Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play (36 page)

“They only had ham salad, but it’s better than
nothing.” Ernie places it on the bench. “Everything ok?”

Dan is close to breaking point. “Yeah, just fucking
peachy.” He snatches the sandwich and heads towards the exit door, pushing past
his twin interrupters and catching a shoulder on the way. There is no denying
that he is feeling two sets of discomfort, one from his hands and the other
from an perverse need to hit or fuck someone, preferably Elizabeth Parker and,
not necessarily in that order.

As usual, his shift ends at 1400hrs and he manages to
slip into his own clothes with as little help as possible from Ernie. Before
placing his clothes inside his locker, he lifts up the prospectus to say a
sarcastic, “see you later” to Ms. Parker but, when he reaches in to grab the
photograph, it’s not there. In wild panic, he drags out the contents of his
locker: old wage slips, letters, memos and his clothes fall onto the floor in
an untidy pile. His thoughts leave his mouth in an involuntary yell. “Where the
fuck are you?”

Ernie stands back and folds his arms. “Lost something
champ?”

Dan doesn’t hear him. Instead, he’s rummaging around
one on the tiled floor, using his fingertips to sift through the heap.

“Looking for this?” A guy wearing dark blue jeans
holds the missing photograph so low down, it almost touches Dan’s nose.

He’s torn: does he say no and carry on looking for
something, anything? Or does he say thank you and put her back where she
belongs? He decides to play safe and carries on looking. He’s got plenty of
other photos but … not that one. Not of her wearing that tight, black sweater.

“No, I had a lottery ticket and I think I had a tenner
on it to collect. Put it in my locker this morning but, what with my fucking
hands, I must have lost it.”

“Oh, this isn’t yours then?” Blue Jeans takes a look
at the photo and instinctively both of Dan’s hands form into stony fists,
making him wince with pain. He says nothing, but rises from the floor, holding
the contents of his locker, unable to bear the thought of anyone looking at
her, not that way.

“She’s a sweet little thing.”

Dan turns away and wrinkles his eyes, as if doing that
will shut out the words and the image of him salivating over his girl. Yeah,
that’s what she is,
his
girl. She’ll always be
his
girl. “Where
did you find
her
?” He cannot bring himself to look at him.

“She was sitting pretty on the cistern in there.” Blue
Jeans points to the cubicle from where Dan emerged. “I expect she was keeping
someone company, if you know what I mean …?” He gives Dan a wink, turns and
makes his way out of the changing room. “I think I’ll take her home with me.
I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth myself.”

No fucking way!

The thought of his hands on her, him forcing her to do
all kinds of things to him is simply too much to bear. Dan calls out after him,
“That ain’t happening … give me the fucking picture.”

Blue Jeans stops dead in his tracks. Dan has not
touched him, but the tenor of his voice resonates across the walls like the aftermath
of a roar: it hits him like a body blow. Slowly, as if initiating a duel, he
turns to face him. “I thought you said she wasn’t yours?”

Dan recognises a rival when he sees one. “Take a dive
mate. She sure as fuck ain’t yours.” He watches him squirm

“And she’s not yours either
mate
, is she?”

“Yes. She is.”  He approaches him and reaches out one
inflamed hand for the photo. He’ll do anything to get it back and, from the
menacing look on his face and the way his lips are welded together, there’s no
doubting it.

“And what if I don’t, what if I want her to suck my
dick? What will you do then, bust-up your fucking hands even more?” He takes
hold of the photo and pretends to tear it in two, provoking Dan, goading him on;
playing with fire.

Dan takes a menacing step forward.

“Here, take her.” He throws the photo onto the floor.
“I prefer blondes anyway.” He shrugs his shoulders and leaves the room. Dan can
hear him whistling, nonchalantly as he disappears down the corridor.

Ernie has been a silent onlooker. He stretches out a
hand and places it on Dan’s arm but Dan flinches and he pulls it back and slips
it into his trouser pocket. “Let it go champ. You got your photo back, no harm
done. Best leave it for another day, eh?”

