TouchStone for ever (The Story of Us Trilogy) (6 page)

“When I came across
your husband, he was close to death …”

I lose control of my
jaw and my mouth opens and stays that way.

“I prepared to take
him, but did not. I was arrested by his frantic determination to hold on. You
see, I recognised him from your battle three days earlier. To my surprise, he
did not ask to be saved; he addressed his God and asked him to watch over you.
Such a selfless act, I thought.”

As if telling a story
to an attentive child, he settles into the back of the sofa and continues in a
steady, no-nonsense tone.

I’m dumbstruck.

“You see, most people
fear me; they hate the thought of meeting me because they know the life they
have taken for granted is about to end. Your husband was different in that
respect. His thoughts were not of himself, but of you. So earnest was he in his
plea, I sought you out, recalled your past. I knew you as sweet Frances, so the
name Beth meant little to me until then.”

Unable to contain my
agony for a second longer, I begin to sob and try to contain the sounds of my
sorrow in my hands. I can hold back the noise of a breaking heart, but not the
tide of bubbling tears trickling down my cheeks, coming to rest on my lap like
two unsightly ink stains.

“You’re lying. If
this is one of your games, Ayden, you’ve gone too far; conjuring up this
elaborate story to terrify me, to get me to imagine what my life would be like
without you.“ I’m shaking my head. “You’re doing it to make me forget about the
baby or the fact we may never make a child again.” I’m sitting upright,
carelessly wiping away tears with heavy fingertips. “Just stop it! We should be
grateful for having each other; I get that. No need to carry on with this
charade.”

I feel Ayden’s hand
caressing my cheek, so I lean into it and close my eyes, allowing the heat from
it to permeate my skin.

 “Frances, I have
known you most of your life and I have no reason to lie. I have nothing but
affection for you.”

I open my eyes and
shake free of him. “Ayden! It’s time to stop. You’re scaring me.” I edge over
to him and take his face in my sweating palms. “Kiss me. Tell me you love me.”
I rest my mouth on his. The plumpness of his lips feels unnatural but that’s to
be expected; we haven’t kissed for four days and my lips are still tender. I
close my eyes, anticipating a prize-winning kiss, good enough to curl the
trickiest of toes, but in its place is a lack-lustre peck so unrecognisable it
has me edging away backwards.

“Who are you?”

He smiles
affectionately. “You know who I am.”

I’m shaking my head
left and right. “No! I don’t know you. I don’t want to know you.” I scuttle
backwards, out of his reach.

“Take a breath and
let it out slowly …”

“I don’t want to take
a breath. I want my husband back. Who the fuck are you?” I cry. “And why have
you stolen Ayden’s body?”

“Stolen? Hardly.
Under the circumstances, I believe the word
rescued
to be more fitting.”

“Rescued? From what?”

“Why, from death,
Frances.”

Like a torn
parachute, I fall down to earth, with any hope of happiness ripped from my
heart. Here I sit in pieces, feeling more alone than I have ever felt before.

From somewhere I find
the strength to speak. “Why? Why did you rescue him?” I snarl, breath leaving
my mouth in a feverish gust.

He glances around the
room. “Believe me Frances, I am beginning to ask myself the same question.” He
manifests a serious stare. “Would you rather I had not?”

Horrified by the
thought, I shake my head.

“Well then, we have
reached an impasse.” He rubs his hands together. “I’m not in the habit of
claiming bodies; souls yes, but not the physical, human aspect of being. The
human body is much too fragile a form to occupy.”

What the hell …

“Yes it is,” I huff.
“We feel everything and suffer as a result.” I’ll leave him to work that out
for himself. “We take risks with life and with love …”

“…I realise that.”

With nothing to lose,
I prepare to claim back what is mine. “But you stealing …
rescuing
Ayden’s body is too big a pain to endure, even for me.” I rise from the sofa
and tiptoe slowly back to the guest bedroom, feeling the weight of grief
bearing down upon me like a crucifix.  “Goodnight.”

***

In a side office away
from the hustle and bustle of police life, Detective Inspector Bowker is
flicking through the details of a fatal car crash on the A40 the previous
evening. He should have finished his shift half an hour ago, but the name Stone
has all kinds of bells ringing. He’s curious to see why someone like Ayden
Stone would be driving like a lunatic on a busy highway on a Friday evening
when his wife is still recovering in hospital.

