TouchStone for ever (The Story of Us Trilogy)

by Sydney Jamesson

  He’s come to the right place.

  He’s welcomed into the building by a plump woman of around fifty with wild hair and a paintbrush wedged behind her right ear; her cheeks are emblazoned with coloured paint which gives her the look of a tribal elder. She escorts him upstairs, giving him time to look about the impressive hallway at the stained glass, the ornate tiling and the wide stairway. He’s making mental notes. ‘It’s well maintained and well resourced. Children will be safe and well cared for here.’

  As they ascend, she asks him about his journey, how far he’s come and how bad the traffic was on the M25. It’s all very perfunctory. Mack answers politely and is as relieved as she is to reach the office where the grown-ups are based.

  The office is bustling with activity. The young lady nearest the door offers him tea or coffee while the other members of staff look on suspiciously, refusing to make eye-contact for some reason. Again, he makes a mental note, but before he can jot down his observation on paper a rotund black woman breezes in wearing a crimson smock dress and red shoes. She’s not at all like the woman he visualised her over the phone. His mouth twitches in response to a private thought.

  More like Mother Christmas than the mistress of the house.

  Unlike the other members of staff she offers him her hand; she engages him with her smile and scrutinises him with eyes the colour of dark chocolate. Once inside her office she directs him over to the window, where a small group of young children can be seen playing on freshly painted climbing equipment.

  “Just look at the little mites,” she says. “They’re having so much fun it’ll be a terrible struggle for Margaret to get them back indoors.” She directs him to a high backed chair on the other side of her desk. “So, Detective Inspector Bowker, what can we do for you?”

  He takes out his notepad and begins to flick back pages, licking his thumb a couple of times to ease the process. “I’m investigating the tragic death of Miss Elise Richards or, as you might know her, Elise Kilbride. She was a ward of this institution some 22 years ago.”

  Mrs. Osoba appears to expand and folds herself into her high-backed office chair like a bread mix in a baking tin, spreading out until every possible inch is filled with her. Her smock dress plumes up around her stomach like dough rising; she flattens it down with both hands and covers the desk top with her broad arms. “I see. How did she die?” she asks unswervingly.

  “She was involved in a car crash.” Mack watches for her reaction.

  Her eyes widen yet she manages to refashion her response into something less expressive. She lowers her chin to speak. “How dreadful.”

  “Yes it was.” He consults his notes. “May I ask how long you’ve worked here?”

  As is her way, she becomes animated and throws back her hands feigning embarrassment. “If I tell you that then you’ll be able to guess my age,” she states laughing a little too forcefully. “I’ve been here for over twenty years.”

  “Ah yes. Almost 22 years, in fact,” Mack adds, flicking over to the next page. “So you’ll remember Elise then?” he asks.

  She’s shaking her head. “Detective Inspector …”

  “Mack …”

  She starts over. “Mack … there have been more children here in those 22 years than you can possibly imagine. You can’t seriously expect me to remember every single child?”

  He offers a flat smile. “Of course not. But I think you may have a recollection of her even though she was only here for a matter of months; more so because she was associated with another of your residents here, Ayden Stone. You must have a recollection of him, surely, especially as he’s gone on to make quite a name for himself?”

  Her face flinches defensively. “Yes, he has, but I can’t see how that has anything to do with Elise.”

  He prepares to test her memory with a dramatic statement of fact. “Actually it has a lot to do with this investigation. Mr. Stone was driving the car that careened off the motorway, resulting in her death.”

  It appears as if the air has been sucked from the room. Mrs. Osoba’s façade crumbles at the mention of his name; she is struck dumb by the possibility of him being injured or worse.

  Mack seizes the advantage. “So, you do have a recollection of them?” he asks, sensing his digging is about to pay off and he’s on the verge of striking gold.

