparing to leave the room.

  Looking like a man perched on the edge of a cliff, Mr. Taylor replies. “Now is as good a time as any, I suppose.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  The two men leave the office, single file, one a little rough around the edges, the other smartly suited for the role, but only one has a spring in his step.

  16

  Lester has loaded the Rolls and we are airport bound. It’s almost 10 p.m. and we’re freshly showered and ready to embark upon the next chapter in our adventure.

  We have spoken very little since clambering from the bedroom carpet, and yet it’s as if an understanding has formed between us … a kind of symbiosis. No matter how you look at it, we need each other; knowing that makes this tour of duty a little easier to bear.

  Heathrow is humming with the sound of happy travellers leaping from taxis and mini-busses like lemmings. A familiar face is waiting to greet us; the suited brunette who took charge of our passports and luggage en route to Rome is offering a friendly smile. Unaccustomed to life’s little pleasantries, Ayden holds out his hand for her to lead the way, assuming we will be bypassing the masses. He’s a natural when it comes to pomposity, but money talks and he has plenty of it.

  She attempts to make polite conversation. “Mr. and Mrs. Stone your jet is fuelled and ready. You have a slot for 11.15 p.m. May I take your passports? I will also make the necessary arrangements for your luggage.”

  He gives her a disinterested nod of recognition and, with his hand positioned at the base of my spine, gently ushers me towards our connecting limousine parked a couple of yards from the external door. As we leave the comfort of the heated VIP lounge, we are buffeted by a crosswind that takes hold of my hair, wrapping it around my face like a balaclava. With my vision impaired, I take hold of his jacket and fold myself into his chest. As naturally as breathing, he shelters me from the gust with his arm. In a disorderly tangle of hair and clothes I scramble onto the back seat.

  “Where the hell did that come from? I feel like a scarecrow.” I pull back my hair into a make-shift pony tail. “Couldn’t you have done something about that wind?”

  He leans across, attempting to flatten my hair with his left hand and sniggers. “So now you want me to use my skills to ensure your hair is kept neat and tidy?”

  “Well wind is a natural element, isn’t it?” I ask innocently.

  “It is but far be it for me to intervene ad hoc.”

  “Ad hoc?” I huff. “This from someone who cancelled out the sound of people talking in a restaurant because they were a little noisy!”

  “That’s different.”

  I will not be deterred. “How? Do you mean that it’s alright for you to use you special skills for yourself but not for me?”

  “Not at all. Tell me what you want and, if I can, I will make it happen for you.” He places a soft kiss on my forehead. “And who knows, it might be significant
ly more impressive than ensuring your hair remains unruffled.” He tips up his head. “We’re here. Are you ready?”

  “What for? More wind?”

  “No, for spending the night on the company jet. It’s a 13 hour flight to Hong Kong.”

  I face him squarely. “I’ve been on the jet before, Ayden.”

  The softest of smile brushes against his lips. “Ah, yes. I’d forgotten.”

  Keeping a firm grip on my coat, I step out of the car but there is no need. The wind has dropped and I do believe the night air is positively balmy. “You warmed things up a bit.” I remark.

  He shakes his head and chuckles. “Actually no, the heat is coming off the turbines.“ He points to the enormous aeroplane directly in front of us.

  I open my mouth to speak and pause. “That’s a real aeroplane! Where’s the mini-jet?”

  “I think Jake is making use of the mini-jet. Charlotte made all the arrangements and said something about it being a long-haul flight.” He takes my right elbow. “Let’s get on board before the wind starts up.”

  I kiss his cheek. “Something tells me that’s highly unlikely.”

  Single file we ascend this Airbus ACJ319. Along the side is the familiar navy blue stripe and ‘AS Media International’. The cabin crew are waiting at the top of the steps to greet us: a smartly dressed woman of around 30, wearing a navy blue suit and a smile; and an equally smart gentleman of a similar age holding a tray aloft with two glasses of champagne on it.

  “Welcome aboard Mr. and Mrs. Stone. I’m Tony and this is Sandy. It’s our pleasure to be flying with you this evening.”

  I glance across to them and smile appreciatively. “Thank you. Happy to be here.” I turn to my left and rock backwards, awestruck. “Whoa!”

  It’s more than I could have imagined: a sumptuous ivory interior; plush leather chairs facing each other, a dining table that seats six, perfectly set with glistening china and crystal wine glasses atop a crisp white tablecloth. Ambient lighting diffuses from a domed ceiling, drenching the whole space in a kind of unearthly glow. Seconds pass and still I’m rooted to the spot.

  “May I show you to your cabin?” Sandy asks.

  “Please do,” I reply, reaching for the champagne flute. “I’ll take this with me.”

  She’s smiles warmly. “Of course.”

  Leaving the front lounge behind and bypassing the dining table we head towards the rear of the plane. To the left and right of me the walls are finished with highly polished wood, into which my effervescent drink reflects like a golden chalice.

  Sandy slides back a door on the right. “This is your en-suite bedroom, Mrs. Stone.”

  To my utter amazement, she’s right. There’s a king sized bed; its opaque green sheets have a dusting of cherry coloured rose petals that perfectly match my blouse. It’s too much to take in. I tip back the champagne flute, feeling its contents sizzle on my tongue, and hold onto my thoughts, trying not to let them fly.

  Thank you, Ayden.

  This is what he had planned for us. Now an imposter has hijacked his body and his aeroplane; but I can’t think about that now … I step inside. “It’s lovely.”

  She nods in agreement. “I’ll have Tony bring your luggage in as soon as it arrives.”