Dan is too enraged to speak; his heart is thumping out
of his chest and flaming breath is leaving his body in waves. He retrieves the
photo, blows on it, wipes it clean against his shirt and slips it back into his
locker; slams the door shut and locks it. Says nothing.

Sensing his need for silence, Ernie escorts him to the
carpark and they go their separate ways. Dan sits in his car, gripping the
steering wheel with smouldering palms and catches sight of himself in the
passenger window. “Nearly lost you princess, but you know I won’t let anyone
take you away from me, don’t you?” He flinches and turns the ignition key, his
face contorted with agonizing pain and indecent thoughts.

***

“Yes!” His heart leaps when he sees her black Fiesta
parked up in its space on the cul-de-sac, and then he realizes the implications.
She may come out at any moment and blow his cover, jeopardizing the whole
operation. He needs to think it through.

His watch says 1600hrs. The late afternoon clouds are
grouping and wrapping themselves around the insipid sun. Soon it will be dark. Feeling
the need for reassurance, he takes out his wallet; tucked behind two five pound
notes and a twenty is a battered, old photograph. He holds
Beth
Parker
between his forefinger and thumb. Images of their time together begin to tilt
his mind, inclining him towards dark and lecherous recollections.

The photograph slips easily into its hiding place but
something in front of it holds his attention: it’s Elise Richard’s business
card. That too fits nicely between his finger and thumb. He taps his chin with
the edge, feeling it catch against his stubble. He had intended to give her a
call but hadn’t got round to it. ‘Now’s as good a time as any,’ he reminds
himself. ‘Besides, I’ve got nothing better to do.’

Miss. Richards answers the office phone on the third
ring.  “Hello, Taylor & Main, Elise speaking. Can I help you?”

“I hope so Miss Richards. It’s Dan Rizler from Elm
Gardens.”

“Ah yes, Mr. Rizler. How are you settling into the
apartment?”

“I’m getting there. It’s Dan by the way.”

“That’s good to know … Dan. What can I help you with?”

“Well I was wondering if I could buy you a thank you
drink. You really pushed the boat out, getting me into the place in a couple of
days?” He listens for her reply.

“Well, that’s very nice of you, but it isn’t
necessary.”

“I know that, but I thought it might be nice to get
together and have a chat. I don’t know anyone this side of the city and you
seemed like such a lovely lady.” He rubs his aching hand across his mouth,
holding back on a smirk.

“Oh, thank you.”

As he suspected, she’s not used to receiving
compliments. “So what do you say?” He knows it would be unwise to rush her. She
has to decide for herself. That’s all part of the game.

“Well … I suppose I could meet you for a drink after
work.”

“Great. I know where your office is. I’ll meet you
there in an hour at 6 o’clock ok? Don’t want you walking around the city centre
on your own at night do we?”

“That’s very considerate of you … Dan.”

I’m a considerate guy.

“I look forward to seeing you then.”

“See you in an hour.”

“Bye Miss Richards.” The card slips snugly back into
his wallet. He pulls down the sun visor to check himself out.

“And there you were thinking you’d lost your touch?” 
He’s tipping his head from left to right checking his profile, feeling the
bristles on his chin with his fingertips. “A bit of spit and polish and you’ll
be as good as new.”

He takes a lingering look at the three story apartment
block. She’s in there, she’s within his reach and … who the fuck are the two
guys in blue overalls walking in and out of the building? It’s then he notices
the white transit van; it’s open at the rear and inside are shelves organised
one on top of the other, rows and rows of electronic equipment.

With his rucksack over his shoulder and his clothes and
toiletries stuffed into a shopping bag, he saunters over. A young guy is up a
small ladder fixing a box to the wall. Another, older man is inside 53a by the
window, pulling wires and cables through.

One word comes to mind. ‘Alarm!’ He seizes the moment.
“Hey, what you putting in, satellite TV?”

