TouchStone for ever (The Story of Us Trilogy)

by Sydney Jamesson

He laughs and plants a kiss on my hair. “Yes, it is.” He lifts me away from him. “We’re here.”

  Tea seems the best way to celebrate our homecoming. Ayden attends to emails and other correspondence in his study downstairs, and I’m left alone with my thoughts. Watching the kettle come to the boil, I count the seconds, wasting time, trying not to address the simple matter of my husband’s return. I suspect a decision has been made already. There is nothing I can do to persuade or alter what amounts to a date with destiny.

  With no need of sleep I descend to the 1st floor carrying two teas and a plate of biscuits, trying to replicate normality. Before entering Ayden’s office I pause, hearing the harsh tones of a man used to exuding power and authority with every syllable, but concealing it behind a façade of civility.

  “It’s unfortunate you feel that way. You should come straight here when you land so we can sort things out. I appreciate that, but I would suggest you don’t do anything you might regret, Jake.”

  Jake?

  I take a step backwards, reeling at the mention of his name. With the call concluded, I push open the door with my foot. “I made tea,” I say, smiling. “Where should I put it?”

  For the first time since our adventure began, Ayden is pacing, rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand. He points to a small coaster on his desk. “Thank you.”

  I reach for his arm. “What’s happened with Jake? Is it business?”

  He’s shaking his head. “No. It’s pleasure.”

  I rest on the edge of his desk. “Can you tell me?”

  “Yes, as you seem to have caused this predicament.” His eyes flash in my direction; it might be the effect of the rising sun peeping through the blind or it might be suppressed rage. I have no way of knowing.

  “What did I do?”

  Surely he can’t still be jealous?

  Thankfully, he stops pacing and sits in his swivel chair. He takes a sip of his tea then plants it down noisily, making me jump. When he lifts his head and his eyes meet mine, I see he has calmed a little, but the cerulean shimmer I love most of all is absent. He takes a breath. “You’ve been communicating with Charlie haven’t you?”

  Shit!

  I nod. “Yes. Why would I not? She’s like a sister to me … I …”

  “You’ve been sending her photographs haven’t you?”

  Unsure of his line of questioning I continue. “Yes, that’s what you do on your honeymoon. I wanted her to see what a wonderful time we were having. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  His head falls, as if he understands for the first time what’s happened. “You sent her photographs of Hong Kong?“ I nod in reply. “You sent her photographs of Heaven’s Gate Mountain too?”

  “Yes, so what?”

  “Do you know how far Heaven’s Gate Mountain is from Hong Kong?” he asks.

  “I have no idea,” I admit, still without a clue.

  “It’s a six hour flight.” He begins to swivel in his chair; left then right, left then right. “Jake had my itinerary. He knew we didn’t have 12 hours free to go sightseeing.”

  The penny drops. “Oh crap.”

  He laughs and reaches for his tea. “Oh crap indeed. It gets worse.” Purposely making me wait he sips his tea. “So on to our honeymoon destination we go and …” He stops, held steadfast by my open-mouth. I am utterly captivated. “And, you tell me what happened next.”

  I wrap both hands around my mug and relay the details of our excursions and activities. It’s not until I reach our last night, I raise my wide eyes to his. “We went to the Sydney Opera House.”

  “We did, and what an enjoyable evening we had.” He smiles, teasing me shamelessly. “I believe you sent her a photograph of us posing in front of said Opera House.”

  Embarrassed by my stupid mistakes, all I can do is nod. “I didn’t realise. I’m sorry. How long is the flight to Sydney from Baderra Island, anyway?”

  “Not too long, only around four hours with the transfer to the mainland, but there is the return flight to consider.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Well that’s not too bad then.”

  “It wouldn’t be except for the fact that we spoke to Jake in the morning and you sent photos of us out on a catamaran for most of the day.”

  All I can do is sip my tea quietly and wait for a solution to occur to me. Five minutes later, I’m still waiting. “What did you tell Jake? He must wonder what the hell’s going on.”

