TouchStone for ever (The Story of Us Trilogy)

by Sydney Jamesson

  Yours, Beth. X

  I attach two of my favourite photos of us and one of the Opera House, captured so beautifully with the bridge in the background. I send two photos to Charlie with a brief message

  Hi Char, last day here we and managed to squeeze in a night at the opera in Sydney. Flying home later today. Can’t wait to see you. Looking forward to hearing your news. Love B.X

  Before I’m able to return to the comfort of our bed, something moving on the deck catches my eye. It’s the circle of red rose petals, now broken and scattered. Feeling utterly despondent. I stomp on them, kick them left and right, then and watch the way they are caught by the breeze and carried up and away … to be forever lost on the wind. I know how they feel …

  ***

  It isn’t as if he hasn’t had years to work it out, but Mack still believes the worst thing about being a detective is discovering secrets and then being ordered to keep them. Tormented by his own sense of morality he’s left work early, vowing never to return. It’s a temporary state of mind, but he meant it when he said it.

  He fills up a kettle with water and watches Judy in the back garden, hoping that being home will somehow soften the blow and ease his conscience. After all, what can he do?

  He pierces the cellophane covering of a microwave meal described as ‘a delicious mixture of spices from the Orient fused with rich meat flavours.’ He’s not fooled by the fancy packaging or the manipulation of language and prepares to be disappointed. His words leave his mouth like a volley of rubber bullets, “It’s all bullshit!”

  Five minutes pass slowly. With nothing better to do, he watches the countdown, wondering what he’s going to do with all the information he has in his head and in those notepads his Chief was so quick to ridicule. The bell sounds, announcing that dinner is served. He’s just about to lift out the carton when he hears a noise coming from the lounge; something crashing or smashing.

  He calls out, “Judy! Come out of there. Damn dog!” The heat of the carton burns his fingers, causing him to yell and rush over to the tap. The cold water stings but it lessens the sensation of burning flesh. His eyes move from his fingers, to his meal and then to the garden where Judy is still sniffing around. He checks the back door. It’s closed.

  Somewhat curious, he leaves his steaming lamb in black bean sauce, strolls down the hall and into the lounge. The files are as he left them, spread around the floor like stepping stones. The wallpaper is still draped over his dining table like a mediaeval banquette. All seems intact until … he spots a picture frame upside down on the carpet; it had been on the television set. Now, Kate, his daughter, is in pieces. The picture is intact but the glass is shattered, no more than a collection of slivers of sharp glass.

  He looks around the room for any signs of a disturbance, but there are none. Only one piece of information he accumulated in his investigation is out of place; the envelope addressed to

  Ayden Stone

  MOD ASMI

  It’s apart from the other sheets and photos and sitting on his favourite chair. He didn’t put it there. Taking a couple of steps towards it, he feels the hairs prickling on his neck as if some-one just opened a window to let in some air. The skin on his hands is covered in goose-bumps but he isn’t cold; even his breathing is a little strained. He has the strangest feeling he is not alone in the house.

  He looks at the hallway, preparing to leave, and sees Judy sitting less than a foot away from the threshold. She’s looking at Mack, but something behind him appears to be holding her attention. She whines noisily and leaves, leaving Mack to fend for himself.

  He rolls his eyes and shoves his hands in his pockets in an attempt to warm them. He’s in no mood for tricks; he’s been mind-fucked once today and isn’t about to go through that again.

  He turns, slowly …

  Nothing and no one is there, except for one solitary object; a marble on the carpet. It isn’t particularly striking or beautiful, yet when Mack holds it close to his eyes to inspect it he sees the richest streaks of cocoa brown. Within the sunburnt hues there is the suggestion of chocolate and of sweetness. He grips it tightly in his right palm and holds the letter in his left hand like the scales of justice.

  “Thank you, Elise,” he whispers. “It’s a fair exchange. I’ll see to it that he gets it.”