The younger of the two men looks across to him
dismissively. “No, it’s an alarm system. Or it will be if we can get these
bloody wires through.”

“Oh right. You can never be too careful these days.”
Casually, he slips his hand into the pocket of his jeans. “I’m upstairs in
53c.”

Knowing that puts the young man at ease. “Oh right,
sorry for the noise. We’re under strict orders to get it done pronto; had to
put everything else on the back burner to sort this out.”

“No pressure then?”

“Not much. It’s got to be installed today and that
means we’ll be here until the job’s done.” He shakes his head despairingly.

“I’m going to put the kettle on, do you want a brew?”

“Wouldn’t say no.”

“What about your mate?” Dan pokes his head through the
front door of 53a. “Cup of tea?” In the time it takes for the distracted
technician to answer, he’s given the apartment the once over.

It’s just the way he expected it to be, tidy and
inviting; cushions are strewn over a comfortable cream sofa and a marble
fireplace is decorated with crystal candle holders and expensive ornaments.
Above the fire is an enormous mirror in a gilded frame into which her world is
reflected. For a couple of seconds, he’s dumbstruck.

“That would be great, thanks. No sugar.”

“No problem.” He turns to leave and is stopped dead.
In a tray, by the door is a set of keys. Noticing that both men are engrossed
in their work, he snatches them from the tray, makes for the stairs and keeps
walking. The cold, hard metal digs into his pulsating palm, but that’s ok. It’s
a small price to pay for having access to her private world.

Just as he’s about to turn and take a step towards his
apartment, he becomes aware of the presence of someone behind him. Does he turn
or keep on walking?

“Good evening Dan, I saw you park up.”

He decides to throw her a bone. “Sorry, can’t stop to
chat, got a phone call from an old girlfriend, meeting her at six for a drink.”
He smiles over his shoulder, hoping that morsel of gossip will give her
something to gnaw on.

“That’s nice. Everyone seems to be meeting friends and
going places at the moment.” She laughs.

Everyone?

“How’s that?”

“Well you’re having a drink with a lady friend and
Beth downstairs has gone off to Rome with her handsome gentleman friend. Oh
what it is to be young. You’re a very lucky man Dan.”

“Yes I am,” he answers sarcastically.

Who the fuck goes to Rome on a Thursday afternoon?

Fearing she may have picked up on the sarcasm, he
softens it. “Although, I’ve never been to Rome either.”

“Haven’t you?”

He nods no.

“Well she’s only gone for a couple of days, she’ll be
back on Saturday. Maybe you can meet her then?”

“I hope so.” He isn’t lying. “Night Pat.”

“Night Dan.”

He can barely bring himself to open the front door.
The place is costing him £600 a month and four days in he’s got nothing to show
for his investment other than a broken chair and two fucked-up hands. Inside
the sparsely furnished apartment, there’s the smell of emptiness; no-one home
to throw out the welcome mat, not even Honey to meet and greet him by the door.
Exhausted from emotional torment and physical pain, he checks his watch. It’s 1650hrs.
Just time to make a brew, freshen up and hit the road, but not before he’s got
the name and address of a key cutting shop in town.

While the kettle boils, he flicks through the yellow
pages left on the floor by the front door. ‘Keys … locksmiths … cutting.’
Quickly he makes a note of the telephone number and address and prepares two
mugs of tea. The sensation of hot water on his prickly palms is excruciating
but he’s way past caring about something as insignificant as that. Meeting his
reflection, he smiles through it: ‘Got her keys, got a date. You’re boxing
clever Danny boy.’

He slams his door behind him and descends two flights.
“Here we are, two teas. I’ve got to shoot out for a couple of hours. Looks like
you’ll be here for a while, do you want a sandwich or anything?” He’s role
playing the kindly neighbour.

“No thanks mate. The lady upstairs made us a sandwich
a couple of hours ago, so we’re alright for now.” They sip on the tea and
glance around the apartment. “Cosy, isn’t it?”