  She regains her equilibrium and folds her chubby fingers into a tower on her desk. “Mack, I don’t know why you’re here or what your intentions are but there is no wrong-doing here. For as long as I’ve been here, the children under our care have been well looked after. Their emotional, physical, educational and spiritual needs have been addressed. Some of our charges have gone on to do wonderful things, like Mr. Stone; others have not.” She casts a loving eye across the collages dotted around the room and the smiling faces of children of every size, colour and creed. Speaking softly she avows, “We have done our best.”

  Mack places his notebook on her desk and leans forward until they are eye to eye. “I’m not here to stir up trouble. I’m here to find out why a woman took a knife to someone she loved in the front seat of a sports car and then tried to kill them both by grabbing the wheel. That’s all.”

  “And what makes you think I can shed light on something as dreadful as that?”

  He lifts out the photographic evidence, places it on her desk and turns it around so she can see the three children clearly. He taps it on the corner with his finger. “This,” he states.

  The severity of her stare is diluted by her tears. Clearly moved by the picture of them she lifts it between her finger and thumb so she can resurrect the memory of them with her eyes. “They were inseparable. Saffir was heartbroken when Frannie left. I started working here a month after this picture was taken but he told me all about her. Kept her memory alive until it became a kind of fairy-tale he would tell himself at bedtime. He kept a picture of them under his pillow and every night made the same promise.” She glances at Mack but looks right through him, all the way to that very moment. “To find her, to rescue her.”

  Mack senses his cue. “Well, he kept his promise. He found her. In fact he flew her off to Las Vegas and married her.”

  Mrs. Osoba is shaking her head. “Always was a determined little boy. Knew what he wanted and went all out to get it. But Beth’s not merely an acquisition to him. He loves her, always has and always will. And that’s the end of it.” She hands him back the photograph.

  “Thank you.” He slips it into his jacket pocket, secretly thanking her for more than the simple return of a photograph. “That makes sense. I got this photograph from Elise’s apartment and there was a note addressed to ‘S’. I assume she was calling him Saffir.” He receives an affirmative nod. “What I don’t understand is why he was so taken with Beth - then Frances - when Elise was here all the time. Weren’t they close?”

  “I wasn’t here to witness how close they were but Saffir did speak to me about Frannie.” She laughs and heaves herself out of the chair to stand by the window. “He loved to talk about her, how sweet she was, how she made him laugh; but mostly, how he saw himself as her protector.” She folds her arms, preparing to elaborate. “You see, all he knew was to fight for the ones he loved. There was his mother. She was forced to give him up. He had two names but he chose to keep the one that reminded him of her, even though that meant defending it every day. He fought Elise’s battles for her too, not that she needed him to, but he did it anyway. Then Frannie came along.” She sighs and the hot air from her lungs creates a fleeting cloud across the glass. “I would love to have seen them together; living out their childish fantasies, acting out fairy-tales as children do when they have no concept of reality or of the real monsters out there.” She returns to her seat and perches on the edge of it so she might lean forward to make her point quietly but forcefully. “The monsters came for Elise one night in the guise of two male members of staff who worked the night shift. They had been abusing her sexually for some time and, once it was di
scovered, I’m ashamed to say, it was hushed up and Elise was transferred to a different establishment. I was new here and no one mentioned a thing, except Saffir.”

  Having listened patiently, Mack is eager to wrap up all the loose ends. “Do you think anything happened that might make it possible for Elise to blackmail him?”

  She is horrified. “Blackmail him? Of course not! Why do you ask?”

  “It was just a thought. She had a substantial payment going into her account each month. I wondered if the money was coming from him.”

  She’s quick to come to his rescue. “It might be coming from him but it won’t have anything to do with blackmail. He’ll see it as a way of taking care of her as you might a sister or those you love.“ She glances around her office until her eyes come to rest on her top-of-the-line laptop.

  “Is that why this place is so well furnished, the grounds so well-tended and your staff are so suspicious of my intentions?”