The more he reads the
more curious he becomes, realising Mr. Stone was not alone in the vehicle. With
only an ageing Golden Retriever to go home to, he removes his coat and sits
down.

On the pad he uses
for personal notes and references, he jots down the name ‘Elise Richards,’ the
co-passenger and the only fatality. He taps his pen against his bottom teeth
and wracks his brain. "Richards … why does that name sound familiar?”

He leans back in his
chair, pushes his iPad aside and turns over pages in his notebook from previous
days. Every page is full of notes relating to Dan Rizler, pieces of a puzzle
that he had logged for another day, even though it was a cut and dried case of
self-defence.

Be that as it may, he
likes to think he has a sixth sense, and that sixth sense is telling him there
is more to this case than some crazy bastard breaking into a school and
attempting to rape a school teacher. For now though … he has nothing but
fragmented pieces of information to go on.

He contacts the duty
Sergeant to check a few things: times, details, and so forth - for no
particular reason other than to satisfy his curiosity and his need to make sure
everything is above-board.

“Hi Rick, it’s Mack.
I’m just casting an eye over last night’s log and notice there was a smash-up
on the A40…”

“Yeah, that was a
nasty one. Some woman was thrown through the windscreen.”

Mack taps his pen on
the open pad. “Right. And what about the guy? He wasn’t seriously injured,
right?”

“They had to cut him
out and airlift him to hospital. I haven’t heard any more.”

“OK. I’ll see who did
the clear up. I’ll be interested to see who the lady was,” Mack says, still
intrigued. “I’ll have a chat with a couple of CID mates and see what happened.”

“Is there something
dodgy going on?” Rick asks curiously.

“Not that I know of.
I gave evidence in the Rizler case – the assault at the school - and I’ve met
this Stone guy a couple of times. Didn’t strike me as the type to go
joyriding.”

Rick laughs down the
phone. “They never do until they’re caught.”

“Yeah, you’re
probably right, shame about the passenger though.”

“Right, but I heard
she was the one who caused the crash.”

Mack stops tapping
his pen to listen. “What makes you say that?”

“There was a knife on
the floor by her seat; it looked like she was threatening him or something.”

In big letters Mack
writes
knife under her seat
. “That should take some explaining.”

“Looks like your
instincts were right, Mack,” Rick acknowledges with a chuckle.

“Oh, we’ll have to
see about that, but thanks, Rick.” He pauses, thinking through the information.
“How’s the wife doing?”

“You know what she’s
like. Never sits still. It’s like living with a bloody ferret.”

Mack laughs out loud.
“You poor sod. No wonder you volunteer for overtime.”

“Tell me about it.
I’d move in here and set up a bivouac behind the counter if they’d let me.”
He’s laughing out loud.

“Ah, but you’d miss
the home cooking.”

“Maybe you’re right.
I’ll try and stick it out for another couple of months.” He composes himself.
“How’s your daughter doing?”

“Not too bad. Kate’s
away at University, studying law of all things. Think she would have seen
enough from me to be put her off it for life, but no.” His eyes soften at the
thought of her. “She takes after her mother, God rest her soul. She’s a
do-gooder.”

“There’s nothing
wrong with that, Mack. You should be proud.”

He nods his head in
response. “Yeah, I am.”

“Catch you later.
They just brought in a couple of comedians; looks like they’ve been drinking
for England.”

“Go to it. Thanks for
the info, Rick.”

“Anytime, Mack.”

Mackenzie Bowker
draws an enormous circle around two words: Elise Richards. “Now, let’s find out
who you are Miss. Richards.”

 
My
clothes lie in a heap on the bathroom floor. The fine silk straps of my pyjama
top sit comfortably on my bare shoulders. The last time I dressed in white was
my wedding day. Was it only a week ago that we were married in front of
friends, family and God Almighty?

Now look what we have
become. My baggage has been the death of us; our relationship, our baby and now
… I replay our conversation over and over but the fact remains. I’m here with a
stranger. There’s a knock at the door.

“Yes?”

