TouchStone for ever (The Story of Us Trilogy) (8 page)

He flips open the
file to discover:

“ITEMS RECOVERED FROM
THE DECEASED.”

It’s a long list,
consisting of the items usually found in a lady’s oversized handbag, with one
exception: a hand-written note.

To S,

When there was nothing but
dark shadows in my life, I had you. Your radiance was so bright I was happy to
kneel at your feet and lift my face to catch some of that light.

When the dark shadows took
me away I called for you every night until I realised you wouldn’t come. I was
alone …

I have done things in my
life I’m not proud of. The years have not been kind to me, and what I’ve done
has some from a need for survival. Finding you again after all these years was
like winning the lottery; not for the money, but for the feeling that I
deserved to win something.

Even then you kept me
hidden, concealed like a dirty secret locked away in your basement, but I
understood. I know I’ll never be your equal but to find out now that I never
meant anything to you is a truth too painful to bear. No one knows better than
me how hard it is to come face to face with the truth. For me, the truth has
been something that exists in fairy-tales. It’s out there with true love and
happy endings, and not meant for the likes of me. I was never worthy of you or
your love. I see that now. You have found your princess …

 I have loved only you and
I will do so with my dying breath.

Goodbye.

Yours always.

Elise.

He takes no delight
from the document and what can be inferred from her words. It’s a suicide
note.  Little can be gleaned from her words as far as clues are concerned; not
yet, anyway. He flips through the pages for her address. Hatch End is only an
hour or so away and something tells him he’ll discover more clues there, but
it’s 7 o’clock on a Saturday night and he has a couple of reports to type up.
The Richards case will have to wait.

For his own peace of
mind, he prepares to call Cromwell Hospital to enquire as to the condition of
Mr. and Mrs. Stone; a star-crossed twosome who seem to have been saddled with
some bad luck lately. He knows only too well the path of destruction left in
Mr. Rizler’s wake, but to have lightning strike twice in the same week seems
suspicious.

Finding out they were
both discharged yesterday comes as a surprise, especially considering the state
they were in last Tuesday. He glances at the photo tablecloth and is reminded
of Ayden’s unconscious state. He rubs his chin clearly agitated. That sixth
sense of his has his brain doing somersaults.

“Something’s not
right here…”

Standing
before the bathroom mirror after brushing my teeth, I scrutinise my face,
lifting my hair from my forehead and holding it back. Anyone would think I had
just returned from a weekend at a spa resort. Who would believe I had lost a
tiny baby and a husband in the space of five days? Only me.

Yet, here I am
glowing; irises the colour of a summer sky, glossy and bright. I’ve become a
counterfeit wife; an actress. I might as well be standing in my dressing room,
waiting for my cue.

 “Final call, Mrs.
Stone,” shouts the stagehand, and I dutifully prepare to make my entrance recalling
a line from As You Like It:

All the world's a
stage,

And all the men and
women merely players …

That’s me …

 I climb between the
sheets, willing myself to sleep but the ear-splitting silence is too much to
bear. I toss and turn, feeling fragile and forsaken but refusing to cry. I have
no residual tears; every teardrop has been shed or dried up throughout the day
like morning dew. Maybe a glass of milk will help?

All the lights are
off in the lounge and only a luminescent glow is coming from the lights along
the cupboard bases. On opening the fridge door I’m blinded and, turning to pour
out the milk, spot a pile of unopened mail.

Most of it is
addressed to Ayden; the thought of him not being here to read it smarts like a
hard slap, so I toss it aside and see what else there is to be sorted and
thrown away. A heavy brown envelope, A4 size, holds my attention. It’s
addressed to Mr. & Mrs. A. Stone. I can do no more than gaze at it, feeling
utterly despondent when I see the postmark: Las Vegas.

I know what it is.

I pull back the tab
and carefully tip out the leather-bound folder containing the DVD and a pen
drive of our wedding. On the DVD is a photo of us. As I rotate it in my hand,
round and round we go; a magical moment in time re-created and captured on
brittle plastic.