  In less than a minute the temperature rises, his breathing becomes less laboured and his mood changes for the better. With this simple gift comes all the gratification he needs for a job well done. Overcome with joy, he smiles with pride and begins to place the shards of glass onto a plain piece of paper. With no harm done, he places the photo back onto of the television and for the first time he actually sees his daughter in all her beauty. He caresses her face with a fat finger and checks his watch. ‘Is it too late to give her a call?’ he wonders.

  While he waits for her to answer her phone he recalls a quote by Benjamin Disraeli that seems fitting at this moment in time, “Justice is truth in action.”

  He knows what he has to do but for now …”Hello love, it’s your dad. I was thinking about you and I just thought …”

  ***

  In no hurry to leave, we wrapped souvenirs, packed away our clothes and waited on the deck for the chopper to arrive. As with every other day, the midday sun shone brightly and the turquoise sea reflected in Ayden’s eyes as if he were an extension of it.

  The flight to Cairns was brief and exciting. Helicopters have a way of bringing you close to nature. Maybe it’s the way you see the world laid out in front of you - a coverlet of cool blue, a carpet of green and then the man-made world of bricks and mortar. We came back to reality with a bump.

  The company jet was waiting on the runway, stocked and ready to whisk us back to Hong Kong in less than eight hours. I marvelled at how organised my life had become, thanks to my handsome husband and his highly dedicated and efficient secretary. Where would we without Charlotte?

  From the moment we awoke Ayden has been attending to my every need. While I prepared fresh fruit for breakfast he took care of the bedroom, righting furniture, clearing clothes from the floor and generally straightening things out. He didn’t volunteer an explanation and I haven’t asked for one. I’ve put two and two together; his strong emotions prompt a surge of energy and can quite easily whip up a storm. Nothing strange about that … he catches me smirking.

  “And would you like to share that thought?” he asks with a sideways nod.

  “No.” I smile back at him and return to my Kindle. With only two hours remaining of this leg of our flight, the time seems right to direct the conversation my way. Here goes.

  “Ayden…?”

  He looks up from his iPad. “Yes, Beth.”

  I place my Kindle on my knee. “Do you keep a list of people you have … you know, taken?”

  He frowns and shakes his head. “What kind of list?”

  “You know. Names, ages, dates of birth. Things like that.”

  “Not as such.”

  “Okay.” I have his full attention with my innocent enquiry.

  He changes seats and positions himself in front of me. “Why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered if you’d be able to tell me if someone was alive or dead? That’s all.”

  He reaches out and takes my hand. “Of course. I’d be happy to.”

  I reach for my bag and take out the letter head stationery from the Ritz Carlton, opening it on my lap. There are two names written there; Saffir Ayden Pierre and Isabel Françoise Pierre. I turn the paper around so he can see both names.

  At first he is surprised; his eyes widen. “I assume you mean Madame Pierre?”

  “Yes. Is she alive?”

  He releases my hand and leans back in his chair, probably going back through decades, looking for her name. “There was a woman of that name in 2012 but she was 82, and another in 1074 who was 59, neither of which were the right age.”

  I feel a flurry of excitement. “So she’s alive.”

  “No
t necessarily. She would most likely have married and changed her name.” He offers a flat smile. “Although …”

  I’m leaning forward, eager to hear more. “Although what?”

  He’s massaging his chin with his thumb, contemplating possibilities. “Although I could go back and check…”

  “You could?” There’s no disguising the surprise on my voice.

  “Yes. But it could take some time…”

  I’m quick to interject. “We have time. Will you at least try?” I reach out for his hand.

  “Would it make you happy?” he asks, looking a little too earnest.

  I’m nodding. “It would make me very happy, Ayden.”

  He kisses my cheek and moves to a chair on the other side of the aircraft, taking a pen and pad with him.

  I return to my Kindle, not really following any of the words on the screen. Gabriel Emerson is celebrating Christmas and dealing with an old flame, but I’m merely skimming paragraphs; he deserves more of my attention another time when I can concentrate. As I listen to Alexis Jordan singing, The Air That I Breathe, I inhale every word like a powerful fragrance laced with love. If I can get one thing out of this adventure, this is it. What can I give to the man who has everything? Only this.