  She laughs out loud. “No. It’s because we all love him dearly. He’s the Patron Saint of Bright Hill.”

  “Is he now?” Mack isn’t convinced.

  “So don’t bother digging, looking for dirt, Mack, because there is none. Ayden and Beth are beautiful people, inside and out. They’ve come through hell and high water to make it this far and I send them my blessing every single day. After that terrible incident in her school, no one could doubt they’re meant for each other. He deserves nothing but respect. Even you must concede that?” She reaches for Mack’s hand.

  He raises himself from his chair and leans across to her to shake it. “I’ll take your word for that Mrs. Osoba …”

  “ …Winnie, everyone calls me Winnie.”

  He smiles briefly, leaving only a smirk in its place. “I imagine they would,” he says amicably. “Thank you for helping me piece together some of my puzzle, Winnie. I’ll leave you to get back to your children.”

  She flounces over to the door like a crimson tide of scented perfume: the fragrance from a hundred freesias fills his nostrils.

  “Thank you, Mack. I’ll come down with you. Margaret may need a hand.”

  The stairs creak as they descend. The sound of children’s voices and laughter fills the hallway as they march single file into the art room. A blond haired girl of around eight years of age comes skipping past him, humming a tune; he can’t help but smile and think of Elise and how different her life might have been.

  The drive back takes another two hours. Mack passes the time by listening to Radio 4 extra, distracted by the retelling of a novel right up until the point where someone dies. Twenty minutes in, he swaps the drama for something more cheerful: Sports Round-up.

  By the time he reaches the Bromley turn off he knows all there is to know about transfer fees and goal differences. More importantly, he returns knowing a lot more about Elise Richards and, of course, the mercurial Mr. Stone.

  19

  We leave the limousine protected by the canopy and enter the hotel looking rather dishevelled but unscathed.

  “Do you want to have a glass of brandy to warm you up?” Jake asks, taking hold of my bags.

  I shake my head. “No thanks. I think I need to get out of these wet clothes before I catch pneumonia.”

  “OK,” he says with smile.

  We move together in the direction of the lifts. First lift number one then the second to the 118th floor. I turn to Jake. “Are you on this floor?”

  “No. One below. Don’t want to see you struggle with all these fancy bags.” He smiles softly and his eyes fix on mine for a split second longer than I’m comfortable with.

  “Thanks. I don’t know what time Ayden will be back. What are you doing for dinner? Would you like to join us?” I fiddle in my purse for my key card.

  “I don’t think so … If he’s got any sense, he’ll keep you all to himself tonight.” He tips his head and his mouth falls naturally into a kind of suggestive smirk.

  I lower my eyes modestly. “Maybe …”

  The door to the Presidential Suite opens with a single push and I tumble inside. Laughing, we exchange shopping bags. He kisses me on my cheek and walks away.

  From down the corridor he calls out. “Be good!”

  Still chuckling, I close the door with my foot. When I turn around Ayden is standing there, looking like he’s been carved out of some kind of ancient stone; gaunt and sour-faced.

  Saying nothing, he turns and walks toward the enormous window. He stands tall, looking out into the curtain of swirling mist; thunder roars and zigzags of lightening shiver from the heavens above. Even the building appears to be swaying. I feel as if we’re on the brink of something monumental, like the prelude to the great flood.

  “Ayden?” I call quietly. “When did you get back?” He doesn’t answer. I drop my bags and approach him, touching his left arm at the elbow.

  He spins around and I gasp. The dazzling beauty of the man I love has been replaced by an anxious visage that is both engaging and terrifying in its transformation. He has the pallor of an aging man; his skin has lost its natural glow and his eyes reflect the leaden, grey sky.

  “What’s happened? Is it ASMI?”

  He looks through the glass into the wrathful sky.

  “Talk to me. Better still, just listen.” I grasp the lapels on his jacket and turn him to face me. “I can guess why you’re so upset. I saw you watching me at the boutique. That was you, wasn’t it?”