“Come out here. I
want to speak with you,” he commands. I picture him folding his arms as Ayden
would; standing tall, looking impatient.

“I’m going to bed.
It’s been a traumatic day, one way or another.”

The knob turns and he
steps into the doorway. “Yes, it has.” He passes me my bathrobe. “Put this on.”

I slip it on and pull
the belt tightly, wincing a little with the pressure on my stomach.

“You’re in no
condition to be up this late. You need to rest. Are you in any pain?”

Wearily, I confront
him. “No.”

In a split second
he’s positioned behind me. There we stand like a human landscape; white foam
against an impregnable cliff of charcoal grey. Our eyes meet in the mirror.

“Close your eyes.”

Another command.

I do, lowering my
head, defeated.

“Open them.”

I do so with a gasp.
Every mark, graze and bruise has vanished from my face. I am myself again. I
hurriedly untie my bathrobe and lift up my top. Where there was a healing scar
only minutes ago on my stomach, there’s a faint line of an inch or so. I can’t
conceal my astonishment. I lean forward, tracing the clear skin beneath my left
eye and drawing circles across my jaw with my fingertips.

“Now do you believe
me?” he asks, standing high and mighty behind me.

“Yes,” I concede,
fastening my bathrobe snugly around my body. “But I don’t understand. Even
though you look like Ayden, you’re a stranger. I don’t know you.”

“I can appreciate
that, but in time …”

“Time? What do you
mean?
You’re staying
?” I can’t conceal my horror.

He turns me around to
face him, forcing me to lift my eyes to meet his. “I can leave anytime.”

“And if you do, will
I wake up next to a corpse? Is that the way this thing works?”

“You think so little
of me Frances. I would not do that. I have taken a great interest in your
plight over the years and watched you grow…”

“… Then that was you
at the book launch, speaking through Alenka? Is that why you asked me earlier?”

“Yes. It was the
first time I had seen you so … resplendent.”

“So that’s why you
turned up, to see me in a fancy dress and heels?”

He shakes his head,
picking up on my irreverence. “No. Your involvement with your future husband
was about to put you in danger. It was a warning.”

“It worked. We broke
up.”

“I know that.”

“But we got back
together because we couldn’t bear to be apart. We’re soul mates, since we were
children …”

“…I felt it. The pull
between you was irrefutable; another reason for my intervention.”

“Then if you know
that, why are you doing this?”

“Because I can.”

Fearing I might
actually reach out for him, I stuff my hands into my pockets and confront him.
“You know what you are, don’t you?”

“Enlighten me …” He
folds his arms and tips his head in a very Stone-like way.

“You’re a universal
stalker. You’ve watched me suffering from afar all these years and now you’re
intensifying my suffering by doing this.”

As Ayden would, he
licks his lips before speaking, forcing me to look away. “If that were the
case, sweet Frances, I wouldn’t be here and neither would your husband. We
would not be having this conversation, and you would be alone.”

What a stark
statement of the truth that is.

I lean back, against
the counter top, letting the room fill with silence. He turns to leave.

I stop him in his
tracks with two words. “Thank you.”

He answers my words
with a smile that has been so long in coming it touches my heart like a ray of
sunshine; the light from it brings much needed warmth to my bones. I offer a
weak smile in return.

“You have seen and
survived many things, Frances. You have an inner strength that few possess.”

I tip my head to one
side, disbelieving his admission. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“I do. It comes as no
surprise to me that your husband’s last thought was of you and your
safekeeping. I have often had similar thoughts.”

“What do you mean?” I
ask, with a frown.

“The light coming on
in the alley, the movable furniture, the close proximity of the knife … need I
go on?”

I shake my head and
lower my eyes to the floor. “You’re an Angel?”

“Of sorts …”

“Without wings.”

“Wings are so last
century, Frances,” he says with a wry smile.

“So is Frances. I
haven’t been
her
for over seven years.”

“Ah yes, but you were
her
for over twenty.”

“I was. But I left
her behind and I don’t want to go back there. Can’t you call me, Beth?”

He’s shaking his
head. “I prefer Elizabeth.”

I sneer at the
associations with that name. “But I’ll feel more comfortable around you if you
call me Beth.”