  I stop pretending to read so I can watch Ayden at work, eyes closed, hands on his thighs, sweeping through time and space in search of a woman called Isabel Françoise Pierre, who gave birth to a beautiful baby boy over 32 years ago.

  All I can do is wait.

  Thirty four minutes later he’s touching my hand, I’ve dozed off and wake with a start. “Oh! How did you do?”

  He hands me my piece of paper with a list of new names and places on it. “I had to trace her back to the day she gave her baby up for adoption.”

  I can’t help but respond. “Oh Ayden, I’m sorry. I mean … if you were Ayden I would be sorry. Oh, what the hell, you know what I mean.”

  He leans across, takes my hand and pulls me over to him until I’m sitting across his knee, running my finger over a chiselled cheekbone and into his hair. “You’re amazing, you know. You have so much goodness in you.”

  He takes my hand and plans a noisy kiss in my palm. “Everything I have become is down to you. You are a gifted teacher, my darling, and I will miss you.” He brushes back my hair with his free hand. “I have spent most of my life in the company of the dead or the dying. You have brought light into a dark and lonely existence.”

  “Don’t say that.” I pull him to my breast. “I will worry about you when you leave.”

  He laughs quietly and shakes his head, pushing me backwards into a sitting position. “When I leave …”

  “Yes. “ I make myself comfortable. “Let’s not speak about it now. We have months together to think about that.”

  He smiles half-heartedly and returns to his seat, turns off his iPad and leans back into the headrest.

  I reach into my bag for a tissue and blow my nose as discretely as possible. Out of the window I see an unfamiliar, urban landscape, reminding me that I am so far from home. Now my happiness rests in the lap of the gods.

  We had no need to disembark at Hong Kong; the aircraft was refuelled and within forty minutes we were airborne again and en route to Heathrow. Our two cabin crew members, Tony and Sandy have prepared dinner and are cheerfully setting up as we dress for dinner in our cabin. I freshen up and apply a little mascara and lip-gloss to match my pale blue smock dress; Ayden slips into a casual white shirt that complements his tan. He selects a tie and debates whether to break with tradition and eat dinner minus a jacket.

  Accustomed as I have become to faking a smile, this is a feat worthy of an Oscar. I drink more than I should, and play around with my Veal Scallopini crêpe Suzette, even though the meal is perfectly delicious. Ayden had the bar stocked months ago so our palates are treated to the finest wines. We end with coffee and a glass of 1993 Bas-Armagnac, which we’re taking to our cabin as a nightcap.

  I’m tipsy and Ayden is amused. I kick off my shoes and crawl onto the bed, propping my chin in my right palm, listening to Holding Onto Heaven by Foxes. Ayden is saying nothing but his wry smile says it all. Sitting with his back to me, he removes his shoes and hums along. Meanwhile, I’m contemplating every possible scenario and coming up with the same terrifying conclusion. He’s not bringing Ayden back.

  With nothing to lose I crawl over to him and wrap my arm around his shoulders from behind. I bury my head in the crook of his neck and whisper softly, “I love you, Ayden”

  He bends back his arm and cradles my head in his right hand. Into my ear he says the four words I have longed to hear. “I love you more.”

  As I sob quietly, tears fall from my chin and splash onto his trousers in heavy droplets, dampening his thighs.

  He turns into me and kisses away my tears. “Hush, baby, don’t cry.” He blots away the remaining tears and damp patches with his tie. “Come, let’s get you ready for bed. I think you may have overdone the Tempranillo.” He cleans up smeared mascara with his thumbs and takes my face in his hands.

  I rest my hand on his. “Make love to me.”

  He’s shaking his head, slowly. “I can’t. Not here and not when you’re like this.”

  I can’t conceal my disappointment. “Ayden would.”