  He does. Particularly as no flights were going out to the Tienman Mountains because of bad weather …”

  “Bad weather you caused!” I state briskly.

  “Precisely.”

  I remove my thumbnail from my teeth to speak. “So what will you tell him when he gets here?”

  His broad shoulders rise and fall. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “You can’t tell him the truth!” I declare, placing down my cup and standing to straighten my dress. “He won’t believe you.”

  “This is true.”

  We both laugh at his reflexive response.

  I take a chance and launch an emotive question in his direction. Licking my lips I begin, “What if you weren’t here when he arrived? You wouldn’t have any explaining to do. I could come up with some kind of plausible explanation, I’m sure.”

  “Are you attempting to negotiate with me, Mrs. Stone?” he asks, finding my attempt to introduce an exchange of power quite amusing.

  “No, just trying to find a solution that suits everyone.” I pick up my mug and prepare to leave. “Have you finished with your tea?”

  “Not quite. Do I have time to finish it?” he enquires, making light of my negotiating skills.

  I simply shake my head and walk away. “Yes, you have all the time in the world, Ayden.”

  My life has become a merry-go-round of bad decisions and an affair of the heart that has my head in a spin. If I don’t find some way to decelerate, this adventure will turn into a tragedy very quickly.

  Now we have a relay of guests to contend with. First on the list is Detective Inspector Bowker at 9 a.m. I’ve been left in the dark and Ayden’s single declaration about him knowing “everything” has done little to calm my nerves. With ten minutes to myself I boot up my laptop, intending to scroll through photographs, deleting those incriminating reminders of unearthly powers and impossible excursions!

  I open up the digital scrapbook, looking for lines to delete, then the buzzer sounds by the lift, making me jump several inches high, signalling the arrival of our interrogator. I move my laptop to the kitchen counter, watch the lift descend and check my appearance. I’m not sure why I’m so nervous; we’ve done nothing wrong.

  I feel a surge of adrenalin as the lift glides to a halt. D.I Bowker steps out first. A worn out man of around 40, he looks as if he has aged somewhat since I saw him last at my apartment.

  I move over to greet him. “Detective Inspector Bowker, how nice to see you again. Please take a seat. May I take your coat?” He removes his rain coat and I slip away to the guest bedroom and fold it over a hanger that conveniently hooks over the bedroom door.

  When I return, Ayden is playing host and pouring coffee.

  “You’ve got one hell of a place here,” he comments, allowing his eyes to skate around the room, taking everything in.

  “Yes, I’ve travelled quite a bit and picked up some ornaments along the way,” Ayden replies, handing him a porcelain mug of tea. I push a coaster in his direction and take my cup.

  “You’re both looking tanned and rested after your honeymoon, I see. Where did you go?”

  “Thank you,” I respond, smiling. “We went to Hong Kong and then onto The Great Barrier Reef. It was an amazing experience.”

  “I can imagine.” He smiles cordially, knowing just how unlikely that is.

  Ayden sits next to me and strikes a familiar king of the castle pose; arm outstretched, right leg crossed over his left. “So, what can we do for you, Detective Inspector?”

  He ta
kes out three small notepads, places two on the coffee table and begins flicking through what looks the oldest of the three. All we can see are scribbles but he seems to know what he’s written down.

  “Ah, yes. There are a few things I would like to go through with you if I may, Mr. Stone; that is if you wouldn’t …”

  Before he can finish his sentence Ayden holds up his right hand and our guest pauses as if frozen in time.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask, turning sharply to face him.

  “The ring. Take off the ring. He’ll recognise it and then find it missing from the items listed as belonging to Mr. Rizler.” He reaches out his hand. “Give it to me for safe keeping.”

  I wriggle it from the third finger of my right hand. Before handing it to him I offer a thankful smile. “That was very clever of you to remember it, Ayden. Thank you.”

  “I didn’t. He did.” He slips it into his breast pocket and taps it lightly. “It’s well hidden now. Shall we continue?”

  “Yes.” I turn to our guest.