“Very well … Beth.
Come and sit with me and tell me what we’re going to do tomorrow.” He heads off
in the direction of the lounge, assuming I’ll follow.

I glance one last
time in the mirror at my rejuvenated image and across at the bath behind me,
smiling with the memory of bath time and Ayden’s words …

Come back to me, baby
…

I switch off the
light and claim those words as my own, whispering into the darkness, “Come back
to me, baby.”

The door clicks shut
and I lock that memory away for safe keeping; it will be mine to cling onto as
I walk into this living nightmare, one step at a time.

***

Mackenzie Bowker is
not one to be put off by the prospect of hard work, or by what appears to be
unrelated incidents. It didn’t take him long to discover the identity of the
deceased passenger. Once he found out where Miss. Richards worked and where she
lived, the rest was easy.

She arranged the
rental of apartment 53c at Elm Garden for Mr. Rizler, and her number was on his
phone. Knowing that satisfies his curiosity about where he had heard her name
before. What it doesn’t explain is what she was doing in that car with Mr.
Stone - with a knife under her seat.

He’s returned home to
the comfort of his three bedroom, semi-detached house in Bromley. What
remaining light there is from the watery sun is leaking through the enormous
bay window, making it unnecessary to turn on a lamp.

Mack has digested a
man-sized helping of lasagne; he is now sitting back with a large glass of good
quality Claret and a fine cigar. Laid out on the sofa is a copy of the report
on the car crash. He’s called in half a dozen favours to get this report
completed by the boys in forensics and he intends to give it his full
attention. It makes for interesting reading, not because of the seriousness of
the accident, but because of the involvement of Mr. Stone; a pillar in the
community and a self-made man; a man with everything to lose from something
which could potentially damage his reputation.

As it stands, the
accident has been dealt with and remained under the radar. Mr. Stone’s media
contacts have gone to great lengths to suppress it and the reporting of the
accident has been relegated to page three in national newspapers. Being one to
defend the under-dog, Mack wonders who will fight for Miss. Richards in her
absence. Doesn’t she deserve more than having her tragic death swept under the
carpet?

He leaves the cigar
to extinguish itself in the ashtray; a column of smoke weaves its way skywards,
carrying with it the aroma of tobacco, but he’s too engrossed in paperwork to
notice.

First he spreads out
the photographs of the crash site on the coffee table. An unsightly table cloth
of mangled metal and broken bones covers every inch of it. The angle of the
vehicle is such that Miss. Richards has been propelled through the windscreen
and sprawled across the bonnet like a broken mannequin; a mop of blond hair is
splayed out across twisted metal, making the scene look very macabre.

Inside the vehicle,
Mr. Stone is slumped over the steering wheel, still wearing his seatbelt but
clearly concussed. The time frame on the photographs is no more than five
minutes, but it was ten more minutes before the ambulance and fire brigade
appeared to cut him free of the wreckage; and another fifteen minutes before he
could be airlifted to hospital. Removing Miss Richards’s body took much longer
- she had not survived the fatal accident and there was no urgency.

With a visual
reminder of the event, Mack shifts his attention to the written report, seeking
out the specifics about the knife. He wonders if, by any chance, it was the
same as Mr. Rizler’s. He’s disappointed to find it was merely an everyday
kitchen knife - a woman’s weapon of choice - usually associated with a crime of
passion or self-defence. Either way, he’s intrigued.

After being dusted it
for prints, he notes the knife only had her fingerprints on it. Mack nods and
purses his lips, trying to make sense of the clues.  The black markings across
the left side of the steering wheel were the strangest finding of all, as if it
had been grabbed by the passenger.

His curiosity piqued,
he flips through the pages to the pre-autopsy report and confirms his
suspicions. Her hands were covered in dust or a kind of black powdery compound
like soot. It was embedded in her cuticles and had settled under her manicured
nails.

In death she looks
grotesque: her pale face, soulless eyes darkened like hard caramel and smudged
red lipstick make it hard to believe she had ever been attractive.

He takes a deep
cleansing breath, two swigs of wine, and gazes around the room. The light is
fading and the photographs are beginning to blend into a jumbled up jigsaw.

“What were you doing
in that car with him, Elise?” he asks. “This was no joy ride.”