  He brushes my lips with his. “But I’m not Ayden, darling.”

  What a fearful reminder. When I look into his eyes, the starlight of the previous night has departed. I’m looking into the eyes of the boy I fell in love with over 22 years ago, my husband. I see myself reflected in that endless Caribbean Sea, and despite his assertion, I am reassured.

  He’s still here and there’s still hope.

  For what will probably be my last entry I boot up my laptop and leave Ayden sleeping. My tears have dried and I’ve made a decision to make our remaining time together a pleasurable one. I have a feeling my destiny will be determined by the events of the past 11 days. Maybe I could have behaved differently. Could I have loved more convincingly, given more and missed Ayden less? I don’t think so…

  I’m scrolling through my digital scrapbook, hovering over photographs, lingering over lines of text wishing I’d said more.

  NOVEMBER #10

  “Hear my soul speak:

  The very instant that I saw you, did

  My heart fly to your service.”

  William Shakespeare: The Tempest.

  We’re almost home, Ayden. Usually honeymooners feel unhappy about returning to the humdrum of daily life after having such a romantic time gazing into each other’s eyes, but I feel no sadness. We have been to heaven and back this past week; reached for the sky and touched the bottom of the ocean; travelled from west to east and beyond … but, for all of the excitement in discovering new places, together, there’s no place like home, Ayden.

  You reminded me not so long ago that we’d both been lost souls, wandering in circles, opening doors that lead nowhere, but no more. We’ve come home; found that place we had been searching for and that place is in each other’s arms.

  You live inside me, Ayden, not as a memory but as a living, breathing piece of me. My heart is yours to keep and, when the time comes for me to leave this earth, it’s your name I will be whispering.

  Yours for ever, Beth X

  To this final entry I attach our photo, my screensaver and, through tears I promised myself I would no longer shed, I reach out and stroke his face. The memory of that night makes me smile.

  Goodnight my beautiful prince.

  24

  Whilst waiting for our bags to be offloaded and taken through to passport control Ayden calls Lester. There are rumblings of displeasure, which make me wonder what we’re walking into.

  I give Lester the warmest smile I can muster. “Hello, Lester. How are things back at the ranch?”

  He opens the door of the Rolls and waits for me to step inside. “The ranch is much as you left it, Mrs. Stone.” Not one for humour, he forces a smile.

 
Ayden gives him a cursory nod and slips in beside me. I reach over and take his hand. “What’s wrong?”

  He looks puzzled. “Why, nothing,” he replies sandwiching his other hand over mine.

  “I don’t mean with us. I mean generally.” I’m focusing on his face, looking for clues. There are none.

  He kisses my cheek as you might a small child who needs reassurance. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  I pull my hand free and turn from him. “That’s not an answer. I’m not a child. I don’t need protecting. If it’s about us, I want to know.” I look out into the 4 a.m. mist and gloom of our capital city and see myself reflected. My arms are folded and I’m pouting in a very childlike manner. When I turn to face him, looking up through mascaraed lashes, I see he’s smirking.

  “Beth, I will never become tired of your antics.” He wraps his arm about my shoulder and clears his throat to speak. “Our D. I. Bowker has been making a nuisance of himself this past week, and has arranged to come to our home later to speak with us.”

  “Why? What does he know?” I ask.

  “Everything,” he states casually. “He’s been very diligent in his investigation.”

  I’m shocked by his reply. “Everything! And you knew?”

  “Of course. He seems to be a man of good moral standing and I assumed he would come to me with any matters arising out of his investigation.”

  “And you didn’t think to tell me?” I enquire indignantly.

  “Why would I? There was nothing you could do 10,000 miles away.”

  I can see his point. “Well, I know that, but it’s a good idea to talk these things through, even with someone like me.”

  He tightens his grip on my shoulder. “Someone like you would be the only person I’d discuss this with. You know that, so don’t pout or I’ll have to kiss you to turn it into smile.”

  “Is that a promise?” I smile into his chest.