TouchStone for ever (The Story of Us Trilogy) (32 page)

Bliss in our brows' bent; none our
parts so poor

But was a race of heaven.”

Shakespeare: Antony and Cleopatra.

If I live to see one
hundred Ayden, I will never forget the time we’ve spent here. You have seen to
it that our honeymoon has been the best of times and never let it be said that
you don’t know how to show a lady a good time (Laughing)

Today we posed for
Josh and you flew us to Sydney for a spectacular production of Madame
Butterfly. I cried, as you knew I would; and we left the Opera House in silent
reverie. It was a beautiful occasion. Thank you.

The restaurant
overlooking the harbour was the perfect setting for dinner. We shared desserts
and laughed until all the wine was gone and I …

I want to write,
until it was time to take some photos and leave, but as I’m so overcome with
emotion, it’s impossible to fabricate happiness after what’s happened. I take a
couple of gulps of chilled orange juice to settle myself enough to tell one of
the most shameful lies I have ever been guilty of.

Forgive me, Ayden. I
have lost my way but I will always find my way back to you …

The photos we had
taken will go straight into the album, as will the programme and a stack of
other mementos I have collected.

When we arrived back
on our island paradise you had arranged for a bed to be set up on the beach. We
laid back and counted stars. The sky was the colour of your come-to-bed eyes
and … that’s exactly what I did. (Blushing)

The night ended
perfectly with soft music and the sound of our orgasmic cries; and no one could
ask for more. You held me in your arms until our hearts slowed and I fell
asleep, blissfully happy.

I wipe away a tear
with my cuff.

Never has any woman
felt more loved and grateful for so much. You are my life, Ayden.  I may travel
the world or look to the heavens once in a while, but you’ll be the only man
I’ll ever love. My heart and my soul belongs to you, baby.

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.”

“Not 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.”