  “… mind answering a couple of questions.” He finishes his sentence and I look on sweetly, glancing at him and over to Ayden, so composed and quietly confident in a god-like way. Nothing fazes him; no one will ever be more powerful or a better protector. I will always be safe with him. I wonder if he’s reading my thoughts …

  Are you reading my thoughts, Mr. Stone?

  I turn away and reach for my coffee, establishing myself as mere decoration. No questions are directed at me. I have become a steadfast wifely figure who stands by her husband through hell and high water. Is that me?

  Yes, that’s you.

  I hear Ayden’s words in my head. Yet when I look at him he is conversing with our guest.

  You’re reading my thoughts?

  Only when you want me to.

  I want you to now. I love you. I love you for everything you’ve done and for every experience you have allowed us to share and I will be for ever indebted to you for your kindness.

  Ayden doesn’t reply.

  “Excuse us for a moment, would you? I need to speak with my wife about something.” He takes my hand and we pace quickly down the corridor into the guest bedroom. Once inside the room he pins me against the wall with his body and seals his mouth over mine, holding my chin in place with firm hands. I have to respond. I reach for his hair, drawing him to me until our bodies are a flammable fusion of flesh and blood. Breathless, he breaks away and shakes his head to clear his mind of libidinous thoughts.

  “Don’t share your thoughts with me, Beth. Not those kinds of thoughts. I need to read his. When you say those things I can’t concentrate.”

  “I’m sorry. I just was sat there watching you and I felt that way.”

  He rearranges my hair. “Look. This guy means business. He won’t back off and I don’t want to give him the wrong impression. “I must keep my mind on him, not you, baby … later, but not now. Do you understand?”

  I understand those three little words better than he knows but give nothing away. I simply nod, remove the gloss from his lips with my forefinger and straighten his shirt and tie. “There you are, all handsome and tidy again.”

  He runs his thumb along my bottom lip, removing gloss that he been spread below it, grips my hand firmly and presses it against his lips. “Let’s face the music.”

  When we return, D. I. Bowker is helping himself to another cup of coffee. “I hope it’s okay.” He holds his mug aloft.

  “Of course. We had some unfinished business to attend to concerning purchases we made in Hong Kong. Please continue.” Ayden returns to the sofa, pursing his lips between his finger and thumb, feeling the texture of my gloss. He looks sideways at me but I look away. I have no intention of becoming a distraction again.

  “So, where were we?” He consults his scribbles. “Am I right in thinking you and Miss. Richards knew each other prior to the purchase of this house?”

  I’m startled by his directness. He knows something.

  Ayden is quick to put him right. “Yes, as I’m sure you’ve already worked out, we were both orphans and we spent time together at Bright Hill, a children’s residential home in Hove.”

  What?

  “Yes, I have a note of that. But she was there for only a short period of time. Can you tell me why? There is no record of her being adopted until years later, as far as I can see.” He flips over another page.

  “She was moved because she was being sexually abused by two men at Bright Hill. They caused a commotion one night which drew attention to them, but I believe they pursued her to her new home and continued to rape her for some time after.”

  I hold my right hand to my mouth.

  Why are you telling him this?

  He already knows.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Indicating his disgust, he purses his lips and shakes his head. “And may I ask how you came upon this information, Mr. Stone?”

  Ayden prefaces his response with a laboured sigh. “She told me before the car crashed. She became very distressed. As a child, she thought I would come and rescue her, but I was too young and I couldn’t find her; not even later on when I employed the services of a private investigator. We didn’t meet again until I came to buy this house.”

  “Mmm … and how does Mrs. Stone fit into all of this?” He fixes an unnerving eye on me.

  Me?

  Ayden reaches over to stroke my hair. “Beth came with her father to Bright Hill. He was doing volunteer work, painting and decorating, that kind of thing. While she was there I took care of her; we became inseparable. I fell in love with her. In fact I never stopped loving her.” His words fall from his mouth like petals that float softly through the air and settle silently around us. I close my eyes and picture my beautiful boy.

  He clears his throat and explains further, “Our paths crossed by chance one day when I went to her school to give a speech to students. I recognised her instantly - and the rest is history, as they say.”