  He says nothing but stands rigid and unrecognisable, air leaving his lungs in a kind of seething snort.

  “You set the whole thing up to amuse yourself, to feel the pangs of jealousy you felt back home and you knew Jake would play his part beautifully. If this is the case then why are you so upset? The streets are flooded, people are frightened, injured, maybe dying because of your tantrum.” I turn to my right and begin to walk away but, as before I cannot; some kind of invisible force has me pinned to the spot.

  “So this is what you do when things go awry - lash out, show your true colours?” I lower my head and consider my words very carefully. “You said you wanted to feel, to know love in its many forms. So what do you think this is? Name the emotion that has you wound up so tightly.”

  He closes his eyes and when he opens them I see an open sea swimming in tears. “I don’t know. Jealously?”

  “No, it’s more than that. You know how that feels; it’s a nagging ache, a disappointment that comes and goes. This is actual pain.” I glance over at the clouds, rolling and tumbling in the wind. “Call off the thunder and lightning, Ayden. People are getting hurt.”

  I wrap my hands around his face, reaching up to place a soft kiss on his lips. “Stop this now.” I lower my hands, slide them inside his jacket, around his back and hold on tight. His heart is racing against my ear and his chest still heaving.

  Outside the storm begins to ease. The storm clouds are thinning and there are streaks of light; it isn’t blue but a kind of off-white that promises better days.

  He takes hold of my shoulders and pushes me away from him. “These feelings I’m having are alien to me. I’m struggling to give them a name.”

  “I know.” I take hold of his right hand and position it on his heart, resting mine on top of it to keep it in place. “You know what this is?”

  “Of course I do. It’s the heart: a cone shaped, muscular organ made up of four chambers that pumps blood received from the veins into the arteries, thereby maintaining the flow of blood through the entire circulatory system.”

  His answer makes me laugh. “And there I was thinking you didn’t have a sense of humour.” My eyes are glistening with adoration.

  He’s smiling. “That’s not the answer you were after, is it?”

  “No. I was highlighting the fact that you’re alive; a living, breathing, feeling entity. A human being.”

  He pulls me in close and presses his lips against my hair.

  “Fear.”

  I look up into his eyes; opaque windows to a tortured soul. “What?�
��

  “Fear. That’s what I was feeling. I had a panic attack of some sort; a surge of adrenalin that I simply had to dissipate. It resulted in the storm.”

  “So you didn’t create it to get me back here?”

  He tips his head and nods in the direction of the pane of glass now clearing after the deluge. “There was that.”

  “What were you afraid of?”

  He’s lost in thought. “I’m not sure. It was a visceral response over which I had little control.”

  I’m trying to make sense of it. “You mean like arousal?”

  “Yes, although I seem to have that under control now.”

  I press my body against his. “I think you might not be at that point just yet.”

  “That’s because of your proximity,” he explains.

  “Is it? And what if I do this and get even closer? Are you still in control?” I lower my right hand and place it between his legs; slowly I raise it until his zip is against my thumb.

  “Is this a test of some sort?” he asks, clearing his throat.

  “No, not a test; a reminder that you have nothing to fear.” Standing on my tiptoes I‘m able to nibble his chin, to drag my tongue across his bottom lip, tasting but holding off on an actual kiss.

  “But it was apparent you like Jake. You were laughing; no, you were giggling and enjoying his company.” Instinctively, his hands take hold of my waist, pulling apart my jacket, pinning me to him, climbing my body with eager hands.

  I whisper into his ear. “I do like Jake. He’s like chocolate. He can be very sweet; but that doesn’t mean I want chocolate all the time. It’s just something you fancy now and again as an accompaniment to something more substantial. But you … you’re so much more … an element and not a piece of confectionery. You’re like oxygen to me. I need you to breathe.”

  Unable to hold back, he raises me off the ground, taking my legs and wrapping me around his body like a human vice.