With no desire to
sleep, I head for the lift, quietly close the door and descend, coming to rest
at the basement level.

Instantly the lights
spark into life, showing me the way to the cinema room. Only when I flick on
the lights am I reminded of just how plush it is; eight rows of Pullman chairs
to choose from, each one a reminder that I must mourn alone. I whisper words I
know no one will hear. “I miss you, Ayden.”

The instrument deck
is simple enough to operate. Switch it on, slot the DVD in place and press
insert. I hurry to the front row and take my seat, reminded of Ayden’s comments
about discarded tissues and popcorn. Instantly my recollection fades when the
enormous screen bursts into life.

Unbeknown to me
Ayden’s arrival at the Wedding Chapel had been filmed. I’m smiling behind my
hand at his eagerness to get inside; the bounce in his step and the way he is
grinning into the camera like an excited school-boy. Fresh tears begin to blur
my vision and so I blink them away not wanting to miss a single frame.

I come face to face
with myself. I barely recognise the woman dressed in white, flanked by Charlie
and Celine. She’s the princess I’d envisioned I would be someday, on her way to
meet her Prince Charming at the altar. That day now seems like a half forgotten
fairy-tale.

The service gets
underway. I’m walking down the aisle on Patrick’s arm, faltering at the sight
of billowing sheets and enormous wooden stepladders, handmade for the sole
purpose of triggering a childhood memory we shared.

I hear the sincerity
in our voices as we recite our vows; unified promises of devotion, love and
protection; all that Ayden held sacred for over two decades being sanctified in
front of God and the congregation.

“ … and I solemnly
promise to cherish you and to keep you safe from harm; to love you from this
moment on as I always have, for as long as we both shall live.”          

And then … as the
music fades, I close my eyes and he places a tattered pink ribbon in my hand.

“Wake up, baby,” he
pleads.

And I do …

I remember that boy I
‘married’ 22 years ago beneath my father’s stepladders; the promise he made to
always love me, to find me - and my innocent vow to wait for him.

We both kept our
promises.

Thankfully, the
emotional turmoil that followed was not recorded, but our stirring farewell
was. My stampede through the paparazzi to reach him does not go unrecorded.
Like a heat-seeking missile I launch myself at him, forging my way through an
invisible force field only to be swept up in his arms and disarmed in the
process.

The cameraman shifts
position and zooms in to capture the overpowering magnetism between us. It may
be invisible but it’s no less tangible; eyes locked, a timeless attachment,
compelling in its intensity and broken only by his forced departure.

I whisper to no one,
“Enjoying. Always enjoying, Mr. Stone,” knowing somewhere out there in the
cosmos he’s merely sleeping, sitting out a cold spell.

The video comes to a
silent finale, and so does my session of self-absorption. Strangely, I see
things more clearly; I
did
contribute to his untimely departure. Elise
may have turned the steering wheel, but it was my words that put him in the
car. Of that I am guilty and no one can persuade me otherwise.

I slip the DVD back
into its sleeve for safe-keeping, turn off the lights and head back to the
lift, steadfast in my purpose. I will serve my sentence willingly; I will love
and be loved without reservation, and damned be the unearthly being in my bed
if he should deny me my soul mate at the end of my term.

Ayden Stone has been
my saviour on two occasions. Now, the tables are about to be turned. I’ll
rescue him right back and do whatever it takes to awaken him from his eternal
rest or, God help me, I’ll die trying.

I’m tiptoeing, trying
not to make a sound. The last thing I want to do is draw attention to myself.
I’m on the first floor, being led to the master bedroom by my nose like a
bloodhound following a scent.

The bedroom door is
open but I can’t enter; I’m propelled backwards by the memory of our last night
here in this very room. Moonlight sears through a gap in the curtains and
settles on that chair, triggering a barrage of recollections that floor me, one
sweet kiss at a time. I close my eyes and focus on steady breathing, listening
to how air enters Ayden’s lungs in life affirming breaths and leaves them in a
wheeze. My husband is sleeping peacefully, untroubled by talk of near death
experiences and arrangements; knowing that makes me smile into the darkness.