  D. I. Bowker’s mouth twitches. “So you were childhood sweethearts?”

  “We were,” Ayden confesses. “Do you find that amusing?”

  He shakes his head as if he’s been caught sniggering during a sermon. “Not at all. My wife and I were childhood sweethearts. We met at junior school and were never parted … until a year ago, that is. She died of breast cancer.”

  I lean over and place a compassionate hand on his knee. “My mother did too.”

  He bows his head, as if acknowledging her passing with a moment’s silence. “It was a sad day, but we have a daughter and she has all her mother’s qualities. So I have been blessed in that respect.”

  “That is a blessing,” I agree, nodding and offering a comforting smile.

  He closes one small notepad and opens another. “Now to you Mrs. Stone. Tell me about you and Mr. Rizler at Cambridge. He must have given you quite a scare to force you to change your name and to hide yourself away for all those years…”

  He knows everything!

  I nod in agreement, as this seems to be our day for confessions, I prepare to explain. ”He tried to rape me in my final year at Cambridge. He and two other men grabbed me one night in a car park and they only stopped because a man came out to walk his dog. A light came on, they ran away and forgot about it. But not Mr. Rizler. He had my possessions and found out where I lived. He called and even broke into my room once. I’m sure he stole a couple of things. Underwear most likely.”

  “I see. So when you had the break-in at Elm Gardens, it was him?”

  “Yes,” I admit, regretfully.

  “But you didn’t tell me at the time, even though I had my suspicions you knew the assailant. Why was that?”

  I should say because Ayden told me not to but I won’t. “I didn’t want my past to come back to haunt me. Ayden and I had become very close and this sort of thing would have sullied his reputation and mine. Besides, I thought that would be the end of it. I was wrong of course.” I scoff at my naïveté.


  “Yes you were. He had been looking for you for some time. There were pictures of you going back to your university days. He had them pinned up on his wall like a shrine. He only tore them down when he became deranged and desperate. He took chances. Thankfully, Mr. Stone was on hand to rescue you.”

  I reach for Ayden’s hand. “Yes … he was.”

  Seeming unconvinced about something he scratches at the stubble on his chin with his fingertips and takes a noisy slurp of tea.

  “Is there anything else we can help you with?” Ayden asks, prompting him to share his thoughts with both of us.

  “Yes. Two things. What do you know of Miss. Richards’s involvement with Mr. Rizler?”

  The question stumps us: we’re shrugging shoulders and shaking our heads.

  “We had no idea they knew each other,“ I confess. “Did they?”

  “Yes. From telephone records and further investigations, it would appear they were in cahoots with one another: quite the team, in fact.” He seems pleased with himself. Maybe it’s his choice of words or the fact he thinks he’s actually telling us something we don’t know.

  “We had no idea,” Ayden says, sounding rather unconvincing.

  “Well, it is becoming clearer the deeper I dig but, I suspect she was using Mr. Rizler to – if you would excuse me Mrs. Stone – to get rid of you.”

  “My God!”

  “She had her sights on you, Mr. Stone and did not respond well to your rejection.” He places down notebook number two on his knees. “That would explain her behaviour when she discovered you were married to your childhood sweetheart, I think.”

  I interrupt him with a question. “How did she know? Ayden was careful never to mention it for that very reason.”

  “I visited her apartment and saw photographs scattered on the floor. She had pieced it together. One photograph was of you as children, one of you taken by Mr. Rizler and one torn from the newspaper article announcing your engagement. I suspect it was this discovery that subsequently resulted in her being an inebriated passenger in Mr. Harrison’s car.”

  “She took the wheel,” Ayden asserts. “There was nothing I could do.”

  D.I. Bowker takes a breath and eyes Ayden reflectively, preparing to make some kind of declaration. “But you did manage to take control of the car after she was seen leaning across and grappling with the wheel. It was the car that appeared to slow then pick-up speed that sent you spinning and careening down the embankment. You were in no way responsible for the death of Elise Richards. Eye witnesses and forensic evidence has proven that beyond a doubt.”