  Leaving me to my daydream, she bows out. I ruffle the rose petals with my free hand, noticing how every burnished surface is reflected in the elongated mirror above the dressing table. Only one thing looks out of place: me. Without Ayden’s radiance, I feel no more than a pale imitation of what a wife should be. Thankfully he isn’t here to witness my woeful impersonation.

  The man in question appears at the door. “This is impressive,” he remarks, nodding approvingly. “I think we’ll have a pleasant flight, don’t you?”

  I simply nod in agreement. One at a time I release the petals, allowing them to fall into a scented mound. When I hold my hand to my nose, the fragrance reminds me that they were once a perfect rose; and now, having become unattached, they’re purely decorative. Having served their purpose, I brush them off the bed making a mental note of where they land, not wanting to step on them as I leave the room.

  I wrap my right hand around Ayden’s arm. “Show me the rest of this awesome aircraft.”

  After the tour, Tony spoils us with a selection of canapés and decaffeinated coffee while Sandy turns down the bed and readies our cabin for the night. When we retire, the flat screen TV is on, bedside lamps are lit and anyone walking into this perfect space could be fooled into thinking they were on terra firma - not above the clouds travelling at 500 miles an hour.

  I dive onto the bed, face first. “My God! This is life in the fast lane for sure.”

  Ayden pulls his sweater over his head and yawns. His chin and then his mouth appear from beneath the collar with an exaggerated “Ah …”

  Seeing how weary he is I scamper up and help him remove it. His eyes are screwed up tight and he’s obviously exhausted.

  “I think you need to get yourself washed and into bed. We can watch TV for a while and fall asleep. It’s 1.30 a.m.”

  He enfolds my face in his powerful hands, caressing it, until it becomes no more than a tiny bud. “That sounds like a good idea. You have worn this body out, my darling.” He smirks, planting a soft kiss on my forehead. “I won’t be a moment.”

  I watch him head for the en-suite bathroom. “Don’t rush. I’m not going anywhere.”

  With him out of the way, I open my laptop, checking to see if I have access to the internet. It takes a minute, giving me time to strip out of my clothes and hang them up in the wardrobe. My nightdress is cool on my skin and the silken material floats over my curves like a sheet of fine tissue paper.

  “Yes!” I utter. I have internet access! When he is ‘sleeping,’ I’ll make my next entry in my digital scrapbook, away from prying eyes. I take a moment to return to the world I once knew, needing no more than our first-ever photograph together as a conduit.

  Ayden returns to our honeymoon suite in the sky, wearing boxers and a radiant smile. His provocative fragrance finds its way across the room and rouses an already restless heart. Even though it’s an opulent space it is, nevertheless, confinement of sorts. What I have experienced over the past five days is monumental, unbelievable, but my secret. He’s pretending to read the newspaper and says nothing at all, other than, “Your turn.”

  With my nightly routine out of the way I slither under the softest of sheets and rest my head beneath his right arm with my cheek pressed against his deliciously scented chest hair.

  “Do you want to sleep, or can we talk?” I ask shyly.

  He wraps his right arm around me and folds his fingers together, resting them on my lower back. “We can talk until you fall asleep.” He sighs contentedly. “Do you want to talk about anything in particular?”

  I stretch my arm across his abdomen, feeling the need for intimacy after our sexual escapade earlier. “I may have trouble sleeping. I’m not a good flier.”

  “I didn’t know that. You hide your fear well.” He kisses my hair and tightens his grip around me. “You have nothing to fear. You’re perfectly safe.”

  “How can you be sure?” There’s that familiar rumble beneath my ear.

  “You ask me that?

  “Sorry,” I snigger. ”I didn’t think that through.”

  “Do you think I would be here if this flight was doomed?”

  I place a soft kiss on a flexing pectoral muscle. “I suppose not. What would happen to you if something untoward happened?”

  “Nothing, I would move on.”

  Troubled by his nonchalance, I raise my head to see the flickering hues in his eyes. “To where?”

  “Anywhere, everywhere, it’s of no consequence to me.”

  I settle back down. “I don’t think I’ll ever get my head around this. You said you’re light, right? Aren’t you the light people speak of during near-death experiences?”

  “He nods. ”I’m part of it.”

 
; “But isn’t that supposed to lead to the gateway to heaven?”

  “You really are in a talkative mood.” He’s shaking his head. “What would you like me to say? I take departing souls by the hand and lead them to the light or the flames depending on how they have lived their lives?”

  I shrug my left shoulder into the crook of his arm. “Don’t they go to heaven or hell??”

  Meeting my gaze squarely, he explains. “It’s not that clear cut. They wait to be selected.”

  I feel my face folding into a frown. “Selected? So you’re telling me the souls of the departed are sitting around in an enormous waiting room in the sky?”

  He smiles broadly and it’s so contagious I match it. “It’s not so much a waiting room as a … a two-star hotel.”

  My eyes widen at the thought. “Oh no! And is that where Ayden is?”

  “At the moment, yes.”

  “Shit!” I sit up until I have both arms folded across his chest. “He’ll be a pain in the arse; complaining, sending food back, asking to see the manager.” I giggle at the absurdity of it.

  “It’s a brief stay for most. They move on and find eternal rest while others … do not.” He smiles resignedly.

  “It’s all very biblical.”

  He thinks through his response. “This is true.”

  Those three words crucify me but I swallow hard and carry on. “Can’t any of the ‘hotel’ guests come back?”

  “Not if their earthly forms have been … dealt with.”

  I’m quick to interject. “By ‘dealt with’ you mean buried or cremated?”

  “I do.”

  “So is that why you’re occupying Ayden’s body, to keep him in transit up there and alive down here?”

  He nods and presents a tight-lipped smile.

  “Why haven’t you explained this to me before?”

  I feel his hand caressing my hair. “Because darling, you weren’t ready to hear it.”