“Ayden,” I whisper,
nearing the bed. “Ayden?” There is no reply. I have him to myself, it seems.

Without a second
thought I throw off my bathrobe and slip between the sheets, wearing only a
flimsy set of pyjamas. On my side of the bed the sheets are crisp and cool
against my bare arms but, as I edge closer to Ayden, I’m becoming aware of body
heat and expensive cologne - a heady mixture for someone who has not been
touched for five days.

I nestle into his
back and slide my hand across his chest so I can open my palm and pull him into
me; like that missing piece of sky in a jigsaw puzzle, we slot together
perfectly.

Secretly, I’m praying
the closeness of my body will rouse him from his sleep, but it’s a silent
prayer that goes unanswered.

He may be breathing,
but that’s an unconditioned reflex; even a new-born baby gasps for air. I
nuzzle into his neck and whisper softly, “I know you’re only sleeping, but I’m
here Ayden, I’m not going anywhere. Can you feel me holding you?” I screw up my
eyes to stem the flood and pull him into me. “I’ll never let you go, Ayden.” I
kiss his right shoulder. “Now you rest, baby. I’ve got this.”

Lulled by that
thought, I doze off, comforted by the closeness and warmth of his body.

***

It’s 2 a.m. Mack is
stepping out of bed and dragging his feet along a worn-out carpet in search of
slippers. He’s been tossing and turning for the last hour, troubled by the
three-ring circus into which Elise Richards has tumbled. From what he has seen
and read it seems unlikely she would fall for Mr. Stone’s unquestionable charm
or Mr. Rizler’s fiendish fascination. And yet, she appears to have come into
contact with them both. Unable to even contemplate sleep, he sits on the edge
of the bed, flicks on the lamp and begins to assemble theories until they are
stacked as high as breakfast pancakes. Their inconclusive nature only troubles
him more.

He snatches his
paisley bathrobe and pulls the belt tightly around him, taking cautious steps
across the landing and down the stairs. Hearing him descend, Judy is there to
meet him at the bottom of the stairs, her tail wagging as a token gesture.

“Go back to bed,
girl. There’s no reason why we should both be wide awake.”

Seeming to understand
every word, she returns to her basket in the kitchen and winds herself into a
cosy capital C.

Before returning to
the carnage, he switches on wall lights and reaches for the bottle of whiskey
his daughter bought for him when she was last home. It’s a familiar nightcap,
an old friend. Before his wife passed away he wouldn’t dare touch the amber
nectar for fear of receiving a lecture on the dangers of becoming an alcoholic.
Now, with no one to remind him of the errors of his ways, he is free to do as
he pleases, although, he knows only too well that it’s no fun drinking alone.
Even so, he pours a generous measure into a tumbler and holds it against his
chest like a medallion, hoping it will bring him luck in his pursuit of the
truth.

He creates four
untidy piles for his character study and lays them out on his lounge carpet
like portfolios for an audition. The difference is that two of the leading
players are dead, and the other two … just as silent and too well-connected to
be dragged into the limelight.

Elise Richards’s
driving licence holds his attention. There’s something about the way her eyes
are staring straight ahead, piercing his soul; the way her lips are tightly
shut as if she’s stifling a secret … 

“Maybe if I listen
carefully enough, you’ll tell me what I need to know to help you, Elise,” he
says, licking the whiskey from his lips. “But for now, we both need to sleep.
Tomorrow’s another day and we’ll see what clues you’ve left for me at your
apartment.”

He returns the glass
to the tray of spirits and turns off the lights. As he climbs the stairs he
thinks he hears the sound of rustling papers coming from the lounge. He stops
and tips his head to listen, but hears nothing more.

Anesthetised a little
by the whiskey he crawls into bed and drifts off to sleep, still troubled by
theories based on suppositions. He needs hard evidence of Stone’s complicity in
the death of Elise Richards and he won’t rest until he has it.